note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) bab ballads and savoy songs by w. h. gilbert philadelphia henry altemus [illustration: bab ballads and savoy songs [illustration] contents the yarn of the "nancy bell" captain reece the bishop and the busman the folly of brown the three kings of chickeraboo the bishop of rum-ti-foo to the terrestrial globe general john sir guy the crusader king borria bungalee boo the troubadour the force of argument only a dancing girl the sensation captain the periwinkle girl bob polter gentle alice brown ben allah achmet the englishman the disagreeable man the modern major-general the heavy dragoon only roses they'll none of 'em be missed the policeman's lot an appeal eheu fugaces--! a recipe the first lord's song when a merry maiden marries the suicide's grave he and she the lord chancellor's song willow waly the usher's charge king goodheart the tangled skein girl graduates the ape and the lady sans souci the british tar the coming bye and bye the sorcerer's song speculation the duke of plaza-toro the reward of merit when i first put this uniform on said i to myself, said i the family fool the philosophic pill the contemplative sentry sorry her lot the judge's song true diffidence the highly respectable gondolier don't forget the darned mounseer the humane mikado the house of peers the Æsthete proper pride the baffled grumbler the working monarch the rover's apology would you know the magnet and the churn braid the raven hair is life a boon? a mirage a merry madrigal the love-sick boy the bab ballads. the yarn of the "nancy bell." 'twas on the shores that round our coast from deal to ramsgate span, that i found alone, on a piece of stone, an elderly naval man. his hair was weedy, his beard was long, and weedy and long was he, and i heard this wight on the shore recite, in a singular minor key: "oh, i am a cook and a captain bold, and the mate of the _nancy_ brig, and a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, and the crew of the captain's gig." and he shook his fists and he tore his hair. till i really felt afraid; for i couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, and so i simply said: "oh, elderly man it's little i know of the duties of men of the sea, and i'll eat my hand if i understand how you can possibly be "at once a cook, and a captain bold, and the mate of the _nancy_ brig, and a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite, and the crew of the captain's gig." then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which is a trick all seamen larn, and having got rid of a thumping quid, he spun this painful yarn: "'twas in the good ship _nancy bell_ that we sailed to the indian sea, and there on a reef we come to grief, which has often occurred to me. "and pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned (there was seventy-seven o' soul), and only ten of the _nancy's_ men said 'here!' to the muster roll. "there was me and the cook and the captain bold, and the mate of the _nancy_ brig, and the bo'sun tight and a midshipmite, and the crew of the captain's gig. "for a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, till a-hungry we did feel, so, we drawed a lot, and, accordin' shot the captain for our meal. "the next lot fell to the _nancy's_ mate, and a delicate dish he made; then our appetite with the midshipmite we seven survivors stayed. "and then we murdered the bo'sun tight, and he much resembled pig; then we wittled free, did the cook and me, on the crew of the captain's gig. "then only the cook and me was left, and the delicate question, 'which of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, and we argued it out as sich. "for i loved that cook as a brother, i did, and the cook he worshipped me; but we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed in the other chap's hold, you see. "'i'll be eat if you dines off me,' says tom, 'yes, that,' says i, 'you'll be,'-- 'i'm boiled if i die, my friend,' quoth i, and 'exactly so,' quoth he. "says he, 'dear james, to murder me were a foolish thing to do, for don't you see that you can't cook _me_, while i can--and will--cook _you_!' "so, he boils the water, and takes the salt and the pepper in portions true (which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, and some sage and parsley too. "'come here,' says he, with a proper pride, which his smiling features tell, ''t will soothing be if i let you see, how extremely nice you'll smell,' "and he stirred it round and round and round, and he sniffed the foaming froth; when i ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals in the scum of the boiling broth. "and i eat that cook in a week or less, and--as i eating be the last of his chops, why i almost drops, for a wessel in sight i see. * * * * * "and i never larf, and i never smile, and i never lark nor play, but i sit and croak, and a single joke i have--which is to say: "oh, i am a cook and a captain bold, and the mate of the _nancy_ brig, and a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, and the crew of the captain's gig!" captain reece. of all the ships upon the blue, no ship contained a better crew than that of worthy captain reece. commanding of _the mantelpiece_. he was adored by all his men, for worthy captain reece, r.n., did all that lay within him to promote the comfort of his crew. if ever they were dull or sad, their captain danced to them like mad, or told, to make the time pass by, droll legends of his infancy. a feather bed had every man, warm slippers and hot-water can, brown windsor from the captain's store, a valet, too, to every four. did they with thirst in summer burn? lo, seltzogenes at every turn. and on all very sultry days cream ices handed round on trays. then currant wine and ginger pops stood handily on all the "tops:" and, also, with amusement rife, a "zoetrope, or wheel of life." new volumes came across the sea from mister mudie's libraree; _the times_ and _saturday review_ beguiled the leisure of the crew. kind-hearted captain reece, r.n., was quite devoted to his men; in point of fact, good captain reece beatified _the mantelpiece_. one summer eve, at half-past ten, he said (addressing all his men): "come, tell me, please, what i can do to please and gratify my crew. "by any reasonable plan i'll make you happy if i can; my own convenience count as _nil_; it is my duty, and i will." then up and answered william lee, (the kindly captain's coxswain he, a nervous, shy, low-spoken man) he cleared his throat and thus began: "you have a daughter, captain reece, ten female cousins and a niece, a ma, if what i'm told is true, six sisters, and an aunt or two. "now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, more friendly-like we all should be. if you united of 'em to unmarried members of the crew. "if you'd ameliorate our life, let each select from them a wife; and as for nervous me, old pal, give me your own enchanting gal!" good captain reece, that worthy man, debated on his coxswain's plan: "i quite agree," he said. "o bill; it is my duty, and i will. "my daughter, that enchanting gurl, has just been promised to an earl, and all my other familee to peers of various degree. "but what are dukes and viscounts to the happiness of all my crew? the word i gave you i'll fulfil; it is my duty, and i will. "as you desire it shall befall, i'll settle thousands on you all, and i shall be, despite my hoard, the only bachelor on board." the boatswain of _the mantelpiece_, he blushed and spoke to captain reece: "i beg your honor's leave," he said, "if you wish to go and wed, "i have a widowed mother who would be the very thing for you-- she long has loved you from afar, she washes for you, captain r." the captain saw the dame that day-- addressed her in his playful way-- "and did it want a wedding ring? it was a tempting ickle sing! "well, well, the chaplain i will seek, we'll all be married this day week-- at yonder church upon the hill; it is my duty, and i will!" the sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, and widowed ma of captain reece, attended there as they were bid; it was their duty, and they did. [illustration] the bishop and the busman. it was a bishop bold, and london was his see, he was short and stout and round about, and zealous as could be. it also was a jew, who drove a putney bus-- for flesh of swine however fine he did not care a cuss. his name was hash baz ben, and jedediah too, and solomon and zabulon-- this bus-directing jew. the bishop said, said he, "i'll see what i can do to christianize and make you wise, you poor benighted jew." so every blessed day that bus he rode outside, from fulham town, both up and down, and loudly thus he cried:-- "his name is hash baz ben, and jedediah too, and solomon and zabulon-- this bus-directing jew." at first the busman smiled, and rather liked the fun-- he merely smiled, that hebrew child, and said, "eccentric one!" and gay young dogs would wait to see the bus go by (these gay young dogs in striking togs) to hear the bishop cry:-- "observe his grisly beard, his race it clearly shows, he sticks no fork in ham or pork:-- observe, my friends, his nose. "his name is hash baz ben, and jedediah too, and solomon and zabulon-- this bus-directing jew." but though at first amused, yet after seven years, this hebrew child got awful riled, and busted into tears. he really almost feared to leave his poor abode, his nose, and name, and beard became a byword on that road. at length he swore an oath, the reason he would know-- "i'll call and see why ever he does persecute me so." the good old bishop sat on his ancestral chair, the busman came, sent up his name, and laid his grievance bare. "benighted jew," he said, (and chuckled loud with joy) "be christian you, instead of jew-- become a christian boy. "i'll ne'er annoy you more." "indeed?" replied the jew. "shall i be freed?" "you will, indeed!" then "done!" said he, "with you!" the organ which, in man, between the eyebrows grows, fell from his face, and in its place, he found a christian nose. his tangled hebrew beard, which to his waist came down, was now a pair of whiskers fair-- his name, adolphus brown. he wedded in a year, that prelate's daughter jane; he's grown quite fair--has auburn hair-- his wife is far from plain. the folly of brown. by a general agent. i knew a boor--a clownish card, (his only friends were pigs and cows and the poultry of a small farmyard) who came into two hundred thousand. good fortune worked no change in brown, though she's a mighty social chymist: he was a clown--and by a clown i do not mean a pantomimist. it left him quiet, calm, and cool, though hardly knowing what a crown was-- you can't imagine what a fool poor rich, uneducated brown was! he scouted all who wished to come and give him monetary schooling; and i propose to give you some idea of his insensate fooling. i formed a company or two-- (of course i don't know what the rest meant, _i_ formed them solely with a view to help him to a sound investment). their objects were--their only cares-- to justify their boards in showing a handsome dividend on shares, and keep their good promoter going. but no--the lout prefers his brass, though shares at par i freely proffer: yes--will it be believed?--the ass declines, with thanks, my well-meant offer! he added, with a bumpkin's grin, (a weakly intellect denoting) he'd rather not invest it in a company of my promoting! "you have two hundred 'thou' or more," said i. "you'll waste it, lose it, lend it. come, take my furnished second floor, i'll gladly show you how to spend it." but will it be believed that he, with grin upon his face of poppy, declined my aid, while thanking me for what he called my "philanthroppy?" some blind, suspicious fools rejoice in doubting friends who wouldn't harm them; they will not hear the charmer's voice, however wisely he may charm them. i showed him that his coat, all dust, top boots and cords provoked compassion, and proved that men of station must conform to the decrees of fashion. i showed him where to buy his hat, to coat him, trouser him, and boot him; but no--he wouldn't hear of that-- "he didn't think the style would suit him!" i offered him a country seat, and made no end of an oration; i made it certainly complete, and introduced the deputation. but no--the clown my prospects blights-- (the worth of birth it surely teaches!) "why should i want to spend my nights in parliament, a-making speeches? "i haven't never been to school-- i ain't had not no eddication-- and i should surely be a fool to publish that to all the nation!" i offered him a trotting horse-- no hack had ever trotted faster-- i also offered him, of course, a rare and curious "old master." i offered to procure him weeds-- wines fit for one in his position-- but, though an ass in all his deeds, he'd learnt the meaning of "commission." he called me "thief" the other day, and daily from his door he thrusts me; much more of this, and soon i may begin to think that brown mistrusts me. so deaf to all sound reason's rule this poor uneducated clown is, you cannot fancy what a fool poor rich uneducated brown is. the three kings of chickeraboo. there were three niggers of chickeraboo-- pacifico, bang-bang, popchop--who exclaimed, one terribly sultry day, "oh, let's be kings in a humble way." the first was a highly-accomplished "bones," the next elicited banjo tones, the third was a quiet, retiring chap, who danced an excellent break-down "flap." "we niggers," said they, "have formed a plan by which, whenever we like, we can extemporize islands near the beach, and then we'll collar an island each. "three casks, from somebody else's stores, shall rep-per-esent our island shores, their sides the ocean wide shall lave, their heads just topping the briny wave. "great britain's navy scours the sea, and everywhere her ships they be, she'll recognize our rank, perhaps, when she discovers we're royal chaps. "if to her skirts you want to cling, it's quite sufficient that you're a king: she does not push inquiry far to learn what sort of king you are." a ship of several thousand tons, and mounting seventy-something guns, ploughed, every year, the ocean blue, discovering kings and countries new. the brave rear-admiral bailey pip, commanding that superior ship, perceived one day, his glasses through, the kings that came from chickeraboo. "dear eyes!" said admiral pip, "i see three flourishing islands on our lee. and, bless me! most extror'nary thing! on every island stands a king! "come, lower the admiral's gig," he cried, "and over the dancing waves i'll glide; that low obeisance i may do to those three kings of chickeraboo!" the admiral pulled to the islands three; the kings saluted him gracious_lee_. the admiral, pleased at his welcome warm, pulled out a printed alliance form. "your majesty, sign me this, i pray-- i come in a friendly kind of way-- i come, if you please, with the best intents, and queen victoria's compliments." the kings were pleased as they well could be; the most retiring of all the three, in a "cellar-flap" to his joy gave vent with a banjo-bones accompaniment. the great rear-admiral bailey pip embarked on board his jolly big ship, blue peter flew from his lofty fore, and off he sailed to his native shore. admiral pip directly went to the lord at the head of the government, who made him, by a stroke of a quill, baron de pippe, of pippetonneville. the college of heralds permission yield that he should quarter upon his shield three islands, _vert_, on a field of blue, with the pregnant motto "chickeraboo." ambassadors, yes, and attaches, too, are going to sail for chickeraboo, and, see, on the good ship's crowded deck, a bishop, who's going out there on spec. and let us all hope that blissful things may come of alliance with darkey kings. oh, may we never, whatever we do, declare a war with chickeraboo! [illustration] the bishop of rum-ti-foo. from east and south the holy clan of bishops gathered, to a man; to synod, called pan-anglican; in flocking crowds they came. among them was a bishop, who had lately been appointed to the balmy isle of rum-ti-foo, and peter was his name. his people--twenty-three in sum-- they played the eloquent tum-tum and lived on scalps served up in rum-- the only sauce they knew, when, first good bishop peter came (for peter was that bishop's name), to humor them, he did the same as they of rum-ti-foo. his flock, i've often heard him tell, (his name was peter) loved him well, and summoned by the sound of bell, in crowds together came. "oh, massa, why you go away? oh, massa peter, please to stay." (they called him peter, people say, because it was his name.) he told them all good boys to be, and sailed away across the sea. at london bridge that bishop he arrived one tuesday night-- and as that night he homeward strode to his pan-anglican abode, he passed along the borough road and saw a gruesome sight. he saw a crowd assembled round a person dancing on the ground, who straight began to leap and bound with all his might and main. to see that dancing man he stopped. who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped, then down incontinently dropped, and then sprang up again. the bishop chuckled at the sight, "this style of dancing would delight a simple rum-ti-foozle-ite. i'll learn it, if i can, to please the tribe when i get back." he begged the man to teach his knack. "right reverend sir, in half a crack," replied that dancing man. the dancing man he worked away and taught the bishop every day-- the dancer skipped like any fay-- good peter did the same. the bishop buckled to his task with _battements_, cuts, and _pas de basque_ (i'll tell you, if you care to ask, that peter was his name). "come, walk like this," the dancer said, "stick out your toes--stick in your head. stalk on with quick, galvanic tread-- your fingers thus extend; the attitude's considered quaint," the weary bishop, feeling faint, replied, "i do not say it ain't, but 'time!' my christian friend!" "we now proceed to something new-- dance as the paynes and lauris do, like this--one, two--one, two--one, two." the bishop, never proud, but in an overwhelming heat (his name was peter, i repeat), performed the payne and lauri feat, and puffed his thanks aloud. another game the dancer planned-- "just take your ankle in your hand, and try, my lord, if you can stand-- your body stiff and stark. if, when revisiting your see, you learnt to hop on shore--like me-- the novelty must striking be, and must excite remark." "no," said the worthy bishop, "no; that is a length to which, i trow, colonial bishops cannot go. you may express surprise at finding bishops deal in pride-- but, if that trick i ever tried, i should appear undignified in rum-ti-foozle's eyes. "the islanders of rum-ti-foo are well-conducted persons, who approve a joke as much as you, and laugh at it as such; but if they saw their bishop land, his leg supported in his hand, the joke they wouldn't understand-- 'twould pain them very much!" to the terrestrial globe. by a miserable wretch. roll on, thou ball, roll on! through pathless realms of space roll on! what, though i'm in a sorry case? what, though i cannot meet my bills? what, though i suffer toothache's ills? what, though i swallow countless pills? never _you_ mind! roll on! roll on, thou ball, roll on! through seas of inky air roll on! it's true i've got no shirts to wear; it's true my butcher's bill is due; it's true my prospects all look blue-- but don't let that unsettle you! never _you_ mind! roll on! _(it rolls on.)_ general john. the bravest names for fire and flames, and all that mortal durst, were general john and private james, of the sixty-seventy-first. general john was a soldier tried, a chief of warlike dons; a haughty stride and a withering pride were major-general john's. a sneer would play on his martial phiz, superior birth to show; "pish!" was a favorite word of his, and he often said "ho! ho!" full-private james described might be, as a man of a mournful mind; no characteristic trait had he of any distinctive kind. from the ranks, one day, cried private james "oh! major-general john, i've doubts of our respective names, my mournful mind upon. "a glimmering thought occurs to me, (its source i can't unearth) but i've a kind of notion we were cruelly changed at birth. "i've a strange idea, each other's names that we have each got on, such things have been," said private james. "they have!" sneered general john. "my general john, i swear upon my oath i think 'tis so"-- "pish!" proudly sneered his general john, and he also said "ho! ho!" "my general john! my general john! my general john!" quoth he, "this aristocratical sneer upon your face i blush to see! "no truly great or generous cove deserving of them names would sneer at a fixed idea that's drove in the mind of a private james!" said general john, "upon your claims no need your breath to waste; if this is a joke, full-private james, it's a joke of doubtful taste. "but being a man of doubtless worth, if you feel certain quite that we were probably changed at birth, i'll venture to say you're right." so general john as private james fell in, parade upon; and private james, by change of names, was major-general john. sir guy the crusader. sir guy was a doughty crusader, a muscular knight, ever ready to fight, a very determined invader. and dickey de lion's delight. lenore was a saracen maiden, brunette, statuesque, the reverse of grotesque; her pa was a bagman at aden, her mother she played in burlesque. a _coryphee_ pretty and loyal. in amber and red, the ballet she led; her mother performed at the royal, lenore at the saracen's head. of face and of figure majestic, she dazzled the cits-- ecstaticized pits;-- her troubles were only domestic, but drove her half out of her wits. her father incessantly lashed her, on water and bread she was grudgingly fed; whenever her father he thrashed her her mother sat down on her head. guy saw her, and loved her, with reason, for beauty so bright, set him mad with delight; he purchased a stall for the season and sat in it every night. his views were exceedingly proper; he wanted to wed, so he called at her shed and saw her progenitor whop her-- her mother sit down on her head. "so pretty," said he, "and so trusting! you brute of a dad, you unprincipled cad, your conduct is really disgusting. come, come, now, admit it's too bad! "you're a turbaned old turk, and malignant; your daughter lenore i intensely adore and i cannot help feeling indignant, a fact that i hinted before. "to see a fond father employing a deuce of a knout for to bang her about. to a sensitive lover's annoying." said the bagman, "crusader, get out!" says guy, "shall a warrior laden with a big spiky knob. stand idly and sob. while a beautiful saracen maiden is whipped by a saracen snob? "to london i'll go from my charmer." which he did, with his loot (seven hats and a flute), and was nabbed for his sydenham armor, at mr. ben-samuel's suit. sir guy he was lodged in the compter, her pa, in a rage, died (don't know his age), his daughter, she married the prompter, grew bulky and quitted the stage. [illustration] king borria bungalee boo. king borria bungalee boo was a man-eating african swell; his sigh was a hullaballoo, his whisper a horrible yell-- a horrible, horrible yell! four subjects, and all of them male, to borria doubled the knee, they were once on a far larger scale, but he'd eaten the balance, you see ("scale" and "balance" is punning, you see.) there was haughty pish-tush-pooh-bah, there was lumbering doodle-dum-deh, despairing alack-a-dey-ah, and good little tootle-tum-teh-- exemplary tootle-tum-teh. one day there was grief in the crew, for they hadn't a morsel of meat, and borria bungalee boo was dying for something to eat-- "come provide me with something to eat!" "alack-a-dey, famished i feel; oh, good little tootle-tum-teh, where on earth shall i look for a meal? for i haven't no dinner to-day!-- not a morsel of dinner to-day! "dear tootle-tum, what shall we do? come, get us a meal, or in truth, if you don't we shall have to eat you, oh, adorable friend of our youth! thou beloved little friend of our youth!" and he answered, "oh bungalee boo, for a moment i hope you will wait-- tippy-wippity tol-the-rol-loo is the queen of a neighboring state-- a remarkably neighboring state. "tippy-wippity tol-the-rol-loo, she would pickle deliciously cold-- and her four pretty amazons, too, are enticing, and not very old-- twenty-seven is not very old. "there is neat little titty-fol-leh, there is rollicking tral-the-ral-lah, there is jocular waggety-weh. there is musical doh-reh-mi-fah-- there's the nightingale doh-reh-mi-fah!" so the forces of bungalee boo marched forth in a terrible row, and the ladies who fought for queen loo prepared to encounter the foe-- this dreadful insatiate foe! but they sharpened no weapons at all, and they poisoned no arrows--not they! they made ready to conquer or fall in a totally different way-- an entirely different way. with a crimson and pearly-white dye they endeavored to make themselves fair, with black they encircled each eye, and with yellow they painted their hair (it was wool, but they thought it was hair). and the forces they met in the field-- and the men of king borria said, "amazonians, immediately yield!" and their arrows they drew to the head, yes, drew them right up to the head. but jocular waggety-weh, ogled doodle-dum-deh (which was wrong) and neat little titty-fol-leh, said, "tootle-tum, you go along! you naughty old dear, go along!" and rollicking tral-the-ral-lah tapped alack-a-dey-ah with her fan; and musical doh-reh-mi-fah, said "pish, go away, you bad man! go away, you delightful young man!" and the amazons simpered and sighed, and they ogled, and giggled, and flushed, and they opened their pretty eyes wide, and they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed (at least, if they could, they'd have blushed). but haughty pish-tush-pooh-bah said, "alack-a-dey, what does this mean?" and despairing alack-a-dey-ah said, "they think us uncommonly green, ha! ha! most uncommonly green!" even blundering doodle-dum-deh was insensible quite to their leers and said good little tootle-tum-teh, "it's your blood we desire, pretty dears-- we have come for our dinners, my dears!" and the queen of the amazons fell to borria bungalee boo, in a mouthful he gulped, with a yell, tippy-wippity tol-the-rol-loo-- the pretty queen tol-the-rol-loo. and neat little titty-fol-leh was eaten by pish-pooh-bah, and light-hearted waggety-weh by dismal alack-a-deh-ah-- despairing alack-a-deh-ah. and rollicking tral-the-ral-lah was eaten by doodle-dum-deh, and musical doh-reh-mi-fah by good little tootle-tum-teh-- exemplary tootle-tum-teh! the troubadour. a troubadour he played without a castle wall, within, a hapless maid responded to his call. "oh, willow, woe is me! alack and well-a-day! if i were only free i'd hie me far away!" unknown her face and name, but this he knew right well, the maiden's wailing came from out a dungeon cell. a hapless woman lay within that dungeon grim-- that fact, i've heard him say. was quite enough for him. "i will not sit or lie, or eat or drink, i vow. till thou art free as i, or i as pent as thou." her tears then ceased to flow, her wails no longer rang, and tuneful in her woe the prisoned maiden sang: "oh, stranger, as you play i recognize your touch; and all that i can say is, thank you very much." he seized his clarion straight, and blew thereat, until a warden oped the gate, "oh, what might be your will?" "i've come, sir knave, to see the master of these halls: a maid unwillingly lies prisoned in their walls." with barely stifled sigh that porter drooped his head, with teardrops in his eye, "a many, sir," he said. he stayed to hear no more, but pushed that porter by, and shortly stood before sir hugh de peckham rye. sir hugh he darkly frowned, "what would you, sir, with me?" the troubadour he downed upon his bended knee. "i've come, de peckham rye, to do a christian task; you ask me what would i? it is not much i ask. "release these maidens, sir, whom you dominion o'er-- particularly her upon the second floor. "and if you don't, my lord"-- he here stood bolt upright, and tapped a tailor's sword-- "come out, you cad, and fight!" sir hugh he called--and ran the warden from the gate: "go, show this gentleman the maid in forty-eight." by many a cell they past, and stopped at length before a portal, bolted fast: the man unlocked the door. he called inside the gate with coarse and brutal shout, "come, step it, forty-eight!" and forty-eight stepped out. "they gets it pretty hot, the maidens what we cotch-- two years this lady's got for collaring a wotch." "oh, ah!--indeed--i see," the troubadour exclaimed-- "if i may make so free, how is this castle named?" the warden's eyelids fill, and sighing, he replied, "of gloomy pentonville this is the female side!" the minstrel did not wait the warden stout to thank, but recollected straight he'd business at the bank. the force of argument. lord b. was a nobleman bold, who came of illustrious stocks, he was thirty or forty years old, and several feet in his socks. to turniptopville-by-the-sea this elegant nobleman went, for that was a borough that he was anxious to rep-per-re-sent. at local assemblies he danced until he felt thoroughly ill-- he waltzed, and he galloped, and lanced, and threaded the mazy quadrille. the maidens of turniptopville were simple--ingenuous--pure-- and they all worked away with a will the nobleman's heart to secure. two maidens all others beyond imagined their chances looked well-- the one was the lively ann pond, the other sad mary morell. ann pond had determined to try and carry the earl with a rush. her principal feature was eye, her greatest accomplishment--gush. and mary chose this for her play, whenever he looked in her eye she'd blush and turn quickly away, and flitter and flutter and sigh. it was noticed he constantly sighed as she worked out the scheme she had planned-- a fact he endeavored to hide with his aristocratical hand. old pond was a farmer, they say, and so was old tommy morell, in a humble and pottering way they were doing exceedingly well. they both of them carried by vote the earl was a dangerous man, so nervously clearing his throat, one morning old tommy began: "my darter's no pratty young doll-- i'm a plain-spoken zommerzet man-- now what do 'ee mean by my poll, and what do 'ee mean by his ann?" said b., "i will give you my bond i mean them uncommonly well, believe me, my excellent pond, and credit me, worthy morell. "it's quite indisputable, for i'll prove it with singular ease, you shall have it in 'barbara' or 'celarent'--whichever you please. "you see, when an anchorite bows to the yoke of intentional sin-- if the state of the country allows, homogeny always steps in. "it's a highly æsthetical bond, as any mere ploughboy can tell"-- "of course," replied puzzled old pond. "i see," said old tommy morell. "very good then," continued the lord, "when its fooled to the top of its bent, with a sweep of a damocles sword the web of intention is rent. "that's patent to all of us here, as any mere schoolboy can tell." pond answered, "of course it's quite clear;" and so did that humbug morell. "it's tone esoteric in force-- i trust that i make myself clear?"-- morell only answered "of course,"-- while pond slowly muttered, "hear, hear." "volition--celestial prize, pellucid as porphyry cell-- is based on a principle wise." "quite so," exclaimed pond and morell. "from what i have said, you will see that i couldn't wed either--in fine, by nature's unchanging decree _your_ daughters could never be _mine_. "go home to your pigs and your ricks, my hands of the matter i've rinsed." so they take up their hats and their sticks, and _exeunt ambo_, convinced. [illustration] only a dancing girl. only a dancing girl, with an unromantic style, with borrowed color and curl, with fixed mechanical smile, with many a hackneyed wile, with ungrammatical lips, and corns that mar her trips! hung from the "flies" in air, she acts a palpable lie, she's as little a fairy there as unpoetical i! i hear you asking, why-- why in the world i sing this tawdry, tinselled thing? no airy fairy she, as she hangs in arsenic green, from a highly impossible tree, in a highly impossible scene (herself not over clean). for fays don't suffer, i'm told, from bunions, coughs, or cold. and stately dames that bring their daughters there to see, pronounce the "dancing thing" no better than she should be. with her skirt at her shameful knee, and her painted, tainted phiz: ah, matron, which of us is? (and, in sooth, it oft occurs that while these matrons sigh, their dresses are lower than hers, and sometimes half as high; and their hair is hair they buy, and they use their glasses, too, in a way she'd blush to do.) but change her gold and green for a coarse merino gown, and see her upon the scene of her home, when coaxing down her drunken father's frown, in his squalid, cheerless den: she's a fairy truly, then! the sensation captain. no nobler captain ever trod than captain parklebury todd, so good--so wise--so brave, he! but still, as all his friends would own, he had one folly--one alone-- this captain in the navy. i do not think i ever knew a man so wholly given to creating a sensation; or p'r'aps i should in justice say-- to what in an adelphi play is known as "situation." he passed his time designing traps to flurry unsuspicious chaps-- the taste was his innately-- he couldn't walk into a room without ejaculating "boom!" which startled ladies greatly. he'd wear a mask and muffling cloak, not, you will understand, in joke, as some assume disguises. he did it, actuated by a simple love of mystery and fondness for surprises. i need not say he loved a maid-- his eloquence threw into shade all others who adored her: the maid, though pleased at first, i know, found, after several years or so, her startling lover bored her. so, when his orders came to sail, she did not faint or scream or wail, or with her tears anoint him. she shook his hand, and said "good-bye;" with laughter dancing in her eye-- which seemed to disappoint him. but ere he went aboard his boat he placed around her little throat a ribbon blue and yellow, on which he hung a double tooth-- a simple token this, in sooth-- 'twas all he had, poor fellow! "i often wonder," he would say, when very, very far away, "if angelina wears it! a plan has entered in my head, i will pretend that i am dead, and see how angy bears it!" the news he made a messmate tell: his angelina bore it well, no sign gave she of crazing; but, steady as the inchcape rock his angelina stood the shock with fortitude amazing. she said, "some one i must elect poor angelina to protect from all who wish to harm her. since worthy captain todd is dead i rather feel inclined to wed a comfortable farmer." a comfortable farmer came (bassanio tyler was his name) who had no end of treasure: he said, "my noble gal, be mine!" the noble gal did not decline, but simply said, "with pleasure." when this was told to captain todd, at first he thought it rather odd, and felt some perturbation; but very long he did not grieve, he thought he could a way perceive to _such_ a situation! "i'll not reveal myself," said he, "till they are both in the eccle- siastical arena; then suddenly i will appear, and paralyzing them with fear, demand my angelina!" at length arrived the wedding day-- accoutred in the usual way appeared the bridal body-- the worthy clergyman began, when in the gallant captain ran and cried, "behold your toddy!" the bridegroom, p'r'aps, was terrified, and also possibly the bride-- the bridesmaids _were_ affrighted; but angelina, noble soul, contrived her feelings to control, and really seemed delighted. "my bride!" said gallant captain todd, "she's mine, uninteresting clod, my own, my darling charmer!" "oh, dear," said she, "you're just too late, i'm married to, i beg to state, this comfortable farmer!" "indeed," the farmer said, "she's mine, you've been and cut it far too fine!" "i see," said todd, "i'm beaten." and so he went to sea once more, "sensation" he for aye forswore, and married on her native shore a lady whom he'd met before-- a lovely otaheitan. the periwinkle girl. i've often thought that headstrong youths, of decent education, determine all-important truths with strange precipitation. the over-ready victims they, of logical illusions, and in a self-assertive way they jump at strange conclusions. now take my case: ere sorrow could my ample forehead wrinkle, i had determined that i would not like to be a winkle. "a winkle," i would oft advance with readiness provoking, "can seldom flirt, and never dance or soothe his mind by smoking." in short, i spurned the shelly joy, and spoke with strange decision-- men pointed to me as a boy who held them in derision. but i was young--too young, by far-- or i had been more wary, i knew not then that winkles are the stock-in-trade of mary. i had not seen her sunlight blithe as o'er their shells it dances, i've seen those winkles almost writhe beneath her beaming glances. of slighting all the winkly brood i surely had been chary, if i had known they formed the food and stock-in-trade of mary. both high and low and great and small fell prostrate at her tootsies, they all were noblemen, and all had balances at coutts's. dukes with the lovely maiden dealt, duke bailey and duke humphy, who eat her winkles till they felt exceedingly uncomfy. duke bailey greatest wealth computes, and sticks, they say, at no-thing. he wears a pair of golden boots and silver underclothing. duke humphy, as i understand. though mentally acuter, his boots are only silver, and his underclothing pewter. a third adorer had the girl, a man of lowly station-- a miserable grov'ling earl besought her approbation. this humble cad she did refuse with much contempt and loathing; he wore a pair of leather shoes and cambric underclothing! "ha! ha!" she cried, "upon my word! well, really--come, i never! oh, go along, it's too absurd! my goodness! did you ever? "two dukes would make their bowles a bride, and from her foes defend her"-- "well, not exactly that," they cried, "we offer guilty splendor. "we do not offer marriage rite, so please dismiss the notion!" "oh, dear," said she, "that alters quite the state of my emotion." the earl he up and says, says he, "dismiss them to their orgies, for i am game to marry thee quite reg'lar at st. george's." he'd had, it happily befell, a decent education; his views would have befitted well a far superior station. his sterling worth had worked a cure, she never heard him grumble; she saw his soul was good and pure although his rank was humble. her views of earldoms and their lot, all underwent expansion; come, virtue in an earldom's cot! go, vice in ducal mansion! bob polter. bob polter was a navvy, and his hands were coarse, and dirty too, his homely face was rough and tanned, his time of life was thirty-two. he lived among a working clan (a wife he hadn't got at all), a decent, steady, sober man-- no saint, however--not at all. he smoked, but in a modest way, because he thought he needed it; he drank a pot of beer a day, and sometimes he exceeded it. at times he'd pass with other men a loud convivial night or two, with, very likely, now and then, on saturdays, a fight or two. but still he was a sober soul, a labor-never-shirking man, who paid his way--upon the whole a decent english working man. one day, when at the nelson's head, (for which he may be blamed of you) a holy man appeared and said, "oh, robert, i'm ashamed of you." he laid his hand on robert's beer before he could drink up any, and on the floor, with sigh and tear, he poured the pot of "thruppenny." "oh, robert, at this very bar, a truth you'll be discovering, a good and evil genius are around your noddle hovering. "they both are here to bid you shun the other one's society, for total abstinence is one, the other inebriety." he waved his hand--a vapor came-- a wizard, polter reckoned him: a bogy rose and called his name, and with his finger beckoned him. the monster's salient points to sum, his heavy breath was portery; his glowing nose suggested rum; his eyes were gin-and-wortery. his dress was torn--for dregs of ale and slops of gin had rusted it; his pimpled face was wan and pale, where filth had not encrusted it. "come, polter," said the fiend, "begin, and keep the bowl a-flowing on-- a working-man needs pints of gin to keep his clockwork going on." bob shuddered: "ah, you've made a miss, if you take me for one of you-- you filthy beast, get out of this-- bob polter don't want none of you." the demon gave a drunken shriek and crept away in stealthiness, and lo, instead, a person sleek who seemed to burst with healthiness. "in me, as your advisor hints, of abstinence you have got a type-- of mr. tweedle's pretty prints i am the happy prototype. "if you abjure the social toast, and pipes, and such frivolities, you possibly some day may boast my prepossessing qualities!" bob rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink, "you almost make me tremble, you! if i abjure fermented drink, shall i, indeed, resemble you? "and will my whiskers curl so tight? my cheeks grow smug and muttony? my face become so red and white? my coat so blue and buttony? "will trousers, such as yours, array extremities inferior? will chubbiness assert its sway all over my exterior? "in this, my unenlightened state, to work in heavy boots i comes, will pumps henceforward decorate my tiddle toddle tootsicums? "and shall i get so plump and fresh, and look no longer seedily? my skin will henceforth fit my flesh so tightly and so tweedie-ly?" the phantom said, "you'll have all this, you'll know no kind of huffiness, your life will be one chubby bliss, one long unruffled puffiness!" "be off!" said irritated bob. "why come you here to bother one? you pharisaical old snob, you're wuss almost than t'other one! "i takes my pipe--i takes my pot, and drunk i'm never seen to be: i'm no teetotaller or sot, and as i am i mean to be!" [illustration] gentle alice brown. it was a robber's daughter, and her name was alice brown; her father was the terror of a small italian town; her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; but it isn't of her parents that i'm going for to sing. as alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day, a beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; she cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, that she thought, "i could be happy with a gentleman like you!" and every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, she knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten, a sorter in the custom-house, it was his daily road (the custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode). but alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise to look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; so she sought the village priest, to whom her family confessed, the priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed. "oh, holy father," alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not? to discover that i was a most disreputable lot! of all unhappy sinners i'm the most unhappy one!" the padre said, "whatever have you been and gone and done?" "i have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, i've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad, i've planned a little burglary and forged a little check, and slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!" the worthy pastor heaved a sigh and dropped a silent tear-- and said, "you mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear-- it's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece: but sins like that one expiates at half-a-crown apiece. "girls will be girls--you're very young, and flighty in your mind; old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find; we mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six." "oh, father," little alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, you do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- your thoughtful liberality i never can forget; but, o, there is another crime i haven't mentioned yet!" "a pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, i've noticed at my window, as i've sat a-catching flies: he passes by it every day as certain as can be-- i blush to say i've winked at him and he has winked at me!" "for shame," said father paul, "my erring daughter! on my word this is the most distressing news that i have ever heard. why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand to a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band! "this dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! they are the most remunerative customers i know; for many years they've kept starvation from my doors, i never knew so criminal a family as yours! "the common country folk in this insipid neighborhood have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; and if you marry any one respectable at all, why, you'll reform, and what will then become of father paul?" the worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, and started off in haste to tell the news to robber brown; to tell him how his daughter, who now was for marriage fit, had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it. good robber brown he muffled up his anger pretty well, he said "i have a notion, and that notion i will tell; i will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, and get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits. "i've studied human nature, and i know a thing or two, though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do-- a feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall when she looks upon his body chopped particularly small." he traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; he watched his opportunity and seized him unaware; he took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, and mrs. brown dissected him before she went to bed. and pretty little alice grew more settled in her mind, she never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, until at length good robber brown bestowed her pretty hand on the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band. ben allah achmet; or, the fatal tum. i once did know a turkish man whom i upon a two-pair-back met, his name it was effendi khan backsheesh pasha ben allah achmet. a doctor brown i also knew-- i've often eaten of his bounty-- the turk and he they lived at hooe, in sussex, that delightful county. i knew a nice young lady there, her name was isabella sherson, and though she wore another's hair, she was an interesting person. the turk adored the maid of hooe (although his harem would have shocked her); but brown adored that maiden, too: he was a most seductive doctor. they'd follow her where'er she'd go-- a course of action most improper; she neither knew by sight, and so for neither of them cared a copper. brown did not know that turkish male, he might have been his sainted mother: the people in this simple tale are total strangers to each other. one day that turk he sickened sore which threw him straight into a sharp pet; he threw himself upon the floor and rolled about upon his--carpet. it made him moan--it made him groan and almost wore him to a mummy: why should i hesitate to own that pain was in his little tummy? at length a doctor came and rung (as allah achmet had desired) who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue, and hummed and hawed, and then inquired: "where is the pain, that long has preyed upon you in so sad a way, sir?" the turk he giggled, blushed, and said, "i don't exactly like to say, sir." "come, nonsense!" said good doctor brown, "so this is turkish coyness, is it? you must contrive to fight it down-- come, come, sir, please to be explicit." the turk he shyly bit his thumb, and coyly blushed like one half-witted, "the pain is in my little tum," he, whispering, at length admitted. "then take you this, and take you that-- your blood flows sluggish in its channel-- you must get rid of all this fat, and wear my medicated flannel. "you'll send for me, when you're in need-- my name is brown--your life i've saved it!" "my rival!" shrieked the invalid, and drew a mighty sword and waved it. "this to thy weazand, christian pest!" aloud the turk in frenzy yelled it, and drove right through the doctor's chest the sabre and the hand that held it. the blow was a decisive one, and doctor brown grew deadly pasty-- "now see the mischief that you've done,-- you turks are so extremely hasty. "there are two doctor browns in hooe, _he's_ short and stout--_i'm_ tall and wizen; you've been and run the wrong one through, that's how the error has arisen." the accident was thus explained, apologies were only heard now: "at my mistake i'm really pained, i am, indeed, upon my word now." "with me, sir, you shall be interred, a mausoleum grand awaits me"-- "oh, pray don't say another word, i'm sure that more than compensates me. "but, p'r'aps, kind turk, you're full inside?" "there's room," said he, "for any number." and so they laid them down and died. in proud stamboul they sleep their slumber. songs of a savoyard [illustration] the englishman. he is an englishman! for he himself has said it, and it's greatly to his credit, that he is an englishman! for he might have been a roosian, a french, or turk, or proosian, or perhaps itali-an! but in spite of all temptations, to belong to other nations, he remains an englishman! hurrah! for the true born englishman! the disagreeable man. if you give me your attention, i will tell you what i am: i'm a genuine philanthropist--all other kinds are sham. each little fault of temper and each social defect in my erring fellow creatures, i endeavor to correct. to all their little weaknesses i open people's eyes and little plans to snub the self-sufficient i devise; i love my fellow creatures--i do all the good i can-- yet everybody say i'm such a disagreeable man! and i can't think why! to compliments inflated i've a withering reply; and vanity i always do my best to mortify; a charitable action i can skilfully dissect: and interested motives i'm delighted to detect. i know everybody's income and what everybody earns, and i carefully compare it with the income tax returns; but to benefit humanity, however much i plan, yet everybody says i'm such a disagreeable man! and i can't think why! i'm sure i'm no ascetic: i'm as pleasant as can be; you'll always find me ready with a crushing repartee; i've an irritating chuckle; i've a celebrated sneer; i've an entertaining snigger; i've a fascinating leer; to everybody's prejudice i know a thing or two; i can tell a woman's age in half a minute--and i do-- but although i try to make myself as pleasant as i can, yet everybody says i'm such a disagreeable man! and i can't think why! the modern major-general. i am the very pattern of a modern major-gineral. i've information vegetable, animal, and mineral; i know the kings of england, and i quote the fights historical, from marathon to waterloo, in order categorical; i'm very well acquainted too with matters mathematical, i understand equations, both the simple and quadratical, about binomial theorem i'm teeming with a lot o' news, with many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse. i'm very good at integral and differential calculus, i know the scientific names of beings animalculous, in short in matters vegetable, animal and mineral, i am the very model of a modern major-gineral. i know our mythic history--king arthur's and sir caradoc's, i answer hard acrostics, i've a pretty taste for paradox, i quote in elegiacs all the crimes of heliogabalus, in conies i can floor peculiarities parabolous. i can tell undoubted raphaels from gerard dows and zoffanies, i know the croaking chorus from the "frogs" of aristophanes, then i can hum a fugue of which i've heard the music's din afore, and whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense "pinafore." then i can write a washing bill in babylonic cuneiform, and tell you every detail of caractacus's uniform. in short in matters vegetable, animal and mineral, i am the very model of a modern major-gineral. in fact when i know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin," when i can tell at sight a chassepot rifle from a javelin, when such affairs as _sorties_ and surprises i'm more wary at, and when i know precisely what is meant by commissariat, when i have learn what progress has been made in modern gunnery, when i know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery, in short when i've a smattering of elementary strategy, you'll say a better major-gener_al_ has never _sat_ a gee-- for my military knowledge, though i'm plucky and adventury, has only been brought down to the beginning of the century, but still in learning vegetable, animal and mineral, i am the very model of a modern major-gineral. the heavy dragoon. if you want a receipt for that popular mystery known to the world as a heavy dragoon, take all the remarkable people in history, rattle them off to a popular tune! the pluck of lord nelson on board of the _victory_-- genius of bismarck devising a plan; the humor of fielding (which sounds contradictory)-- coolness of paget about to trepan-- the grace of mozart, that unparalleled musico-- wit of macaulay, who wrote of queen anne-- the pathos of paddy, as rendered by boucicault-- style of the bishop of sodor and man-- the dash of a d'orsay, divested of quackery-- narrative powers of dickens and thackeray victor emmanuel--peak-haunting peveril-- thomas aquinas, and doctor sacheverell-- tupper and tennyson--daniel defoe-- anthony trollope and mister guizot! take of these elements all that are fusible, melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible, set them to simmer and take off the scum, and a heavy dragoon is the residuum! if you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon, get at the wealth of the czar (if you can)-- the family pride of a spaniard from arragon-- force of mephisto pronouncing a ban-- a smack of lord waterford, reckless and rollicky-- swagger of roderick, heading his clan-- the keen penetration of paddington pollaky-- grace of an odalisque on a divan-- the genius strategic of cæsar or hannibal-- skill of lord wolseley in thrashing a cannibal flavor of hamlet--the stranger, a touch of him-- little of manfred, (but not very much of him)-- beadle of burlington--richardson's show; mr. micawber and madame tussaud! take of these elements all that are fusible, melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible, set them to simmer and take off the scum, and a heavy dragoon is the residuum! only roses! to a garden full of posies cometh one to gather flowers, and he wanders through its bowers toying with the wanton roses, who, uprising from their beds, hold on high their shameless heads with their pretty lips a-pouting, never doubting--never doubting that for cytherean posies he would gather aught but roses! in a nest of weeds and nettles, lay a violet, half hidden, hoping that his glance unbidden yet might fall upon her petals, though she lived alone, apart, hope lay nestling at her heart, but, alas! the cruel awaking set her little heart a-breaking, for he gathered for his posies only roses--only roses! they'll none of 'em be missed. as some day it may happen that a victim must be found, i've got a little list--i've got a little list of social offenders who might well be underground, and who never would be missed--who never would be missed! there's the pestilential nuisances who write for autographs-- all people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs-- all children who are up in dates, and floor you with 'em flat-- all persons who in shaking hands, shake hands with you like _that_-- and all third persons who on spoiling _tete-a-tetes_ insist-- they'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of 'em be missed! there's the nigger serenader, and the others of his race, and the piano organist--i've got him on the list! and the people who eat peppermint and puff it in your face, they never would be missed--they never would be missed! then the idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone, all centuries but this, and every country but his own; and the lady from the provinces, who dresses like a guy, and who doesn't think she waltzes, but would rather like to try; and that singular anomaly, the lady novelist-- i don't think she'd be missed--i'm _sure_ she'd not be missed! and that _nisi prius_ nuisance, who just now is rather rife, the judicial humorist--i've got _him_ on the list! all funny fellows, comic men, and clowns of private life-- they'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of them be missed. and apologetic statesmen of the compromising kind, such as--what-d'ye-call-him--thing'em-bob, and likewise--never-mind, and 'st--'st--'st--and what's-his-name, and also--you-know-who-- (the task of filling up the blanks i'd rather leave to _you_!) but it really doesn't matter whom you put upon the list, for they'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of 'em be missed! [illustration] the policeman's lot. when a felon's not engaged in his employment or maturing his felonious little plans. his capacity for innocent enjoyment, is just as great as any honest man's our feelings we with difficulty smother when constabulary duty's to be done: ah, take one consideration with another, a policeman's lot is not a happy one! when the enterprising burglar isn't burgling, when the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime, he loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling, and listen to the merry village chime. when the coster's finished jumping on his mother, he loves to lie a-basking in the sun: ah, take one consideration with another, the policeman's lot is not a happy one! [illustration] an appeal. oh, is there not one maiden breast which does not feel the moral beauty of making worldly interest subordinate to sense of duly? who would not give up willingly all matrimonial ambition, to rescue such a one as i from his unfortunate position? oh, is there not one maiden here, whose homely face and bad complexion have caused all hopes to disappear of ever winning man's affection? to such a one, if such there be, i swear by heaven's arch above you, if you will cast your eyes on me,-- however plain you be--i'll love you! eheu fugaces--! the air is charged with amatory numbers-- soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers' lays. peace, peace, old heart! why waken from its slumbers the aching memory of the old, old days? time was when love and i were well acquainted. time was when we walked ever hand in hand; a saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted, none better-loved than i in all the land! time was, when maidens of the noblest station, forsaking even military men, would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration-- ah, me, i was a fair young curate then! had i a headache? sighed the maids assembled; had i a cold? welled forth the silent tear; did i look pale? then half a parish trembled; and when i coughed all thought the end was near! i, had no care--no jealous doubts hung o'er me-- for i was loved beyond all other men. fled gilded dukes and belted earls before me! ah, me! i was a pale young curate then! a recipe. take a pair of sparkling eyes, hidden, ever and anon, in a merciful eclipse-- do not heed their mild surprise-- having passed the rubicon. take a pair of rosy lips; take a figure trimly planned-- such as admiration whets (be particular in this); take a tender little hand, fringed with dainty fingerettes, press it--in parenthesis;-- take all these, you lucky man-- take and keep them, if you can. take a pretty little cot-- quite a miniature affair-- hung about with trellised vine, furnish it upon the spot with the treasures rich and rare i've endeavored to define. live to love and love to live you will ripen at your ease, growing on the sunny side-- fate has nothing more to give. you're a dainty man to please if you are not satisfied. take my counsel, happy man: act upon it, if you can! the first lord's song. when i was a lad i served a term as office boy to an attorney's firm. i cleaned the windows and i swept the floor, and i polished up the handle of the big front door. i polished up that handle so successfullee that now i am the ruler of the queen's navee! as office boy i made such a mark that they gave me the post of a junior clerk. i served the writs with a smile so bland, and i copied all the letters in a big round hand. i copied all the letters in a hand so free, that now i am the ruler of the queen's navee! in serving writs i made such a name that an articled clerk i soon became; i wore clean collars and a brand-new suit for the pass examination at the institute. and that pass examination did so well for me, that now i am the ruler of the queen's navee! of legal knowledge i acquired such a grip that they took me into the partnership. and that junior partnership, i ween, was the only ship that i ever had seen, but that kind of ship so suited me, that now i am the ruler of the queen's navee! i grew so rich that i was sent by a pocket borough into parliament. i always voted at my party's call, and i never thought of thinking for myself at all. i thought so little, they rewarded me, by making me the ruler of the queen's navee! now, landsmen all, whoever you may be, if you want to rise to the top of the tree, if your soul isn't fettered to an office stool, be careful to be guided by this golden rule-- stick close to your desks and _never go to sea_, and you all may be rulers of the queen's navee! when a merry maiden marries. when a merry maiden marries, sorrow goes and pleasure tarries; every sound becomes a song, all is right and nothing's wrong! from to-day and ever after let your tears be tears of laughter-- every sigh that finds a vent be a sigh of sweet content! when you marry merry maiden, then the air with love is laden; every flower is a rose, every goose becomes a swan, every kind of trouble goes where the last year's snows have gone! sunlight takes the place of shade when you marry merry maid! when a merry maiden marries sorrow goes and pleasure tarries; every sound becomes a song, all is right, and nothing's wrong. gnawing care and aching sorrow, get ye gone until to-morrow; jealousies in grim array, ye are things of yesterday! when you marry merry maiden, then the air with joy is laden; all the corners of the earth ring with music sweetly played, worry is melodious mirth. grief is joy in masquerade; sullen night is laughing day-- all the year is merry may! the suicide's grave. on a tree by the river a little tomtit sang "willow, titwillow, titwillow!" and i said to him, "dicky-bird, why do you sit singing 'willow, titwillow, titwillow?' is it weakness of intellect, birdie?" i cried, "or a rather tough worm in your little inside?" with a shake of his poor little head he replied, "oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!" he slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough, singing "willow, titwillow, titwillow!" and a cold perspiration bespangled his brow, oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow! he sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave, then he threw himself into the billowy wave, and an echo arose from the suicide's grave-- "oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!" now i feel just as sure as i'm sure that my name isn't willow, titwillow, titwillow, that 'twas blighted affection that made him exclaim, "oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!" and if you remain callous and obdurate, i shall perish as he did, and you will know why, though i probably shall not exclaim as i die, "oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!" he and she. he. i know a youth who loves a little maid-- (hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) silent is he, for he's modest and afraid-- (hey, but he's timid as a youth can be!) she. i know a maid who loves a gallant youth, (hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) she cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth-- (hey, but i think that little maid will die!) both. now tell me pray, and tell me true, what in the world should the poor soul do? he. he cannot eat and he cannot sleep-- (hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) daily he goes for to wail--for to weep-- (hey, but he's wretched as a youth can be!) she. she's very thin and she's very pale-- (hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) daily she goes for to weep--for to wail-- (hey, but i think that little maid will die!) both. now tell me pray, and tell me true, what in the world should the poor soul do? she. if i were the youth i should offer her my name-- (hey, but her face is a sight for to see!) he. if i were the maid i should feed his honest flame-- (hey, but he's bashful as a youth can be!) she. if i were the youth i should speak to her to-day-- (hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) he. if i were the maid i should meet the lad half way-- (for i really do believe that timid youth will die'!) both. i thank you much for your counsel true; i've learnt what that poor soul ought to do! [illustration] the lord chancellor's song. the law is the true embodiment of everything that's excellent. it has no kind of fault or flaw, and i, my lords, embody the law. the constitutional guardian i of pretty young wards in chancery, all very agreeable girls--and none are over the age of twenty-one. a pleasant occupation for a rather susceptible chancellor! but though the compliment implied inflates me with legitimate pride, it nevertheless can't be denied that it has its inconvenient side. for i'm not so old, and not so plain, and i'm quite prepared to marry again, but there'd be the deuce to pay in the lords if i fell in love with one of my wards: which rather tries my temper, for i'm _such_ a susceptible chancellor! and everyone who'd marry a ward must come to me for my accord: so in my court i sit all day, giving agreeable girls away, with one for him--and one for he-- and one for you--and one for ye-- and one for thou--and one for thee-- but never, oh never a one for me! which is exasperating, for a highly susceptible chancellor! willow waly! he. prithee, pretty maiden--prithee, tell me true (hey, but i'm doleful, willow, willow waly!) have you e'er a lover a-dangling after you? hey, willow waly o! i fain would discover if you have a lover? hey, willow waly o! she. gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free-- (hey but he's doleful, willow, willow waly!) nobody i care for comes a-courting me-- hey, willow waly o! nobody i care for comes a-courting--therefore, hey, willow waly o! he. prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me? (hey, but i'm hopeful, willow, willow waly!) i may say, at once, i'm a man of propertee hey, willow waly o! money, i despise it, but many people prize it, hey, willow waly o! she. gentle sir, although to marry i design-- (hey, but i'm hopeful, willow, willow waly!) as yet i do not know you, and so i must decline. hey, willow waly o! to other maidens go you-- as yet i do not know you, hey, willow waly o! the usher's charge. now, jurymen, hear my advice-- all kinds of vulgar prejudice i pray you set aside: with stern judicial frame of mind, from bias free of every kind, this trial must be tried! oh, listen to the plaintiff's case: observe the features of her face-- the broken-hearted bride! condole with her distress of mind: from bias free of every kind, this trial must be tried! and when amid the plaintiff's shrieks, the ruffianly defendant speaks-- upon the other side; what _he_ may say you needn't mind-- from bias free of every kind, this trial must be tried! king goodheart. there lived a king, as i've been told, in the wonder-working days of old, when hearts were twice as good as gold, and twenty times as mellow. good temper triumphed in his face, and in his heart he found a place for all the erring human race and every wretched fellow. when he had rhenish wine to drink it made him very sad to think that some, at junket or at jink, must be content with toddy. he wished all men as rich as he (and he was rich as rich could be), so to the top of every tree promoted everybody. ambassadors cropped up like hay, prime ministers and such as they grew like asparagus in may, and dukes were three a penny. lord chancellors were cheap as sprats. and bishops in their shovel hats were plentiful as tabby cats-- if possible, too many. on every side field-marshals gleamed, small beer were lords lieutenant deemed with admirals the ocean teemed all round his wide dominions; and party leaders you might meet in twos and threes in every street maintaining, with no little heat, their various opinions. that king, although no one denies his heart was of abnormal size, yet he'd have acted otherwise if he had been acuter. the end is easily foretold, when every blessed thing you hold is made of silver, or of gold, you long for simple pewter. when you have nothing else to wear but cloth of gold and satins rare, for cloth of gold you cease to care-- up goes the price of shoddy. in short, whoever you may be, to this conclusion you'll agree, when every one is somebodee, then no one's anybody! the tangled skein. try we life long, we can never straighten out life's tangled skein, why should we, in vain endeavor, guess and guess and guess again? life's a pudding full of plums; care's a canker that benumbs. wherefore waste our elocution on impossible solution? life's a pleasant institution, let us take it as it comes! set aside the dull enigma, we shall guess it all too soon; failure brings no kind of stigma-- dance we to another tune! string the lyre and fill the cup, lest on sorrow we should sup. hop and skip to fancy's fiddle, hands across and down the middle-- life's perhaps the only riddle that we shrink from giving up! girl graduates. they intend to send a wire to the moon; and they'll set the thames on fire very soon; then they learn to make silk purses with their rigs from the ears of lady circe's piggy-wigs. and weazels at their slumbers they'll trepan; to get sunbeams from cu_cum_bers they've a plan. they've a firmly rooted notion they can cross the polar ocean, and they'll find perpetual motion if they can! these are the phenomena that every pretty domina hopes that we shall see at this universitee! as for fashion, they forswear it, so they say, and the circle--they will square it some fine day; then the little pigs they're teaching for to fly; and the niggers they'll be bleaching bye and bye! each newly joined aspirant to the clan must repudiate the tyrant known as man; they mock at him and flout him, for they do not care about him, and they're "going to do without him" if they can! these are the phenomena that every pretty domina hopes that we shall see at this universitee! the ape and the lady. a lady fair, of lineage high, was loved by an ape, in the days gone by-- the maid was radiant as the sun, the ape was a most unsightly one-- so it would not do-- his scheme fell through; for the maid, when his love took formal shape, expressed such terror at his monstrous error, that he stammered an apology and made his 'scape, the picture of a disconcerted ape. with a view to rise in the social scale, he shaved his bristles, and he docked his tail, he grew moustachios, and he took his tub, and he paid a guinea to a toilet club. but it would not do, the scheme fell through-- for the maid was beauty's fairest queen with golden tresses, like a real princess's, while the ape, despite his razor keen, was the apiest ape that ever was seen! he bought white ties, and he bought dress suits, he crammed his feet into bright tight boots, and to start his life on a brand-new plan, he christened himself darwinian man! but it would not do. the scheme fell through-- for the maiden fair, whom the monkey craved, was a radiant being, with a brain far-seeing-- while a man, however well-behaved, at best is only a monkey shaved! sans souci i cannot tell what this love may be that cometh to all but not to me. it cannot be kind as they'd imply, or why do these gentle ladies sigh? it cannot be joy and rapture deep, or why do these gentle ladies weep? it cannot be blissful, as 'tis said, or why are their eyes so wondrous red? if love is a thorn, they show no wit who foolishly hug and foster it. if love is a weed, how simple they who gather and gather it, day by day! if love is a nettle that makes you smart, why do you wear it next your heart? and if it be neither of these, say i, why do you sit and sob and sigh? the british tar. a british tar is a soaring soul, as free as a mountain bird, his energetic fist should be ready to resist a dictatorial word his nose should pant and his lips should curl, his cheeks should flame and his brow should furl, his bosom should heave and his heart should glow, and his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow. his eyes should flash with an inborn fire, his brow with scorn be rung; he never should bow down to a domineering frown, or the tang of a tyrant tongue. his foot should stamp and his throat should growl, his hair should twirl and his face should scowl: his eyes should flash and his breast protrude, and this should be his customary attitude! [illustration] the coming bye and bye. sad is that woman's lot who, year by year, sees, one by one, her beauties disappear; as time, grown weary of her heart-drawn sighs, impatiently begins to "dim her eyes!" herself compelled, in life's uncertain gloamings, to wreathe her wrinkled brow with well saved "combings"-- reduced, with rouge, lipsalve, and pearly grey, to "make up" for lost time, as best she may! silvered is the raven hair, spreading is the parting straight, mottled the complexion fair, halting is the youthful gait. hollow is the laughter free, spectacled the limpid eye, little will be left of me, in the coming bye and bye! fading is the taper waist-- shapeless grows the shapely limb, and although securely laced, spreading is the figure trim! stouter than i used to be, still more corpulent grow i-- there will be too much of me in the coming bye and bye! the sorcerer's song. oh! my name is john wellington wells-- i'm a dealer in magic and spells, in blessings and curses, and ever filled purses, in prophecies, witches and knells! if you want a proud foe to "make tracks"-- if you'd melt a rich uncle in wax-- you've but to look in on our resident djinn, number seventy, simmery axe. we've a first class assortment of magic; and for raising a posthumous shade with effects that are comic or tragic, there's no cheaper house in the trade. love-philtre--we've quantities of it; and for knowledge if any one burns, we keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet who brings us unbounded returns: for he can prophesy with a wink _of_ his eye, peep with security into futurity, sum up your history, clear up a mystery, humor proclivity for a nativity. with mirrors so magical, tetrapods tragical, bogies spectacular, answers oracular, facts astronomical, solemn or comical, and, if you want it, he makes a reduction on taking a quantity! oh! if any one anything lacks, he'll find it all ready in stacks, if he'll only look in on the resident djinn, number seventy, simmery axe! he can raise you hosts of ghosts, and that without reflectors; and creepy things with wings, and gaunt and grisly spectres! he can fill you crowds of shrouds, and horrify you vastly; he can rack your brains with chains, and gibberings grim and ghastly. then, if you plan it, he changes organity, with an urbanity, full of satanity, vexes humanity with an inanity fatal to vanity-- driving your foes to the verge of insanity! barring tautology, in demonology, 'lectro biology, mystic nosology, spirit philology, high class astrology, such is his knowledge, he isn't the man to require an apology! oh! my name is john wellington wells, i'm a dealer in magic and spells, in blessings and curses, and ever filled purses in prophecies, witches and knells! if any one anything lacks, he'll find it all ready in stacks, if he'll only look in on the resident djinn, number seventy, simmery axe! speculation. comes a train of little ladies from scholastic trammels free, each a little bit afraid is, wondering what the world can be! is it but a world of trouble-- sadness set to song? is its beauty but a bubble bound to break ere long? are its palaces and pleasures fantasies that fade? and the glories of its treasures shadow of a shade? schoolgirls we, eighteen and under, from scholastic trammels free, and we wonder--how we wonder!-- what on earth the world can be! the duke of plaza-toro. in enterprise of martial kind, when there was any fighting, he led his regiment from behind, he found it less exciting. but when away his regiment ran, his place was at the fore, o-- that celebrated, cultivated, underrated nobleman, the duke of plaza-toro! in the first and foremost flight, ha, ha! you always found that knight, ha, ha! that celebrated, cultivated, underrated nobleman, the duke of plaza-toro! when, to evade destruction's hand, to hide they all proceeded, no soldier in that gallant band hid half as well as he did. he lay concealed throughout the war, and so preserved his gore, o! that unaffected, undetected, well connected warrior, the duke of plaza-toro! in every doughty deed, ha ha! he always took the lead, ha ha! that unaffected, undetected, well connected warrior, the duke of plaza-toro! when told that they would all be shot unless they left the service, the hero hesitated not, so marvellous his nerve is. he sent his resignation in, the first of all his corps, o! that very knowing, overflowing, easy-going paladin, the duke of plaza-toro! to men of grosser clay, ha, ha! he always showed the way, ha, ha! that very knowing, overflowing, easy-going paladin, the duke of plaza-toro! the reward of merit. dr. belville was regarded as the crichton of his age: his tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage; his poems held a noble rank, although it's very true that, being very proper, they were read by very few. he was a famous painter, too, and shone upon the "line," and even mr. ruskin came and worshipped at his shrine; but, alas, the school he followed was heroically high-- the kind of art men rave about, but very seldom buy-- and everybody said "how can he be repaid-- this very great--this very good--this very gifted man?" but nobody could hit upon a practicable plan! he was a great inventor, and discovered, all alone, a plan for making everybody's fortune but his own; for, in business, an inventor's little better than a fool, and my highly gifted friend was no exception to the rule. his poems--people read them in the quarterly reviews-- his pictures--they engraved them in the _illustrated news_-- his inventions--they, perhaps, might have enriched him by degrees, but all his little income went in patent office fees; and everybody said "how can he be repaid-- this very great--this very good--this very gifted man?" but nobody could hit upon a practicable plan! at last the point was given up in absolute despair, when a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire, with a county seat in parliament, a moor or two of grouse, and a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the house! _then_ it flashed upon britannia that the fittest of rewards was, to take him from the commons and to put him in the lords! and who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can, as this very great--this very good--this very gifted man? (though i'm more than half afraid that it sometimes may be said that we never should have revelled in that source of proper pride, however great his merits--if his cousin hadn't died!) when i first put this uniform on. when i first put this uniform on, i said as i looked in the glass. "it's one to a million that any civilian my figure and form will surpass. gold lace has a charm for the fair, and i've plenty of that, and to spare, while a lover's professions, when uttered in hessians, are eloquent everywhere! a fact that i counted upon, when i first put this uniform on!" i said, when i first put it on, "it is plain to the veriest dunce that every beauty will feel it her duty to yield to its glamor at once. they will see that i'm freely gold-laced in a uniform handsome and chaste-- but the peripatetics of long-haired æsthetics, are very much more to their taste-- which i never counted upon when i first put this uniform on!" [illustration] said i to myself, said i. when i went to the bar as a very young man, (said i to myself--said i), i'll work on a new and original plan (said i to myself--said i), i'll never assume that a rogue or a thief is a gentleman worthy implicit belief, because his attorney has sent me a brief (said i to myself--said i!). i'll never throw dust in a juryman's eyes (said i to myself--said i), or hoodwink a judge who is not over-wise (said i to myself--said i), or assume that the witnesses summoned in force in exchequer, queen's bench, common pleas, or divorce, have perjured themselves as a matter of course (said i to myself--said i). ere i go into court i will read my brief through (said i to myself--said i), and i'll never take work i'm unable to do (said i to myself--said i). my learned profession i'll never disgrace by taking a fee with a grin on my face, when i haven't been there to attend to the case (said i to myself--said i!). in other professions in which men engage (said i to myself--said i), the army, the navy, the church, and the stage (said i to myself--said i), professional license, if carried too far, your chance of promotion will certainly mar and i fancy the rule might apply to the bar (said i to myself--said i!). the family fool. oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon, if you listen to popular rumor; from morning to night he's so joyous and bright, and he bubbles with wit and good-humor! he's so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse; yet though people forgive his transgression, there are one or two rules that all family fools must observe, if they love their profession. there are one or two rules half a dozen, maybe, that all family fools, of whatever degree, must observe, if they love their profession. if you wish to succeed as a jester, you'll need to consider each person auricular: what is all right for b would quite scandalize c (for c is so very particular); and d may be dull, and e's very thick skull is as empty of brains as a ladle; while f is f sharp, and will cry with a carp, that he's known your best joke from his cradle! when your humor they flout, you can't let yourself go; and it _does_ put you out when a person says, "oh! i have known that old joke from my cradle!" if your master is surly, from getting up early (and tempers are short in the morning), an inopportune joke is enough to provoke him to give you, at once, a month's warning then if you refrain, he is at you again, for he likes to get value for money. he'll ask then and there, with an insolent stare, if you know that you're paid to be funny?" it adds to the task of a merryman's place, when your principal asks, with a scowl on his face, if you know that you're paid to be funny?" comes a bishop, maybe, or a solemn d.d.-- oh, beware of his anger provoking! better not pull his hair--don't stick pins in his chair; he don't understand practical joking. if the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack, you may get a bland smile from these sages; but should it, by chance, be imported from france, half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages! it's a general rule, though your zeal it may quench, if the family fool makes a joke that's _too_ french, half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages! though your head it may rack with a bilious attack, and your senses with toothache you're losing, don't be mopy and flat--they don't fine you for that, if you're properly quaint and amusing! though your wife ran away with a soldier that day, and took with her your trifle of money; bless your heart, they don't mind--they're exceedingly kind-- they don't blame you--as long as you're funny! it's a comfort to feel if your partner should flit, though _you_ suffer a deal, _they_ don't mind it a bit-- they don't blame you--so long as you're funny! the philosophic pill. i've wisdom from the east and from the west, that's subject to no academic rule: you may find it in the jeering of a jest, or distil it from the folly of a fool. i can teach you with a quip, if i've a mind! i can trick you into learning with a laugh; oh, winnow all my folly, and you'll find a grain or two of truth among the chaff! i can set a braggart quailing with a quip, the upstart i can wither with a whim; he may wear a merry laugh upon his lip, but his laughter has an echo that is grim. when they're offered to the world in merry guise, unpleasant truths are swallowed with a will-- for he who'd make his fellow creatures wise should always gild the philosophic pill! the contemplative sentry. when all night long a chap remains on sentry-go, to chase monotony he exercises of his brains, that is, assuming that he's got any, though never nurtured in the lap of luxury, yet i admonish you, i am an intellectual chap, and think of things that would astonish you. i often think it's comical how nature always does contrive that every boy and every gal that's born into the world alive is either a little liberal, or else a little conservative! fal lal la! when in that house m.p.'s divide, if they've a brain and cerebellum, too. they're got to leave that brain outside. and vote just as their leaders tell 'em to. but then the prospect of a lot of statesmen, all in close proximity. a-thinking for themselves, is what no man can face with equanimity. then let's rejoice with loud fal lal that nature wisely does contrive that every boy and every gal that's born into the world alive, is either a little liberal, or else a little conservative! fal lal la! sorry her lot. sorry her lot who loves too well, heavy the heart that hopes but vainly, had are the sighs that own the spell uttered by eyes that speak too plainly; heavy the sorrow that bows the head when love is alive and hope is dead! sad is the hour when sets the sun-- dark is the night to earth's poor daughters when to the ark the wearied one flies from the empty waste of waters! heavy the sorrow that bows the head when love is alive and hope is dead! the judge's song. when i, good friends, was called to the bar, i'd an appetite fresh and hearty, but i was, as many young barristers are, an impecunious party. i'd a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue-- a brief which i bought of a booby-- a couple of shirts and a collar or two, and a ring that looked like a ruby! in westminster hall i danced a dance, like a semi-despondent fury; for i thought i should never hit on a chance of addressing a british jury-- but i soon got tired of third class journeys, and dinners of bread and water; so i fell in love with a rich attorney's elderly, ugly daughter. the rich attorney, he wiped his eyes, and replied to my fond professions: "you shall reap the reward of your enterprise, at the bailey and middlesex sessions. you'll soon get used to her looks," said he, "and a very nice girl you'll find her-- she may very well pass for forty-three in the dusk, with a light behind her!" the rich attorney was as good as his word: the briefs came trooping gaily, and every day my voice was heard at the sessions or ancient bailey. all thieves who could my fees afford relied on my orations, and many a burglar i've restored to his friends and his relations. at length i became as rich as the gurneys-- an incubus then i thought her, so i threw over that rich attorney's elderly, ugly daughter. the rich attorney my character high tried vainly to disparage-- and now, if you please, i'm ready to try this breach of promise of marriage! true diffidence. my boy, you may take it from me, that of all the afflictions accurst with which a man's saddled and hampered and addled, a diffident nature's the worst. though clever as clever can be-- a crichton of early romance-- you must stir it and stump it, and blow your own trumpet, or, trust me, you haven't a chance. now take, for example, _my_ case: i've a bright intellectual brain-- in all london city there's no one so witty-- i've thought so again and again. i've a highly intelligent face-- my features cannot be denied-- but, whatever i try, sir, i fail in--and why, sir? i'm modesty personified! as a poet, i'm tender and quaint-- i've passion and fervor and grace-- from ovid and horace to swinburne and morris, they all of them take a back place, then i sing and i play and i paint; though none are accomplished as i, to say so were treason: you ask me the reason? i'm diffident, modest and shy! [illustration] the highly respectable gondolier. i stole the prince, and i brought him here, and left him, gaily prattling with a highly respectable gondolier, who promised the royal babe to rear, and teach him the trade of a timoneer with his own beloved bratling. both of the babes were strong and stout, and, considering all things, clever. of that there is no manner of doubt-- no probable, possible shadow of doubt-- no possible doubt whatever. time sped, and when at the end of a year i sought that infant cherished, that highly respectable gondolier was lying a corpse on his humble bier-- i dropped a grand inquisitor's tear-- that gondolier had perished. a taste for drink, combined with gout, had doubled him up for ever. of _that_ there is no manner of doubt-- no probable, possible shadow of doubt-- no possible doubt whatever. but owing, i'm much disposed to fear, to his terrible taste for tippling, that highly respectable gondolier could never declare with a mind sincere which of the two was his offspring dear, and which the royal stripling! which was which he could never make out, despite his best endeavour. of _that_ there is no manner of doubt-- no probable, possible shadow of doubt-- no possible doubt whatever. the children followed his old career-- (this statement can't be parried) of a highly respectable gondolier: well, one of the two (who will soon be here)-- but _which_ of the two is not quite clear-- is the royal prince you married! search in and out and round about and you'll discover never a tale so free from every doubt-- all probable, possible shadow of doubt-- all possible doubt whatever! don't forget. now, marco dear, my wishes hear: while you're away it's understood you will be good, and not too gay. to every trace of maiden grace you will be blind, and will not glance by any chance on womankind! if you are wise, you'll shut your eyes 'till we arrive, and not address a lady less than forty-five; you'll please to frown on every gown that you may see; and o, my pet, you won't forget you've married me! o, my darling, o, my pet, whatever else you may forget, in yonder isle beyond the sea, o, don't forget you've married me! you'll lay your head upon your bed at set of sun. you will not sing of anything to any one: you'll sit and mope all day, i hope, and shed a tear upon the life your little wife is passing here! and if so be you think of me, please tell the moon: i'll read it all in rays that fall on the lagoon: you'll be so kind as tell the wind how you may be, and send me words by little birds to comfort me! and o, my darling, o, my pet, whatever else you may forget, in yonder isle beyond the sea, o, don't forget you've married me! the darned mounseer. i shipped, d'ye see, in a revenue sloop, and, off cape finistere, a merchantman we see, a frenchman, going free, so we made for the bold mounseer. d'ye see? we made for the bold mounseer! but she proved to be a frigate--and she up with her ports, and fires with a thirty-two! it come uncommon near, but we answered with a cheer, which paralyzed the parley-voo, d'ye see? which paralyzed the parley-voo! then our captain he up and he says, says he, "that chap we need not fear,-- we can take her, if we like, she is sartin for to strike, for she's only a darned mounseer, d'ye see? she's only a darned mounseer! but to fight a french fal-lal--it's like hittin' of a gal-- it's a lubberly thing for to do; for we, with all our faults, why, we're sturdy british salts, while she's but a parley-voo, d'ye see? a miserable parley-voo!" so we up with our helm, and we scuds before the breeze, as we gives a compassionating cheer; froggee answers with a shout as he sees us go about, which was grateful of the poor mounseer, d'ye see? which was grateful of the poor mounseer! and i'll wager in their joy they kissed each other's cheek (which is what them, furriners do), and they blessed their lucky stars? we were hardy british tars who had pity on a poor parley-voo, d'ye see? who had pity on a poor parley-voo! the humane mikado. a more humane mikado never did in japan exist, to nobody second, i'm certainly reckoned a true philanthropist, it is my very humane endeavor to make, to some extent, each evil liver a running river of harmless merriment. my object all sublime i shall achieve in time-- to let the punishment fit the crime-- the punishment fit the crime; and make each prisoner pent unwillingly represent a source of innocent merriment, of innocent merriment! all prosy dull society sinners, who chatter and bleat and bore, are sent to hear sermons from mystical germans who preach from ten to four, the amateur tenor, whose vocal villanies all desire to shirk, shall, during off hours, exhibit his powers to madame tussaud's waxwork. the lady who dyes a chemical yellow, or stains her grey hair puce, or pinches her figger, is blacked like a nigger with permanent walnut juice. the idiot who, in railway carriages, scribbles on window panes, we only suffer to ride on a buffer in parliamentary trains. my object all sublime i shall achieve in time-- to let the punishment fit the crime-- the punishment fit the crime; and make each prisoner pent unwillingly represent a source of innocent merriment, of innocent merriment! the advertising quack who wearier with tales of countless cures. his teeth, i've enacted, shall all be extracted by terrified amateurs. the music hall singer attends a series of masses and fugues and "ops" by bach, interwoven with sophr and beethoven, at classical monday pops. the billiard sharp whom any one catches, his doom's extremely hard-- he's made to dwell in a dungeon cell on a spot that's always barred. and there he plays extravagant matches in fitless finger-stalls, on a cloth untrue with a twisted cue, and elliptical billiard balls! my object all sublime i shall achieve in time-- to let the punishment fit the crime-- the punishment fit the crime; and make each prisoner pent unwillingly represent a source of innocent merriment, of innocent merriment! the house of peers. when britain really ruled the waves-- (in good queen bess's time) the house of peers made no pretence to intellectual eminence, or scholarship sublime; yet britain won her proudest bays in good queen bess's glorious days! when wellington thrashed bonaparte, as every child can tell, the house of peers, throughout the war, did nothing in particular, and did it very well; yet britain set the world a-blaze in good king george's glorious days! and while the house of peers withholds its legislative hand. and noble statesmen do not itch to interfere with matters which they do not understand, as bright will shine great britain's rays, as in king george's glorious days! [illustration] the Æsthete. if you're anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of culture rare, you must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere. you must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind, the meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter of a transcendental kind. and everyone will say, as you walk your mystic way, "if this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for _me_, why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!" be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away, and convince 'em if you can, that the reign of good queen anne was culture's palmiest day. of course you will pooh-pooh whatever's fresh and new, and declare it's crude and mean, and that art stopped short in the cultivated court of the empress josephine, and everyone will say, as you walk your mystic way, "if that's not good enough for him which is good enough for _me_, why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!" then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen, an attachment _a la_ plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-french french bean. though the philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high æsthetic band, if you walk down picadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval hand. and everyone will say, as you walk your flowery way, "if he's content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suit _me_, why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!" proper pride. the sun, whose rays are all ablaze with ever living glory, does not deny his majesty-- he scorns to tell a story! he don't exclaim "i blush for shame, so kindly be indulgent," but, fierce and bold, in fiery gold, he glories all effulgent! i mean to rule the earth. as he the sky-- we really know our worth, the sun and i! observe his flame, that placid dame, the moon's celestial highness; there's not a trace upon her face of diffidence or shyness: she borrows light that, through the night, mankind may all acclaim her! and, truth to tell, she lights up well, so i, for one, don't blame her! ah, pray make no mistake, we are not shy; we're very wide awake, the moon and i! the baffled grumbler. whene'er i poke sarcastic joke replete with malice spiteful, the people vile politely smile and vote me quite delightful! now, when a wight sits up all night ill-natured jokes devising, and all his wiles are met with smiles, it's hard, there's no disguising! oh, don't the days seem lank and long when all goes right and nothing goes wrong, and isn't your life extremely flat with nothing whatever to grumble at! when german bands from music stands play wagner imper_fect_ly-- i bid them go-- they don't say no, but off they trot directly! the organ boys they stop their noise with readiness surprising, and grinning herds of hurdy-gurds retire apologizing! oh, don't the days seem lank and long when all goes right and nothing goes wrong, and isn't your life extremely flat with nothing whatever to grumble at! i've offered gold, in sums untold, to all who'd contradict me-- i've said i'd pay a pound a day to any one who kicked me-- i've bribed with toys great vulgar boys to utter something spiteful, but, bless you, no! they _will_ be so confoundedly politeful! in short, these aggravating lads they tickle my tastes, they feed my fads, they give me this and they give me that, and i've nothing whatever to grumble at! the working monarch. rising early in the morning, we proceed to light our fire; then our majesty adorning in its work-a-day attire, we embark without delay on the duties of the day. first, we polish off some batches of political dispatches, and foreign politicians circumvent; then, if business isn't heavy, we may hold a royal levee, or ratify some acts of parliament; then we probably review the household troops-- with the usual "shalloo humps!" and "shalloo hoops!" or receive with ceremonial and state an interesting eastern potentate, after that we generally go and dress our private valet-- (it's rather a nervous duty--he's a touchy little man) write some letters literary for our private secretary-- he is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can. then, in view of cravings inner, we go down and order dinner; or we polish the regalia and the coronation plate-- spend an hour in titivating all our gentlemen-in-waiting; or we run on little errands for the ministers of state. oh, philosophers may sing of the troubles of a king; yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great; but the privilege and pleasure that we treasure beyond measure is to run on little errands for the ministers of state! after luncheon (making merry on a bun and glass of sherry), if we've nothing particular to do, we may make a proclamation, or receive a deputation-- then we possibly create a peer or two. then we help a fellow creature on his path with the garter or the thistle or the bath: or we dress and toddle off in semi-state to a festival, a function, or a _fete_. then we go and stand as sentry at the palace (private entry), marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro, while the warrior on duty goes in search of beer and beauty (and it generally happens that he hasn't far to go). he relieves us, if he's able, just in time to lay the table, then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one, with a pleasure that's emphatic, we retire to our attic with the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done. oh, philosophers may sing of the troubles of a king, but of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none; and the culminating pleasure that we treasure beyond measure is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done! the rover's apology. oh, gentlemen, listen, i pray; though i own that my heart has been ranging, of nature the laws i obey, for nature is constantly changing. the moon in her phases is found, the time and the wind and the weather, the months in succession come round, and you don't find two mondays together. consider the moral, i pray, nor bring a young fellow to sorrow, who loves this young lady to-day, and loves that young lady to-morrow. you cannot eat breakfast all day, nor is it the act of a sinner, when breakfast is taken away to turn your attention to dinner; and it's not in the range of belief, that you could hold him as a glutton, who, when he is tired of beef, determines to tackle the mutton. but this i am ready to say, if it will diminish their sorrow, i'll marry this lady to-day, and i'll marry that lady to-morrow! would you know? would you know the kind of maid sets my heart a flame-a? eyes must be downcast and staid, cheeks must flush for shame-a! she may neither dance nor sing, but, demure in everything, hang her head in modest way, with pouting lips that seem to say "kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, though i die of shame-a." please you, that's the kind of maid sets my heart a flame-a! when a maid is bold and gay, with a tongue goes clang-a, flaunting it in brave array, maiden may go hang-a! sunflower gay and hollyhock never shall my garden stock; mine the blushing rose of may, with pouting lips that seem to say, "oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, though i die for shame-a!" please you, that's the kind of maid sets my heart a flame-a! [illustration] the magnet and the churn. a magnet hung in a hardware shop, and all around was a loving crop of scissors and needles, nails and knives, offering love for all their lives; but for iron the magnet felt no whim, though he charmed iron, it charmed not him, from needles and nails and knives he'd turn, for he'd set his love on a silver churn! his most æsthetic, very magnetic fancy took this turn-- "if i can wheedle a knife or needle, why not a silver churn?" and iron and steel expressed surprise, the needles opened their well drilled eyes, the pen-knives felt "shut up," no doubt, the scissors declared themselves "cut out." the kettles they boiled with rage, 'tis said, while every nail went off its head, and hither and thither began to roam, till a hammer came up--and drove it home, while this magnetic peripatetic lover he lived to learn, by no endeavor, can magnet ever attract a silver churn! braid the raven hair. braid the raven hair, weave the supple tress, deck the maiden fair in her loveliness; paint the pretty face, dye the coral lip. emphasize the grace of her ladyship! art and nature, thus allied, go to make a pretty bride! sit with downcast eye, let it brim with dew; try if you can cry, we will do so, too. when you're summoned, start like a frightened roe; flutter, little heart, color, come and go! modesty at marriage tide well becomes a pretty bride! is life a boon? is life a boon? if so? it must befal that death, whene'er he call, must call too soon. though fourscore years he give, yet one would pray to live another moon! what kind of plaint have i, who perish in july? i might have had to die, perchance, in june! is life a thorn? then count it not a whit! man is well done with it; soon as he's born he should all means essay to put the plague away: and i, war-worn, poor captured fugitive, my life most gladly give-- i might have had to live another morn! a mirage. were i thy bride, then the whole world beside were not too wide to hold my wealth of love-- were i thy bride! upon thy breast my loving head would rest, as on her nest the tender turtle dove-- were i thy bride! this heart of mine would be one heart with thine, and in that shrine our happiness would dwell-- were i thy bride! and all day long our lives should be a song: no grief, no wrong should make my heart rebel-- were i thy bride! the silvery flute, the melancholy lute, were night owl's hoot to my low-whispered coo-- were i thy bride! the skylark's trill were but discordance shrill to the soft thrill of wooing as i'd woo-- were i thy bride! the rose's sigh were as a carrion's cry to lullaby such as i'd sing to thee, were i thy bride! a feather's press were leaden heaviness to my caress. but then, unhappily, i'm not thy bride! a merry madrigal. brightly dawns our wedding day; joyous hour, we give thee greeting! whither, whither art thou fleeting? fickle moment, prithee stay! what though mortal joys be hollow? pleasures come, if sorrows follow: though the tocsin sound, ere long, ding dong! ding dong! yet until the shadows fall over one and over all, sing a merry madrigal-- fal la! let us dry the ready tear; though the hours are surely creeping, little need for woeful weeping, till the sad sundown is near. all must sip the cup of sorrow-- i to-day and thou to-morrow: this the close of every song-- ding dong! ding dong! what, though solemn shadows fall, sooner, later, over all? sing a merry madrigal-- fal la! the love-sick boy. when first my old, old love i knew, my bosom welled with joy; my riches at her feet i threw; i was a love-sick boy! no terms seemed too extravagant upon her to employ-- i used to mope, and sigh, and pant, just like a love-sick boy! but joy incessant palls the sense; and love, unchanged will cloy, and she became a bore intense unto her love-sick boy! with fitful glimmer burnt my flame, and i grew cold and coy, at last, one morning, i became another's love-sick boy! * * * * * henry altemus' publications. philadelphia. pa. stephen. a soldier of the cross, by florence morse kingsley, author of "titus, a comrade of the cross." "since ben-hur no story has so vividly portrayed the times of christ."--_the bookseller._ cloth, mo., pages. $ . . paul. a herald of the cross, by florence morse kingsley, "a vivid and picturesque narrative of the life and times of the great apostle." cloth, ornamental, mo., pages, $ . . vic. the autobiography of a fox terrier, by marie more marsh. "a fitting companion to that other wonderful book, 'black beauty.'" cloth, mo., cents. woman's work in the home, by archdeacon farrar. cloth, small mo., cents. the apocryphal books of the new testament, being the gospels and epistles used by the followers of christ in the first three centuries after his death, and rejected by the council of nice, a.d. . cloth, vo., illustrated, $ . . the pilgrim's progress, _as john bunyan wrote it_. a fac-simile reproduction of the first edition, published in . antique cloth, mo., $ . . the fairest of the fair, by hildegarde hawthorne. "the grand-daughter of nathaniel hawthorne possesses a full share of his wonderful genius." cloth, mo., $ . . a lover in homespun, by f. clifford smith. interesting tales of adventure and home life in canada. cloth, mo., cents. annie besant: an autobiography. cloth, mo., pages, illustrated. $ . . the grammar of palmistry, by katharine st. hill. cloth, mo., illustrated, cents. around the world in eighty minutes. contains over photographs of the most famous places and edifices with descriptive text. cloth, cents. what women should know. a woman's book about women. by mrs. e.b. duffy. cloth, pages, cents. the care of children, by elisabeth r. scovil. "an excellent book of the most vital interest," cloth, mo., $ . . preparation for motherhood, by elisabeth r. scovil. cloth, mo., pages, $ . . altemus' conversation dictionaries. english-german, english-french. "combined dictionaries and phrase books." pocket size, each $ . . taine's english literature, translated from the french by henry van laun, illustrated with fine photogravure portraits. best english library edition, four volumes, cloth, full gilt, octavo, per set, $ . . half calf, per set, $ . . cheaper edition, with frontispiece illustrations only, cloth, paper titles, per set $ . . shakespeare's complete works, with a biographical sketch by mary cowden clark, embellished with boydell, and numerous other illustrations, four volumes, over pages. half morocco, mo., boxed, per set, $ . . * * * * * dore's masterpieces the dore bible gallery. a complete panorama of bible history, containing full-page engravings by gustave dore. milton's paradise lost, with full-page engravings by gustave dore. dante's inferno, with full-page engravings by gustave dore. dante's purgatory and paradise, with full-page engravings by gustave dore. cloth, ornamental, large quarto ( x inches), each $ . . * * * * * tennyson's idylls of the king, with full-page engravings by gustave dore. cloth, full gilt, large imperial quarto ( x - / inches), $ . . the rime of the ancient mariner, by samuel taylor coleridge, with full page engravings by gustave dore. cloth, full gilt, large imperial quarto ( x - / inches), $ . . bunyan's pilgrim's progress, with engravings by frederick barnard and others. cloth, small quarto ( x inches), $ . . dickens' child's history of england, with fine engravings by famous artists. cloth, small quarto, boxed ( x inches), $ . . bible pictures and stories, full page engravings. cloth, small quarto ( x inches), $ . . my odd little folk, some rhymes and verses about them, by malcolm douglass. numerous original engravings. cloth, small quarto ( x ), $ . . paul and virginia, by bernardin st. pierre, with engravings by maurice leloir. cloth, small quarto ( x ), $ . . life and adventures of robinson crusoe, with original engravings by walter paget. cloth, octavo ( - / x - / ), $ . . * * * * * altemus' illustrated library of standard authors. cloth, twelve mo. size, - / x - / inches. each $ . . tales from shakespeare, by charles and mary lamb, with illustrations by famous artists. paul and virginia, by bernardin de st. pierre, with engravings by maurice leloir. alice's adventures in wonderland, and through the looking-glass and what alice found there, by lewis carroll. complete in one volume with engravings by john tenniel. lucile, by owen meredith, with numerous illustrations by george du maurier. black beauty, by anna sewell, with nearly original engravings. scarlet letter, by nathaniel hawthorne, with numerous original full-page and text illustrations. the house of the seven gables, by nathaniel hawthorne, with numerous original full-page and text illustrations. battles of the war for independence, by prescott holmes, with illustrations. battles of the war for the union, by prescott holmes, with illustrations. * * * * * altemus' young peoples' library _price fifty cents each._ robinson crusoe: (chiefly in words of one syllable). his life and strange, surprising adventures, with beautiful illustrations by walter paget. alice's adventures in wonderland, with illustrations by john tenniel. "the most delightful of children's stories. elegant and delicious nonsense."--_saturday review._ through the looking-glass and what alice found there, a companion to "alice in wonderland," with illustrations by john tenniel. bunyan's pilgrim's progress, with full page and text illustrations. a child's story of the bible, with full page illustrations. a child's life of christ, with illustrations. god has implanted in the infant heart a desire to hear of jesus, and children are early attracted and sweetly riveted by the wonderful story of the master from the manger to the throne. swiss family robinson, with illustrations. the father of the family tells the tale of the vicissitudes through which he and his wife and children pass, the wonderful discoveries made and dangers encountered. the book is full of interest and instruction. christopher columbus and the discovery of america, with illustrations every american boy and girl should be acquainted with the story of the life of the great discoverer, with its struggles, adventures, and trials. the story of exploration and discovery in africa, with illustrations. records the experiences of adventures and discoveries in developing the "dark continent," from the early days of bruce and mungo park down to livingstone and stanley, and the heroes of our own times. no present can be more acceptable than such a volume as this, where courage, intrepidity, resource, and devotion are so admirably mingled. the fables of Æsop. compiled from the best accepted sources. with illustrations. the fables of Æsop are among the very earliest compositions of this kind, and probably have never been surpassed for point and brevity. gulliver's travels. adapted for young readers. with illustrations. mother goose's rhymes, jingles and fairy tales, with illustrations. lives of the presidents of the united states, by prescott holmes. with portraits of the presidents and also of the unsuccessful candidates for the office; as well as the ablest of the cabinet officers. it is just the book for intelligent boys, and it will help to make them intelligent and patriotic citizens. the story of adventure in the frozen seas, with illustrations. by prescott holmes. we have here brought together the records of the attempts to reach the north pole. the book shows how much can be accomplished by steady perseverance and indomitable pluck. illustrated natural history, by the rev. j.g. wood, with illustrations. this author has done more to popularize the study of natural history than any other writer. the illustrations are striking and life-like. a child's history of england, by charles dickens, with illustrations. tired of listening to his children memorize the twaddle of old fashioned english history the author covered the ground in his own peculiar and happy style for his own children's use. when the work was published its success was instantaneous. black beauty, the autobiography of a horse, by anna sewell, with illustrations. a work sure to educate boys and girls to treat with kindness all members of the animal kingdom. recognized as the greatest story of animal life extant. the arabian nights entertainments, with illustrations. contains the most favorably known of the stories. * * * * * altemus' devotional series. standard religious literature appropriately bound in handy volume size. each volume contains illuminated title, portrait of author and appropriate illustrations. _white vellum, silver and monotint, boxed, each fifty cents._ kept for the master's use, by frances ridley havergal. "will perpetuate her name." my king and his service, or daily thoughts for the king's children, by frances ridley havergal. "simple, tender, gentle, and full of christian love." my point of view. selections from the works of professor henry drummond. of the imitation of christ, by thomas a'kempis. "with the exception of the bible it is probably the book most read in christian literature." addresses, by professor henry drummond. "intelligent sympathy with the christian's need." natural law in the spiritual world, by professor henry drummond. "a most notable book which has earned for the author a world-wide reputation." addresses, by the rev. phillips brooks. "has exerted a marked influence over the rising generation." abide in christ. thoughts on the blessed life of fellowship with the son of god. by the rev. andrew murray. it cannot fail to stimulate and cheer.--_spurgeon._ like christ. thoughts on the blessed life of conformity to the son of god. by the rev. andrew murray. a sequel to "abide in christ." "may be read with comfort an edification by all." with christ in the school of prayer, by the rev. andrew murray. "the best work on prayer in the language." holy in christ. thoughts on the calling of god's children to be holy as he is holy. by the rev. andrew murray. "this sacred theme is treated scripturally and robustly without spurious sentimentalism." the manliness of christ, by thomas hughes, author of "tom brown's school days," etc. "evidences of the sublimest courage and manliness in the boyhood, ministry, and in the last acts of christ's life." addresses to young men, by the rev. henry ward beecher. seven addresses on common vices and their results. the pathway of safety, by the rt. rev. ashton oxenden, d.d. sound words of advice and encouragement on the text "what must i do to be saved?" the christian life, by the rt. rev. ashton oxenden, d.d. a beautiful delineation of an ideal life from the conversion to the final reward. the throne of grace. before which the burdened soul may cast itself on the bosom of infinite love and enjoy in prayer "a peace which passeth all understanding." the pathway of promise, by the author of "the throne of grace." thoughts consolatory and encouraging to the christian pilgrim as he journeys onward to his heavenly home. the impregnable rock of holy scripture, by the rt. hon william ewart gladstone, m.p. the most masterly defence of the truths of the bible extant. the author says: the christian faith and the holy scriptures arm us with the means of neutralizing and repelling the assaults of evil in and from ourselves. steps into the blessed life, by the rev. f.b. meyer, b.a. a powerful help towards sanctification. the message of peace, by the rev. richard w. church, d.d. eight excellent sermons on the advent of the babe of bethlehem and his influence and effect on the world. john ploughman's talk, by the rev. charles h. spurgeon. john ploughman's pictures, by the rev. charles h. spurgeon. the changed cross; and other religious poems. * * * * * altemus' eternal life series. selections from the writings of well-known religious authors, beautifully printed and daintily bound with original designs in silver and ink. _price, cents per volume._ eternal life, by professor henry drummond. lord, teach us to pray, by rev. andrew murray. god's word and god's work, by martin luther. faith, by thomas arnold. the creation story, by honorable william e. gladstone. the message of comfort, by rt. rev. ashton oxenden. the message of peace, by rev. r.w. church. the lord's prayer and the ten commandments, by dean stanley. the memoirs of jesus, by rev. robert f. horton. hymns of praise and gladness, by elisabeth r. scovil. difficulties, by hannah whitall smith. gamblers and gambling, by rev. henry ward beecher. have faith in god, by rev. andrew murray. twelve causes of dishonesty, by rev. henry ward beecher. the christ in whom christians believe, by rt. rev. phillips brooks. in my name, by rev. andrew murray. six warnings, by rev. henry ward beecher. the duty of the christian businessman, by rt. rev. phillips brooks. popular amusements, by rev. henry ward beecher. true liberty, by rt. rev. phillips brooks. industry and idleness, by rev. henry ward beecher. the beauty of a life of service, by rt. rev. phillips brooks. the second coming of our lord, by rev. a.t. pierson, d.d. thought and action, by rt. rev. phillips brooks. the heavenly vision, by rev. f.b. meyer. morning strength, by elisabeth r. scovil. for the quiet hour, by edith v. bradt. evening comfort, by elisabeth r. scovil. words of help for christian girls, by rev. f.b. meyer. how to study the bible, by rev. dwight l. moody. expectation corner, by e.s. elliot. jessica's first prayer, by hesba stratton. * * * * * altemus belles-lettres series. a collection of essays and addresses by eminent english and american authors, beautifully printed and daintily bound, with original designs in silver. _price, cents per volume._ independence day, by rev. edward e. hale. the scholar in politics, by hon. richard olney. the young man in business, by edward w. bok. the young man and the church, by edward w. bok. the spoils system, by hon. carl schurz. conversation, by thomas dequincey. sweetness and light, by matthew arnold. work, by john ruskin. nature and art, by ralph waldo emerson. the use and misuse of books, by frederic harrison. the monroe doctrine: its origin, meaning and application, by prof. john bach mcmaster (university of pennsylvania). the destiny of man, by sir john lubbock. love and friendship, by ralph waldo emerson. rip van winkle, by washington irving. art, poetry and music, by sir john lubbock. the choice of books, by sir john lubbock. manners, by ralph waldo emerson. character, by ralph waldo emerson. the legend of sleepy hollow, by washington irving. the beauties of nature, by sir john lubbock. self reliance, by ralph waldo emerson. the duty of happiness, by sir john lubbock. spiritual laws, by ralph waldo emerson. old christmas, by washington irving. health, wealth and the blessing of friends, by sir john lubbock. intellect, by ralph waldo emerson. why americans dislike england, by prof. geo. b. adams (yale). the higher education as a training for business, by prof. harry pratt judson (university of chicago). miss toosey's mission. laddie. j. cole, by emma gellibrand. * * * * * altemus' new illustrated vademecum series. masterpieces of english and american literature, handy volume size, large type editions. each volume contains illuminated title pages, and portrait of author and numerous engravings full cloth, ivory finish, ornamental inlaid sides and back, boxed full white vellum, full silver and monotint, boxed cranford, by mrs. gaskell. a window in thrums, by j.m. barrie. rab and his friends, marjorie fleming, etc., by john brown, m.d. the vicar of wakefield, by oliver goldsmith. the idle thoughts of an idle fellow, by jerome k. jerome. "a book for an idle holiday." tales from shakspeare, by charles and mary lamb, with an introduction by the rev. alfred ainger, m.d. sesame and lilies, by john ruskin. three lectures--i. of the king's treasures. ii. of queen's garden. iii. of the mystery of life. the ethics of the dust, by john ruskin. ten lectures to little housewives on the elements of crystalization. the pleasures of life, by sir john lubbock. complete in one volume. the scarlet letter, by nathaniel hawthorne. the house of the seven gables, by nathaniel hawthorne. mosses from an old manse, by nathaniel hawthorne. twice told tales, by nathaniel hawthorne. the essays of francis (lord) bacon with memoirs and notes. essays, first series, by ralph waldo emerson. essays, second series, by ralph waldo emerson. representative men, by ralph waldo emerson. mental portraits each representing a class. . the philosopher. . the mystic. . the skeptic. . the poet. . the man of the world. . the writer. thoughts of the emperor marcus aurelius antoninus, translated by george long. the discourses of epictetus with the enchiridion, translated by george long. of the imitation of christ, by thomas À kempis. four books complete in one volume. addresses, by professor henry drummond. the greatest thing in the world; pax vobiscum; the changed life; how to learn how; dealing with doubt; preparation for learning: what is a christian; the study of the bible; a talk on books. letters, sentences and maxims, by lord chesterfield. masterpieces of good taste, good writing and good sense. reveries of a bachelor. a book of the heart. by ik marvel. dream life, by ik marvel. a companion to "reveries of a bachelor." sartor resartus, by thomas carlyle. heroes and hero worship, by thomas carlyle. uncle tom's cabin, by harriet beecher stowe. essays of elia, by charles lamb. my point of view. representative selections from the works of professor henry drummond by william shepard. the sketch book, by washington irving. complete. kept for the master's use, by frances ridley havergal. lucile, by owen meredith. lalla rookh, by thomas moore. the lady of the lake, by sir walter scott. marmion, by sir walter scott. the princess; and maud, by alfred (lord) tennyson. childe harold's pilgrimage, by lord byron. idylls of the king, by alfred (lord) tennyson. evangeline, by henry wadsworth longfellow. voices of the night and other poems, by henry wadsworth longfellow. the queen of the air, by john ruskin. a study of the greek myths of cloud and storm. the belfry of bruges and other poems, by henry wadsworth longfellow. poems, volume i, by john greenleaf whittier. poems, volume ii, by john greenleaf whittier. the raven; and other poems, by edgar allan poe. thanatopsis; and other poems, by william cullen bryant. the last leaf; and other poems, by oliver wendell holmes. the heroes or greek fairy tales, by charles kingsley. a wonder book, by nathaniel hawthorne. undine, by de la motte fouque. addresses, by the rt. rev. phillips brooks. balzac's shorter stories, by honore de balzac. two years before the mast, by richard h. dana, jr. benjamin franklin. an autobiography. the last essays of elia, by charles lamb. tom brown's school-days, by thomas hughes. weird tales, by edgar allan poe. the crown of wild olive, by john ruskin. three lectures on work, traffic and war. natural law in the spiritual world, by professor henry drummond. abbe constantin, by ludovic halevy. manon lescaut, by abbe prevost. the romance of a poor young man, by octave feuillet. black beauty, by anna sewell. camille, by alexander dumas, jr. the light of asia, by sir edwin arnold. the lays of ancient rome, by thomas babington macaulay. the confessions of an english opium-eater, by thomas de quincey. treasure island, by robert l. stevenson. carmen, by prosper merimee. a sentimental journey, by laurence sterne. the blithedale romance, by nathaniel hawthorne. bab ballads, and savoy songs, by w.h. gilbert. fanchon, the cricket, by george sand. poems, by james russell lowell. john ploughman's talk, by the rev. charles h. spurgeon. john ploughman's pictures, by the rev. charles h. spurgeon. the manliness of christ, by thomas hughes. addresses to young men, by the rev. henry ward beecher. the autocrat of the breakfast table, by oliver wendell holmes. mulvaney stories, by rudyard kipling. ballads, by rudyard kipling. morning thoughts, by frances ridley havergal. ten nights in a bar room, by t.s. arthur. evening thoughts, by frances ridley havergal. in memoriam, by alfred (lord) tennyson. coming to christ, by frances ridley havergal. house of the wolf, by stanley weyman. * * * * * american politics (non-partisan), by hon. thomas v. cooper. a history of all the political parties with their views and records on all important questions. all political platforms from the beginning to date. great speeches on great issues. parliamentary practice and tabulated history of chronological events. a library without this work is deficient. vo., pages. cloth, $ . . full sheep library style, $ . . names for children, by elisabeth robinson scovil, author of "the care of children," "preparation for motherhood." in family life there is no question of greater weight or importance than naming the baby. the author gives much good advice and many suggestions on the subject. cloth, mo., $. . trif and trixy, by john habberton, author of "helen's babies." the story is replete with vivid and spirited scenes; and is incomparably the happiest and most delightful work mr. habberton has yet written. cloth, mo., $. . songs of the cattle trail and cow camp the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago · dallas atlanta · san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan co. of canada, ltd. toronto songs of the cattle trail and cow camp collected by john a. lomax, b.a., m.a. executive secretary ex-students' association, the university of texas. for three years sheldon fellow from harvard university for the collection of american ballads; ex-president american folk-lore society. collector of "cowboy songs and other frontier ballads"; joint author with dr. h. y. benedict of "the book of texas." with a foreword by william lyon phelps new york the macmillan company _all rights reserved_ copyright, by the macmillan company set up and electrotyped. published november, . "that these dear friends i leave behind may keep kind hearts' remembrance of the love we had." _solon._ in affectionate gratitude to a group of men, my intimate friends during college days (brought under one roof by a "fraternity"), whom i still love not less but more, _will prather_, _hammett hardy_, _penn hargrove_ and _harry steger_, of precious and joyous memory; _norman crozier_, not yet quite emerged from presbyterianism; _eugene barker_, cynical, solid, unafraid; _"cap'en" duval_, a gentleman of virginia, sah; _ed miller_, red-headed and royal-hearted; _bates macfarland_, calm and competent without camouflage; _jimmie haven_, who has put 'em over every good day since; _charley johnson_, "the swede"--the fattest, richest and dearest of the bunch; _edgar witt_, whose loyal devotion and pertinacious energy built the "frat" house; _roy bedichek_, too big for any job he has yet tackled; _"curley" duncan_, who possesses all the virtues of the old time cattleman and none of the vices of the new; _rom rhome_, the quiet and canny counter of coin; _gavin hunt_, student and lover of all things beautiful; _dick kimball_, the soldier; every inch of him a handsome man; _alex_ and _bruce_ and _dave_ and _george_ and _"freshman" mathis_ and _clarence_, the six freshmen we "took in"; while _ike macfarland_, _alfred pierce ward_, and _guy_ and _charlie witt_ were still in the process of assimilation,-- to this group of god's good fellows, i dedicate this little book. no loopholes now are framing lean faces, grim and brown, no more keen eyes are aiming to bring the redskin down; but every wind careening seems here to breathe a song-- a song of brave careering, a saga of the strong. foreword in collecting, arranging, editing, and preserving the "songs of the cattle trail and cow camp," my friend john lomax has performed a real service to american literature and to america. no verse is closer to the soil than this; none more realistic in the best sense of that much-abused word; none more truly interprets and expresses a part of our national life. to understand and appreciate these lyrics one should hear mr. lomax talk about them and sing them; for they were made for the voice to pronounce and for the ears to hear, rather than for the lamplit silence of the library. they are as oral as the chants of vachel lindsay; and when one has the pleasure of listening to mr. lomax--who loves these verses and the men who first sang them--one reconstructs in imagination the appropriate figures and romantic setting. for nothing is so romantic as life itself. none of our illusions about life is so romantic as the truth. hence the purest realism appeals to the mature imagination more powerfully than any impossible prettiness can do. the more we _know_ of individual and universal life, the more we are excited and stimulated. and the collection of these poems is an addition to american scholarship as well as to american literature. it was a wise policy of the faculty of harvard university to grant mr. lomax a traveling fellowship, that he might have the necessary leisure to discover and to collect these verses; it is really "original research," as interesting and surely as valuable as much that passes under that name; for it helps every one of us to understand our own country. wm. lyon phelps. yale university, july , . introduction "look down, look down, that weary road, 'tis the road that the sun goes down." * * * "'twas way out west where the antelope roam, and the coyote howls 'round the cowboy's home, where the mountains are covered with chaparral frail, and the valleys are checkered with the cattle trail, where the miner digs for the golden veins, and the cowboy rides o'er the silent plains,--" the "songs of the cattle trail and cow camp" does not purport to be an anthology of western verse. as its title indicates, the contents of the book are limited to attempts, more or less poetic, in translating scenes connected with the life of a cowboy. the volume is in reality a by-product of my earlier collection, "cowboy songs and other frontier ballads." in the former book i put together what seemed to me to be the best of the songs created and sung by the cowboys as they went about their work. in making the collection, the cowboys often sang or sent to me songs which i recognized as having already been in print; although the singer usually said that some other cowboy had sung the song to him and that he did not know where it had originated. for example, one night in new mexico a cowboy sang to me, in typical cowboy music, larry chittenden's entire "cowboys' christmas ball"; since that time the poem has often come to me in manuscript form as an original cowboy song. the changes--usually, it must be confessed, resulting in bettering the verse--which have occurred in oral transmission, are most interesting. of one example, charles badger clark's "high chin bob," i have printed, following mr. clark's poem, a cowboy version, which i submit to mr. clark and his admirers for their consideration. in making selections for this volume from a large mass of material that came into my ballad hopper while hunting cowboy songs as a traveling fellow from harvard university, i have included the best of the verse given me directly by the cowboys; other selections have come in through repeated recommendation of these men; others are vagrant verses from western newspapers; and still others have been lifted from collections of western verse written by such men as charles badger clark, jr., and herbert h. knibbs. to these two authors, as well as others who have permitted me to make use of their work, the grateful thanks of the collector are extended. as will be seen, almost one-half of the selections have no assignable authorship. i am equally grateful to these unknown authors. all those who found "cowboy songs" diverting, it is believed, will make welcome "the songs of the cattle trail and cow camp." many of these have this claim to be called songs: they have been set to music by the cowboys, who, in their isolation and loneliness, have found solace in narrative or descriptive verse devoted to cattle scenes. herein, again, through these quondam songs we may come to appreciate something of the spirit of the big west--its largeness, its freedom, its wholehearted hospitality, its genuine friendship. here again, too, we may see the cowboy at work and at play; hear the jingle of his big bell spurs, the swish of his rope, the creaking of his saddle gear, the thud of thousands of hoofs on the long, long trail winding from texas to montana; and know something of the life that attracted from the east some of its best young blood to a work that was necessary in the winning of the west. the trails are becoming dust covered or grass grown or lost underneath the farmers' furrow; but in the selections of this volume, many of them poems by courtesy, men of today and those who are to follow, may sense, at least in some small measure, the service, the glamour, the romance of that knight-errant of the plains--the american cowboy. j. a. l. the university of texas, austin, july , . contents part i. cowboy yarns out where the west begins the shallows of the ford the dance at silver valley the legend of boastful bill the texas cowboy and the mexican greaser broncho versus bicycle riders of the stars lasca the transformation of a texas girl the glory trail high chin bob to hear him tell it the clown's baby the drunken desperado marta of milrone jack dempsey's grave the cattle round-up part ii. the cowboy off guard a cowboy's worrying love the cowboy and the maid a cowboy's love song a border affair snagtooth sal love lyrics of a cowboy the bull fight the cowboy's valentine a cowboy's hopeless love the chase riding song our little cowgirl i want my time who's that calling so sweet? song of the cattle trail a cowboy's son a cowboy song a nevada cowpuncher to his beloved the cowboy to his friend in need when bob got throwed cowboy versus broncho when you're throwed pardners the bronc that wouldn't bust the ol' cow hawse the bunk-house orchestra the cowboys' dance song the cowboys' christmas ball a dance at the ranch at a cowboy dance the cowboys' ball part iii. cowboy types the cowboy bar-z on a sunday night a cowboy race the habit a ranger the insult "the road to ruin" the outlaw the desert whiskey bill,--a fragment denver jim the vigilantes the bandit's grave the old mackenzie trail the sheep-herder a cowboy at the carnival the old cowman the gila monster route the call of the plains where the grizzly dwells a cowboy toast ridin' up the rocky trail from town the disappointed tenderfoot a cowboy alone with his conscience just a-ridin'! the end of the trail part i cowboy yarns _the centipede runs across my head, the vinegaroon crawls in my bed, tarantulas jump and scorpions play, the broncs are grazing far away, the rattlesnake gives his warning cry, and the coyotes sing their lullaby, while i sleep soundly beneath the sky._ out where the west begins out where the handclasp's a little stronger, out where the smile dwells a little longer, that's where the west begins; out where the sun is a little brighter, where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter, where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, that's where the west begins. out where the skies are a trifle bluer, out where friendship's a little truer, that's where the west begins; out where a fresher breeze is blowing, where there's laughter in every streamlet flowing, where there's more of reaping and less of sowing, that's where the west begins. out where the world is in the making, where fewer hearts in despair are aching, that's where the west begins; where there's more of singing and less of sighing, where there's more of giving and less of buying, and a man makes friends without half trying, that's where the west begins. _arthur chapman._ the shallows of the ford did you ever wait for daylight when the stars along the river floated thick and white as snowflakes in the water deep and strange, till a whisper through the aspens made the current break and shiver as the frosty edge of morning seemed to melt and spread and change? once i waited, almost wishing that the dawn would never find me; saw the sun roll up the ranges like the glory of the lord; was about to wake my pardner who was sleeping close behind me, when i saw the man we wanted spur his pony to the ford. saw the ripples of the shallows and the muddy streaks that followed, as the pony stumbled toward me in the narrows of the bend; saw the face i used to welcome, wild and watchful, lined and hollowed; and god knows i wished to warn him, for i once had called him friend. but an oath had come between us--i was paid by law and order; he was outlaw, rustler, killer--so the border whisper ran; left his word in caliente that he'd cross the rio border-- call me coward? but i hailed him--"riding close to daylight, dan!" just a hair and he'd have got me, but my voice, and not the warning, caught his hand and held him steady; then he nodded, spoke my name, reined his pony round and fanned it in the bright and silent morning, back across the sunlit rio up the trail on which he came. he had passed his word to cross it--i had passed my word to get him-- we broke even and we knew it; 'twas a case of give and take for old times. i could have killed him from the brush; instead, i let him ride his trail--i turned--my pardner flung his arm and stretched awake; saw me standing in the open; pulled his gun and came beside me; asked a question with his shoulder as his left hand pointed toward muddy streaks that thinned and vanished--not a word, but hard he eyed me as the water cleared and sparkled in the shallows of the ford. _henry herbert knibbs._ the dance at silver valley _don't you hear the big spurs jingle?_ _don't you feel the red blood tingle?_ _be it smile or be it frown,_ _be it dance or be it fight,_ _broncho bill has come to town_ _to dance a dance tonight._ chaps, sombrero, handkerchief, silver spurs at heel; "hello, gil!" and "hello, pete!" "how do you think you feel?" "drinks are mine. come fall in, boys; crowd up on the right. here's happy days and honey joys. i'm going to dance tonight." (on his hip in leathern tube, a case of dark blue steel.) bill, the broncho buster, from the ranch at beaver bend, ninety steers and but one life in his hands to spend; ready for a fight or spree; ready for a race; going blind with bridle loose every inch of space. down at johnny schaeffer's place, see them trooping in, up above the women laugh; down below is gin. belle mcclure is dressed in blue, ribbon in her hair; broncho bill is shaved and slick, all his throat is bare. round and round with belle mcclure he whirls a dizzy spin. jim kershaw, the gambler, waits,--white his hands and slim. bill whispers, "belle, you know it well; it is me or him. jim kershaw, so help me god, if you dance with belle it is either you or me must travel down to hell." jim put his arm around her waist, her graceful waist and slim. don't you hear the banjo laugh? hear the fiddles scream? broncho bill leaned at the door, watched the twirling stream. twenty fiends were at his heart snarling, "kill him sure." (out of hell that woman came.) "i love you, belle mcclure." broncho bill, he laughed and chewed and careless he did seem. the dance is done. shots crack as one. the crowd shoves for the door. broncho bill is lying there and blood upon the floor. "you've finished me; you've gambler's luck; you've won the trick and belle. mine the soul that here tonight is passing down to hell. and i must ride the trail alone. goodbye to belle mcclure." downstairs on the billiard cloth, something lying white, upstairs still the dance goes on, all the lamps are bright. round and round in merry spin--on the floor a blot; laugh, and chaff and merry spin--such a little spot. broncho bill has come to town and danced his dance tonight. _don't you hear the fiddle shrieking?_ _don't you hear the banjo speaking?_ _don't you hear the big spurs jingle?_ _don't you feel the red blood tingle?_ _faces dyed with desert brown,_ _(one that's set and white);_ _broncho bill has come to town_ _and danced his dance tonight._ _william maxwell._ the legend of boastful bill at a round-up on the gila one sweet morning long ago, ten of us was throwed quite freely by a hoss from idaho. an' we 'lowed he'd go a-beggin' for a man to break his pride till, a-hitchin' up one leggin', boastful bill cut loose an' cried: "i'm a ornery proposition for to hurt, i fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt, i can ride the highest liver 'twixt the gulf an' powder river, an' i'll break this thing as easy as i'd flirt." so bill climbed the northern fury an' they mangled up the air till a native of missouri would have owned the brag was fair. though the plunges kept him reelin' an' the wind it flapped his shirt, loud above the hoss's squealin' we could hear our friend assert: "i'm the one to take such rockin's as a joke; someone hand me up the makin's of a smoke. if you think my fame needs brightnin', why, i'll rope a streak o' lightnin' an' spur it up an' quirt it till it's broke." then one caper of repulsion broke that hoss's back in two, cinches snapped in the convulsion, skyward man and saddle flew, up they mounted, never flaggin', and we watched them through our tears, while this last, thin bit o' braggin' came a-floatin' to our ears: "if you ever watched my habits very close, you would know i broke such rabbits by the gross. i have kept my talent hidin', i'm too good for earthly ridin', so i'm off to bust the lightnin'--adios!" years have passed since that ascension; boastful bill ain't never lit; so we reckon he's a-wrenchin' some celestial outlaw's bit. when the night wind flaps our slickers, and the rain is cold and stout, and the lightnin' flares and flickers, we can sometimes hear him shout: "i'm a ridin' son o' thunder o' the sky, i'm a broncho twistin' wonder on the fly. hey, you earthlin's, shut your winders, we're a-rippin' clouds to flinders. if this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die." star-dust on his chaps and saddle, scornful still of jar and jolt, he'll come back sometime a-straddle of a bald-faced thunderbolt; and the thin-skinned generation of that dim and distant day sure will stare with admiration when they hear old boastful say: "i was first, as old raw-hiders all confest, i'm the last of all rough riders, and the best. huh! you soft and dainty floaters with your aeroplanes and motors, huh! are you the greatgrandchildren of the west?" _from recitation, original, by charles badger clark, jr._ the texas cowboy and the mexican greaser i think we can all remember when a greaser hadn't no show in palo pinto particular,--it ain't very long ago; a powerful feelin' of hatred ag'in the whole greaser race that murdered bold crockett and bowie pervaded all in the place. why, the boys would draw on a greaser as quick as they would on a steer; they was shot down without warnin' often, in the memory of many here. one day the bark of pistols was heard ringin' out in the air, and a greaser, chased by some ranchmen, tore round here into the square. i don't know what he's committed,--'tain't likely anyone knew,-- but i wouldn't bet a check on the issue; if you knew the gang, neither would you. breathless and bleeding, the greaser fell down by the side of the wall; and a man sprang out before him,--a man both strong and tall,-- by his clothes i should say a cowboy,--a stranger in town, i think,-- with his pistol he waved back the gang, who was wild with rage and drink. "i warn ye, get back!" he said, "or i'll blow your heads in two! a dozen on one poor creature, and him wounded and bleeding, too!" the gang stood back for a minute; then up spoke poker bill: "young man, yer a stranger, i reckon. we don't wish yer any ill; but come out of the range of the greaser, or, as sure as i live, you'll croak;" and he drew a bead on the stranger. i'll tell yer it wa'n't no joke. but the stranger moven' no muscle as he looked in the bore of bill's gun; he hadn't no thought to stir, sir; he hadn't no thought to run; but he spoke out cool and quiet, "i might live for a thousand year and not die at last so nobly as defendin' this greaser here; for he's wounded, now, and helpless, and hasn't had no fair show; and the first of ye boys that strikes him, i'll lay that first one low." the gang respected the stranger that for another was willing to die; they respected the look of daring they saw in that cold, blue eye. they saw before them a hero that was glad in the right to fall; and he was a texas cowboy,--never heard of rome at all. don't tell me of yer romans, or yer bridge bein' held by three; true manhood's the same in texas as it was in rome, d'ye see? did the greaser escape? why certain. i saw the hull crowd over thar at the ranch of bill simmons, the gopher, with their glasses over the bar. _from recitation. anonymous._ broncho versus bicycle the first that we saw of the high-tone tramp war over thar at our pecos camp; he war comin' down the santa fe trail astride of a wheel with a crooked tail, a-skinnin' along with a merry song an' a-ringin' a little warnin' gong. he looked so outlandish, strange and queer that all of us grinned from ear to ear, and every boy on the round-up swore he never seed sich a hoss before. wal, up he rode with a sunshine smile an' a-smokin' a cigarette, an' i'll be kicked in the neck if i ever seen sich a saddle as that on his queer machine. why, it made us laugh, fer it wasn't half big enough fer the back of a suckin' calf. he tuk our fun in a keerless way, a-venturin' only once to say thar wasn't a broncho about the place could down that wheel in a ten-mile race. i'd a lightnin' broncho out in the herd that could split the air like a flyin' bird, an' i hinted round in an off-hand way, that, providin' the enterprize would pay, i thought as i might jes' happen to light on a hoss that would leave him out er sight. in less'n a second we seen him yank a roll o' greenbacks out o' his flank, an' he said if we wanted to bet, to name the limit, an' he would tackle the game. jes' a week before we had all been down on a jamboree to the nearest town, an' the whiskey joints and the faro games an' a-shakin' our hoofs with the dance hall dames, made a wholesale bust; an', pard, i'll be cussed if a man in the outfit had any dust. an' so i explained, but the youth replied that he'd lay the money matter aside, an' to show that his back didn't grow no moss he'd bet his machine against my hoss. i tuk him up, an' the bet war closed, an' me a-chucklin', fer i supposed i war playin' in dead-sure, winnin' luck in the softest snap i had ever struck. an' the boys chipped in with a knowin' grin, fer they thought the fool had no chance to win. an' so we agreed fer to run that day to the navajo cross, ten miles away,-- as handsome a track as you ever seed fer testin' a hosses prettiest speed. apache johnson and texas ned saddled up their hosses an' rode ahead to station themselves ten miles away an' act as judges an' see fair play; while mexican bart and big jim hart stayed back fer to give us an even start. i got aboard of my broncho bird an' we came to the scratch an' got the word; an' i laughed till my mouth spread from ear to ear to see that tenderfoot drop to the rear. the first three miles slipped away first-rate; then bronc began fer to lose his gait. but i warn't oneasy an' didn't mind with tenderfoot more'n a mile behind. so i jogged along with a cowboy song till all of a sudden i heard that gong a-ringin' a warnin' in my ear-- _ting, ting, ting, ting,_--too infernal near; an' lookin' backwards i seen that chump of a tenderfoot gainin' every jump. i hit old bronc a cut with the quirt an' once more got him to scratchin' dirt; but his wind got weak, an' i tell you, boss, i seen he wasn't no ten-mile hoss. still, the plucky brute took another shoot an' pulled away from the wheel galoot. but the animal couldn't hold his gait; an' the idea somehow entered my pate that if tenderfoot's legs didn't lose their grip he'd own that hoss at the end of the trip. closer an' closer come tenderfoot, an' harder the whip to the hoss i put; but the eastern cuss, with a smile on his face ran up to my side with his easy pace-- rode up to my side, an' dern his hide, remarked 'twere a pleasant day fer a ride; then axed, onconcerned, if i had a match, an' on his britches give it a scratch, lit a cigarette, said he wished me good-day, an' as fresh as a daisy scooted away. ahead he went, that infernal gong a-ringin' "good-day" as he flew along, an' the smoke from his cigarette came back like a vaporous snicker along his track. on an' on he sped, gettin' further ahead, his feet keepin' up that onceaseable tread, till he faded away in the distance, an' when i seed the condemned eastern rooster again he war thar with the boys at the end of the race, that same keerless, onconsarned smile on his face. now, pard, when a cowboy gits licked he don't swar nor kick, if the beatin' are done on the squar; so i tuck that easterner right by the hand an' told him that broncho awaited his brand. then i axed him his name, an' where from he came, an' how long he'd practiced that wheel-rollin' game. tom stevens he said war his name, an' he come from a town they call bosting, in old yankeedom. then he jist paralyzed us by sayin' he'd whirled that very identical wheel round the world. wal, pard, that's the story of how that smart chap done me up w'en i thought i had sich a soft snap, done me up on a race with remarkable ease, an' lowered my pride a good many degrees. did i give him the hoss? w'y o' course i did, boss, an' i tell you it warn't no diminutive loss. he writ me a letter from back in the east, an' said he presented the neat little beast to a feller named pope, who stands at the head o' the ranch where the cussed wheel hosses are bred. _anonymous._ riders of the stars twenty abreast down the golden street ten thousand riders marched; bow-legged boys in their swinging chaps, all clumsily keeping time; and the angel host to the lone, last ghost their delicate eyebrows arched as the swaggering sons of the open range drew up to the throne sublime. gaunt and grizzled, a texas man from out of the concourse strode, and doffed his hat with a rude, rough grace, then lifted his eagle head; the sunlit air on his silvered hair and the bronze of his visage glowed; "marster, the boys have a talk to make on the things up here," he said. a hush ran over the waiting throng as the cherubim replied: "he that readeth the hearts of men he deemeth your challenge strange, though he long hath known that ye crave your own, that ye would not walk but ride, oh, restless sons of the ancient earth, ye men of the open range!" then warily spake the texas man: "a petition and no complaint we here present, if the law allows and the marster he thinks it fit; we-all agree to the things that be, but we're longing for things that ain't, so we took a vote and we made a plan and here is the plan we writ:-- "_'give us a range and our horses and ropes, open the pearly gate, and turn us loose in the unfenced blue riding the sunset rounds, hunting each stray in the milky way and running the rancho straight; not crowding the dogie stars too much on their way to the bedding-grounds._ "_'maverick comets that's running wild, we'll rope 'em and brand 'em fair, so they'll quit stampeding the starry herd and scaring the folks below, and we'll save 'em prime for the round-up time, and we riders'll all be there, ready and willing to do our work as we did in the long ago._ "_'we've studied the ancient landmarks, sir; taurus, the bear, and mars, and venus a-smiling across the west as bright as a burning coal, plain to guide as we punchers ride night-herding the little stars, with saturn's rings for our home corral and the dipper our water hole._ "_'here, we have nothing to do but yarn of the days that have long gone by, and our singing it doesn't fit in up here though we tried it for old time's sake; our hands are itching to swing a rope and our legs are stiff; that's why we ask you, marster, to turn us loose--just give us an even break!'_" then the lord he spake to the cherubim, and this was his kindly word: "he that keepeth the threefold keys shall open and let them go; turn these men to their work again to ride with the starry herd; my glory sings in the toil they crave; 'tis their right. i would have it so." have you heard in the starlit dusk of eve when the lone coyotes roam, the _yip! yip! yip!_ of a hunting cry and the echo that shrilled afar, as you listened still on a desert hill and gazed at the twinkling dome, and a viewless rider swept the sky on the trail of a shooting star? _henry herbert knibbs._ lasca i want free life, and i want fresh air; and i sigh for the canter after the cattle, the crack of the whips like shots in battle, the medley of hoofs and horns and heads that wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads; the green beneath and the blue above, and dash and danger, and life and love-- and lasca! lasca used to ride on a mouse-grey mustang close to my side, with blue serape and bright-belled spur; i laughed with joy as i looked at her! little knew she of books or creeds; an ave maria sufficed her needs; little she cared save to be at my side, to ride with me, and ever to ride, from san saba's shore to lavaca's tide. she was as bold as the billows that beat, she was as wild as the breezes that blow: from her little head to her little feet, she was swayed in her suppleness to and fro by each gust of passion; a sapling pine that grows on the edge of a kansas bluff and wars with the wind when the weather is rough, is like this lasca, this love of mine. she would hunger that i might eat, would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; but once, when i made her jealous for fun at something i whispered or looked or done, one sunday, in san antonio, to a glorious girl in the alamo, she drew from her garter a little dagger, and--sting of a wasp--it made me stagger! an inch to the left, or an inch to the right, and i shouldn't be maundering here tonight; but she sobbed, and sobbing, so quickly bound her torn rebosa about the wound that i swiftly forgave her. scratches don't count in texas, down by the rio grande. her eye was brown--a deep, deep brown; her hair was darker than her eye; and something in her smile and frown, curled crimson lip and instep high, showed that there ran in each blue vein, mixed with the milder aztec strain, the vigorous vintage of old spain. she was alive in every limb with feeling, to the finger tips; and when the sun is like a fire, and sky one shining, soft sapphire one does not drink in little sips. · · · · · · · the air was heavy, the night was hot, i sat by her side and forgot, forgot; forgot the herd that were taking their rest, forgot that the air was close oppressed, that the texas norther comes sudden and soon, in the dead of the night or the blaze of the noon; that, once let the herd at its breath take fright, nothing on earth can stop their flight; and woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, that falls in front of their mad stampede! · · · · · · · was that thunder? i grasped the cord of my swift mustang without a word. i sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind. away! on a hot chase down the wind! but never was fox-hunt half so hard, and never was steed so little spared. for we rode for our lives. you shall hear how we fared in texas, down by the rio grande. the mustang flew, and we urged him on; there was one chance left, and you have but one-- halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; crouch under his carcass, and take your chance; and if the steers in their frantic course don't batter you both to pieces at once, you may thank your star; if not, goodbye to the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, and the open air and the open sky, in texas, down by the rio grande. the cattle gained on us, and, just as i felt for my old six-shooter behind in my belt, down came the mustang, and down came we, clinging together--and, what was the rest? a body that spread itself on my breast, two arms that shielded my dizzy head, two lips that hard to my lips were prest; then came thunder in my ears, as over us surged the sea of steers, blows that beat blood into my eyes, and when i could rise-- lasca was dead! · · · · · · · i gouged out a grave a few feet deep, and there in the earth's arms i laid her to sleep; and there she is lying, and no one knows; and the summer shines, and the winter snows; for many a day the flowers have spread a pall of petals over her head; and the little grey hawk hangs aloft in the air, and the sly coyote trots here and there, and the black snake glides and glitters and slides into the rift of a cottonwood tree; and the buzzard sails on, and comes and is gone, stately and still, like a ship at sea. and i wonder why i do not care for the things that are, like the things that were. does half my heart lie buried there in texas, down by the rio grande? _frank desprez._ the transformation of a texas girl she was a texas maiden, she came of low degree, her clothes were worn and faded, her feet from shoes were free; her face was tanned and freckled, her hair was sun-burned, too, her whole darned _tout ensemble_ was painful for to view! she drove a lop-eared mule team attached unto a plow, the trickling perspiration exuding from her brow; and often she lamented her cruel, cruel fate, as but a po' white's daughter down in the lone star state. no courtiers came to woo her, she never had a beau, her misfit face precluded such things as that, you know,-- she was nobody's darling, no feller's solid girl, and poets never called her an uncut texas pearl. her only two companions was those two flea-bit mules, and these she but regarded as animated tools to plod along the furrows in patience up and down and pull the ancient wagon when pap'd go to town. no fires of wild ambition were flaming in her soul, her eyes with tender passion she'd never upward roll; the wondrous world she'd heard of, to her was but a dream as walked she in the furrows behind that lop-eared team. born on that small plantation, 'twas there she thought she'd die; she never longed for pinions that she might rise and fly to other lands far distant, where breezes fresh and cool would never shake and tremble from brayings of a mule. · · · · · · · but yesterday we saw her dressed up in gorgeous style! a half a dozen fellows were basking in her smile! she'd jewels on her fingers, and jewels in her ears-- great sparkling, flashing brilliants that hung as frozen tears! the feet once nude and soil-stained were clad in frenchy boots, the once tanned face bore tintings of miscellaneous fruits; the voice that once admonished the mules to move along was tuned to new-born music, as sweet as siren's song! her tall and lanky father, one knows as "sleepy jim," is now addressed as colonel by men who honor him; and youths in finest raiment now take him by the paw, each in the hope that some day he'll call him dad-in-law. their days of toil are over, their sun has risen at last, a gold-embroidered curtain now hides their rocky past; for was it not discovered their little patch of soil had rested there for ages above a flow of oil? _james barton adams._ the glory trail 'way high up the mogollons,[ ] among the mountain tops, a lion cleaned a yearlin's bones and licked his thankful chops, when on the picture who should ride, a-trippin' down the slope, but high-chin bob, with sinful pride and mav'rick-hungry rope. _"oh, glory be to me," says he, "and fame's unfadin' flowers! all meddlin' hands are far away; i ride my good top-hawse today and i'm top-rope of the lazy j-- hi! kitty cat, you're ours!"_ that lion licked his paw so brown and dreamed soft dreams of veal-- and then the circlin' loop sung down and roped him 'round his meal. he yowled quick fury to the world till all the hills yelled back; the top-hawse gave a snort and whirled and bob caught up the slack. _"oh, glory be to me," laughs he. "we hit the glory trail. no human man as i have read darst loop a ragin' lion's head, nor ever hawse could drag one dead until we told the tale."_ 'way high up the mogollons that top-hawse done his best, through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones, from canyon-floor to crest but ever when bob turned and hoped a limp remains to find, a red-eyed lion, belly roped but healthy, loped behind. _"oh, glory be to me," grunts he, "this glory trail is rough, yet even till the judgment morn i'll keep this dally 'round the horn, for never any hero born could stoop to holler: 'nuff!'"_ three suns had rode their circle home beyond the desert's rim, and turned their star herds loose to roam the ranges high and dim; yet up and down and round and 'cross bob pounded, weak and wan, for pride still glued him to his hawse and glory drove him on. _"oh, glory be to me," sighs he. "he kaint be drug to death, but now i know beyond a doubt them heroes i have read about was only fools that stuck it out to end of mortal breath."_ 'way high up the mogollons a prospect man did swear that moon dreams melted down his bones and hoisted up his hair: a ribby cow-hawse thundered by, a lion trailed along, a rider, ga'nt, but chin on high, yelled out a crazy song. _"oh, glory be to me!" cries he, "and to my noble noose! o stranger, tell my pards below i took a rampin' dream in tow, and if i never lay him low, i'll never turn him loose!"_ _charles badger clark._ [ ] pronounced by the natives "muggy-yones." high chin bob 'way high up in the mokiones, among the mountain tops, a lion cleaned a yearling's bones and licks his thankful chops; and who upon the scene should ride, a-trippin' down the slope, but high chin bob of sinful pride and maverick-hungry rope. "oh, glory be to me!" says he, "an' fame's unfadin' flowers; i ride my good top hoss today and i'm top hand of lazy-j, so, kitty-cat, you're ours!" the lion licked his paws so brown, and dreamed soft dreams of veal, as high chin's rope came circlin' down and roped him round his meal; she yowled quick fury to the world and all the hills yelled back; that top horse gave a snort and whirled and bob took up the slack. "oh, glory be to me!" says he, "we'll hit the glory trail. no man has looped a lion's head and lived to drag the critter dead till i shall tell the tale." 'way high up in the mokiones that top hoss done his best, 'mid whippin' brush and rattlin' stones from canon-floor to crest; up and down and round and cross bob pounded weak and wan, but pride still glued him to his hoss and glory spurred him on. "oh, glory be to me!" says he, "this glory trail is rough! but i'll keep this dally round the horn until the toot of judgment morn before i'll holler 'nough!" three suns had rode their circle home, beyond the desert rim, and turned their star herds loose to roam the ranges high and dim; and whenever bob turned and hoped the limp remains to find, a red-eyed lion, belly roped, but healthy, loped behind! "oh, glory be to me," says bob, "he caint be drug to death! these heroes that i've read about were only fools that stuck it out to the end of mortal breath." 'way high up in the mokiones, if you ever camp there at night, you'll hear a rukus among the stones that'll lift your hair with fright; you'll see a cow-hoss thunder by--a lion trail along, and the rider bold, with his chin on high, sings forth his glory song: "oh, glory be to me!" says he, "and to my mighty noose. oh, pardner, tell my friends below i took a ragin' dream in tow, and if i didn't lay him low, i never turned him loose!" _from oral rendition._ to hear him tell it i was just about to take a drink-- i was mighty dry-- so i hailed an old time cowman who was passing by, "come in, ole timer! have a drink! kinda warm today!" as we leaned across the bar-rail-- "how's things up your way?" "stock is doin' fairly good, range is gettin' fine; i jes dropped down to meetin' here to spend a little time. con'sidable stuff a-movin' now-- cows an' hosses, too, prices high an' a big demand-- now i'm tellin' you! "i've loaded out my feeders, got a good price all aroun'; sold 'em in kansas city to a commission man named brown. a thousand told o' mixed stuff, in pretty fair shape, too," said the old texas cowman, "now i'm tellin' you! "i've been in this yere country since late in fifty-nine, i know every foot o' sage brush clear to the southern line. got my first bunch started up long in seventy-two, had to ride range with a long rope-- now i'm tellin' you! "lordy, i kin remember them good ole early days when we ust t' trail the herds north 'n forty different ways. jes'n point 'em from the beddin' groun' an' let 'em drift right through," said the reminiscent cowman, "now i'm tellin' you! "yessir, trailed 'em up to wichita, cross the kansas line, made deliveries at benton as early as fifty-nine. turned 'em most to soldiers, some went to injuns, too, beef wasn't nigh so high then-- now i'm tellin' you! "son, i've fit nigh every injun that ever roamed the plains, 'n i was one o' the best hands that ever pulled bridle reins. why, you boys don't know range life-- you don't seem to git the ways, like we did down in texas in them good ol' early days! "yes, thing's a heap sight diff'rent now! 'tain't like in them ol' days when cowmen trailed their herds north 'n forty diff'rent ways. we ship 'em on the railroad now, load out on the big s. p.," says the relic of texas cowman as he takes a drink with me. "i figger on buyin' more feeders, from down across the line-- chihuahua an' sonora stuff, an' hold 'em till they're prime. so here's to the steers an' yearlin's!" as we clink our glasses two, "things ain't the same as they used to be, now i'm tellin' you! "i got t' git out an' hustle, i ain't got time t' stay; jes' want t' see some uh the boys 'n then i'm on my way. there's many a hand here right now that i know'd long, long ago, when ranch land was free an' open an' the plowman had a show. "'tain't often we git together to swap yarns an' tell our lies," said the old time texas cowman as a mist comes to his eyes. "so let's drink up; here's how!" as we drain our glasses two, "them was good ol' days an' good ol' ways-- now i'm tellin' you!" he talked and talked and yarned away, he harped on days of yore-- my head it ached and i grew faint; my legs got tired and sore. then a woman yelled, "you come here, john!" and lordy! how he flew! and the last i heard as he broke and ran was, "now i'm tellin' you!" i won't never hail old timers to have a drink with me, to learn the history of the range as far back as seventy-three. and the next time that i'm thirsty and feeling kind of blue, i'll step right up and drink alone-- now i'm tellin' you! _from the wild bunch._ the clown's baby it was on the western frontier,-- the miners, rugged and brown, were gathered round the posters, the circus had come to town! the great tent shone in the darkness like a wonderful palace of light, and rough men crowded the entrance,-- shows didn't come every night! not a woman's face among them; many a face that was bad, and some that were only vacant, and some that were very sad. and behind a canvas curtain, in a corner of the place, the clown, with chalk and vermillion, was "making up" his face. a weary looking woman with a smile that still was sweet, sewed on a little garment, with a cradle at her feet. pantaloon stood ready and waiting, it was time for the going on; but the clown in vain searched wildly,-- the "property baby" was gone! he murmured, impatiently hunting, "it's strange that i cannot find-- there, i've looked in every corner; it must have been left behind!" the miners were stamping and shouting, they were not patient men; the clown bent over the cradle,-- "i must take you, little ben." the mother started and shivered, but trouble and want were near; she lifted the baby gently, "you'll be very careful, dear?" "careful? you foolish darling!" how tenderly it was said! what a smile shone through the chalk and paint! "i love each hair of his head!" the noise rose into an uproar, misrule for the time was king; the clown with a foolish chuckle bolted into the ring. but as, with a squeak and flourish, the fiddles closed their tune "you'll hold him as if he were made of glass?" said the clown to the pantaloon. the jovial fellow nodded, "i've a couple myself," he said. "i know how to handle 'em, bless you! old fellow, go ahead!" the fun grew fast and furious, and not one of all the crowd had guessed that the baby was alive, when he suddenly laughed aloud. oh, that baby laugh! it was echoed from the benches with a ring, and the roughest customer there sprang up with, "boys, it's the real thing." the ring was jammed in a minute, not a man that did not strive for a "shot at holding the baby,"-- the baby that was alive! he was thronged with kneeling suitors in the midst of the dusty ring, and he held his court right royally,-- the fair little baby king,-- till one of the shouting courtiers,-- a man with a bold, hard face, the talk, for miles, of the country, and the terror of the place, raised the little king to his shoulder and chuckled, "look at that!" as the chubby fingers clutched his hair; then, "boys, hand round the hat!" there never was such a hatful of silver and gold and notes; people are not always penniless because they don't wear coats. and then, "three cheers for the baby!" i tell you those cheers were meant, and the way that they were given was enough to raise the tent. and then there was sudden silence and a gruff old miner said, "come boys, enough of this rumpus; it's time it was put to bed." so, looking a little sheepish, but with faces strangely bright, the audience, somewhat lingering, flocked out into the night. and the bold-faced leader chuckled, "he wasn't a bit afraid! he's as game as he's good-looking! boys, that was a show that _paid_!" _margaret vandergrift._ the drunken desperado i'm wild and woolly and full of fleas, i'm hard to curry below the knees, i'm a she-wolf from shamon creek, for i was dropped from a lightning streak and it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! i stayed in texas till they runned me out, then in bull frog they chased me about, i walked a little and rode some more, for i've shot up a town before and it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! give me room and turn me loose i'm peaceable without excuse. i never killed for profit or fun, but riled, i'm a regular son of a gun and it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! good-eye jim will serve the crowd; the rule goes here no sweetnin' 'lowed. and we'll drink now the nixon kid, for i rode to town and lifted the lid and it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! you can guess how quick a man must be, for i killed eleven and wounded three; and brothers and daddies aren't makin' a sound though they know where the kid is found and it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! when i get old and my aim aint true and it's three to one and wounded, too, i won't beg and claw the ground; for i'll be dead before i'm found when it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! _baird boyd._ marta of milrone i shot him where the rio flows; i shot him when the moon arose; and where he lies the vulture knows along the tinto river. in schools of eastern culture pale my cloistered flesh began to fail; they bore me where the deserts quail to winds from out the sun. i looked upon the land and sky, nor hoped to live nor feared to die; and from my hollow breast a sigh fell o'er the burning waste. but strong i grew and tall i grew; i drank the region's balm and dew,-- it made me lithe in limb and thew,-- how swift i rode and ran! and oft it was my joy to ride over the sand-blown ocean wide while, ever smiling at my side, rode marta of milrone. a flood of horned heads before, the trampled thunder, smoke and roar, of full four thousand hoofs, or more-- a cloud, a sea, a storm! oh, wonderful the desert gleamed, as, man and maid, we spoke and dreamed of love in life, till white wastes seemed like plains of paradise. her eyes with love's great magic shone. "be mine, o marta of milrone,-- your hand, your heart be all my own!" her lips made sweet response. "i love you, yes; for you are he who from the east should come to me-- and i have waited long!" oh, we were happy as the sun. there came upon a hopeless quest, with hell and hatred in his breast, a stranger, who his love confessed to marta long in vain. to me she spoke: "chosen mate, his eyes are terrible with fate,-- i fear his love, i fear his hate,-- i fear some looming ill!" then to the church we twain did ride, i kissed her as she rode beside. how fair--how passing fair my bride with gold combs in her hair! before the spanish priest we stood of san gregorio's brotherhood-- a shot rang out!--and in her blood my dark-eyed darling lay. o god! i carried her beside the virgin's altar where she cried,-- smiling upon me ere she died,-- "adieu, my love, adieu!" i knelt before st. mary's shrine and held my dead one's hand in mine, "vengeance," i cried, "o lord, be thine, but i thy minister!" i kissed her thrice and sealed my vow,-- her eyes, her sea-cold lips and brow,-- "farewell, my heart is dying now, o marta of milrone!" then swift upon my steed i lept; my streaming eyes the desert swept; i saw the accursed where he crept against the blood-red sun. i galloped straight upon his track, and never more my eyes looked back; the world was barred with red and black; my heart was flaming coal. through the delirious twilight dim and the black night i followed him; hills did we cross and rivers swim,-- my fleet foot horse and i. the morn burst red, a gory wound, o'er iron hills and savage ground; and there was never another sound save beat of horses' hoofs. unto the murderer's ear they said, "_thou'rt of the dead! thou'rt of the dead!_" still on his stallion black he sped while death spurred on behind. fiery dust from the blasted plain burnt like lava in every vein; but i rode on with steady rein though the fierce sand-devils spun. then to a sullen land we came, whose earth was brass, whose sky was flame; i made it balm with her blessed name in the land of mexico. with gasp and groan my poor horse fell,-- last of all things that loved me well! i turned my head--a smoking shell veiled me his dying throes. but fast on vengeful foot was i; his steed fell, too, and was left to die; he fled where a river's channel dry made way to the rolling stream. red as my rage the huge sun sank. my foe bent low on the river's bank and deep of the kindly flood he drank while the giant stars broke forth. then face to face and man to man i fought him where the river ran, while the trembling palm held up its fan and the emerald serpents lay. the mad, remorseless bullets broke from tongues of flame in the sulphur smoke; the air was rent till the desert spoke to the echoing hills afar. hot from his lips the curses burst; he fell! the sands were slaked of thirst; a stream in the stream ran dark at first, and the stones grew red as hearts. i shot him where the rio flows; i shot him when the moon arose; and where he lies the vulture knows along the tinto river. but where she lies to none is known save to my poor heart and a lonely stone on which i sit and weep alone where the cactus stars are white. where i shall lie, no man can say; the flowers all are fallen away; the desert is so drear and grey, o marta of milrone! _herman scheffauer._ jack dempsey's grave far out in the wilds of oregon, on a lonely mountain side, where columbia's mighty waters roll down to the ocean's tide; where the giant fir and cedar are imaged in the wave, o'ergrown with ferns and lichens, i found poor dempsey's grave. i found no marble monolith, no broken shaft nor stone, recording sixty victories this vanquished victor won; no rose, no shamrock could i find, no mortal here to tell where sleeps in this forsaken spot the immortal nonpareil. a winding, wooded canyon road that mortals seldom tread leads up this lonely mountain to this desert of the dead. and the western sun was sinking in pacific's golden wave; and these solemn pines kept watching over poor jack dempsey's grave. that man of honor and of iron, that man of heart and steel, that man who far out-classed his class and made mankind to feel that dempsey's name and dempsey's fame should live in serried stone, is now at rest far in the west in the wilds of oregon. forgotten by ten thousand throats that thundered his acclaim-- forgotten by his friends and foes that cheered his very name; oblivion wraps his faded form, but ages hence shall save the memory of that irish lad that fills poor dempsey's grave. o fame, why sleeps thy favored son in wilds, in woods, in weeds? and shall he ever thus sleep on-- interred his valiant deeds? 'tis strange new york should thus forget its "bravest of the brave," and in the wilds of oregon unmarked, leave dempsey's grave. _macmahon._ the cattle round-up once more are we met for a season of pleasure, that shall smooth from our brows every furrow of care, for the sake of old times shall we each tread a measure and drink to the lees in the eyes of the fair. once more let the hand-clasp of years past be given; let us once more be boys and forget we are men; let friendships the chances of fortune have riven be renewed and the smiling past come back again. the past, when the prairie was big and the cattle were as "scary" as ever the antelope grew-- when to carry a gun, to make our spurs rattle, and to ride a blue streak was the most that we knew; the past when we headed each year for dodge city and punched up the drags on the old chisholm trail; when the world was all bright and the girls were all pretty, and a feller could "mav'rick" and stay out of jail. then here's to the eyes that like diamonds are gleaming, and make the lamps blush that their duties are o'er; and here's to the lips where young love lies a-dreaming; and here's to the feet light as air on the floor; and here's to the memories--fun's sweetest sequel; and here's to the night we shall ever recall; and here's to the time--time shall know not its equal when we danced the day in at the cattlemen's ball. _h. d. c. mclaclachlan._ part ii the cowboy off guard _i am the plain, barren since time began. yet do i dream of motherhood, when man one day at last shall look upon my charms and give me towns, like children, for my arms._ a cowboy's worrying love i ust to read in the novel books 'bout fellers that got the prod from an arrer shot from his hidin' place by the hand o' the cupid god, an' i'd laugh at the cussed chumps they was a-wastin' their breath in sighs an' goin' around with a locoed look a-campin' inside their eyes. i've read o' the gals that broke 'em up a-sailin' in airy flight on angel pinions above their beds as they dreampt o' the same at night, an' a sort o' disgusted frown'd bunch the wrinkles acrost my brow, an' i'd call 'em a lot o' sissy boys--but i'm seein' it different now. i got the jab in my rough ol' heart, an' i got it a-plenty, too, a center shot from a pair o' eyes of the winninest sort o' blue, an' i ride the ranges a-sighin' sighs, as cranky as a locoed steer-- a durned heap worse than the novel blokes that the narrative gals'd queer. just hain't no energy left no mo', go 'round like a orphant calf a-thinkin' about that sagehen's eyes that give me the cupid gaff, an' i'm all skeered up when i hit the thought some other rider might cut in ahead on a faster hoss an' rope her afore my sight. there ain't a heifer that ever run in the feminine beauty herd could switch a tail on the whole durned range 'long-side o' that little bird; a figger plump as a prairy dog's that's feedin' on new spring grass, an' as purty a face as was ever flashed in front of a lookin' glass. she's got a smile that 'd raise the steam in the icyist sort o' heart, a couple o' soul inspirin' eyes, an' the nose that keeps 'em apart is the cutest thing in the sassy line that ever occurred to act as a ornament stuck on a purty face, an' that's a dead open fact. i'm a-goin' to brace her by an' by to see if there's any hope, to see if she's liable to shy when i'm ready to pitch the rope; to see if she's goin' to make a stand, or fly like a skeered up dove when i make a pass with the brandin' iron that's het in the fire o' love. i'll open the little home corral an' give her the level hunch to make a run fur the open gate when i cut her out o' the bunch, fur there ain't no sense in a-jammin' round with a heart that's as soft as dough an' a-throwin' the breath o' life away bunched up into sighs. heigh-ho! _james barton adams._ the cowboy and the maid funny how it come about! me and texas tom was out takin' of a moonlight walk, fillin' in the time with talk. every star up in the sky seemed to wink the other eye at each other, 'sif they smelt a mouse around our way! me and tom had never grew spoony like some couples do; never billed and cooed and sighed; he was bashful like and i'd notions of my own that it wasn't policy to git too abundant till i'd got of my feller good and caught. as we walked along that night he got talkin' of the bright prospects that he had, and i somehow felt, i dunno why, that a-fore we cake-walked back to the ranch he'd make a crack fer my hand, and i was plum achin' fer the shock to come. by and by he says, "i've got fifty head o' cows, and not one of 'em but, on the dead, is a crackin' thoroughbred. got a daisy claim staked out, and i'm thinkin' it's about time fer me to make a shy at a home." "o tom!" says i. "bin a-lookin' round," says he, "quite a little while to see 'f i could git a purty face fer to ornament the place. plenty of 'em in the land; but the one 'at wears my brand must be sproutin' wings to fly!" "you deserve her, tom," says i. "only one so fur," says he, "fills the bill, and mebbe she might shy off and bust my hope if i should pitch the poppin' rope. mebbe she'd git hot an' say that it was a silly play askin' her to make a tie." "she would be a fool," says i. 'tain't nobody's business what happened then, but i jist thought i could see the moon-man smile cutely down upon us, while me and him was walkin' back,-- stoppin' now and then to smack lips rejoicin' that at last the dread crisis had been past. _anonymous._ a cowboy's love song oh, the last steer has been branded and the last beef has been shipped, and i'm free to roam the prairies that the round-up crew has stripped; i'm free to think of susie,-- fairer than the stars above,-- she's the waitress at the station and she is my turtle dove. biscuit-shootin' susie,-- she's got us roped and tied; sober men or woozy look on her with pride. susie's strong and able, and not a one gits rash when she waits on the table and superintends the hash. oh, i sometimes think i'm locoed an' jes fit fer herdin' sheep, 'cause i only think of susie when i'm wakin' or i'm sleep. i'm wearin' cupid's hobbles, an' i'm tied to love's stake-pin, and when my heart was branded the irons sunk deep in. chorus:-- i take my saddle, sundays,-- the one with inlaid flaps,-- and don my new sombrero and my white angora chaps; then i take a bronc for susie and she leaves her pots and pans and we figure out our future and talk o'er our homestead plans. chorus:-- _anonymous._ a border affair spanish is the lovin' tongue, soft as music, light as spray; 'twas a girl i learnt it from livin' down sonora way. i don't look much like a lover, yet i say her love-words over often, when i'm all alone-- "_mi amor, mi corazón._" nights when she knew where i'd ride she would listen for my spurs, throw the big door open wide, raise them laughin' eyes of hers, and my heart would nigh stop beatin' when i'd hear her tender greetin' whispered soft for me alone-- "_mi amor! mi corazón!_" moonlight in the patio, old señora noddin' near, me and juana talkin' low so the "madre" couldn't hear-- how those hours would go a-flyin', and too soon i'd hear her sighin', in her little sorry-tone-- "_adiós, mi corazón._" but one time i had to fly for a foolish gamblin' fight, and we said a swift good-bye on that black, unlucky night. when i'd loosed her arms from clingin', with her words the hoofs kept ringin', as i galloped north alone-- "_adiós, mi corazón._" never seen her since that night; i kaint cross the line, you know. she was mex. and i was white; like as not it's better so. yet i've always sort of missed her since that last, wild night i kissed her, left her heart and lost my own-- "_adiós, mi corazón._" _charles b. clark, jr._ snagtooth sal i was young and happy and my heart was light and gay, singin', always singin' through the sunny summer day; happy as a lizard in the wavin' chaparral, walkin' down through laramie with snagtooth sal. sal, sal, my heart is broke today-- broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay; i would give creation to be walkin' with my gal-- walkin' down through laramie with snagtooth sal. bury me tomorrow where the lily blossoms spring underneath the willows where the little robins sing. you will yearn to see me--but ah, nevermore you shall-- walkin' down through laramie with snagtooth sal. refrain:-- plant a little stone above the little mound of sod; write: "here lies a lovin' an' a busted heart, begod! nevermore you'll see him walkin' proudly with his gal-- walkin' down through laramie with snagtooth sal." sal, sal, my heart is broke today-- broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay; i would give creation to be walkin' with my gal-- walkin' down through laramie with snagtooth sal. _lowell o. reese, in the saturday evening post._ love lyrics of a cowboy it hain't no use fer me to say there's others with a style an' way that beats hers to a fare-you-well, fer, on the square, i'm here to tell i jes can't even start to see but what she's perfect as kin be. fer any fault i finds excuse-- i'll tell you, pard, it hain't no use fer me to try to raise a hand, when on my heart she's run her brand. the bunk-house ain't the same to me; the bunch jes makes me weary--gee! i never knew they was so coarse-- i warps my face to try to force a smile at each old gag they spring; fer i'd heap ruther hear her sing "sweet adeline," or softly play the "dream o' heaven" that-a-way. besides this place, most anywhere i'd ruther be--so she was there. she called me "dear," an' do you know, my heart jes skipped a beat, an' tho' i'm hard to feaze, i'm free to yip my reason nearly lost its grip. she called me "dear," jes sweet an' slow, an' lookin' down an' speakin' low; an' if i had ten lives to live, with everything the world could give, i'd shake 'em all without one fear if 'fore i'd go she'd call me "dear." you wonders why i slicks up so on sundays, when i gits to go to see her--well, i'm free to say she's like religion that-a-way. jes sort o' like some holy thing, as clean as young grass in the spring; an' so before i rides to her i looks my best from hat to spur-- but even then i hain't no right to think i look good in her sight. if she should pass me up--say, boy, you jes put hobbles on your joy; first thing you know, you gits so gay your luck stampedes and gits away. an' don't you even start a guess that you've a cinch on happiness; fer few e'er reach the promised land if they starts headed by a band. ride slow an' quiet, humble, too, or fate will slap its brand on you. the old range sleeps, there hain't a stir. less it's a night-hawk's sudden whir, or cottonwoods a-whisperin while the red moon smiles a lovin' smile. an' there i set an' hold her hand so glad i jes can't understand the reason of it all, or see why all the world looks good to me; or why i sees in it heap more of beauty than i seen before. fool talk, perhaps, but it jes seems we're ridin' through a range o' dreams; where medder larks the year round sing, an' it's jes one eternal spring. an' time--why time is gone--by gee! there's no such thing as time to me until she says, "here, boy, you know you simply jes have got to go; it's nearly twelve." i rides away, "dog-gone a clock!" is what i say. _r. v. carr._ the bull fight the couriers from chihuahua go to distant cusi and santavo, announce the feast of all the year the crown-- _se corren los toros!_ and juan brings his pepita into town. the rancherias on the mountain side, the haciendas of the llano wide, are quickened by the matador's renown. _se corren los toros!_ and juan brings his pepita into town. the women that on ambling burros ride, the men that trudge behind or close beside make groups of dazzling red and white and brown. _se corren los toros!_ and juan brings his pepita into town. or else the lumbering carts are brought in play, that jolt and scream and groan along the way, but to their happy tenants cause no frown. _se corren los toros!_ and juan brings his pepita into town. the plaza de los toros offers seats, some deep in shade, on some the fierce sun beats; these for the don, those for the rustic clown. _se corren los toros!_ and juan brings his pepita into town. pepita sits, so young and sweet and fresh, the sun shines on her hair's dusky mesh. her day of days, how soon it will be flown! _se corren los toros!_ and juan's brought his pepita into town. the bull is harried till the governor's word bids the diestro give the agile sword; then shower the bravos and the roses down! _'sta muerto el toro!_ and juan takes his pepita back from the town. _l. worthington green._ the cowboy's valentine say, moll, now don't you 'llow to quit a-playin' maverick? sech stock should be corralled a bit an' hev a mark 't 'll stick. old val's a-roundin'-up today upon the sweetheart range, 'n me a-helpin', so to say, though this yere herd is strange to me--'n yit, ef i c'd rope jes _one_ to wear my brand i'd strike f'r home ranch on a lope, the happiest in the land. yo' savvy who i'm runnin' so, yo' savvy who i be; now, can't yo' take that brand--yo' know,-- the [symbol: heart] m-i-n-e. _c. f. lummis._ a cowboy's hopeless love i've heard that story ofttimes about that little chap a-cryin' for the shiney moon to fall into his lap, an' jes a-raisin' merry hell because he couldn't git the same to swing down low so's he could nab a-holt of it, an' i'm a-feelin' that-a-way, locoed i reckon, wuss than that same kid, though maybe not a-makin' sich a fuss,-- a-goin' round with achin' eyes a-hankerin' fer a peach that's hangin' on the beauty tree, too high fer me to reach. i'm jes a rider of the range, plumb rough an' on-refined, an' wild an' keerless in my ways, like others of my kind; a reckless cuss in leather chaps, an' tanned an' blackened so you'd think i wuz a greaser from the plains of mexico. i never learnt to say a prayer, an' guess my style o' talk, if fired off in a sunday school would give 'em all a shock; an' yet i got a-mopin' round as crazy as a loon an' actin' like the story kid that bellered fer the moon. i wish to god she'd never come with them bright laughin' eyes,-- had never flashed that smile that seems a sunburst from the skies,-- had stayed there in her city home instead o' comin' here to visit at the ranch an' knock my heart plumb out o' gear. i wish to god she'd talk to me in a way to fit the case,-- in words t'd have a tendency to hold me in my place,-- instead o' bein' sociable an' actin' like she thought us cowboys good as city gents in clothes that's tailor bought. if i would hint to her o' love, she'd hit that love a jar an' laugh at sich a tough as me a-tryin' to rope a star; she'd give them fluffy skirts a flirt, an' skate out o' my sight, an' leave me paralyzed,--an' it'd serve me cussed right. i wish she'd pack her pile o' trunks an' hit the city track, an' maybe i'd recover from this violent attack; an' in the future know enough to watch my feedin' ground an' shun the loco weed o' love when there's an angel round. _james barton adams._ the chase here's a moccasin track in the drifts, it's no more than the length of my hand; an' her instep,--just see how it lifts! if that ain't the best in the land! for the maid ran as free as the wind and her foot was as light as the snow. why, as sure as i follow, i'll find me a kiss where her red blushes grow. here's two small little feet and a skirt; here's a soft little heart all aglow. see me trail down the dear little flirt by the sign that she left in the snow! did she run? 'twas a sign to make haste. an' why bless her! i'm sure she won't mind. if she's got any kisses to waste, why, she knew that a man was behind. did she run 'cause she's only afraid? no! for sure 'twas to set me the pace! an' i'll follow in love with a maid when i ain't had a sight of her face. there she is! an' i knew she was near. will she pay me a kiss to be free? will she hate? will she love? will she fear? why, the darling! she's waiting to see! _pocock in "curley."_ riding song let us ride together,-- blowing mane and hair, careless of the weather, miles ahead of care, ring of hoof and snaffle, swing of waist and hip, trotting down the twisted road with the world let slip. let us laugh together,-- merry as of old to the creak of leather and the morning cold. break into a canter; shout to bank and tree; rocking down the waking trail, steady hand and knee. take the life of cities,-- here's the life for me. 'twere a thousand pities not to gallop free. so we'll ride together, comrade, you and i, careless of the weather, letting care go by. _anonymous._ our little cowgirl thar she goes a-lopin', stranger, khaki-gowned, with flyin' hair, talk about your classy ridin',-- wal, you're gettin' it right thar. jest a kid, but lemme tell you when she warms a saddle seat on that outlaw bronc a-straddle she is one that can't be beat! every buckaroo that sees her tearin' cross the range astride has some mighty jealous feelin's wishin' he knowed how to ride. why, she'll take a deep barranca six-foot wide and never peep; that 'ere cayuse she's a-forkin' sure's somethin' on the leap. ride? why, she can cut a critter from the herd as neat as pie, read a brand out on the ranges just as well as you or i. ain't much yet with the riata, but you give her a few years and no puncher with the outfit will beat her a-ropin' steers. proud o' her? say, lemme tell you, she's the queen of all the range; got a grip upon our heart-strings mighty strong, but that ain't strange; 'cause she loves the lowin' cattle, loves the hills and open air, dusty trails on blossomed canons god has strung around out here. hoof-beats poundin' down the mesa, chicken-time in lively tune, jest below the trail to keeber's,-- wait, you'll see her pretty soon. you kin bet i know that ridin',-- now she's toppin' yonder swell. thar she is; that's her a-smilin' at the bars of the corral. _anonymous._ i want my time i'm night guard all alone tonight, dead homesick, lonely, tired and blue; and none but you can make it right; my heart is hungry, girl, for you. i've longed all night to hug you, dear; to speak my love i'm at a loss. but just as soon as daylight's here i'm goin' straight to see the boss. "how long's the round-up goin' to run? another week, or maybe three? give me my time, then, i am done. no, i'm not sick. three weeks? oh gee!" i know, though, when i've had enough. i will not work,--darned if i will. i'm goin' to quit, and that's no bluff. say, gimme some tobacco, bill. _anonymous._ who's that calling so sweet? the herds are gathered in from plain and hill, who's that a-calling? the boys are sleeping and the boys are still, who's that a-calling? 'twas the wind a-sighing in the prairie grass, who's that a-calling? or wild birds singing overhead as they pass. who's that a-calling? making heart and pulse to beat. no, no, it wasn't earthly sound i heard, who's that a-calling? it was no sigh of breeze or song of bird, who's that a-calling? for the tone i heard was softer far than these, that a-calling? 'twas loved ones' voices from far off across the seas _deveen._ song of the cattle trail the dust hangs thick upon the trail and the horns and the hoofs are clashing, while off at the side through the chaparral the men and the strays go crashing; but in right good cheer the cowboy sings, for the work of the fall is ending, and then it's ride for the old home ranch where a maid love's light is tending. then it's crack! crack! crack! on the beef steer's back, and it's run, you slow-foot devil; for i'm soon to turn back where through the black love's lamp gleams along the level. he's trailed them far o'er the trackless range, has this knight of the saddle leather; he has risked his life in the mad stampede, and has breasted all kinds of weather. but now is the end of the trail in sight, and the hours on wings are sliding; for it's back to the home and the only girl when the foreman o k's the option. then it's quirt! quirt! quirt! and it's run or git hurt, you hang-back, bawling critter. for a man who's in love with a turtle dove ain't got no time to fritter. _anonymous._ a cowboy's son whar y'u from, little stranger, little boy? y'u was ridin' a cloud on that star-strewn plain, but y'u fell from the skies like a drop of rain to this world of sorrow and long, long pain. will y'u care fo' yo' mothah, little boy? when y'u grows, little varmint, little boy, y'u'll be ridin' a hoss by yo' fathah's side with yo' gun and yo' spurs and yo' howstrong pride. will y'u think of yo' home when the world rolls wide? will y'u wish for yo' mothah, little boy? when y'u love in yo' manhood, little boy,-- when y'u dream of a girl who is angel fair,-- when the stars are her eyes and the wind is her hair,-- when the sun is her smile and yo' heaven's there,-- will y'u care for yo' mothah, little boy? _pocock in "curley."_ a cowboy song i could not be so well content, so sure of thee, señorita, but well i know you must relent and come to me, lolita! the caballeros throng to see thy laughing face, señorita, lolita. but well i know thy heart's for me, thy charm, thy grace, lolita! i ride the range for thy dear sake, to earn thee gold, señorita, lolita; and steal the gringo's cows to make a ranch to hold lolita! _pocock in "curley."_ a nevada cowpuncher to his beloved lonesome? well, i guess so! this place is mighty blue; the silence of the empty rooms jes' palpitates with--you. the day has lost its beauty, the sun's a-shinin' pale; i'll round up my belongin's an' i guess i'll hit the trail. out there in the sage-brush a-harkin' to the "coo-oo" of the wild dove in his matin' i can think alone of you. perhaps a gaunt coyote will go a-lopin' by an' linger on the mountain ridge an' cock his wary eye. an' when the evenin' settles, a-waitin' for the dawn perhaps i'll hear the ground owl: "she's gone--she's gone--she's gone!" _anonymous._ the cowboy to his friend in need you're very well polished, i'm free to confess, well balanced, well rounded, a power for right; but cool and collected,--no steel could be less; you're primed for continual fight. your voice is a bellicose bark of ill-will, on hatred and choler you seem to have fed; but when i control you, your temper is nil; in fact, you're most easily led. though lead is your diet and fight is your fun, i simply can't give you the jolt; for i love you, you blessed old son-of-a-gun,-- you forty-five caliber colt! _burke jenkins._ when bob got throwed that time when bob got throwed i thought i sure would bust. i like to died a-laffin' to see him chewin' dust. he crawled on that andy bronc and hit him with a quirt. the next thing that he knew he was wallowin' in the dirt. yes, it might a-killed him, i heard the old ground pop; but to see if he was injured you bet i didn't stop. i just rolled on the ground and began to kick and yell; it like to tickled me to death to see how hard he fell. 'twarn't more than a week ago that i myself got throwed, (but 'twas from a meaner horse than old bob ever rode). d'you reckon bob looked sad and said, "i hope that you ain't hurt!" naw! he just laffed and laffed and laffed to see me chewin' dirt. i've been prayin' ever since for his horse to turn his pack; and when he done it, i'd a laffed if it had broke his back. so i was still a-howlin' when bob, he got up lame; he seen his horse had run clean off and so for me he came. he first chucked sand into my eyes, with a rock he rubbed my head, then he twisted both my arms,-- "now go fetch that horse," he said. so i went and fetched him back, but i was feelin' good all day; for i sure enough do love to see a feller get throwed that way. _ray._ cowboy versus broncho haven't got no special likin' fur the toney sorts o' play, chasin' foxes or that hossback polo game, jumpin' critters over hurdles--sort o' things that any jay could accomplish an' regard as rather tame. none o' them is worth a mention, to my thinkin' p'int o' view, which the same i hold correct without a doubt, as a-toppin' of a broncho that has got it in fur you an' concludes that's just the time to have it out. don't no sooner hit the saddle than the exercises start, an' they're lackin' in perliminary fuss; you kin hear his j'ints a-crackin' like he's breakin' 'em apart, an' the hide jes' seems a-rippin' off the cuss, an' you sometimes git a joltin' that makes everything turn blue, an' you want to strictly mind what you're about, when you're fightin' with a broncho that has got it in fur you an' imagines that's the time to have it out. bows his back when he is risin', sticks his nose between his knees, an' he shakes hisself while a-hangin' in the air; then he hits the earth so solid that it somewhat disagrees with the usual peace an' quiet of your hair. you imagine that your innards are a-gittin' all askew, an' your spine don't feel so cussed firm an' stout, when you're up agin a broncho that has got it in fur you doin' of his level best to have it out. he will rise to the occasion with a lightnin' jump, an' then when he hits the face o' these united states doesn't linger half a second till he's in the air agin-- occupies the earth an' then evacuates. isn't any sense o' comfort like a-settin' in a pew listenin' to hear a sleepy parson spout when you're up on top a broncho that has got it in fur you an' is desputly a-tryin' to have it out. always feel a touch o' pity when he has to give it up after makin' sich a well intentioned buck an' is standin' broken hearted an' as gentle as a pup a reflectin' on the rottenness o' luck. puts your sympathetic feelin's, as you might say, in a stew, though you're lame as if a-sufferin' from the gout, when you're lightin' off a broncho that has had it in fur you an' mistook the proper time to have it out. _james barton adams._ when you're throwed if a feller's been a-straddle since he's big enough to ride, and has had to sling his saddle on most any colored hide,-- though it's nothin' they take pride in, still most fellers i have knowed, if they ever done much ridin', has at different times got throwed. all the boys start out together for the round-up some fine day when you're due to throw your leather on a little wall-eyed bay, an' he swells to beat the nation when you're cinchin' up the slack, an' he keeps an elevation in your saddle at the back. he stands still with feet a-sprawlin', an' his eye shows lots of white, an' he kinks his spinal column, an' his hide is puckered tight, he starts risin' an' a-jumpin', an' he strikes when you get near, an' you cuss him an' you thump him till you get him by the ear,-- then your right hand grabs the saddle an' you ketch your stirrup, too, an' you try to light a-straddle like a woolly buckaroo; but he drops his head an' switches, then he makes a backward jump, out of reach your stirrup twitches but your right spur grabs his hump. an' "stay with him!" shouts some feller; though you know it's hope forlorn, yet you'll show that you ain't yeller an' you choke the saddle horn. then you feel one rein a-droppin' an' you know he's got his head; an' your shirt tail's out an' floppin'; an' the saddle pulls like lead. then the boys all yell together fit to make a feller sick: "hey, you short horn, drop the leather! fan his fat an' ride him slick!" seems you're up-side-down an' flyin'; then your spurs begin to slip. there's no further use in tryin', for the horn flies from your grip, an' you feel a vague sensation as upon the ground you roll, like a violent separation 'twixt your body an' your soul. then you roll agin a hummock where you lay an' gasp for breath, an' there's somethin' grips your stomach like the finger-grips o' death. they all offers you prescriptions for the grip an' for the croup, an' they give you plain descriptions how you looped the spiral loop; they all swear you beat a circus or a hoochy-koochy dance, moppin' up the canon's surface with the bosom of your pants. then you'll get up on your trotters, but you have a job to stand; for the landscape round you totters an' your collar's full o' sand. lots of fellers give prescriptions how a broncho should be rode, but there's few that gives descriptions of the times when they got throwed. _anonymous._ pardners you bad-eyed, tough-mouthed son-of-a-gun, ye're a hard little beast to break, but ye're good for the fiercest kind of a run an' ye're quick as a rattlesnake. ye jolted me good when we first met in the dust of that bare corral, an' neither one of us will forget the fight we fit, old pal. but now--well, say, old hoss, if john d. rockefeller shud come with all the riches his paws are on and want to buy you, you bum, i'd laugh in his face an' pat your neck an' say to him loud an' strong: "i wouldn't sell you this derned old wreck for all your wealth--so long!" for we have slept on the barren plains an' cuddled against the cold; we've been through tempests of drivin' rains when the heaviest thunder rolled; we've raced from fire on the lone prairee an' run from the mad stampede; an' there ain't no money could buy from me a pard of your style an' breed. so i reckon we'll stick together, pard, till one of us cashes in; ye're wirey an' tough an' mighty hard, an' homlier, too, than sin. but yer head's all there an' yer heart's all right, an' you've been a good pardner, too, an' if ye've a soul it's clean an' white, you ugly ol' scoundrel, you! _berton braley._ the bronc that wouldn't bust i've busted bronchos off and on since first i struck their trail, and you bet i savvy bronchos from nostrils down to tail; but i struck one on powder river, and say, hands, he was the first and only living broncho that your servant couldn't burst. he was a no-count buckskin, wasn't worth two-bits to keep, had a black stripe down his backbone, and was woolly like a sheep. that hoss wasn't built to tread the earth; he took natural to the air; and every time he went aloft he tried to leave me there. he went so high above the earth lights from jerusalem shone. right thar we parted company and he came down alone. i hit terra firma, the buckskin's heels struck free, and brought a bunch of stars along to dance in front of me. i'm not a-riding airships nor an electric flying beast; ain't got no rich relation a-waitin' me back east; so i'll sell my chaps and saddle, my spurs can lay and rust; for there's now and then a digger that a buster cannot bust. _anonymous._ the ol' cow hawse when it comes to saddle hawses, there's a difference in steeds: there is fancy-gaited critters that will suit some feller's needs; there is nags high-bred an' tony, with a smooth an' shiny skin, that will capture all the races that you want to run 'em in. but fer one that never tires; one that's faithful, tried and true; one that allus is a "stayer" when you want to slam him through, there is but one breed o' critters that i ever came across that will allus stand the racket: 'tis the ol' cow hawse no, he ain't so much fer beauty, fer he's scrubby an' he's rough, an' his temper's sort o' sassy, but you bet he's good enough! fer he'll take the trail o' mornin's, be it up or be it down, on the range a-huntin' cattle or a-lopin' into town, an' he'll leave the miles behind him, an' he'll never sweat a hair, 'cuz he's a willin' critter when he's goin' anywhere. oh, your thoroughbred at runnin' in a race may be the boss, but fer all day ridin' lemme have the ol' cow hawse! when my soul seeks peace and quiet on the home ranch of the blest, where no storms or stampedes bother, an' the trails are trails o' rest, when my brand has been inspected an' pronounced to be o k, an' the boss has looked me over an' has told me i kin stay, oh, i'm hopin' when i'm lopin' off across that blessed range that i won't be in a saddle on a critter new an' strange, but i'm prayin' every minnit that up there i'll ride across that big heaven range o' glory on an ol' cow hawse _e. a. brinninstool._ the bunk-house orchestra wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out, tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout, for the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain, but we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain. _shinin' dobe fire-place, shadows on the wall (see old shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:) it's the best grand high that there is within the law when seven jolly punchers tackle "turkey in the straw."_ freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail, ev'ry steer was haughty with a high-arched tail, but we held 'em and we shoved 'em for our longin' hearts were tried by a yearnin' for tobaccer and our dear fireside. _swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop (you're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!) ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw, but we drifted on to comfort and to "turkey in the straw."_ snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford-- ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord, but the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete when the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' shorty's feet! _snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots! (don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in his boots?) shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw, but tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "turkey in the straw."_ rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie, livin' is a luxury that don't come high; oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow, for we all must die or marry less than forty years from now! _lively on the last turn! lope'er to the death! (reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.) ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw when we have an hour of firelight set to "turkey in the straw."_ _charles badger clark._ the cowboy's dance song you can't expect a cowboy to agitate his shanks in etiquettish manner in aristocratic ranks when he's always been accustomed to shake the heel and toe at the rattling rancher dances where much etiquet don't go. you can bet i set them laughing in quite an excited way, a-giving of their squinters an astonished sort of play, when i happened into denver and was asked to take a prance in the smooth and easy mazes of a high-toned dance. when i got among the ladies in their frocks of fleecy white, and the dudes togged out in wrappings that were simply out of sight, tell you what, i was embarrassed, and somehow i couldn't keep from feeling like a burro in a pretty flock of sheep. every step i made was awkward and i blushed a fiery red like the principal adornment of a turkey gobbler's head. the ladies said 'twas seldom that they had had the chance to see an old-time puncher at a high-toned dance. i cut me out a heifer from a bunch of pretty girls and yanked her to the center to dance the dreamy whirls. she laid her head upon my bosom in a loving sort of way and we drifted into heaven as the band began to play. i could feel my neck a-burning from her nose's breathing heat, and she do-ce-doed around me, half the time upon my feet; she peered up in my blinkers with a soul-dissolving glance quite conducive to the pleasures of a high-toned dance. every nerve just got a-dancing to the music of delight as i hugged the little sagehen uncomfortably tight; but she never made a bellow and the glances of her eyes seemed to thank me for the pleasure of a genuine surprise. she snuggled up against me in a loving sort of way, and i hugged her all the tighter for her trustifying play,-- tell you what the joys of heaven ain't a cussed circumstance to the hug-a-mania pleasures of a high-toned dance. when they struck the old cotillion on the music bill of fare, every bit of devil in me seemed to burst out on a tear. i fetched a cowboy whoop and started in to rag, and cut her with my trotters till the floor began to sag; swung my pardner till she got sea-sick and rushed for a seat; i balanced to the next one but she dodged me slick and neat.-- tell you what, i shook the creases from my go-to-meeting pants when i put the cowboy trimmings on that high-toned dance. _james barton adams._ the cowboys' christmas ball way out in western texas, where the clear fork's waters flow, where the cattle are "a-browzin'" and the spanish ponies grow; where the norther "comes a-whistlin'" from beyond the neutral strip and the prairie dogs are sneezin', as if they had "the grip"; where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark, and the mocking-birds are singin' to the lovely "medder lark"; where the 'possum and the badger, and rattle-snakes abound, and the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound; where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams, while the double mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams; where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call-- it was there that i attended "the cowboys' christmas ball." the town was anson city, old jones's county seat, where they raise polled angus cattle, and waving whiskered wheat; where the air is soft and "bammy," an' dry an' full of health, and the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth; where they print the _texas western_, that hec. mccann supplies, with news and yarns and stories, of most amazin' size; where frank smith "pulls the badger," on knowin' tender feet, and democracy's triumphant, and mighty hard to beat; where lives that good old hunter, john milsap from lamar, who "used to be the sheriff, back east, in paris, sah!" 'twas there, i say, at anson, with the lively "widder wall," that i went to that reception, "the cowboys' christmas ball." the boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles; the ladies--"kinder scatterin'"--had gathered in for miles. and yet the place was crowded, as i remember well, 'twas got for the occasion at "the morning star hotel." the music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine, and a "viol come imported," by stage from abilene. the room was togged out gorgeous--with mistletoe and shawls, and candles flickered frescoes around the airy walls. the "wimmin folks" looked lovely--the boys looked kinder treed, till their leader commenced yellin': "whoa, fellers, let's stampede." the music started sighin' and a-wailin' through the hall, as a kind of introduction to "the cowboys' christmas ball." the leader was a fellow that came from swenson's ranch, they called him "windy billy," from "little dead-man's branch." his rig was "kinder keerless," big spurs and high-heeled boots; he had the reputation that comes when "fellers shoots." his voice was like the bugle upon the mountain's height; his feet were animated, an' a _mighty movin' sight_, when he commenced to holler, "neow, fellers, stake yer pen! lock horns to all them heifers, an' russle 'em like men. saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing an' let 'em go, climb the grape vine round 'em--all hands do-ce-do! and mavericks, jine the round-up--jest skip her waterfall," huh! hit wuz gittin' happy, "the cowboys' christmas ball!" the boys were tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat, that old bass viol's music _just got there with both feet_. that wailin' frisky fiddle, i never shall forget; and windy kept a singin'--i think i hear him yet-- "o xes, chase your squirrels, an' cut 'em to one side, spur treadwell to the center, with cross p charley's bride, doc. hollis down the middle, an' twine the ladies' chain, varn andrews pen the fillies in big t. diamond's train. all pull yer freight tergether, neow swallow fork an' change, 'big boston' lead the trail herd, through little pitchfork's range. purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope 'em! balance all!" huh! hit wuz gittin' active--"the cowboys' christmas ball!" the dust riz fast an' furious, we all just galloped round, till the scenery got so giddy, that z bar dick was downed. we buckled to our partners, an' told 'em to hold on, then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn. don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. no sir 'ee! that whirl at anson city just takes the cake with me. i'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them i've had my fill, give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by windy bill. mcallister ain't nowhere! when windy leads the show, i've seen 'em both in harness, an' so i sorter know-- oh, bill, i sha'n't forget yer, and i'll oftentimes recall, that lively-gaited sworray--"the cowboys' christmas ball." _larry chittenden in_ "_ranch verses."_ a dance at the ranch from every point they gaily come, the broncho's unshod feet pat at the green sod of the range with quick, emphatic beat; the tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream behind-- like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping wind. the dashing cowboys, brown of face, sit in their saddle thrones and sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncultured tones, or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers, and pour the usual fairy tales into their list'ning ears. within the "best room" of the ranch the jolly gathered throng buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with song; the maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein in efforts to entrap the boys in admiration's chain. the fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and scrape of bow, finds one string keyed a note too high, another one too low; then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret until their ears are greeted with the warning words, "all set! s'lute yer pardners! let 'er go! balance all an' do-ce-do! swing yer girls an' run away! right an' left an' gents sashay! gents to right an' swing or cheat! on to next gal an' repeat! balance next an' don't be shy! swing yer pard an' swing 'er high! bunch the gals an' circle round! whack yer feet until they bound! form a basket! break away! swing an' kiss an' all git gay! al'man left an' balance all! lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fall! swing yer op'sites! swing agin! kiss the sagehens if you kin!" an' thus the merry dance went on till morning's struggling light in lengthening streaks of grey breaks down the barriers of the night, and broncs are mounted in the glow of early morning skies by weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleepy eyes. the cowboys to the ranges speed to "work" the lowing herds, the girls within their chambers hide their sleep like weary birds, and for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree they had that night at jackson's ranch down on the owyhee. _anonymous._ at a cowboy dance git yo' little sagehens ready; trot 'em out upon the floor-- line up there, you critters! steady! lively, now! one couple more. shorty, shed that ol' sombrero; broncho, douse that cigaret; stop yer cussin', casimero, 'fore the ladies. now, all set: s'lute yer ladies, all together; ladies opposite the same; hit the lumber with yer leather; balance all an' swing yer dame; bunch the heifers in the middle; circle stags an' do-ce-do; keep a-steppin' to the fiddle; swing 'em 'round an' off you go. first four forward. back to places. second foller. shuffle back-- now you've got it down to cases-- swing 'em till their trotters crack. gents all right a-heel an' toein'; swing 'em--kiss 'em if yo' kin-- on to next an' keep a-goin' till yo' hit yer pards agin. gents to center. ladies 'round 'em; form a basket; balance all; swing yer sweets to where yo' found 'em; all p'mnade around the hall. balance to yer pards an' trot 'em 'round the circle double quick; grab an' squeeze 'em while you've got 'em-- hold 'em to it if they kick. ladies, left hand to yer sonnies; alaman; grand right an' left; balance all an' swing yer honies-- pick 'em up an' feel their heft. all p'mnade like skeery cattle; balance all an' swing yer sweets; shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle-- keno! promenade to seats. _james barton adams._ the cowboys' ball _yip! yip! yip! yip! tunin' up the fiddle_; you an' take yo'r pardner there, standin' by the wall! _say "how!" make a bow, and sashay down the middle_; shake yo'r leg lively at the cowboys' ball. big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin'; everybody happy an' the goose a-hangin' high; lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin'; keep a-stompin' leather while you got one eye. yah! hoo! larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin' jumpin' like a chicken that's a-lookin' for its head; hi! yip! never slip, and never think of stoppin', just keep yo'r feet a-movin' till we all drop dead! high heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers; real old rally round the dipper and the keg! uncle ed's gettin' red--had too many dippers; better get him hobbled or he'll break his leg! _yip! yip! yip! yip! tunin' up the fiddle_; pass him up another for his arm is gettin' slow. _bow down! right in town--and sashay down the middle_; got to keep a-movin' for to see the show! yes, mam! warm, mam? want to rest a minute? like to get a breath of air lookin' at the stars? all right! fine night--dance? there's nothin' in it! that's my pony there, peekin' through the bars. bronc, mam? no, mam! gentle as a kitten! here, boy! shake a hand! now, mam, you can see; night's cool. what a fool to dance, instead of sittin' like a gent and lady, same as you and me. _yip! yip! yip! yip! tunin' up the fiddle_; well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all! _right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle..._ but this beats dancin' at the cowboys' ball. _henry herbert knibbs._ part iii cowboy types _down where the rio grande ripples-- when there's water in its bed; where no man is ever drunken-- all prefer mescal instead; where no lie is ever uttered-- there being nothin' one can trade; where no marriage vows are broken 'cause the same are never made._ the cowboy he wears a big hat and big spurs and all that, and leggins of fancy fringed leather; he takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots, and he's happy in all kinds of weather; he's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course, for oh, he can ride like the devil; he is old for his years and he always appears like a fellow who's lived on the level; he can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the look of a man that to fear is a stranger; yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserve for his wild life of duty and danger. he gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet, and for fashion, oh well! he's not in it; he can rope a gay steer when he gets on its ear at the rate of two-forty a minute; his saddle's the best in the wild, woolly west, sometimes it will cost sixty dollars; ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks, but his knowledge is not got from your scholars; he is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal, and he hates and despises a coward; yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kind though he'll fight till by death overpowered. hence i say unto you,--give the cowboy his due and be kind, my friends, to his folly; for he's generous and brave though he may not behave like your dudes, who are so melancholy. _anonymous._ bar-z on a sunday night we ain't no saints on the bar-z ranch, 'tis said--an' we know who 'tis-- "th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch, an' uses us in his biz." still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss, an' you'd sure admit that's right, if you happened--an' unbeknown to us-- around, of a sunday night. th' week-day manners is stowed away, th' jokes an' the card games halts, when dick's ol' fiddle begins to play a toon--an' it ain't no waltz. it digs fer th' things that are out o' sight, it delves through th' toughest crust, it grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight, till we've got ter sing--er bust! with pipin' treble the kid starts in, an' hell! how that kid kin sing! "yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin," he leads, an' the rafters ring; "fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue," we shouts it with force an' vim; "look ever to jesus, he'll carry you through,"-- that's puttin' it up to him! we ain't no saints on the ol' bar-z, but many a time an' oft when ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "abide with me," our hearts gets kinder soft. an' we makes some promises there an' then which we keeps--till we goes to bed,-- that's the most could be ast o' a passel o' men what ain't no saints, as i said. _percival combes._ a cowboy race a pattering rush like the rattle of hail when the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail, a long roll of hoofs,--and the earth is a drum! the centaurs! see! over the prairies they come! a rollicking, clattering, battering beat; a rhythmical thunder of galloping feet; a swift-swirling dust-cloud--a mad hurricane of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane; hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun the gauntlet is flung and the race is begun! _j. c. davis._ the habit i've beat my way wherever any winds have blown; i've bummed along from portland down to san antone; from sandy hook to frisco, over gulch and hill,-- for once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. i settled down quite frequent, and i says, says i, "i'll never wander further till i come to die." but the wind it sorter chuckles, "why, o' course you will." an' sure enough i does it 'cause i can't keep still. i've seen a lot o' places where i'd like to stay, but i gets a-feelin' restless an' i'm on my way. i was never meant for settin' on my own door sill, an', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. i've been in rich men's houses an' i've been in jail, but when it's time for leavin' i jes hits the trail. i'm a human bird of passage and the song i trill is, "once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still." the sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear, an' the wind is singin' ballads that i got to hear. it ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill; for, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. _berton braley._ a ranger he never made parade of tooth or claw; he was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds. though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw, he was shy of exercisin' it with words. as a circus-ridin' preacher of the law, all his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail; he was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger, and he labored with the sinners of the trail. once a yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad, then hit southward with the old, old killer's plan, and nobody missed the woman very bad, while they'd just a little rather missed the man. but the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad, and then loped away to bring him back again, for he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny border and his business was to hunt for sinful men! so the trail it led him southward all the day, through the shinin' country of the thorn and snake, where the heat had drove the lizards from their play to the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake. and the mountains heaved and rippled far away and the desert broiled as on the devil's prong, but he didn't mind the devil if his head kept clear and level and the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song. came the yellow west, and on a far off rise something black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim, and he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyes while he cussed the southern hills for growin' dim. down a hazy 'royo came the coyote cries, like they laughed at him because he'd lost his mark, and the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighter as he set his spurs and rode on through the dark. came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higher through the mountains that look into mexico, and the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wire and the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow. then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fire and the canyon walls flung thunder back again, and he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbled that his bridle arm had weight enough for ten. though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slack and he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy, yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation back that convinced the sinner--just above the eye. so the sinner sprawled among the shadows black while the ranger drifted north beneath the moon, wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay a-straddle while the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune. when the sheriff got up early out of bed, how he stared and vowed his soul a total loss, as he saw the droopy thing all blotched with red that came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse. but "i got 'im" was the most the ranger said and you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale; he was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger and he labored with the sinners of the trail. _charles badger clark, jr._ the insult i've swum the colorado where she runs close down to hell; i've braced the faro layouts in cheyenne; i've fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin' swine an' swallowed hot tamales and cayenne; i've rode a pitchin' broncho till the sky was underneath; i've tackled every desert in the land; i've sampled xx whiskey till i couldn't hardly see an' dallied with the quicksands of the grande; i've argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs; i've been dragged free and fancy by a cow; i've had three years' campaignin' with the fightin', bitin' ninth, an' i never lost my temper till right now. i've had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes; i've grabbed an army mule plum by the tail; but i've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' mad as when you up and hands me ginger ale. _anonymous._ "the road to ruin"[ ] i went into the grog-shop, tom, and stood beside the bar, and drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar. the same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to know when we was on the round-up, tom, some twenty years ago. the bar-tender is not the same. the one who used to sell corroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in hell. this one has got a plate-glass front, he combs his hair quite low, he looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago. old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grin while others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin. outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woe and wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago. i asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men; and some was in the poor-house, tom, and some was in the pen. you know the one you liked the best?--the hang-man laid him low,-- oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago. you recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own,-- he used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone. he perished for the james fitz james, out in the rain and snow,-- yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago. i visited the old church yard and there i saw the graves of those who used to drown their woes in old fermented ways. i saw the graves of women thar, lying where the daisies grow, who wept and died of broken hearts some twenty years ago. _anonymous._ [ ] a famous saloon in west texas carried this unusual sign. the outlaw when my loop takes hold on a two-year-old, by the feet or the neck or the horn, he kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white, but i'll throw him as sure as you're born. though the taut rope sing like a banjo string and the latigoes creak and strain, yet i've got no fear of an outlaw steer and i'll tumble him on the plain. _for a man is a man and a steer is a beast, and the man is the boss of the herd; and each of the bunch, from the biggest to least, must come down when he says the word._ when my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse and my spurs clinch into his hide, he kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, but wherever he goes i'll ride. let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top, or flit like a wind-whipped smoke, but he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel till he's happy to own he's broke. _for a man is a man and a hawse is a brute, and the hawse may be prince of his clan, but he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot and own that his boss is the man._ when the devil at rest underneath my vest gets up and begins to paw, and my hot tongue strains at its bridle-reins, then i tackle the real outlaw; when i get plumb riled and my sense goes wild, and my temper has fractious growed, if he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck, then it's dollars to dimes i'm throwed. _for a man is a man, but he's partly a beast-- he kin brag till he makes you deaf, but the one, lone brute, from the west to the east, that he kaint quite break, is himse'f._ _charles b. clark, jr._ the desert 'twas the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul, as i counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert sky, the tale of the upland rider's fate while i dug in the water hole for a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry! "he came," said the lean coyote, "and he cursed as his pony fell; and he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done. he raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of hell, shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop--just one." "his name?" i asked, and he told me, yawning to hide a grin: "his name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside; last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin, and i watched his face as he spelled it out--laughed as i laughed, and died. "and thus," said the lean coyote, "his need is the hungry's feast, and mine." i fumbled and pulled my gun--emptied it wild and fast, but one of the crazy shots went home and silenced the waiting beast; there lay the shape of the liar, dead! 'twas i that should laugh the last. laugh? nay, now i would write my name as the upland rider wrote; write? what need, for before my eyes in a wide and wavering line i saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter float into a mist as the world grew dark; and i knew that the name was mine. dreams and visions within the dream; turmoil and fire and pain; hands that proffered a brimming cup--empty, ere i could take; then the burst of a thunder-head--rain! it was rude, fierce rain! blindly down to the hole i crept, shivering, drenched, awake! dawn--and the edge of the red-rimmed sun scattering golden flame, as stumbling down to the water hole came the horse that i thought was dead; but never a sign of the other beast nor a trace of a rider's name; just a rain-washed track and an empty gun--and the old home trail ahead. _henry herbert knibbs._ whiskey bill,--a fragment a-down the road and gun in hand comes whiskey bill, mad whiskey bill; a-lookin' for some place to land comes whiskey bill. an' everybody'd like to be ten miles away behind a tree when on his joyous, aching spree starts whiskey bill. the times have changed since you made love, o whiskey bill, o whiskey bill! the happy sun grinned up above at whiskey bill. and down the middle of the street the sheriff comes on toe and feet a-wishin' for one fretful peek at whiskey bill. the cows go grazing o'er the lea,-- poor whiskey bill! poor whiskey bill! an' aching thoughts pour in on me of whiskey bill. the sheriff up and found his stride; bill's soul went shootin' down the slide,-- how are things on the great divide, o whiskey bill? _anonymous._ denver jim "say, fellers, that ornery thief must be nigh us, for i jist saw him across this way to the right; ah, there he is now right under that burr-oak as fearless and cool as if waitin' all night. well, come on, but jist get every shooter all ready fur him, if he's spilin' to give us a fight; the birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnic an' that limb hangin' over him stands about right. "say, stranger, good mornin'. why, dog blast my lasso, boys, if it ain't denver jim that's corralled here at last. right aside for the jilly. well, jim, we are searchin' all night for a couple about of your cast. an' seein' yer enter this openin' so charmin' we thought perhaps yer might give us the trail. haven't seen anything that would answer description? what a nerve that chap has, but it will not avail. "want to trade hosses fur the one i am stridin'! will you give me five hundred betwixt fur the boot? say, jim, that air gold is the strongest temptation an' many a man would say take it and scoot. but we don't belong to that denomination; you have got to the end of your rope, denver jim. in ten minutes more we'll be crossin' the prairie, an' you will be hangin' there right from that limb. "have you got any speakin' why the sentence ain't proper? here, take you a drink from the old whiskey flask. ar' not dry? well, i am, an' will drink ter yer, pard, an' wish that this court will not bungle this task. there, the old lasso circles your neck like a fixture; here, boys, take the line an' wait fer the word; i am sorry, old boy, that your claim has gone under; fer yer don't meet yer fate like the low, common herd. "what's that? so yer want me to answer a letter,-- well, give it to me till i make it all right, a moment or two will be only good manners, the judicious acts of this court will be white. 'long point, arkansas, the thirteenth of august, my dearest son james, somewhere out in the west, for long, weary months i've been waiting for tidings since your last loving letter came eastward to bless. "'god bless you, my son, for thus sending that money, remembering your mother when sorely in need. may the angels from heaven now guard you from danger and happiness follow your generous deed. how i long so to see you come into the doorway, as you used to, of old, when weary, to rest. may the days be but few when again i can greet you, my comfort and staff, is your mother's request.' "say, pard, here's your letter. i'm not good at writin', i think you'd do better to answer them lines; an' fer fear i might want it i'll take off that lasso, an' the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines. an' jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell her that a wee bit o' writin' kinder hastened the day when her boy could come eastward to stay with her always. come boys, up and mount and to denver away." o'er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor, the dew on the grass flashed the diamonds so bright, as the tenderest memories came like a blessing from the days of sweet childhood on pinions of light. not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning, yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned; for higher than law is the love of a mother,-- it reversed the decision,--the court was adjourned. _sherman d. richardson._ the vigilantes we are the whirlwinds that winnow the west-- we scatter the wicked like straw! we are the nemeses, never at rest-- we are justice, and right, and the law! moon on the snow and a blood-chilling blast, sharp-throbbing hoofs like the heart-beat of fear, a halt, a swift parley, a pause--then at last a stiff, swinging figure cut darkly and sheer against the blue steel of the sky; ghastly white every on-looking face. men, our duty was clear; yet ah! what a soul to send forth to the night! ours is a service brute-hateful and grim; little we love the wild task that we seek; are they dainty to deal with--the fear-rigid limb, the curse and the struggle, the blasphemous shriek? nay, but men must endure while their bodies have breath; god made us strong to avenge him the weak-- to dispense his sure wages of sin--which is death. we stand for our duty: while wrong works its will, our search shall be stern and our course shall be wide; retribution shall prove that the just liveth still, and its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide, that safety and honor may tread in our path; the vengeance of heaven shall speed at our side, as we follow unwearied our mission of wrath. we are the whirlwinds that winnow the west-- we scatter the wicked like straw! we are the nemeses, never at rest-- we are justice, and right, and the law! _margaret ashmun._ the bandit's grave 'mid lava rock and glaring sand, 'neath the desert's brassy skies, bound in the silent chains of death a border bandit lies. the poppy waves her golden glow above the lowly mound; the cactus stands with lances drawn,-- a martial guard around. his dreams are free from guile or greed, or foray's wild alarms. no fears creep in to break his rest in the desert's scorching arms. he sleeps in peace beside the trail, where the twilight shadows play, though they watch each night for his return a thousand miles away. from the mesquite groves a night bird calls when the western skies grow red; the sand storm sings his deadly song above the sleeper's head. his steed has wandered to the hills and helpless are his hands, yet peons curse his memory across the shifting sands. the desert cricket tunes his pipes when the half-grown moon shines dim; the sage thrush trills her evening song-- but what are they to him? a rude-built cross beside the trail that follows to the west casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow across the sleeper's breast. a lone coyote comes by night and sits beside his bed, sobbing the midnight hours away with gaunt, up-lifted head. the lizard trails his aimless way across the lonely mound, when the star-guards of the desert their pickets post around. the winter snows will heap their drifts among the leafless sage; the pallid hosts of the blizzard will lift their voice in rage; the gentle rains of early spring will woo the flowers to bloom, and scatter their fleeting incense o'er the border bandit's tomb. _charles pitt._ the old mackenzie trail see, stretching yonder o'er that low divide which parts the falling rain,--the eastern slope sends down its waters to the southern sea through double mountain's winding length of stream; the western side spreads out into a plain, which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leagues at last into the rushing rio grande,-- see, faintly showing on that distant ridge, the deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest, sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral, the dim reminders of the olden times, the life of stir, of blood, of indian raid, the hunt of buffalo and antelope; the camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers; the cowboy's lonely vigil through the night; the stampede and the wild ride through the storm; the call of california's golden flood; the impulse of the saxon's "westward ho" which set our fathers' faces from the east, to spread resistless o'er the barren wastes, to people all the regions 'neath the sun-- those vikings of the old mackenzie trail. it winds--this old forgotten cattle trail-- through valleys still and silent even now, save when the yellow-breasted desert lark cries shrill and lonely from a dead mesquite, in quivering notes set in a minor key; the endless round of sunny days, of starry nights, the desert's blank immutability. the coyote's howl is heard at dark from some low-lying hill; companioned by the loafer wolf they yelp in concert to the far off stars, or gnaw the bleachèd bones in savage rage that lie unburied by the grass-grown paths. the prairie dogs play sentinel by day and backward slips the badger to his den; the whir, the fatal strike of rattlesnake, a staring buzzard floating in the blue, and, now and then, the curlew's eerie call,-- lost, always lost, and seeking evermore. all else is mute and dormant; vacantly the sun looks down, the days run idly on, the breezes whirl the dust, which eddying falls smothering the records of the westward caravans, where silent heaps of wreck and nameless graves make milestones for the old mackenzie trail. across the brazos, colorado, through concho's broad, fair valley, sweeping on by abilene it climbs upon the plains, the llano estacado (beyond lie wastes of alkali and hunger gaunt and death),-- and here is lost in shifting rifts of sand. anon it lingers by a hidden spring that bubbles joy into the wilderness; its pathway trenched that distant mountain side, now grown to gulches through torrential rain. de vaca gathered pinons by the way, long ere the furrows grew on yonder hill, cut by the creaking prairie-schooner wheels; la salle, the gentle frenchman, crossed this course, and went to death and to a nameless grave. for ages and for ages through the past comanches and apaches from the north came sweeping southward, searching for the sun, and charged in mimic combat on the sea. the scions of montezuma's low-browed race perhaps have seen that knotted, thorn-clad tree; or sucked the cactus apples growing there. all these have passed, and passed the immigrants, who bore the westward fever in their brain, the norseman tang for roving in their veins; who loved the plains as sailors love the sea, braved danger, death, and found a resting place while traveling on the old mackenzie trail. brave old mackenzie long has laid him down to rest beyond the trail that bears his name; a granite mountain makes his monument; the northers, moaning o'er the low divide, go gently past his long deserted camps. no more his rangers guard the wild frontier, no more he leads them in the border fight. no more the mavericks, winding stream of horns to kansas bound; the dust, the cowboy songs and cries, the pistol's sharp report,--the free, wild days in texas by the rio grande. and some men say when dusky night shuts down, dark, cloudy nights without a kindly star, one sees dim horsemen skimming o'er the plain hard by mackenzie's trail; and keener ears have heard from deep within the bordering hills the tramp of ghostly hoofs, faint cattle lows, the rumble of a moving wagon train, sometimes far echoes of a frontier song; then sounds grow fainter, shadows troop away,-- on westward, westward, as they in olden time went rangeing o'er the old mackenzie trail. _john a. lomax._ the sheep-herder[ ] all day across the sagebrush flat, beneath the sun of june, my sheep they loaf and feed and bleat their never changin' tune. and then, at night time, when they lay as quiet as a stone, i hear the gray wolf far away, "alo-one!" he says, "alo-one!" a-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! the tune the woollies sing; it's rasped my ears, it seems, for years, though really just since spring; and nothin', far as i can see around the circle's sweep, but sky and plain, my dreams and me and them infernal sheep. i've got one book--it's poetry-- a bunch of pretty wrongs an eastern lunger gave to me; he said 'twas "shepherd songs." but, though that poet sure is deep and has sweet things to say, he never seen a herd of sheep or smelt them, anyway. a-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! my woollies greasy gray, an awful change has hit the range since that old poet's day. for you're just silly, on'ry brutes and i look like distress, and my pipe ain't the kind that toots and there's no "shepherdess." yet 'way down home in kansas state, bliss township, section five, there's one that's promised me to wait, the sweetest girl alive; that's why i salt my wages down and mend my clothes with strings, while others blow their pay in town for booze and other things. a-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! my minnie, don't be sad; next year we'll lease that splendid piece that corners on your dad. we'll drive to "literary," dear, the way we used to do and turn my lonely workin' here to happiness for you. suppose, down near that rattlers' den, while i sit here and dream, i'd spy a bunch of ugly men and hear a woman scream. suppose i'd let my rifle shout and drop the men in rows, and then the woman should turn out-- my minnie!--just suppose. a-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! the tune would then be gay; there is, i mind, a parson kind just forty miles away. why, eden would come back again, with sage and sheep corrals, and i could swing a singin' pen to write her "pastorals." i pack a rifle on my arm and jump at flies that buzz; there's nothin' here to do me harm; i sometimes wish there was. if through that brush above the pool a red should creep--and creep-- wah! cut down on 'im!--stop, you fool! that's nothin' but a sheep. a-a! ma-a! ba-a!--hell! oh, sky and plain and bluff! unless my mail comes up the trail i'm locoed, sure enough. what's that?--a dust-whiff near the butte right where my last trail ran, a movin' speck, a--wagon! hoot! thank god! here comes a man. _charles badger clark, jr._ [ ] only such cowboys as are in desperate need of employment ever become sheep-herders. a cowboy at the carnival yes, o' cose it's interestin' to a feller from the range, mighty queerish, too, i tell you,--sich a racket fer a change; from a life among the cattle, from a wool shirt and the chaps to the biled shirt o' the city and the other tony traps. never seed sich herds o' people throwed together, every brand o' humanity, i reckon, in this big mountain land rounded up right here in denver, runnin' on new sort o' feed. actin' restless an' oneasy, like they threatened to stampede. mighty curious to a rider comin' from the range, he feels what you'd call a lost sensation from sombrero clar to heels; like a critter stray that drifted in a windstorm from its range to another run o' grazin' where the brands it sees are strange. then i see a city herder, a policeman, don't you know, sort o' think he's got men spotted an' is 'bout to make a throw fer to catch me an' corral me fer a stray till he can talk on the wire an' tell the owner fer to come an' get his stock. yes, it's mighty strange an' funny fer a cowboy, as you say, fer to hit a camp like this one, so unanimously gay; but i want to tell you, pardner, that a rider sich as me isn't built fer feedin' on sich crazy jamboree. every bone i got's a-achin', an' my feet as sore as if i had hit a bed o' cactus, an' my hinges is as stiff from a-hittin' these hot pavements as a feller's jints kin git,-- 'taint like holdin' down a broncho on the range, a little bit. i'm hankerin', i tell you, fer to hit the trail an' run like a crazy, locoed yearlin' from this big cloud-burst o' fun back toward the cattle ranches, where a feller's breath comes free an' he wears the clothes that fits him, 'stead o' this slick toggery. where his home is in the saddle, an' the heavens is his roof, an' his ever'day companions wears the hide an' cloven hoof, where the beller of the cattle is the only sound he hears, an' he never thinks o' nothin' but his grub an' hoss an' steers. _anonymous._ the old cowman i rode across a valley range i hadn't seen for years. the trail was all so spoilt and strange it nearly fetched the tears. i had to let ten fences down,-- (the fussy lanes ran wrong) and each new line would make me frown and hum a mournin' song. oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! hear 'em stretchin' of the wire! the nester brand is on the land; i reckon i'll retire. while progress toots her brassy horn and makes her motor buzz, i thank the lord i wasn't born no later than i wuz! 'twas good to live when all the sod, without no fence nor fuss, belonged in partnership to god, the government and us. with skyline bounds from east to west and room to go and come, i loved my fellowman the best when he was scattered some. oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! close and closer cramps the wire! there's hardly play to back away and call a man a liar. their house has locks on every door; their land is in a crate. there ain't the plains of god no more, they're only real estate. there's land where yet no ditchers dig nor cranks experiment; it's only lovely, free and big and isn't worth a cent. i pray that them who come to spoil may wait till i am dead before they foul that blessed soil with fence and cabbage head. yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak! far and farther crawls the wire! to crowd and pinch another inch is all their heart's desire. the world is over-stocked with men, and some will see the day when each must keep his little pen, but i'll be far away. when my old soul hunts range and rest beyond the last divide, just plant me in some stretch of west that's sunny, lone and wide. let cattle rub my tombstone down and coyotes mourn their kin, let hawses paw and tramp the moun',-- but don't you fence it in! oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! and they pen the land with wire. they figure fence and copper cents where we laughed round the fire. job cussed his birthday, night and morn in his old land of uz, but i'm just glad i wasn't born no later than i wuz! _charles badger clark, jr._ the gila monster route the lingering sunset across the plain kissed the rear-end door of an east-bound train, and shone on a passing track close by where a ding-bat sat on a rotting tie. he was ditched by a shock and a cruel fate. the con high-balled, and the manifest freight pulled out on the stem behind the mail, and she hit the ball on a sanded rail. as she pulled away in the falling light he could see the gleam of her red tail-light. then the moon arose and the stars came out-- he was ditched on the gila monster route. nothing in sight but sand and space; no chance for a gink to feed his face; not even a shack to beg for a lump, or a hen-house to frisk for a single gump. he gazed far out on the solitude; he drooped his head and began to brood; he thought of the time he lost his mate in a hostile burg on the nickle plate. they had mooched the stem and threw their feet, and speared four-bits on which to eat; but deprived themselves of daily bread and shafted their coin for "dago red." down by the track in the jungle's glade, in the cool green grass, in the tules' shade, they shed their coats and ditched their shoes and tanked up full of that colored booze. then they took a flop with their skins plumb full, and they did not hear the harnessed bull, till he shook them out of their boozy nap, with a husky voice and a loaded sap. they were charged with "vag," for they had no kale, and the judge said, "sixty days in jail." but the john had a bindle,--a worker's plea,-- so they gave him a floater and set him free. they had turned him up, but ditched his mate, so he grabbed the guts of an east-bound freight, he flung his form on a rusty rod, till he heard the shack say, "hit the sod!" the john piled off, he was in the ditch, with two switch lamps and a rusty switch,-- a poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo on a hostile pike, without a show. from away off somewhere in the dark came the sharp, short notes of a coyote's bark. the bo looked round and quickly rose and shook the dust from his threadbare clothes. off in the west through the moonlit night he saw the gleam of a big head-light-- an east-bound stock train hummed the rail; she was due at the switch to clear the mail. as she drew up close, the head-end shack threw the switch to the passenger track, the stock rolled in and off the main, and the line was clear for the west-bound train. when she hove in sight far up the track, she was workin' steam, with her brake shoes slack, she hollered once at the whistle post, then she flitted by like a frightened ghost. he could hear the roar of the big six-wheel, and her driver's pound on the polished steel, and the screech of her flanges on the rail as she beat it west o'er the desert trail. the john got busy and took the risk, he climbed aboard and began to frisk, he reached up high and began to feel for the end-door pin--then he cracked the seal. 'twas a double-decked stock-car, filled with sheep, old john crawled in and went to sleep. she whistled twice and high-balled out,-- they were off, down the gila monster route. _l. f. post and glenn norton._ the call of the plains ho! wind of the far, far prairies! free as the waves of the sea! your voice is sweet as in alien street the cry of a friend to me! you bring me the breath of the prairies, known in the days that are sped, the wild geese's cry and the blue, blue sky and the sailing clouds o'er head! my eyes are weary with longing for a sight of the sage grass gray, for the dazzling light of a noontide bright and the joy of the open day! oh, to hear once more the clanking of the noisy cowboy's spur, and the south wind's kiss like a mild caress making the grasses stir. i dream of the wide, wide prairies touched with their glistening sheen, the coyotes' cry and the wind-swept sky and the waving billows of green! and oh, for a night in the open where no sound discordant mars, and the marvelous glow, when the sun is low, and the silence under the stars! ho, wind from the western prairies! ho, voice from a far domain! i feel in your breath what i'll feel till death, the call of the plains again! the call of the spirit of freedom to the spirit of freedom in me; my heart leaps high with a jubilant cry and i answer in ecstasy! _ethel macdiarmid._ where the grizzly dwells[ ] i admire the artificial art of the east; but i love more the inimitable art of the west, where nature's handiwork lies in virginal beauty. amidst the hum of city life i saunter back to dreams of home. astride the back of my trusty steed i wander away, losing myself in the foothills of the rockies. away from human habitations, up the rugged slopes, through the timbered stretches, i hear the frightful cry of wolves and see a bear sneaking up behind. many nights ago, while herding a bunch of cattle during the round-up season, i lay upon the grass looking at the mated stars; i wondered if a cowboy could go to the unknown place, the happy hunting ground, when this short life is over. but, here or there, i shall always live in the land of mountain air where the grizzly dwells and sage brush grows; where mountain trout are not a few; in the land of the bitterroot,-- the indian land,--land of the golden west. _james fox._ [ ] fox is a halfbreed indian who sent me a lot of verse. although he had never heard of walt whitman, these stanzas suggest that poet. the spelling and punctuation are mine. a cowboy toast here's to the passing cowboy, the plowman's pioneer; his home, the boundless mesa, he of any man the peer; around his wide sombrero was stretched the rattler's hide, his bridle sporting conchos, his lasso at his side. all day he roamed the prairies, at night he, with the stars, kept vigil o'er thousands held by neither posts nor bars; with never a diversion in all the lonesome land, but cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sage and sand. sometimes the hoot-owl hailed him, when scudding through the flat; and prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat; the rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod some texas steer pursuing o'er the pathless waste of sod. with lasso, quirt, and 'colter the cowboy knew his skill; they pass with him to history and naught their place can fill; while he, bold broncho rider, ne'er conned a lesson page,-- but cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sand and sage. and oh! the long night watches, with terror in the skies! when lightning played and mocked him till blinded were his eyes; when raged the storm around him, and fear was in his heart lest panic-stricken leaders might make the whole herd start. that meant a death for many, perhaps a wild stampede, when none could stem the fury of the cattle in the lead; ah, then life seemed so little and death so very near,-- with cattle, cattle, cattle, and darkness everywhere. then quaff with me a bumper of water, clear and pure, to the memory of the cowboy whose fame must e'er endure from the llano estacado to dakota's distant sands, where were herded countless thousands in the days of fenceless lands. let us rear for him an altar in the temple of the brave, and weave of texas grasses a garland for his grave; and offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done with cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun. _james barton adams._ ridin' up the rocky trail from town "billy leamont rode out of the town-- _close at his shoulder rode jack lorell--_ over the leagues of the prairies brown, into the hills where the sun goes down-- _billy leamont and jack lorell!_ * * * billy leamont looked down the dell-- _dead below; him lay jack lorell--_ with his gun at his forehead he fired and fell, then rode they two through the streets of hell-- _billy leamont and jack lorell!_" the ballad of billy leamont.[ ] we're the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men, but we had to come to town to get the mail. and we're ridin' home at daybreak--'cause the air is cooler then-- all 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail. shorty's nose won't bear paradin', bill's off eye is darkly fadin', all our toilets show a touch of disarray, for we found that city life is a constant round of strife and we aint the breed for shyin' from a fray. _chant your warhoops, pardners, dear, while the east turns pale with fear and the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun' for we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror when we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!_ we acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede. from the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights. we have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed and the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites. so when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that i was wearin' 'twasn't long till we had got where talkin' ends, and he et his ill-bred chat, with a sauce of derby hat, while my merry pardners entertained his friends. _sing 'er out, my buckeroos! let the desert hear the news. tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down. we're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for howlin' when we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town._ since the days that lot and abram split the jordan range in halves, just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight, since old jacob skinned his dad-in-law of six years' crop of calves and then hit the trail for canaan in the night, there has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle and a love of doin' things that's wild and strange. and the warmth of laban's words when he missed his speckled herds still is useful in the language of the range. _sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats, for we wear the brand of ishm'el like a crown. we're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation-- ee-yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!_ [ ] this fragment is not included in mr. clark's poem. the disappointed tenderfoot he reached the west in a palace car where the writers tell us the cowboys are, with the redskin bold and the centipede and the rattlesnake and the loco weed. he looked around for the buckskin joes and the things he'd seen in the wild west shows-- the cowgirls gay and the bronchos wild and the painted face of the injun child. he listened close for the fierce war-whoop, and his pent-up spirits began to droop, and he wondered then if the hills and nooks held none of the sights of the story books. he'd hoped he would see the marshal pot some bold bad man with a pistol shot, and entered a low saloon by chance, where the tenderfoot is supposed to dance while the cowboy shoots at his bootheels there and the smoke of powder begrims the air, but all was quiet as if he'd strayed to that silent spot where the dead are laid. not even a faro game was seen, and none flaunted the long, long green. 'twas a blow for him who had come in quest of a touch of the real wild woolly west. he vainly sought for a bad cayuse and the swirl and swish of the flying noose, and the cowboy's yell as he roped a steer, but nothing of this fell on his ear. not even a wide-brimmed hat he spied, but derbies flourished on every side, and the spurs and the "chaps" and the flannel shirts, the high-heeled boots and the guns and the quirts, the cowboy saddles and silver bits and fancy bridles and swell outfits he'd read about in the novels grim, were not on hand for the likes of him. he peered about for a stagecoach old, and a miner-man with a bag of gold, and a burro train with its pack-loads which he'd read they tie with the diamond hitch. the rattler's whir and the coyote's wail ne'er sounded out as he hit the trail; and no one knew of a branding bee or a steer roundup that he longed to see. but the oldest settler named six-gun sim rolled a cigarette and remarked to him: "the west hez gone to the east, my son, and it's only in tents sich things is done." _e. a. brinninstool._ a cowboy alone with his conscience when i ride into the mountains on my little broncho bird, whar my ears are never pelted with the bawlin' o' the herd, an' a sort o' dreamy quiet hangs upon the western air, an' thar ain't no animation to be noticed anywhere; then i sort o' feel oneasy, git a notion in my head i'm the only livin' mortal--everybody else is dead-- an' i feel a queer sensation, rather skeery like, an' odd, when thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' god. every rabbit that i startle from its shaded restin' place, seems a furry shaft o' silence shootin' into noiseless space, an' a rattlesnake a crawlin' through the rocks so old an' gray helps along the ghostly feelin' in a rather startlin' way. every breeze that dares to whisper does it with a bated breath, every bush stands grim an' silent in a sort o' livin' death-- tell you what, a feller's feelin's give him many an icy prod, when thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' god. somehow allus git to thinkin' o' the error o' my ways, an' my memory goes wingin' back to childhood's happy days, when a mother, now a restin' in the grave so dark an' deep, used to listen while i'd whisper, "now i lay me down to sleep." then a sort o' guilty feelin' gits a surgin' in my breast, an' i wonder how i'll stack up at the final judgment test, conscience allus welts it to me with a mighty cuttin' rod, when thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' god. take the very meanest sinner that the nation ever saw, one that don't respect religion more'n he respects the law, one that never does an action that's commendable or good, an' immerse him fur a season out in nature's solitude, an' the cog-wheels o' his conscience 'll be rattled out o' gear, more'n if he 'tended preachin' every sunday in the year, fur his sins 'ill come a ridin' through his cranium rough shod, when thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' god. _james barton adams._ just a-ridin'! oh, for me a horse and saddle every day without a change; with the desert sun a-blazin' on a hundred miles o' range, just a-ridin', just a-ridin', desert ripplin' in the sun, mountains blue along the skyline,-- i don't envy anyone. when my feet are in the stirrups and my horse is on the bust; when his hoofs are flashin' lightnin' from a golden cloud o' dust; and the bawlin' of the cattle is a-comin' down the wind,-- oh, a finer life than ridin' would be mighty hard to find, just a-ridin', just a-ridin', splittin' long cracks in the air, stirrin' up a baby cyclone, rootin' up the prickly pear. i don't need no art exhibits when the sunset does his best, paintin' everlastin' glories on the mountains of the west. and your operas look foolish when the night bird starts his tune and the desert's silver-mounted by the kisses of the moon, just a-ridin', just a-ridin', i don't envy kings nor czars when the coyotes down the valley are a-singin' to the stars. when my earthly trail is ended and my final bacon curled, and the last great round up's finished at the home ranch of the world, i don't want no harps or haloes, robes or other dress-up things,-- let me ride the starry ranges on a pinto horse with wings, just a-ridin', just a-ridin', splittin' chunks o' wintry air, with your feet froze to your stirrups and a snowdrift in your hair. _(as sent by elwood adams, a colorado cowpuncher.) see "sun and saddle leather," by charles badger clark, jr._ the end of the trail soh, bossie, soh! the water's handy heah, the grass is plenty neah, an' all the stars a-sparkle bekaze we drive no mo'-- we drive no mo'. the long trail ends today,-- the long trail ends today, the punchers go to play and all you weary cattle may sleep in peace for sure,-- may sleep in peace for sure,-- sleep, sleep for sure. the moon can't bite you heah, nor punchers fright you heah. an' you-all will be beef befo' we need you any mo',-- we need you any mo'! _from pocock's "curley."_ the end printed in the united states of america +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | transcriber's notes: obvious spelling/typographical and | | punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison | | with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external | | sources. | | inconsistent spelling and inline hyphenation occurs across poems | | and songs and is retained. | | introduction: original shows "travelling" printed across a line | | break. | | page : "adios" appears once, "adiós" elsewhere. | | page : "good-bye" appears once, "goodbye" elsewhere. | | page : "sage-brush" appears once, "sagebrush" elsewhere. | | page : original illegible. "you" in the author's transcription | | of the song in john avery lomax, cowboy songs and other frontier | | ballads, , (macmillan ), | | http://www.archive.org/details/cowboysongsother lomarich | | (accessed march , ). | | page : "hang-man" hyphenation retained. | | page : "roundup" appears once, "round-up" elsewhere. | | | +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ english songs and ballads compiled by t.w.h. crosland [illustration] london grant richards leicester square edinburgh: t. and a. constable, (late) printers to her majesty note 'english songs and ballads' must not be regarded as 'a choice,' but simply as a bringing together of poetical pieces which are, presumably, well known to the average person,--that is to say, the compiler has endeavoured to illustrate the general taste rather than his own preference. index of first lines page about the sweet bag of a bee, a chieftain to the highlands bound, ae fond kiss, and then we sever, agincourt, agincourt, ah, my swete swetyng, alas! my love, you do me wrong, allen-a-dale has no faggot for burning, all in the downs the fleet was moor'd, all ye woods, and trees, and bowers, and did you not hear of a jolly young waterman, an old song made by an aged old pate, a parrot from the spanish main, arm, arm, arm, arm, the scouts are all come in, a simple child, as i came thro' sandgate, ask me no more where jove bestows, ask me no more, the moon may draw the sea, a spirit haunts the year's last hours, as thro' the land at eve we went, a sweet disorder in the dress, attend all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise, a weary lot is thine, fair maid, a well there is in the west country, a wet sheet and a flowing sea, * * * * * beauty clear and fair, be it right or wrong, these men among, believe me, if all those endearing young charms, bird of the wilderness, blame not my lute! for he must sound, blow, blow, thou winter wind, blow high, blow low, let tempests tear, break, break, break, busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, but are ye sure the news is true, * * * * * call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, i cry, cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, come all ye jolly shepherds, come, cheerful day, part of my life to me, come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer, come follow, follow me, come into the garden, maud, come live with me and be my love, come not, when i am dead, come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving, * * * * * dear is my little native vale, doubt thou the stars are fire, drink to me only with thine eyes, duncan gray came here to woo, * * * * * faintly as tolls the evening chime, fair daffodils, we weep to see, fair pledges of a fruitful tree, fair stood the wind for france, fear no more the heat o' the sun, flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes, follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow, for auld lang syne, my dear, four and twenty bonny boys, from oberon, in fairy land, from the forests and highlands, from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested, full fathom five thy father lies, * * * * * gather the rose-buds while ye may, god lyaeus, ever young, god prosper long our noble king, god save our gracious king, go fetch to me a pint o' wine, go, lovely rose, good-morrow to the day so fair, good people all, of every sort, go where glory waits thee, green fields of england, wheresoe'er, * * * * * hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, hang fear, cast away care, hark! now everything is still, hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings, he is gone on the mountain, her arms across her breast she laid, here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling, her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, here's a health unto his majesty, here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, hide me, o twilight air, home they brought her warrior dead, ho! why dost thou shiver and shake, how should i your true love know, * * * * * i arise from dreams of thee, i cannot eat but little meat, i come from haunts of coot and hern, i come, i come! ye have called me long, i knew an old wife lean and poor, i lov'd a lass, a fair one, i'm lonesome since i cross'd the hill, i'm sitting on the stile, mary, in going to my naked bed, in good king charles's golden days, in her ear he whispered gaily, in the merry month of may, in wakefield there lives a jolly pinder, i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he, is there for honest poverty, i tell thee, dick, where i have been, it is an ancient mariner, it is the miller's daughter, i travelled among unknown men, it was a blind beggar had long lost his sight, it was a friar of orders gray, it was a lover and his lass, it was a summer evening, it was the frog in the well, it was the time when lilies blow, i've seen the smiling, i wander'd by the brook-side, * * * * * john anderson, my jo, john, john gilpin was a citizen, * * * * * kentish sir byng stood for his king, king death was a rare old fellow, * * * * * lassie wi' the lint-white locks, lawn as white as driven snow, lay a garland on my hearse, let me the canakin clink, clink, let the bells ring, and let the boys sing, lithe and listen, gentlemen, long the proud spaniards had vaunted to conquer us, lord, thou hast given me a cell, love wakes and weeps, * * * * * maxwelltown braes are bonnie, men of england! who inherit, mine be a cot beside the hill, move eastward, happy earth, and leave, my banks they are furnished with bees, my heart is sair, i darena tell, my heart is wasted with my woe, my mind to me a kingdom is, my true love hath my heart, * * * * * napoleon's banners at boulogne, no stir in the air, no stir in the sea, not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, now glory to the lord of hosts, from whom all glories are, now, now the mirth comes, now ponder well, you parents dear, now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white, now the hungry lion roars, * * * * * of all the girls that are so smart, of a' the airts the wind can blaw, of nelson and the north, oft i had heard of lucy gray, oft in the stilly night, oh, call my brother back to me, oh, mary, go and call the cattle home, oh! the days are gone when beauty bright, oh, the sweet contentment, oh where, and oh where, is your highland laddie gone, o jenny's a' weet, poor body, o listen, listen, ladies gay, o mistress mine, where are you roaming, o, my luve's like a red red rose, o nanny, wilt thou go with me, on either side the river lie, on linden when the sun was low, on that deep-retiring shore, on the banks of allan water, orpheus with his lute made trees, o sing unto my roundelay, o swallow, swallow, flying south, our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered, over hill, over dale, o waly, waly up the bank, o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, o whistle and i'll come to ye, my lad, o, willie brew'd a peck o' maut, o world! o life! o time! o, young lochinvar is come out of the west, * * * * * pack clouds, away, and welcome, day, pibroch of donuil dhu, piping down the valleys wild, proud maisie in the wood, * * * * * queen and huntress, chaste and fair, * * * * * red rows the nith 'tween bank and brae, rich and rare were the gems she wore, rose cheek'd laura, come, * * * * * scots wha hae wi' wallace bled, shall i, wasting in despair, she dwelt among untrodden ways, she is a winsome wee thing, she is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, she stood breast high among the corn, she walks in beauty like the night, sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, sing his praises, that doth keep, some asked me where the rubies grew, some talk of alexander, and some of hercules, some years of late, in eighty-eight, so now is come our joyfullest part, so, we'll go no more a-roving, spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king, still to be neat, still to be drest, sweet and low, sweet and low, sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, sweet emma moreland of yonder town, * * * * * tell me not, sweet, i am unkind, tell me, where is fancy bred, the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, the boy stood on the burning deck, the breaking waves dashed high, the bride cam' out o' the byre, the deil cam' fiddlin' thro' the toun, the feathered songster chanticleer, the fountains mingle with the river, the glories of our blood and state, the harp that once through tara's halls, the king sits in dunfermline town, the laird o' cockpen, he's proud an' he's great, the lawns were dry in euston park, the minstrel boy to the war is gone, there be none of beauty's daughters, there came to the beach a poor exile of erin, there come seven gypsies on a day, there is a garden in her face, there is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, there was a youth, a well beloved youth, there was three kings into the east, there were three ladies play'd at the ba', there were three sailors of bristol city, the splendour falls on castle walls, the stars are with the voyager, the stately homes of england, the time i've lost in wooing, they grew in beauty side by side, three fishers went sailing out into the west, tiger, tiger, burning bright, 'tis the last rose of summer, toll for the brave, turn, gentle hermit of the dale, 'twas in the prime of summer time, * * * * * under the greenwood tree, * * * * * was this fair face the cause, quoth she, weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, wha'll buy my caller herrin', when all among the thundering drums, when all is done and said, when britain first, at heaven's command, when cats run home, and light is come, when daffodils begin to peer, when daisies pied and violets blue, when hercules did use to spin, when icicles hang by the wall, when love with unconfined wings, when o'er the hill the eastern star, when the british warrior queen, when the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame, when this old cap was new, when we two parted, where gang ye, thou silly auld carle, where the bee sucks, there lurk i, while larks with little wing, who is sylvia? what is she, why does your brand so drop with blood, why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears, why so pale and wan, fond lover, with fingers weary and worn, * * * * * ye gentlemen of england, ye little birds that sit and sing, ye mariners of england, you are old, father william, the young man cried, you spotted snakes with double tongue, index of authors page anonymous-- , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . * * * * * barnard, lady anne, beaumont and fletcher, blake, william, bloomfield, robert, breton, nicholas, browning, robert, burns, robert, burns, robert, byron, lord, * * * * * campbell, thomas, campion, thomas, carew, thomas, carey, henry, carey, henry, chalkhill, john, chatterton, thomas, clough, arthur hugh, cockburn, mrs., coleridge, samuel taylor, cowper, william, cunningham, allan, * * * * * dalrymple, sir david, dibdin, charles, drayton, michael, dufferin, lady, dyer, sir edward * * * * * edwardes, richard, * * * * * fletcher, john, * * * * * garrick, david, gay, john, goldsmith, oliver, * * * * * hamilton, william, hemans, felicia, herbert, george, herrick, robert, heywood, thomas, hogg, james, holcroft, thomas, hood, thomas, houghton, lord, * * * * * jonson, ben, * * * * * keats, john, kingsley, rev. charles, * * * * * lovelace, richard, * * * * * macaulay, lord, marlowe, christopher, mickle, william julius, moore, thomas, * * * * * nairne, lady, nash, thomas, * * * * * parker, martin, percy, thomas, proctor, b.w., * * * * * rogers, samuel, ross, alexander, * * * * * scott, sir walter, shakespeare, william, shelley, percy bysshe, shenstone, william, shirley, james, sidney, sir philip, southey, robert, still, john, suckling, sir john, * * * * * tennyson, lord, thackeray, william makepeace, thomson, james, * * * * * vaux, lord, * * * * * waller, edmund, webster, john, wither, george, wolfe, charles, wordsworth, william, wyatt, sir thomas, songs and ballads my swete sweting ah, my swete swetyng! my lytyle prety swetyng, my swetyng will i love wherever i go; she is so proper and pure, full stedfast, stabill and demure, there is none such, ye may be sure, as my swete swetyng. in all this world, as thynketh me, is none so pleasant to my eye, that i am glad soe ofte to see, as my swete swetyng. when i behold my swetyng swete, her face, her hands, her minion fete, they seme to me there is none so swete, as my swete swetyng. above all other prayse must i, and love my pretty pygsnye, for none i fynd so womanly as my swete swetyng. thinking lord vaux when all is done and said, in the end thus shall you find, he most of all doth bathe in bliss that hath a quiet mind: and, clear from worldly cares, to deem can be content the sweetest time in all his life in thinking to be spent. the body subject is to fickle fortune's power, and to a million of mishaps is casual every hour: and death in time doth change it to a clod of clay; whenas the mind, which is divine, runs never to decay. companion none is like unto the mind alone; for many have been harmed by speech; through thinking, few, or none. fear oftentimes restraineth words, but makes not thought to cease; and he speaks best that hath the skill when for to hold his peace. our wealth leaves us at death; our kinsmen at the grave; but virtues of the mind unto the heavens with us we have. wherefore, for virtue's sake, i can be well content, the sweetest time of all my life to deem in thinking spent. the falling out of faithful friends richard edwardes in going to my naked bed as one that would have slept, i heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept; she sighèd sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, that would not cease, but crièd still, in sucking at her breast. she was full weary of her watch, and grievèd with her child; she rockèd it and rated it, till that on her it smiled: then did she say, now have i found this proverb true to prove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. then took i paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write, in register for to remain, of such a worthy wight; as she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat, much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat. and provèd plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life, could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife: then kissèd she her little babe, and sware by god above, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. she said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright, until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might; when manhood shall be matchèd so that fear can take no place, then weary works make warriors each other to embrace, and leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout, that might before have lived in peace their time and nature out: then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. she said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt, that met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt; since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed, and force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed; so noble nature can well end the work she hath begun, and bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some: thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. i marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout, to see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about; some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can smoothly smile, and some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile; some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout, yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out: thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. the lover's lute sir thomas wyatt blame not my lute! for he must sound of this or that as liketh me; for lack of wit the lute is bound to give such tunes as pleaseth me; though my songs be somewhat strange, and speak such words as touch my change, blame not my lute! my lute, alas! doth not offend, though that perforce he must agree to sound such tunes as i intend to sing to them that heareth me; then though my songs be somewhat plain, and toucheth some that use to feign, blame not my lute! my lute and strings may not deny, but as i strike they must obey; break not them so wrongfully, but wreak thyself some other way; and though the songs which i indite do quit thy change with rightful spite, blame not my lute! spite asketh spite, and changing change, and falsed faith must needs be known; the faults so great, the case so strange; of right it must abroad be blown: then since that by thine own desert my songs do tell how true thou art, blame not my lute! blame but thyself that hast misdone, and well deserved to have blame; change thou thy way, so evil begone, and then my lute shall sound that same; but if till then my fingers play, by thy desert their wonted way, blame not my lute! farewell! unknown; for though thou break my strings in spite with great disdain, yet have i found out for thy sake, strings for to string my lute again: and if perchance this silly rhyme do make thee blush at any time, blame not my lute! the passionate shepherd to his love christopher marlowe come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield. there will we sit upon the rocks and see the shepherds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals. there will i make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies, a cap of flowers, and a kirtle embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. a gown made of the finest wool, which from our pretty lambs we pull, fair linèd slippers for the cold, with buckles of the purest gold. a belt of straw and ivy buds with coral clasps and amber studs: and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me and be my love. thy silver dishes for thy meat as precious as the gods do eat, shall on an ivory table be prepared each day for thee and me. 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. jolly good ale and old john still i cannot eat but little meat, my stomach is not good; but sure i think that i can drink with him that wears a hood. though i go bare, take ye no care, i nothing am 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 not desire, no frost nor snow, no wind, i trow, can hurt me if i wold; i am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd of jolly good ale and old. and tib, my wife, that as her life loveth well good ale to seek, full oft drinks she till ye may see the tears run down her cheek. then doth she trowl to me the bowl even as a maltworm should, and saith, 'sweetheart, i took my part of this jolly good ale and 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 scour'd bowls, or have them lustily troll'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. phillida and corydon nicholas breton in the merry month of may, in a morn by break of day, with a troop of damsels playing forth i went forsooth a-maying. when anon by a wood side, where, as may was in his pride, i espied, all alone, phillida and corydon. much ado there was, god wot! he would love, and she would not, she said, never man was true: he says none was false to you; he said he had lov'd her long; she says love should have no wrong, corydon would kiss her then; she says, maids must kiss no men, till they do for good and all, when she made the shepherd call all the heavens to witness truth, never lov'd a truer youth. then with many a pretty oath, yea and nay, faith and troth, such as silly shepherds use, when they will not love abuse; love, which had been long deluded, was with kisses sweet concluded; and phillida with garlands gay was made the lady of may. spring thomas nash spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! the palm and may make country houses gay, lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, and we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. the fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, in every street these tunes our ears do greet, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! spring! the sweet spring! my mind to me a kingdom is sir edward dyer my mind to me a kingdom is, such perfect joy therein i find, that it excels all other bliss that god or nature hath assigned: though much i want that most would have, yet still my mind forbids to crave. no princely port, nor wealthy store, nor force to win a victory; no wily wit to salve a sore, no shape to win a loving eye; to none of these i yield as thrall, for why, my mind despise them all. i see that plenty surfeits oft, and hasty climbers soonest fall; i see that such as are aloft, mishap doth threaten most of all; these get with toil, and keep with fear: such cares my mind can never bear. i press to bear no haughty sway; i wish no more than may suffice; i do no more than well i may, look what i want, my mind supplies; lo, thus i triumph like a king, my mind's content with any thing. i laugh not at another's loss, nor grudge not at another's gain; no worldly waves my mind can toss; i brook that is another's bane; i fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; i loathe not life, nor dread mine end. my wealth is health and perfect ease, and conscience clear my chief defence, i never seek by bribes to please, nor by desert to give offence; thus do i live, thus will i die; would all do so as well as i! death the leveller james shirley the glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things; there is no armour against fate; death lays his icy hand on kings: sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade. some men with swords may reap the field, and plant fresh laurels where they 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. the garlands wither on your brow; then boast no more your mighty deeds; upon death's purple altar now see where the victor-victim bleeds: your heads must come to the cold tomb; only the actions of the just smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. ye little birds that sit and sing thomas heywood ye little birds that sit and sing amidst the shady valleys, 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. o fly! make haste! see, see, she falls into a pretty slumber! sing round about her rosy bed that waking she may wonder: say to her, 'tis her lover true that sendeth love to you, to you! and when you hear her kind reply, return with pleasant warblings. pack clouds, away pack clouds, away, and welcome, day! with night we banish sorrow. sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft to give my love good-morrow! 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 good-morrow! to give my love good-morrow notes from them all i'll borrow. wake from thy nest, robin red-breast! sing, birds, in every furrow! and from each bill let music shrill give my fair love good-morrow! blackbird and thrush in every bush, stare, linnet, and cocksparrow, you pretty elves, among yourselves sing my fair love good-morrow! to give my love good-morrow! sing, birds, in every furrow! sleep beaumont and fletcher come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving lock me in delight awhile; let some pleasing dreams beguile all my fancies; that from thence i may feel an influence all my powers of care bereaving! though but a shadow, but a sliding, let me know some little joy! we that suffer long annoy are contented with a thought through an idle fancy wrought: o let my joys have some abiding! song to pan all ye woods, and trees, and bowers, all ye virtues and ye powers that inhabit in the lakes, in the pleasant springs or brakes, move your feet to our sound, whilst we greet, all this ground, with his honour and his name that defends our flocks from blame. he is great and he is just, he is ever good, and must thus be honoured. daffodillies, roses, pinks, and lovèd lilies, let us fling, whilst we sing, ever holy, ever holy, ever honoured, ever young! thus great pan is ever sung. aspatia's song lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew; maidens, willow branches bear; say, i died true. my love was false, but i was firm from my hour of birth. upon my buried body lie lightly, gentle earth! beauty clear and fair john fletcher beauty clear and fair, where the air rather like a perfume dwells; where the violet and the rose their blue veins and blush disclose, and come to honour nothing else: where to live near and planted there is to live, and still live new; where to gain a favour is more than light, perpetual bliss-- make me live by serving you! dear, again back recall to this light, a stranger to himself and all! both the wonder and the story shall be yours, and eke the glory; i am your servant, and your thrall. let the bells ring, and let the boys sing let the bells ring, and let the boys sing, the young lasses skip and play; let the cups go round, till round goes the ground, our learned old vicar will stay. let the pig turn merrily, merrily, ah! and let the fat goose swim; for verily, verily, verily, ah! our vicar this day shall be trim. the stewed cock shall crow, cock-a-loodle-loo, a loud cock-a-loodle shall he crow; the duck and the drake shall swim in a lake of onions and claret below. our wives shall be neat, to bring in our meat to thee our most noble adviser; our pains shall be great, and bottles shall sweat, and we ourselves will be wiser. we'll labour and smirk, we'll kiss and we'll drink, and tithes shall come thicker and thicker; we'll fall to our plough, and have children enow, and thou shalt be learned old vicar. weep no more weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, sorrow calls no time that's gone: violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain makes not fresh nor grow again. trim thy locks, look cheerfully; fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. joys as wingèd dreams fly fast, why should sadness longer last? grief is but a wound to woe; gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe. pan sing his praises that doth keep our flocks from harm, pan, the father of our sheep; and arm in arm tread we softly in a round, whilst the hollow neighbouring ground fills the music with her sound. pan, o great god pan, to thee thus do we sing! thou who keep'st us chaste and free as the young spring: ever be thy honour spoke, from that place the morn is broke, to that place day doth unyoke! god lyaeus god lyaeus, ever young, ever honour'd, ever sung, stain'd with blood of lusty grapes, in a thousand lusty shapes dance upon the mazer's brim, in the crimson liquor swim; from thy plenteous hand divine let a river run with wine: god of youth, let this day here enter neither care nor fear. a battle-song arm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in; keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. behold from yonder hill the foe appears; bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears! like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring; o view the wings of horse the meadows scouring! the vanguard marches bravely. hark, the drums! dub, dub! they meet, they meet, and now the battle comes: see how the arrows fly that darken all the sky! hark how the trumpets sound! hark how the hills rebound-- tara, tara, tara, tara, tara! hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in! the battle totters; now the wounds begin: o how they cry! o how they die! room for the valiant memnon, armed with thunder! see how he breaks the ranks asunder! they fly! they fly! eumenes has the chase, and brave polybius makes good his place: to the plains, to the woods, to the rocks, to the floods, they fly for succour. follow, follow, follow! hark how the soldiers hollow! hey, hey! brave diocles is dead, and all his soldiers fled; the battle's won, and lost, that many a life hath cost. my lady greensleeves anonymous alas! my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously; and i have lovèd you so long, delighting in your company. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! i bought thee petticoats of the best, the cloth so fine as fine as might be; i gave thee jewels for thy chest, and all this cost i spent on thee. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! thy smock of silk, both fair and white, with gold embroidered gorgeously; thy petticoat of sendal right: and these i bought thee gladly. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! greensleeves now farewell! adieu! god i pray to prosper thee! for i am still thy lover true: come once again and love me! greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! my true love sir philip sidney my true love hath my heart, and i have his, by just exchange one for another given: i hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; there never was a better bargain driven: my true love hath my heart, and i have his. his heart in me keeps him and me in one, my heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: he loves my heart, for once it was his own, i cherish his because in me it bides: my true love hath my heart, and i have his. dirge john webster call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, since o'er shady groves they hover, and with leaves and flowers do cover the friendless bodies of unburied men. call unto his funeral dole the ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, to rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, and (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; but keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, for with his nails he'll dig them up again. the shrouding hark! now everything is still, the screech-owl and the whistler shrill, call upon our dame aloud, and bid her quickly don her shroud! much you had of land and rent; your length in clay's now competent: a long war disturb'd your mind; here your perfect peace is sign'd. of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? sin their conception, their birth weeping, their life a general mist of error, their death a hideous storm of terror. strew your hair with powders sweet, don clean linen, bathe your feet, and--the foul fiend more to check-- a crucifix let bless your neck; 'tis now full tide 'tween night and day; end your groan and come away. content thomas dekker art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? o sweet content! art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? o punishment! dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd to add to golden numbers, golden numbers? o sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content! work apace, apace, apace, apace; honest labour bears a lovely face; then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? o sweet content! swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? o punishment! then he that patiently want's burden bears no burden bears, but is a king, a king! o sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content! work apace, apace, apace, apace; honest labour bears a lovely face; then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! troll the bowl cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, saint hugh be our good speed! ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, nor helps good hearts in need. troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, and here, kind mate, to thee! let's sing a dirge for saint hugh's soul, and down it merrily. down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, hey derry derry down-a-down. ho! well done, to let me come, ring compass, gentle joy! troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, and here, kind mate, to thee! let's sing a dirge for saint hugh's soul, and down it merrily. cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, saint hugh be our good speed! ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, nor helps good hearts in need. sir patrick spens anonymous the king sits in dunfermline toun, drinking the blude-red wine; 'oh whare will i get a gude sailor, to sail this ship o' mine?' then up and spake an eldern knight sat at the king's right knee; 'sir patrick spens is the best sailor that ever sail'd the sea.' the king has written a braid letter, and seal'd it wi' his hand, and sent it to sir patrick spens was walking on the strand. 'to noroway, to noroway, to noroway o'er the faem; the king's daughter to noroway, 'tis thou maun tak' her hame.' the first line that sir patrick read, a loud laugh laughed he; the neist line that sir patrick read, the tear blinded his ee. 'o wha is this has done this deed, and tauld the king o' me, to send us out at this time o' the year, to sail upon the sea?' 'be 't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet, our ship maun sail the faem; the king's daughter to noroway, 'tis we maun tak' her hame.' they hoisted their sails on monenday morn, wi' a' the speed they may; and they hae landed in noroway upon a wodensday. they hadna been a week, a week, in noroway but twae, when that the lords o' noroway began aloud to say-- 'ye scotisman spend a' our king's gowd, and a' our queenis fee.' 'ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud, sae loud's i hear ye lee! 'for i brought as much o' the white monie as gane my men and me, and a half-fou o' the gude red gowd, out owre the sea with me. 'mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a', our gude ship sails the morn.' 'o say na sae, my master dear, i fear a deadlie storm. 'i saw the new moon late yestreen, wi' the auld moon in her arm; and if we gang to sea, master, i fear we'll come to harm!' they hadna sail'd a league, a league, a league but barely three, when the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud and gurly grew the sea. the ankers brak, and the tap-masts lap, it was sic a deadlie storm; and the waves cam' owre the broken ship, till a' her sides were torn. 'o whare will i get a gude sailor will tak' the helm in hand, till i get up to the tall tap-mast, to see if i can spy land.' 'o here am i, a sailor gude, to tak' the helm in hand, till ye get up to the tall tap-mast, but i fear ye'll ne'er spy land.' he hadna gane a step, a step, a step but barely ane, when a bout flew out o' the gude ship's side, and the saut sea it cam' in. 'gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, anither o' the twine, and wap them into our gude ship's side, and letna the sea come in.' they fetch'd a wab o' the silken claith, anither o' the twine, and they wapp'd them into the gude ship's side, but aye the sea cam' in. o laith, laith were our scots lords' sons to weet their coal-black shoon, but lang ere a' the play was play'd, they wat their hats abune. and mony was the feather-bed that fluttered on the faem, and mony was the gude lord's son that never mair cam' hame. o lang, lang may the ladies sit, wi' their fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand. and lang, lang may the maidens sit, wi' the gowd kaims in their hair, a' waiting for their ain dear loves, for them they'll see nae mair. half owre, half owre to aberdour 'tis fifty fathom deep, and there lies gude sir patrick spens wi' the scots lords at his feet. the beggar's daughter of bednall-green part i it was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, he had a fair daughter of beauty most bright; and many a gallant brave suitor had she, for none was so comely as pretty bessee. and though she was of favour most faire, yet seeing she was but a poor beggar's heyre, of ancyent housekeepers despised was she, whose sons came as suitors to pretty bessee. wherefore in great sorrow fair bessy did say, good father, and mother, let me go away to seek out my fortune, whatever it be, this suite then they granted to pretty bessee. then bessy, that was of beauty so bright, all cladd in grey russet, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted she, who sighed and sobbed for pretty bessee. she went till she came to stratford-le-bow; then knew she not whither, nor which way to go: with tears she lamented her hard destinìe, so sad and so heavy was pretty bessee. she kept on her journey until it was day, and went unto rumford along the high way; where at the queen's arms entertained was she: so fair and well-favoured was pretty bessee. she had not been there a month to an end, but master and mistress and all was her friend: and every brave gallant, that once did her see, was straightway enamour'd of pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daily her love was extolled; her beauty was blazed in every degree; so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy she showed herself courteous, and modestly coy; and at her commandment still would they be; so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. four suitors at once unto her did go; they craved her favour, but still she said no; i would not wish gentles to marry with me; yet ever they honoured pretty bessee. the first of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguised in the night: the second a gentleman of good degree, who wooed and sued for pretty bessee. a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, he was the third suitor, and proper withal: her master's own son the fourth man must be, who swore he would die for pretty bessee. and, if thou wilt marry with me, quoth the knight, i'll make thee a lady with joy and delight; my heart's so enthralled by thy beautie, that soon i shall die for pretty bessee. the gentleman said, come, marry with me, as fine as a lady my bessy shall be: my life is distressed: o hear me, quoth he; and grant me thy love, my pretty bessee. let me be thy husband, the merchant did say, thou shalt live in london both gallant and gay; my ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee. then bessy she sighed, and thus she did say, my father and mother i mean to obey; first get their good will, and be faithful to me, and then you shall marry your pretty bessee. to every one this answer she made, wherefore unto her they joyfully said, this thing to fulfil we all do agree; but where dwells thy father, my pretty bessee? my father, she said, is soon to be seen: the silly blind beggar of bednall-green, that daily sits begging for charitìe, he is the good father of pretty bessee. his marks and his tokens are known very well; he always is led with a dog and a bell: a silly old man, god knoweth, is he, yet he is the father of pretty bessee. nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for me. nor, quoth the innholder, my wife thou shalt be: i loth, said the gentle, a beggar's degree, and therefore adieu, my pretty bessee. why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, i weigh not true love by the weight of the purse, and beauty is beauty in every degree; then welcome unto me, my pretty bessee. with thee to thy father forthwith i will go. nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be so; a poor beggar's daughter no lady shall be, then take thy adieu of pretty bessee. but soon after this, by break of the day the knight had from rumford stole bessy away. the young men of rumford, as thick as might be, rode after to fetch again pretty bessee. as swift as the wind to ryde they were seen, until they came near unto bednall-green; and as the knight lighted most courteouslìe, they all fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescue came speedily over the plain, or else the young knight for his love had been slain. this fray being ended, then straightway he see his kinsmen come railing at pretty bessee. then spake the blind beggar, although i be poor, yet rail not against my child at my own door: though she be not decked in velvet and pearl, yet will i drop angels with you for my girl. and then, if my gold may better her birth, and equal the gold that you lay on the earth, then neither rail nor grudge you to see the blind beggar's daughter a lady to be. but first you shall promise, and have it well known, the gold that you drop shall all be your own. with that they replied, contented be we. then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty bessee. with that an angel he cast on the ground, and dropped in angels full three thousand pound; and oftentimes it was proved most plain, for the gentlemen's one the beggar dropt twain: so that the place, wherein they did sit, with gold it was covered every whit. the gentlemen then having dropt all their store, said, now, beggar, hold, for we have no more, thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright. then marry, quoth he, my girl to this knight; and here, added he, i will now throw you down a hundred pounds more to buy her a gown. the gentlemen all, that this treasure had seen, admired the beggar of bednall-green: and all those, that were her suitors before, their flesh for very anger they tore. thus was fair bessy matched to the knight, and then made a lady in others' despite: a fairer lady there never was seen, than the blind beggar's daughter of bednall-green. but of their sumptuous marriage and feast, what brave lords and knights thither were prest, the second fitt shall set forth to your sight with marvellous pleasure and wished delight. part ii of a blind beggar's daughter most bright, that late was betrothed unto a young knight; all the discourse thereof you did see: but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. within a gorgeous palace most brave, adorned with all the cost they could have, this wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe, and all for the credit of pretty bessee. all kind of dainties and delicates sweet were bought for the banquet, as it was most meet; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. this marriage through england was spread by report, so that a great number thereto did resort of nobles and gentles in every degree; and all for the fame of pretty bessee. to church then went this gallant young knight; his bride followed after, an angel most bright, with troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen, as went with sweet bessy of bednall-green. this marriage being solemnized then, with musick performed by the skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sat down at that tide, each one admiring the beautiful bride. now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talk, and to reason a number begun: they talked of the blind beggar's daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spake the nobles, 'much marvel have we, this jolly blind beggar we cannot here see.' my lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, he is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. 'the praise of a woman in question to bring before her own face, were a flattering thing, but we think thy father's baseness,' quoth they, 'might by thy beauty be clean put away.' they had no sooner these pleasant words spoke, but in comes the beggar clad in a silk cloak; a fair velvet cap, and a feather had he, and now a musician forsooth he would be. he had a dainty lute under his arm, he touched the strings, which made such a charm, says, please you to hear any musick of me, i'll sing you a song of pretty bessee. with that his lute he twanged straightway, and thereon began most sweetly to play; and after that lessons were played two or three, he strain'd out this song most delicatelìe. 'a poor beggar's daughter did dwell on a green, who for her fairness might well be a queen: a blithe bonny lass, and a dainty was she, and many one called her pretty bessee. 'her father he had no goods, nor no land, but begged for a penny all day with his hand; and yet to her marriage he gave thousands three, and still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee. 'and if any one here her birth do disdain, her father is ready, with might and with main, to prove she is come of noble degree: therefore never flout at pretty bessee.' with that the lords and the company round with hearty laughter were ready to swound; at last said the lords, full well we may see, the bride and the beggar's beholden to thee. on this the bride all blushing did rise, the pearly drops standing within her fair eyes, o pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth she, that through blind affection thus doteth on me. if this be thy father, the nobles did say, well may he be proud of this happy day; yet by his countenance well may we see, his birth and his fortune did never agree: 'and therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray (and look that the truth thou to us do say) thy birth and thy parentage, what it may be; for the love that thou bearest to pretty bessee.' 'then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, one song more to sing, and then i have done; and if that it may not win good report, then do not give me a _groat_ for my sport. 'sir simon de montfort my subject shall be; once chief of all the great barons was he, yet fortune so cruel this lord did abase, now lost and forgotten are he and his race. 'when the barons in arms did king henry oppose, sir simon de montfort their leader they chose; a leader of courage undaunted was he, and oft-times he made their enemies flee. 'at length in the battle on evesham plain, the barons were routed, and montfort was slain; most fatal that battle did prove unto thee, though thou wast not born then, my pretty bessee! 'along with the nobles, that fell at that tide, his eldest son henry, who fought by his side, was felled by a blow he received in the fight; a blow that deprived him for ever of sight. 'among the dead bodies all lifeless he lay, till evening drew on of the following day, when by a young lady discovered was he; and this was thy mother, my pretty bessee! 'a baron's fair daughter stept forth in the night to search for her father, who fell in the fight, and seeing young montfort, where gasping he lay, was moved with pity, and brought him away. 'in secret she nurst him, and swaged his pain, while he through the realm was believed to be slain: at length his fair bride she consented to be, and made him glad father of pretty bessee. 'and now, lest our foes our lives should betray, we clothed ourselves in beggars' array; her jewels she sold, and hither came we: all our comfort and care was our pretty bessee. 'and here have we lived in fortune's despite, though poor, yet contented with humble delight: full forty winters thus have i been a silly blind beggar of bednall-green. 'and here, noble lords, is ended the song of one, that once to your own rank did belong: and thus have you learned a secret from me, that ne'er had been known, but for pretty bessee.' now when the fair company every one, had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown, they all were amazed, as well they might be, both at the blind beggar, and pretty bessee. with that the fair bride they all did embrace, saying, sure thou art come of an honourable race thy father likewise is of noble degree, and thou art well worthy a lady to be. thus was the feast ended with joy and delight, a bridegroom most happy then was the young knight, in joy and felicitie long lived he, all with his fair lady, the pretty bessee. the babes in the wood now ponder well, you parents dear, these words, which i shall write; a doleful story you shall hear, in time brought forth to light. a gentleman of good account in norfolk dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate. sore sick he was, and like to die, no help his life could save; his wife by him as sick did lie, and both possest one grave. no love between these two was lost, each was to other kind, in love they liv'd, in love they died, and left two babes behind: the one a fine and pretty boy, not passing three yeares old; the other a girl more young than he, and fram'd in beauty's mould. the father left his little son, as plainly doth appeare, when he to perfect age should come, three hundred pounds a yeare. and to his little daughter jane five hundred pounds in gold, to be paid down on marriage-day, which might not be controll'd: but if the children came to die, ere they to age should come, their uncle should possesse their wealth; for so the will did run. now, brother, said the dying man, look to my children dear; be good unto my boy and girl, no friends else have they here: to god and you i recommend my children dear this daye; but little while be sure we have within this world to stay. you must be father and mother both, and uncle all in one; god knows what will become of them, when i am dead and gone. with that bespake their mother dear, o brother kind, quoth she, you are the man must bring our babes to wealth or miserie: and if you keep them carefully, then god will you reward; but if you otherwise should deal, god will your deeds regard. with lips as cold as any stone, they kist their children small: god bless you both, my children dear; with that the tears did fall. these speeches then their brother spake to this sick couple there, the keeping of your little ones, sweet sister, do not feare; god never prosper me nor mine, nor aught else that i have, if i do wrong your children dear, when you are laid in grave. the parents being dead and gone, the children home he takes, and brings them straite unto his house, where much of them he makes. he had not kept these pretty babes a twelvemonth and a day, but, for their wealth, he did devise to make them both away. he bargain'd with two ruffians strong, which were of furious mood, that they should take these children young, and slay them in a wood. he told his wife an artful tale, he would the children send to be brought up in fair londòn, with one that was his friend. away then went those pretty babes, rejoycing at that tide, rejoycing with a merry mind, they should on cock-horse ride. they prate and prattle pleasantly, as they rode on the way, to those that should their butchers be, and work their lives' decay: so that the pretty speech they had, made murder's heart relent; and they that undertook the deed, full sore did now repent. yet one of them, more hard of heart, did vow to do his charge, because the wretch, that hired him, had paid him very large. the other won't agree thereto, so here they fall to strife; with one another they did fight, about the children's life: and he that was of mildest mood, did slay the other there, within an unfrequented wood; the babes did quake for fear! he took the children by the hand, tears standing in their eye, and bade them straightway follow him, and look they did not cry: and two long miles he led them on, while they for food complain: stay here, quoth he, i'll bring you bread, when i come back again. the pretty babes, with hand in hand, went wandering up and down; but never more could see the man approaching from the town; their pretty lips with black-berries, were all besmear'd and dyed, and when they saw the darksome night, they sat them down and cryed. thus wandered these poor innocents, till death did end their grief, in one another's arms they died, as wanting due relief: no burial this pretty pair of any man receives, till robin-redbreast piously did cover them with leaves. and now the heavy wrath of god upon their uncle fell; yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, his conscience felt an hell: his barns were fir'd, his goods consum'd, his lands were barren made; his cattle died within the field, and nothing with him stayd. and in a voyage to portugal two of his sons did die; and to conclude, himself was brought to want and misery: he pawn'd and mortgaged all his land ere seven years came about. and now at length this wicked act did by this means come out: the fellow, that did take in hand these children for to kill, was for a robbery judg'd to die, such was god's blessed will: who did confess the very truth, as here hath been display'd: their uncle having died in gaol, where he for debt was laid. you that executors be made, and overseers eke, of children that be fatherless, and infants mild and meek; take you example by this thing, and yield to each his right, lest god with such like misery your wicked minds requite. robin hood and the pinder of wakefield in wakefield there lives a jolly pinder, in wakefield, all on a green; 'there is neither knight nor squire,' said the pinder, 'nor baron that is so bold, dare make a trespasse to the town of wakefield, but his pledge goes to the pinfold.' all this beheard three witty young men, 'twas robin hood, scarlet, and john; with that they spied the jolly pinder, as he sate under a thorn. 'now turn again, turn again,' said the pinder, 'for a wrong way have you gone; for you have forsaken the king his highway, and made a path over the corn.' 'oh, that were great shame,' said jolly robin, 'we being three, and thou but one': the pinder leapt back then thirty good foot, 'twas thirty good foot and one. he leaned his back fast unto a thorn, and his foot unto a stone, and there he fought a long summer's day, a summer's day so long, till that their swords, on their broad bucklers, were broken fast unto their hands. * * * * * 'hold thy hand, hold thy hand,' said robin hood, 'and my merry men every one; for this is one of the best pinders that ever i try'd with sword. 'and wilt thou forsake thy pinder his craft, and live in the green wood with me?' * * * * * 'at michaelmas next my covenant comes out, when every man gathers his fee; i'le take my blew blade all in my hand, and plod to the green wood with thee.' 'hast thou either meat or drink,' said robin hood, 'for my merry men and me?' * * * * * 'i have both bread and beef,' said the pinder, 'and good ale of the best'; 'and that is meat good enough,' said robin hood, 'for such unbidden guest. 'o wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft and go to the green wood with me? thou shalt have a livery twice in the year, the one green, the other brown shall be.' 'if michaelmas day were once come and gone, and my master had paid me my fee, then would i set as little by him as my master doth set by me.' the nut-brown maid _he._ be it right or wrong, these men among on women do complain; affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain, to love them well; for never a deal they love a man again: for let a man do what he can, their favour to attain, yet, if a new do them pursue, their first true lover then laboureth for nought; for from their thought he is a banished man. _she._ i say not nay, but that all day it is both written and said, that woman's faith is, as who saith, all utterly decayed; but, nevertheless, right good witnèss in this case might be laid, that they love true, and continùe: record the nut-brown maid: which, when her love came, her to prove, to her to make his moan, would not depart; for in her heart she loved but him alone. _he._ then between us let us discuss what was all the manner between them two: we will also tell all the pain, and fear, that she was in. now i begin, so that ye me answèr; wherefore, all ye, that present be, i pray you give an ear. 'i am the knight; i come by night, as secret as i can; saying, alas! thus standeth the case, i am a banished man.' _she._ and i your will for to fulfil in this will not refuse; trustying to show, in words few, that men have an ill use (to their own shame) women to blame, and causeless them accuse; therefore to you i answer now, all women to excuse,-- mine own heart dear, with you what cheer i pray you, tell anon; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ it standeth so; a deed is done whereof great harm shall grow: my destiny is for to die a shameful death, i trow; or else to flee. the one must be; none other way i know, but to withdraw as an outlàw, and take me to my bow. wherefore adieu, my own heart true! none other rede i can: for i must to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ o lord, what is this worldis bliss, that changeth as the moon! my summer's day in lusty may is derked before the noon. i hear you say, farewell: nay, nay, we dèpart not so soon, why say ye so? whither will ye go? alas! what have you done? all my welfàre to sorrow and care should change, if you were gone; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ i can believe, it shall you grieve, and somewhat you distrain; but, afterward, your paines hard within a day or twain shall soon aslake; and ye shall take comfort to you again. why should ye ought? for to make thought, your labour were in vain. and thus i do; and pray you to, as hartely, as i can; for i must to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ now, sith that ye have showed to me the secret of your mind, i shall be plain to you again, like as ye shall me find. sith it is so, that ye will go, i will not live behind; shall never be said, the nut-brown maid was to her love unkind: make you ready, for so am i, although it were anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind, i love but you alone. _he._ yet i you rede to take good heed what men will think, and say: of young and old it shall be told, that ye be gone away, your wanton will for to fulfil, in green-wood you to play; and that ye might for your delight no longer make delay. rather than ye should thus for me be called an ill womàn, yet would i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ though it be sung of old and young, that i should be to blame, theirs be the charge, that speak so large in hurting of my name: for i will prove that faithful love it is devoid of shame; in your distress, and heaviness, to part with you, the same: and sure all those, that do not so, true lovers are they none; for, in my mind, of all mankind, i love but you alone. _he._ i counsel you, remember how, it is no maiden's law, nothing to doubt, but to run out to wood with an outlàw: for ye must there in your hand bear a bow, ready to draw, and, as a thief, thus must you live, ever in dread and awe; whereby to you great harm might grow: yet had i liever than, that i did to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ i think not nay, but as ye say, it is no maiden's lore: but love may make me for your sake, as i have said before, to come on foot, to hunt, and shoot to get us meat in store; for so that i your company may have, i ask no more: from which to part, it maketh my heart as cold as any stone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ for an outlàw this is the law, that men him take and bind; without pitie, hangèd to be, and waver with the wind. if i had need (as god forbid!) what socours could ye find? forsooth, i trow, ye and your bow for fear would draw behind: and no marvèl; for little avail were in your counsel then: wherefore i will to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ right well know ye that woman be but feeble for to fight; no womanhede it is indeed to be bold as a knight: yet, in such fear if that ye were with enemies day or night, i would withstand, with bow in hand, to grieve them as i might, and you to save; as women have from death men many one; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ yet take good heed; for ever i dread that ye could not sustain the thorny ways, the deep vallèys, the snow, the frost, the rain, the cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, we must lodge on the plain; and, us above, no other roof but a brake bush, or twain: which soon should grieve you, i believe, and ye would gladly than that i had to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ sith i have here been partynère with you of joy and bliss, i must alsò part of your woe endure, as reason is: yet am i sure of one pleasùre; and shortly, it is this: that, where ye be, me seemeth, pardè, i could not fare amiss. without more speech, i you beseech that we were soon agone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ if you go thyder, ye must consider, when ye have lust to dine, there shall no meat be for you gete, neither beer, ale, nor wine; no shétes clean, to lie between, made of thread and twine; none other house but leaves and boughs, to cover your head and mine, lo, mine heart sweet, this evil diéte should make you pale and wan; wherefore i will to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ among the wild deer, such an archère as men say that ye be, ne may not fail of good vitayle, where is so great plentè: and water clear of the rivère shall be full sweet to me; with which in hele i shall right wele endure, as ye shall see; and, or we go, a bed or two i can provide anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ lo yet, before, ye must do more, if ye will go with me: as cut your hair up by your ear, your kirtle by the knee; with bow in hand, for to withstand your enemies, if need be: and this same night before daylight, to woodward will i flee. if that ye will all this fulfil, do it shortly as ye can: else will i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ i shall as now do more for you than 'longeth to womanhede; to shote my hair, a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need. o my sweet mother, before all other for you i have most dread! but now, adieu! i must ensue, where fortune doth me lead. all this make ye: now let us flee; the day cometh fast upon; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, and i shall tell you why,-- your appetite is to be light of love, i well espy: for, like as ye have said to me, in likewise hardily ye would answere whosoever it were, in way of company. it is said of old, soon hot, soon cold; and so is a womàn. wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man. _she._ if ye take heed, it is no need such words to say by me; for oft ye prayed, and long assayed, or i loved you, pardè: and though that i of ancestry a baron's daughter be, yet have you proved how i you loved, a squire of low degree; and ever shall, whatso befall; to die therefore anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ a baron's child to be beguil'd! it were a cursèd deed; to be felàwe with an outlàw! almighty god forbid! yet better were the poor squyère alone to forest yede, than ye shall say another day, that, by my cursèd rede, ye were betrayed: wherefore, good maid, the best rede that i can, is, that i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ whatever befall, i never shall of this thing be upbraid: but if ye go, and leave me so, then have ye me betrayed. remember you well, how that ye deal; for, if ye, as ye said, be so unkind, to leave behind, your love, the nut-brown maid, trust me truly, that i shall die soon after ye be gone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ if that ye went, ye should repent; for in the forest now i have purvayed me of a maid, whom i love more than you; another more fair than ever ye were, i dare it well avow; and of you both each should be wroth with other, as i trow: it were mine ease to live in peace; so will i, if i can; wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man. _she._ though in the wood i understood ye had a paramour, all this may nought remove my thought, but that i will be yours: and she shall find me soft and kind, and courteous every hour; glad to fulfil all that she will command me to my power: for had ye, lo, an hundred mo, yet would i be that one, for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ mine own dear love, i see the prove that ye be kind and true; of maid, and wife, in all my life, the best that ever i knew. be merry and glad, be no more sad, the case is changèd new; for it were ruth, that, for your truth, ye should have cause to rue. be not dismayed; whatsoever i said to you when i began; i will not to the green-wood go; i am no banished man. _she._ these tidings be more glad to me, than to be made a queen, if i were sure they should endure; but it is often seen, when men will break promise, they speak the wordis on the spleen. ye shape some wile me to beguile, and steal from me, i ween: then were the case worse than it was, and i more wobegone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ ye shall not need further to dread; i will not disparàge you (god defend), sith ye descend of so great lineàge. now understand; to westmoreland, which is my heritage, i will you bring; and with a ring, by way of marriàge i will you take, and lady make, as shortly as i can. thus have you won an erle's son, and not a banished man. _here may ye see, that woman be in love, meek, kind, and stable: let never man reprove them than, or call them variable; but rather pray god that we may to them be comfortable; which sometimes proveth such, as he loveth, if they be charitable. for sith men would that women should be meek to them each one; much more ought they to god obey, and serve but him alone._ sir hugh of lincoln four and twenty bonny boys war playing at the ba'; then up and started sweet sir hugh, the flower amang them a'. he hit the ba' a kick wi's fit, and kept it wi' his knee, that up into the jew's window he gart the bonny ba' flee. 'cast doun the ba' to me, fair maid, cast doun the ba' to me'; 'o ne'er a bit o' the ba' ye get till ye cum up to me.' 'cum up, sweet hugh, cum up, dear hugh, cum up and get the ba''; 'i canna cum, i darna cum, without my playferes twa.' 'cum up, sweet hugh, cum up, dear hugh, cum up and play wi' me'; 'i canna cum, i darna cum, without my playferes three.' she's gane into the jew's garden, where the grass grew lang and green; she pow'd an apple red and white, to wyle the young thing in. she wyl'd him into ae chamber, she wyl'd him into twa; she wyl'd him to her ain chamber, the fairest o' them a'. she laid him on a dressing-board where she did sometimes dine; she put a penknife in his heart and dressed him like a swine. then out and cam the thick, thick blude, then out and cam the thin; then out and cam the bonny heart's blude, where a' the life lay in. she row'd him in a cake of lead, bad him lie still and sleep; she cast him into the jew's draw-well, was fifty fadom deep. she's tane her mantle about her head, her pike-staff in her hand; and prayed heaven to be her guide unto some uncouth land. his mither she cam to the jew's castle, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' she cam into the jew's garden, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' she cam unto the jew's draw-well, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' 'how can i speak, how dare i speak, how can i speak to thee? the jew's penknife sticks in my heart, i canna speak to thee. 'gang hame, gang hame, o mither dear, and shape my winding-sheet, and at the birks of mirryland town there you and i shall meet.' when bells war rung and mass was sung, and a' men bound for bed, every mither had her son, but sweet sir hugh was dead. the gypsy countess there come seven gypsies on a day, oh, but they sang bonny, o! and they sang so sweet, and they sang so clear, down cam the earl's ladie, o. they gave to her the nutmeg, and they gave to her the ginger; but she gave to them a far better thing, the seven gold rings off her fingers. when the earl he did come home, enquiring for his ladie, one of the servants made this reply, 'she's awa with the gypsie laddie.' 'come saddle for me the brown,' he said, 'for the black was ne'er so speedy, and i will travel night and day till i find out my ladie.' 'will you come home, my dear?' he said, 'oh will you come home, my honey? and by the point of my broad sword, a hand i'll ne'er lay on you.' 'last night i lay on a good feather-bed, and my own wedded lord beside me, and to-night i'll lie in the ash-corner, with the gypsies all around me. 'they took off my high-heeled shoes, that were made of spanish leather, and i have put on coarse lowland brogues, to trip it o'er the heather.' 'the earl of cashan is lying sick; not one hair i'm sorry; i'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips than all his gold and his money.' there were three ladies there were three ladies play'd at the ba', with a hey, hey, an' a lilly gay. bye cam three lords an' woo'd them a', whan the roses smelled sae sweetly. the first o' them was clad in yellow: 'o fair may, will ye be my marrow?' whan the roses smelled sae sweetly. the niest o' them was clad i' ried: o fair may, will ye be my bride?' the thrid o' them was clad i' green: he said, 'o fair may, will ye be my queen?' the heir of linne part i lithe and listen, gentlemen, to sing a song i will begin: it is of a lord of faire scotlànd, which was the unthrifty heir of linne. his father was a right good lord, his mother a lady of high degree; but they, alas! were dead, him froe, and he lov'd keeping companie. to spend the day with merry cheer, to drinke and revell every night, to card and dice from eve to morne, it was, i ween, his heart's delight. to ride, to run, to rant, to roar, to alwaye spend and never spare, i wot, an' it were the king himself, of gold and fee he mote be bare. so fares the unthrifty lord of linne till all his gold is gone and spent; and he maun sell his lands so broad, his house, and lands, and all his rent. his father had a keen stewàrde, and john o' the scales was called he: but john is become a gentel-man, and john has got both gold and fee. says, welcome, welcome, lord of linne, let nought disturb thy merry cheer; if thou wilt sell thy lands soe broad, good store of gold i'll give thee here. my gold is gone, my money is spent; my land now take it unto thee: give me the gold, good john o' the scales, and thine for aye my land shall be. then john he did him to record draw, and john he cast him a gods-pennie; but for every pound that john agreed, the land, i wis, was well worth three. he told him the gold upon the bord, he was right glad his land to win: the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now i'll be the lord of linne. thus he hath sold his land so broad, both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, all but a poor and lonesome lodge, that stood far off in a lonely glen. for so he to his father hight. my son, when i am gone, said he, then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, and thou wilt spend thy gold so free: but swear me now upon the roode, that lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; for when all the world doth frown on thee, thou there shalt find a faithful friend. the heir of linne is full of gold: and come with me, my friends, said he, let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, and he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. they ranted, drank, and merry made, till all his gold it waxed thin; and then his friends they slunk away; they left the unthrifty heir of linne. he had never a penny left in his purse, never a penny left but three, and one was brass, another was lead, and another it was white monèy. now well-aday, said the heir of linne, now well-aday, and woe is me, for when i was the lord of linne, i never wanted gold nor fee. but many a trusty friend have i, and why should i feel dole or care? i'll borrow of them all by turns, so need i not be never bare. but one, i wis, was not at home; another had payd his gold away; another call'd him thriftless loon, and bade him sharply wend his way. now well-aday, said the heir of linne, now well-aday, and woe is me! for when i had my lands so broad, on me they liv'd right merrilee. to beg my bread from door to door i wis, it were a burning shame: to rob and steal it were a sin: to work my limbs i cannot frame. now i'll away to that lonesome lodge, for there my father bade me wend; when all the world should frown on me, i there shold find a trusty friend. part ii away then hied the heir of linne o'er hill and holt and moor and fen, untill he came to the lonesome lodge, that stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. he looked up, he looked down, in hope some comfort for to win: but bare and lothly were the walls. here's sorry cheer, quo' the heir of linne. the little window dim and dark was hung with ivy, brere, and yew; no shimmering sun here ever shone; no wholesome breeze here ever blew. nor chair, nor table he mote spy, no cheerful hearth, no welcome bed, nought save a rope with a running noose, that dangling hung up o'er his head. and over it in broad lettèrs, these words were written so plain to see: 'ah! graceless wretch, hast spent thine all, and brought thyself to penurìe? 'and this my boding mind misgave i therefore left this trusty friend: let it now shield thy foule disgrace, and all thy shame and sorrows end.' sorely shent wi' this rebuke, sorely shent was the heir of linne; his heart, i wis, was near to burst with guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. never a word spake the heir of linne, never a word he spake but three: 'this is a trusty friend indeed, and is right welcome unto me.' then round his neck the cord he drew, and sprang aloft with his bodìe: when lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, and to the ground came tumbling he. astonished lay the heir of linne, nor knewe if he were live or dead: at length he looked, and saw a bill, and in it a key of gold so redd. he took the bill, and lookt it on, strait good comfort found he there: it told him of a hole in the wall, in which there stood three chests in-fere. two were full of the beaten gold, the third was full of white monèy; and over them in broad lettèrs these words were written so plain to see: 'once more, my son, i set thee clear; amend thy life and follies past; for but thou amend thee of thy life, that rope must be thy end at last.' 'and let it be,' said the heir of linne; 'and let it be, but if i amend: for here i will make mine avow, this read shall guide me to the end.' away then went with a merry cheer, away then went the heir of linne; i wis, he neither ceas'd nor stayed, till john o' the scales' house he did win. and when he came to john o' the scales, up at the window then looked he: there sate three lords upon a row, were drinking of the wine so free. and john himself sate at the bord-head, because now lord of linne was he. i pray thee, he said, good john o' the scales, one forty pence for to lend me. away, away, thou thriftless loone; away, away, this may not be: for a curse upon my head he said, if ever i trust thee one pennìe. then bespake the heir of linne, to john o' the scales' wife then spake he: madame, some alms on me bestow, i pray for sweet saint charitìe. away, away, thou thriftless loone, i swear thou gettest no alms of me; for if we shold hang any losel here, the first we would begin with thee. then bespake a good fellòwe, which sat at john o' the scales his bord; sayd, turn again, thou heir of linne; some time thou wast a well good lord: some time a good fellow thou hast been, and sparedst not thy gold and fee: therefore i'll lend thee forty pence, and other forty if need be. and ever, i pray thee, john o' the scales, to let him sit in thy companie: for well i wot thou hadst his land, and a good bargain it was to thee. up then spake him john o' the scales, all hot he answered him againe: now a curse upon my head, he said, but i did lose by that bargàine. and here i proffer thee, heir of linne, before these lords so fair and free, thou shalt have it back again better cheap, by a hundred markes, than i had it of thee. i draw you to record, lords, he said. with that he cast him a god's pennie: now by my fay, sayd the heir of linne, and here, good john, is thy monèy. and he pull'd forth three bags of gold, and layd them down upon the board: all woebegone was john o' the scales, soe shent he could say never a word. he told him forth the good red gold, he told it forth with mickle dinne, the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now i'm again the lord of linne. sayes, have thou here, thou good fellòwe, forty pence thou didst lend me: now i am again the lord of linne, and forty pounds i will give thee. i'll make thee keeper of my forest, both of the wild deere and the tame; for unless i reward thy bounteous heart, i wis, good fellowe, i were to blame. now well-aday! sayth john o' the scales: now well-aday! and woe is my life! yesterday i was lady of linne, now i'm but john o' the scales his wife. now fare thee well, said the heir of linne; farewell now, john o' the scales, said he. a curse light on me, if ever again i bring my lands in jeopardy. the old and young courtier an old song made by an aged old pate, of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate, that kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, and an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; like an old courtier of the queen's and the queen's old courtier. with an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; they every quarter paid their old servants their wages, and never knew what belong'd to coachman, footmen, nor pages, but kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; like an old courtier ... with an old study fill'd full of learned old books, with an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks. with an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, and an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks: like an old courtier ... with an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns and bows, with old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, and an old frize coat to cover his worship's trunk hose, and a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; like an old courtier ... with a good old fashion, when christmasse was come, to call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, with good chear enough to furnish every old room, and old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb, like an old courtier ... with an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, that never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds, who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, and when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; like an old courtier ... but to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind, to be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: but in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd; like a young courtier of the king's and the king's young courtier. like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, and takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land, and gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; like a young courtier ... with a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, who never knew what belong'd to good house-keeping, or care, who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air, and seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair; like a young courtier ... with a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good, with a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, and a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood; like a young courtier ... with a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays, and a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, with a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, and a new french cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys; like a young courtier ... with a new fashion, when christmas is drawing on, on a new journey to london straight we all must begone, and leave none to keep house, but our new porter john, who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; like a young courtier ... with a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat, with a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, with a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat; like a young courtier ... with new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold, for which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; and this is the course most of our new gallants hold, which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold, among the young courtiers of the king, among the king's young courtiers. the winning of cales long the proud spaniards had vaunted to conquer us, threatning our country with fyer and sword; often preparing their navy most sumptuous with as great plenty as spain could afford. dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums; tantara, tantara, the englishman comes. to the seas presentlye went our lord admiral, with knights couragious and captains full good; the brave earl of essex, a prosperous general, with him prepared to pass the salt flood. at plymouth speedilye, took they ship valiantlye, braver ships never were seen under sayle, with their fair colours spread, and streamers o'er their head. now bragging spaniards, take heed of your tayle. unto cales cunninglye, came we most speedilye, where the kinges navy securelye did ryde; being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks, ere any spaniards our coming descryde. great was the crying, the running and ryding, which at that season was made in that place; the beacons were fyred, as need then required; to hyde their great treasure they had little space. there you might see their ships, how they were fyred fast, and how their men drowned themselves in the sea; there you might hear them cry, wayle and weep piteously, when they saw no shift to 'scape thence away. the great st. phillip, the pryde of the spaniards, was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea; but the st. andrew, and eke the st. matthew, wee took in fight manfullye and brought away. the earl of essex, most valiant and hardye, with horsemen and footmen march'd up to the town; the spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed, did fly for their savegard, and durst not come down. now, quoth the noble earl, courage my soldiers all, fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have; and be well rewarded all from the great to the small; but look that the women and children you save. the spaniards at that sight, thinking it vain to fight, hung upp flags of truce and yielded the towne; wee marched in presentlye, decking the walls on hye, with english colours which purchas'd renowne. entering the houses then, of the most richest men, for gold and treasure we searched eche day; in some places we did find, pyes baking left behind, meate at fire rosting, and folkes run away. full of rich merchandize, every shop catch'd our eyes, damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre: which soldiers mèasur'd out by the length of their swords; of all commodities eche had a share. thus cales was taken, and our brave general march'd to the market-place, where he did stand: there many prisoners fell to our several shares, many crav'd mercye, and mercye they fannd. when our brave general saw they delayed all, and would not ransome their towne as they said, with their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds, their joint-stools and tables a fire we made; and when the town burned all in a flame, with tara, tantara, away we all came. the bailiff's daughter of islington there was a youth, a well-beloved youth, and he was a squire's son; he loved the bayliffe's daughter dear, that lived in islington. yet she was coy and would not believe that he did love her so, no nor at any time would she any countenance to him show. but when his friends did understand his fond and foolish mind, they sent him up to faire london an apprentice for to bind. and when he had been seven long years, and never his love could see: many a tear have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of me. then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and play, all but the bayliffe's daughter dear; she secretly stole away. she pulled off her gown of green, and put on ragged attire, and to faire london she would go her true love to enquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and dry, she sat her down upon a green bank, and her true love came riding bye. she started up, with a colour so redd, catching hold of his bridle-reine; one penny, one penny, kind sir, she said, will ease me of much pain. before i give you one penny, sweetheart, pray tell me where you were born. at islington, kind sir, said she, where i have had many a scorn. i prythe, sweetheart, then tell to me, o tell me, whether you know, the bayliffe's daughter of islington. she is dead, sir, long ago. if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will unto some far country, where no man shall me know. o stay, o stay, thou goodly youth, she standeth by thy side; she is here alive, she is not dead, and ready to be thy bride. o farewell grief, and welcome joy, ten thousand times therefore; for now i have found mine own true love, whom i thought i should never see more. chevy chase part i god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safeties all! a woeful hunting once there did in chevy chase befall. to drive the deer, with hound and horn, earl percy took the way; the child may rue, that is unborn, the hunting of that day! the stout earl of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods, three summer days to take; the chiefest harts in chevy chase, to kill and bear away. these tidings to earl douglas came in scotland, where he lay. who sent earl percy present word, he would prevent his sport. the english earl, not fearing that, did to the woods resort with fifteen hundred bowmen bold, all chosen men of might, who knew full well, in time of need, to aim their shafts aright. the gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, to chase the fallow deer. on monday, they began to hunt, ere daylight did appear; and long before high noon they had a hundred fat bucks slain: then, having dined, the drovers went to rouse the deer again. the hounds ran swiftly through the woods, the nimble deer to take, that with their cries the hills and dales an echo shrill did make. lord percy, to the quarry went, to view the slaughtered deer, quoth he, 'earl douglas promiséd this day to meet me here: 'but if i thought he would not come, no longer would i stay!' with that, a brave young gentleman, thus to the earl did say: 'lo! yonder doth earl douglas come! his men in armour bright! full twenty hundred scottish spears all marching in our sight! 'all pleasant men of tividale, fast by the river tweed.' 'o, cease your sports!' earl percy said, 'and take your bows with speed; 'and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance; for there was never champion yet, in scotland, nor in france, 'that ever did on horseback come; and, if my hap it were, i durst encounter man for man, with him to break a spear!' earl douglas, on his milk-white steed, most like a baron bold, rode foremost of his company, whose armour shone like gold. 'show me,' said he, 'whose men you be, that hunt so boldly here? that, without my consent, do chase and kill my fallow deer?' the first man that did answer make, was noble percy he, who said, 'we list not to declare, nor show, whose men we be: 'yet we will spend our dearest blood thy chiefest harts to slay.' then douglas swore a solemn oath, and thus in rage did say: 'ere thus i will outbravèd be, one of us two shall die: i know thee well! an earl thou art, lord percy. so am i. 'but, trust me, percy, pity it were, and great offence, to kill any of these, our guiltless men! for they have done no ill. 'let thou and i, the battle try; and set our men aside.' 'accursed be he,' earl percy said, 'by whom it is denied!' then stepped a gallant squire forth, witherington was his name, who said, 'i would not have it told to henry our king, for shame, 'that e'er my captain fought on foot, and i stood looking on. you be two earls,' quoth witherington, 'and i a squire alone. 'i'll do the best that do i may, while i have power to stand: while i have power to wield my sword, i'll fight with heart and hand.' our english archers bent their bows, their hearts were good and true. at the first flight of arrows sent, full fourscore scots they slew. 'to drive the deer with hound and horn!' douglas bade on the bent. two captains moved, with mickle might, their spears to shivers went. they closed full fast on every side; no slackness there was found: but many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o, christ! it was a grief to see, and likewise for to hear, the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there. at last, these two stout earls did meet. like captains of great might, like lions wood, they laid on load, and made a cruel fight: they fought, until they both did sweat, with swords of tempered steel, till blood adown their cheeks, like rain, they trickling down did feel. 'yield thee, o percy,' douglas said, 'in faith! i will thee bring, where thou shalt high advancèd be, by james, our scottish king! 'thy ransom i will freely give! and this report of thee, "thou art the most courageous knight that ever i did see!"' 'no, douglas,' quoth earl percy then, 'thy proffer i do scorn; i will not yield to any scot that ever yet was born!' with that, there came an arrow keen out of an english bow, which struck earl douglas to the heart, a deep and deadly blow. who never said more words than these, 'fight on, my merry men all! for why? my life is at an end, lord percy sees my fall!' then leaving life, earl percy took the dead man by the hand, who said, 'earl douglas, for thy sake, would i had lost my land! 'o, christ! my very heart doth bleed for sorrow, for thy sake, for, sure, a more redoubted knight mischance could never take!' a knight, amongst the scots there was, which saw earl douglas die; who straight in heart did vow revenge upon the lord percy. part ii sir hugh montgomery was he called; who, with a spear most bright, well mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight. and passed the english archers all, without or dread or fear; and through earl percy's body then he thrust his hateful spear. with such a vehement force and might, he did his body gore: the staff ran through the other side, a large cloth-yard and more. thus did both those nobles die, whose courage none could stain. an english archer then perceived the noble earl was slain. he had a good bow in his hand, made of a trusty tree. an arrow of a cloth-yard long, up to the head drew he. against sir hugh montgomery, so right the shaft he set; the grey-goose wing that was thereon, in his heart's blood was wet. this fight did last from break of day till setting of the sun: for when they rang the evening bell, the battle scarce was done. with stout earl percy there were slain sir john of egerton, sir robert ratcliff, and sir john, sir james, that bold baron. and with sir george and stout sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph raby there was slain, whose prowess did surmount. for witherington needs must i wail, as one in doleful dumps, for when his legs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumps. and with earl douglas there were slain sir hugh montgomery; and sir charles murray, that from field one foot would never flee. sir charles murray of ratcliff, too, his sister's son was he: sir david lamb, so well esteemed, but savèd he could not be. and the lord maxwell, in like case, did with earl douglas die. of twenty hundred scottish spears scarce fifty-five did fly. of fifteen hundred englishmen, went home but fifty-three; the rest in chevy chase were slain, under the greenwood tree. next day did many widows come their husbands to bewail: they washed their wounds in brinish tears; but all would not prevail! their bodies, bathed in purple blood, they bore with them away. they kissed them, dead, a thousand times, ere they were clad in clay. the news was brought to edinborough, where scotland's king did reign, that brave earl douglas suddenly was with an arrow slain. 'o, heavy news!' king james did say, 'scotland may witnèss be, i have not any captain more of such account as he!' like tidings to king henry came, within as short a space, that percy of northumberland, was slain in chevy chase. 'now, god be with him!' said our king, 'sith it will no better be; i trust i have, within my realm, five hundred as good as he! 'yet shall not scots, nor scotland, say but i will vengeance take; and be revengèd on them all, for brave earl percy's sake.' this vow the king did well perform after, on humbledown, in one day fifty knights were slain, with lords of great renown; and of the rest, of small account, did many thousands die. thus endeth the hunting in chevy chase, made by the earl percy. god save our king; and bless this land with plenty, joy, and peace! and grant henceforth, that foul debate 'twixt noblemen may cease! the battle of agincourt michael drayton fair stood the wind for france when we our sails advance, nor now to prove our chance longer will tarry; but putting to the main, at kaux, the mouth of seine, with all his martial train, landed king harry. and taking many a fort, furnish'd in warlike sort march'd towards agincourt in happy hour; skirmishing day by day with those that stopp'd his way, where the french gen'ral lay with all his power. which in his height of pride, king henry to deride, his ransom to provide to the king sending; which he neglects the while, as from a nation vile yet with an angry smile, their fall portending. and turning to his men, quoth our brave henry then, though they to one be ten, be not amazed. yet, have we well begun, battles so bravely won have ever to the sun by fame been raised. and for myself, quoth he, this my full rest shall be, england ne'er mourn for me, nor more esteem me. victor i will remain, or on this earth lie slain, never shall she sustain loss to redeem me. poictiers and cressy tell, when most their pride did swell, under our swords they fell, no less our skill is, than when our grandsire great, claiming the regal seat, by many a warlike feat, lop'd the french lilies. the duke of york so dread, the eager vanward led; with the main henry sped, amongst his henchmen. excester had the rear, a braver man not there, o lord, how hot they were on the false frenchmen! they now to fight are gone, armour on armour shone, drum now to drum did groan, to hear, was wonder; that with cries they make, the very earth did shake, trumpet to trumpet spake, thunder to thunder. well it thine age became, o noble erpingham, which did the signal aim to our hid forces: when from a meadow by, like a storm suddenly, the english archery stuck the french horses. with spanish yew so strong, arrows a cloth-yard long, that like to serpents stung piercing the weather; none from his fellow starts, but playing manly parts, and like true english hearts, stuck close together. when down their bows they threw, and forth their bilbows drew, and on the french they flew, not one was tardy; arms were from shoulders sent, scalps to the teeth were rent, down the french peasants went, our men were hardy. this while our noble king, his broad sword brandishing, down the french host did ding, as to o'erwhelm it; and many a deep wound lent, his arms with blood besprent, and many a cruel dent bruised his helmet. glo'ster, that duke so good, next of the royal blood, for famous england stood, with his brave brother; clarence, in steel so bright, though but a maiden knight, yet in that furious fight scarce such another. warwick in blood did wade, oxford the foe invade, and cruel slaughter made, still as they ran up; suffolk his axe did ply, beaumont and willoughby bare them right doughtily, ferrers and fanhope. upon saint crispin's day fought was this noble fray, which fame did not delay to england to carry; o when shall englishmen with such acts fill a pen, or england breed again such a king harry? song of the english bowmen anonymous agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt, where english slew and hurt all their french foemen? with their pikes and bills brown, how the french were beat down, shot by our bowmen? agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt, never to be forgot, or known to no men? where english cloth-yard arrows killed the french like tame sparrows, slain by our bowmen? agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? english of every sort, high men and low men, fought that day wondrous well, all our old stories tell, thanks to our bowmen! agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? where our fifth harry taught frenchmen to know men: and, when the day was done, thousands there fell to one good english bowman! agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? dear was the vict'ry bought by fifty yeomen. ask any english wench, they were worth all the french, rare english bowmen! winter william shakespeare when icicles hang by the wall, and dick the shepherd blows his nail, and tom bears logs into the hall, and milk comes frozen home in pail; when blood is nipt, and ways be foul, then nightly sings the staring owl tu-whit! tu-who! a merry note! while greasy joan doth keel the pot. when all about the wind doth blow, and coughing drowns the parson's saw, and birds sit brooding in the snow, and marian's nose looks red and raw; when roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, then nightly sings the staring owl tu-whit! tu-who! a merry note! while greasy joan doth keel the pot. ingratitude 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, that dost not bite so nigh as benefits forgot: though thou the waters warp, thy sting is not so sharp as friend remember'd not. 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. fidele fear no more the heat o' the sun nor the furious winter's rages; thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone and ta'en thy wages; golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust. fear no more the frown o' the great, thou art past the tyrant's stroke; care no more to clothe and eat; to thee the reed is as the oak: the sceptre, learning, physic, must all follow this, and come to dust. fear no more the lightning-flash nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; fear not slander, censure rash; thou hast finish'd joy and moan: all lovers young, all lovers must consign to thee, and come to dust. under the greenwood tree under the greenwood 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. sylvia who is sylvia? what is she, that all our swains commend her? holy, fair, and wise is she; the heaven such grace did lend her, that she might admirèd be. is she kind as she is fair? for beauty lives with kindness, love doth to her eyes repair, to help him of his blindness, and, being help'd, inhabits there. then to sylvia let us sing, that sylvia is excelling; she excels each mortal thing upon the dull earth dwelling: to her let us garlands bring. song come away, come away, death, and in sad cypress let me be laid; fly away, fly away, breath; i am slain by a fair cruel maid. my shroud of white, stuck all with yew, o, prepare it; my part of death no one so true did share it. not a flower, not a flower sweet, on my black coffin let there be strown; not a friend, not a friend greet my poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. a thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me, o, where sad true lover ne'er find my grave to weep there. a sea dirge full fathom five thy father lies: of his bones are coral made; those are pearls that were his eyes: nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange. sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: hark! now i hear them,-- ding, dong, bell. ophelia's song how should i your true love know from another one? by his cockle hat and staff, and his sandal shoon. he is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone; at his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a stone. white his shroud as the mountain snow, larded with sweet flowers; which bewept to the grave did go with true-love showers. and will he not come again? and will he not come again? no, no, he is dead: go to thy death-bed: he never will come again. his beard was as white as snow, all flaxen was his poll: he is gone, he is gone, and we cast away moan: god ha' mercy on his soul! when daisies pied 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: o word of fear, unpleasing to a married ear! it was a lover it was a lover and his lass, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, that o'er the green cornfield did pass in the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: sweet lovers love the spring. between the acres of the rye, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, these pretty country folks would lie, in spring time, etc. this carol they began that hour, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, how that a life was but a flower in spring time, etc. and therefore take the present time, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino; for love is crowned with the prime in spring time, etc. sweet and twenty o mistress mine, where are you roaming? o, stay and hear; your true love's coming, that can sing both high and low: trip no further, pretty sweeting; journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man's son doth know. what is love? 'tis not hereafter; present mirth hath present laughter; what's to come is still unsure: in delay there lies no plenty; then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, youth's a stuff will not endure. music orpheus with his lute made trees, and the mountain tops that freeze, bow themselves when he did sing: to his music plants and flowers ever sprung; as sun and showers there had made a lasting spring. every thing that heard him play, even the billows of the sea, hung their heads, and then lay by. in sweet music is such art, killing-care and grief-of-heart fall asleep, or hearing, die. the pedlar lawn as white as driven snow; cypress black as e'er was crow; gloves as sweet as damask roses; masks for faces and for noses; bugle bracelet, necklace amber, perfume for a lady's chamber; golden quoifs and stomachers, for my lads to give their dears: pins and poking-sticks of steel, what maids lack from head to heel: come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: come buy. soldier's song and let me the canakin clink, clink; and let me the canakin clink: a soldier's a man; a life's but a span; why, then, let a soldier drink. king stephen was a worthy peer, his breeches cost him but a crown; he held them sixpence all too dear, with that he call'd the tailor lown. he was a wight of high renown, and thou art but of low degree: 'tis pride that pulls the country down; then take thine auld cloak about thee. doubt not doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt i love. ariel where the bee sucks, there lurk i; in a cowslip's bell i lie; there i couch when owls do cry. on the bat's back i do fly after summer merrily. merrily, merrily shall i live now under the blossom that hangs on the bough. sigh no more, ladies 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 mo 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. the sweet o' the year when daffodils begin to peer, with heigh! the doxy over the dale, why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; for the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. the white sheet bleaching on the hedge, with heigh! the sweet birds, o, how they sing! doth set my pugging tooth on edge; for a quart of ale is a dish for a king. the lark, that tirra-lyra chants, with heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, are summer songs for me and my aunts, while we lie tumbling in the hay. but shall i go mourn for that, my dear? the pale moon shines by night: and when i wander here and there, i then do most go right. if tinkers may have leave to live, and bear the sow-skin budget, then my account i well may give, and in the stocks avouch it. hark! hark! the lark! (cloten's song) hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, and phoebus 'gins arise, his steeds to water at those springs, on chalic'd flowers that lies; and winking mary-buds begin to ope their golden eyes; with every thing that pretty bin; my lady sweet, arise. over hill, over dale over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier, over park, over pale, thorough flood, thorough fire, i do wander everywhere, swifter than the moon's sphere; and i serve the fairy queen, to dew her orbs upon the green. the cowslips tall her pensioners be: in their gold coats spots you see; those be rubies, fairy favours, in those freckles live their savours; i must go seek some dewdrops here, and hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. one in ten was this fair face the cause, quoth she, why the grecians sacked troy? fond done, done fond, was this king priam's joy? with that she sighèd as she stood, with that she sighèd as she stood, and gave this sentence then; among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten. puck now the hungry lion roars, and the wolf behowls the moon; whilst the heavy ploughman snores, all with weary task fordone. now the wasted brands do glow, while the screech-owl, screeching loud, puts the wretch, that lies in woe, in remembrance of a shroud. now it is the time of night that the graves, all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide; and we fairies, that do run by the triple hecate's team, from the presence of the sun, following darkness like a dream, now are frolic; not a mouse shall disturb this hallow'd house: i am sent with broom before, to sweep the dust behind the door. through the house give glimmering light, by the dead and drowsy fire: every elf and fairy sprite hop as light as bird from brier; and this ditty, after me, sing, and dance it trippingly. first, rehearse your song by rote, to each word a warbling note: hand in hand, with fairy grace, will we sing, and bless this place. lullaby you spotted snakes with double tongue, thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, come not near our fairy queen. philomel, with melody sing in our sweet lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. never harm, nor spell nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh; so, good-night, with lullaby. weaving spiders, come not here; hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! beetles black, approach not near; worm nor snail, do no offence. philomel, with melody sing in our sweet lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. never harm, nor spell nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh; so, good-night, with lullaby. song tell me where is fancy bred, or in the heart or in the head? how begot, how nourished? reply, reply. it is engender'd in the eyes, with gazing fed: and fancy dies in the cradle where it lies. let us all ring fancy's knell: i'll begin it,--ding, dong, bell. ding, dong, bell. cherry-ripe thomas campion 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 enclose of orient pearl a double row, which, when her lovely laughter shows, they look like rosebuds fill'd with snow; yet them no peer nor prince may buy till 'cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. her eyes like angels watch them still, her brows like bended bows do stand, threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill all that approach with eye or hand these sacred cherries to come nigh, till 'cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. laura rose-cheeked laura, come; sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's silent music, either other sweetly gracing. lovely forms do flow from consent divinely framed; heaven is music, and thy beauty's birth is heavenly. these dull notes we sing discords need for helps to grace them, only beauty purely loving knows no discord, but still moves delight, like clear springs renewed by flowing, ever perfect, ever in them- selves eternal. come, cheerful day come, cheerful day, part of my life to me; for while thou view'st me with thy fading light part of my life doth still depart with thee, and i still onward haste to my last night: time's fatal wings do ever forward fly-- so every day we live, a day we die. but o ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest, how are my days deprived of life in you when heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest, by feignèd death life sweetly to renew; part of my life, in that, you life deny: so every day we live, a day we die. follow thy fair sun follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! though thou be black as night and she made all of light, yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! follow her, whose light thy light depriveth! though here thou liv'st disgraced, and she in heaven is placed, yet follow her whose light the world reviveth! follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth, that so have scorchèd thee as thou still black must be till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth. follow her, while yet her glory shineth! there comes a luckless night that will dim all her light; --and this the black unhappy shade divineth. follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd! the sun must have his shade, till both at once do fade,-- the sun still proved, the shadow still disdainèd. to celia ben jonson drink to me only with thine eyes, and i will pledge with mine, or leave a kiss but in the cup and i'll not look for wine. the thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink 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 could not wither'd be; but thou thereon didst only breathe and sent'st it back to me; since when it grows, and smells, i swear, not of itself, but thee! song from 'cynthia's revels' queen and huntress, chaste and fair, now the sun is laid to sleep, seated in thy silver chair, state in wonted manner keep. hesperus entreats thy light, goddess excellently bright! earth, let not thy envious shade dare itself to interpose; cynthia's shining orb was made heaven to clear, when day did close. bless us then with wishèd sight, goddess excellently bright! lay thy bow of pearl apart, and thy crystal-shining quiver, give unto the flying hart space to breathe how short soever; thou that mak'st a day of night, goddess excellently bright! the sweet neglect still to be neat, still to be drest, as you were going to a feast: still to be poud'red, still perfum'd: lady, it is to be presum'd, though art's hid causes are not found, all is not sweet, all is not sound. give me a looke, give me a face, that makes simplicitie a grace; robes loosely flowing, haire as free: such sweet neglect more taketh me, than all th' adulteries of art, that strike mine eyes, but not my heart. the weaver's song anonymous when hercules did use to spin, and pallas wrought upon the loom, our trade to flourish did begin, while conscience went not selling broom; then love and friendship did agree to keep the bands of amity. when princes' sons kept sheep in field, and queens made cakes of wheated flour, the men to lucre did not yield, which brought good cheer in every bower; then love and friendship ... but when the gyants huge and high, did fight with spears like weavers' beams, then they in iron beds did lye, and brought poor men to hard extreams; yet love and friendship ... then david took his sling and stone, not fearing great goliah's strength, he pierc't his brains, and broke the bone, though he were fifty foot of length; for love and friendship ... but while the greeks besiegèd troy, penelope apace did spin; and weavers wrought with mickle joy, though little gains were coming in; for love and friendship ... had helen then sate carding wooll, (whose beauteous face did breed such strife), she had not been sir paris' trull, nor caused so many to lose their life; yet we by love did still agree to hold the bands of amity. or had king priam's wanton son been making quills with sweet content, he had not then his friends undone, when he to greece a-gadding went; for love and friendship ... the cedar-trees endure more storms then little shrubs that sprout on high; the weavers live more void of harms then princes of great dignity; while love and friendship doth agree ... the shepherd sitting in the field doth tune his pipe with heart's delight; when princes watch with spear and shield, the poor man soundly sleeps all night; while love and friendship doth agree ... yet this by proof is daily try'd, for god's good gifts we are ingrate, and no man through the world so wide lives well contented with his state; no love and friendship we can see to hold the bands of amity. the honest fellow hang fear, cast away care, the parish is bound to find us thou and i, and all must die, and leave this world behind us. the bells shall ring, the clerk shall sing, and the good old wife shall winde us; and the sexton shall lay our bodies in the clay, where nobody shall find us. robin goodfellow from oberon, in fairy land, the king of ghosts and shadows there, mad robin i, at his command, am sent to view the night-sports here. what revel rout is kept about, in every corner where i go, i will o'ersee, and merry be, and make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! more swift than lightning can i fly about this airy welkin soon, and, in a minute's space, descry each thing that's done below the moon. there's not a hag or ghost shall wag, or cry, 'ware goblins! where i go; but robin i their feats will spy, and send them home with ho, ho, ho! whene'er such wanderers i meet, as from their night-sports they trudge home, with counterfeiting voice i greet, and call them on with me to roam: through woods, through lakes; through bogs, through brakes; or else, unseen, with them i go, all in the nick, to play some trick, and frolic it, with ho, ho, ho! sometimes i meet them like a man, sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; and to a horse i turn me can, to trip and trot about them round. but if to ride my back they stride, more swift than wind away i go, o'er hedge and lands, through pools and ponds, i hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho! when lads and lasses merry be, with possets and with junkets fine; unseen of all the company, i eat their cakes and sip their wine! and, to make sport, i puff and snort: and out the candles i do blow: the maids i kiss, they shriek--who's this? i answer nought but ho, ho, ho! yet now and then, the maids to please, at midnight i card up their wool; and, while they sleep and take their ease, with wheel to threads their flax i pull. i grind at mill their malt up still; i dress their hemp; i spin their tow; if any wake, and would me take, i wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! when any need to borrow aught, we lend them what they do require: and, for the use demand we nought; our own is all we do desire. if to repay they do delay, abroad amongst them then i go, and night by night, i them affright, with pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho! when lazy queans have nought to do, but study how to cog and lie: to make debate and mischief too, 'twixt one another secretly: i mark their gloze, and it disclose to them whom they have wronged so: when i have done, i get me gone, and leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho! when men do traps and engines set in loop-holes, where the vermin creep, who from their folds and houses get their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep; i spy the gin, and enter in, and seem a vermin taken so; but when they there approach me near, i leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho! by wells and rills, in meadows green, we nightly dance our heyday guise; and to our fairy king and queen, we chant our moonlight minstrelsies. when larks 'gin sing, away we fling; and babes new born steal as we go; and elf in bed we leave in stead, and wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho! from hag-bred merlin's time, have i thus nightly revelled to and fro; and for my pranks men call me by the name of robin good-fellow. fiends, ghosts, and sprites, who haunt the nights, the hags and goblins do me know; and beldames old my feats have told, so vale, vale; ho, ho, ho! time's alteration when this old cap was new, 'tis since two hundred year; 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 shewn, when this old cap was new. now pride hath banished all, unto our land's reproach, when he whose means is small, maintains both horse and coach: instead of a hundred men, the coach allows but two; this was not thought on then, when this old cap was new. good hospitality was cherished then of many now poor men starve and die, and are not helped 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. where'er you travelled then, you might meet on the way brave knights and gentlemen, clad in their country gray; 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 scorned; fond fangles then none knew; then modesty women adorned, when this old cap was new. a man might then behold, at christmas, in each hall, good fires to curb the cold, and meat for great and small: the neighbours were friendly bidden, and all had welcome true; the poor from the gates were not chidden when this old cap was new. black jacks to every man were filled 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 no brawn nor souse, when this old cap was new. we took not such delight in cups of silver fine; none under the degree of a knight in plate drank beer or wine: now each mechanical man hath a cupboard of plate for a show; which was a rare thing then, when this old cap was new. then bribery was unborn, no simony men did use; christians did usury scorn, devised among the jews. the lawyers to be fee'd at that time hardly knew; for man with man agreed, when this old cap was new. no captain then caroused, nor spent poor soldiers' pay; they were not so abused as they are at this day: of seven days they make eight, to keep from them 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 goodwill, 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. 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. shall i, wasting in despair george wither shall i, wasting in despair, die because a woman's fair? or make pale my cheeks with care 'cause another's rosy are? be she fairer than the day, or the flow'ry meads in may, if she be not so to me, what care i how fair she be? should my heart be griev'd or pin'd 'cause i see a woman kind? or a well-disposèd nature joinèd 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? 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? i loved a lass, a fair one 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! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. her hair like gold did glister, each eye was like a star, she did surpass her sister, which pass'd all others far; she would me honey call, she'd, oh--she'd kiss me too: but now, alas! she's 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! she's 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! she's 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! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. to maidens' vows and swearing henceforth no credit give; you may give them the hearing, but never them believe; they are as false as fair, unconstant, frail, untrue: for mine, alas! hath left me, falero, lero, loo. christmas so now is come our joyfullest part; let every man be jolly; each room with ivy-leaves is dressed, and every post with holly. though some churls at our mirth repine, round your foreheads garlands twine, drown sorrow in a cup of wine, and let us all be merry! now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, and christmas-blocks are burning; their ovens they with baked meat choke, and all their spits are turning. without the door let sorrow lie; and, if for cold it hap to die, we'll bury it in a christmas pie and evermore be merry! rank misers now do sparing shun; their hall of music soundeth; and dogs thence with whole shoulders run; so all things there aboundeth. the country folks themselves advance with crowdy-muttons out of france; and jack shall pipe, and jill shall dance, and all the town be merry! good farmers in the country nurse the poor that else were undone; some landlords spend their money worse, on lust and pride in london. there the roysters they do play, drab and dice their lands away, which may be ours another day, and therefore let's be merry! the client now his suit forbears; the prisoner's heart is easèd; the debtor drinks away his cares, and for the time is pleasèd. though other's purses be more fat, why should we pine or grieve at that? hang sorrow! care will kill a cat, and therefore let's be merry! hark! now the wags abroad do call each other forth to rambling; anon you'll see them in the hall, for nuts and apples scrambling. hark! how the roofs with laughter sound; anon they'll think the house goes round, for they the cellar's depth have found, and there they will be merry! the wenches with their wassail bowls about the streets are singing; the boys are come to catch the owls; the wild mare in is bringing; our kitchen-boy hath broke his box; and to the dealing of the ox our honest neighbours come by flocks, and here they will be merry! now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have, and mate with everybody; the honest now may play the knave, and wise men play the noddy. some youths will now a-mumming go, some others play at rowland-bo, and twenty other game, boys, mo, because they will be merry! then wherefore, in these merry days, should we, i pray, be duller? no, let us sing some roundelays to make our mirth the fuller: and, while we thus inspirèd sing, let all the streets with echoes ring; woods, and hills, and everything, bear witness we are merry! ask me no more thomas carew ask me no more where jove bestows, when june is past, the fading rose; for in your beauties orient deep these flowers, as in their causes, sleep. ask me no more, whither do stray the golden atoms of the day; for, in pure love, heaven did prepare those powders to enrich your hair. ask me no more, whither doth haste the nightingale, when may is past; for in your sweet dividing throat she winters, and keeps warm her note. ask me no more, where those stars light, that downwards fall in dead of night; for in your eyes they sit, and there fixed become, as in their sphere. ask me no more, if east or west, the phoenix builds her spicy nest; for unto you at last she flies, and in your fragrant bosom dies. night-piece to julia robert herrick her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, the shooting stars attend thee; and the elves also, whose little eyes glow like the sparks of fire, befriend thee! no will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee, nor snake or slow-worm bite thee! but on, on thy way, not making a stay, since ghost there is none to affright thee. let not the dark thee cumber; what though the moon does slumber? the stars of the night will lend thee their light, like tapers clear without number. then julia let me woo thee, thus, thus to come unto me; and, when i shall meet thy silvery feet, my soul i'll pour into thee. the mad maid's song good-morrow to the day so fair, good-morrow, sir, to you; good-morrow to my 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. i'll seek him in your bonnet brave; i'll seek him in your eyes; nay, now i think they've made his grave in the bed of strawberries. i'll 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. to blossoms fair pledges of a fruitful tree, why do you fall so fast? your date is not so past, but you may stay yet here awhile, to blush and gently smile, and go at last. what! were ye born to be an hour or half's delight, and so to bid good-night? 'tis pity nature brought ye forth merely to show your worth, and lose you quite. but you are lovely leaves, where we may read how soon things have their end, though ne'er so brave: and after they have shown their pride, like you awhile, they glide into the grave. to daffodils fair daffodils, we weep to see you haste away so soon; as yet the early-rising sun has not attained his noon: stay, stay, until the hast'ning day has run but to the even-song; and having prayed together, we will go with you along! we have short time to stay as you; we have as short a spring; as quick a growth to meet decay, as you or any thing: we die, as your hours do; and dry away like to the summer's rain, or as the pearls of morning-dew, ne'er to be found again. julia some asked me where the rubies grew, and nothing did i say, but with my finger pointed to the lips of julia. some asked how pearls did grow, and where, then spake i to my girl, to part her lips, and show me there the quarelets of pearl. one asked me where the roses grew, i bade him not go seek; but forthwith bade my julia shew a bud in either cheek. to the virgins, to make much of their time gather the rose-buds while ye may, old time is still a-flying, and this same flower that smiles to-day, to-morrow will be dying. the glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, the higher he's a-getting, the sooner will his race be run, and nearer he's to setting. that age is best which is the first, when youth and blood are warmer; but, being spent, the worse, and worst time shall succeed the former. then be not coy, but use your time, and while you may, go marry; for, having lost but once your prime, you may for ever tarry. twelfth night, or king and queen now, now the mirth comes, with the cake full of plums, where bean's the king of the sport here; beside, we must know, the pea also must revel as queen in the court here. begin then to choose, this night, as ye use, who shall for the present delight here; be a king by the lot, and who shall not be twelfth-day queen for the night here. which known, let us make joy-sops with the cake; and let not a man then be seen here, who unurged will not drink, to the base from the brink, a health to the king and the queen here. next crown the bowl full with gentle lamb's-wool; add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, with store of ale, too; and thus ye must do to make the wassail a swinger. give them to the king and queen wassailing; and though with ale ye be wet here; yet part ye from hence, as free from offence, as when ye innocent met here. the bag of the bee about the sweet bag of a bee, two cupids fell at odds; and whose the pretty prize should be, they vowed to ask the gods. which venus hearing, thither came, and for their boldness stript them; and taking thence from each his flame, with rods of myrtle whipt them. which done, to still their wanton cries, when quiet grown she'ad seen them, she kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes and gave the bag between them. a thanksgiving for his house lord, thou hast given me a cell wherein to dwell; a little house, whose humble roof is weatherproof; under the spars of which i lie both soft and dry. where thou, my chamber for to ward, hast set a guard of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep me while i sleep. low is my porch, as is my fate, both void of state; and yet the threshold of my door is worn by the poor, who hither come, and freely get good words or meat. like as my parlour, so my hall, and kitchen small; a little buttery, and therein a little bin, which keeps my little loaf of bread unchipt, unflead. some brittle sticks of thorn or brier make me a fire, close by whose living coal i sit, and glow like it. lord, i confess, too, when i dine the pulse is thine, and all those other bits that be there placed by thee. the worts, the purslain, and the mess of water-cress, which of thy kindness thou hast sent: and my content makes those, and my beloved beet, to be more sweet. 'tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth with guiltless mirth; and giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, spiced to the brink. lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand that sows my land: all this, and better, dost thou send me for this end: that i should render for my part a thankful heart, which, fired with incense, i resign as wholly thine: but the acceptance--that must be, o lord, by thee. to primroses, filled with morning dew why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears speak grief in you, who were but born just as the modest morn teemed her refreshing dew? alas! you have not known that shower that mars a flower, nor felt the unkind breath of a blasting wind; nor are ye worn with years, or warped as we, who think it strange to see such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known the reason why ye droop and weep; is it for want of sleep, or childish lullaby? or that ye have not seen as yet the violet? or brought a kiss from that sweet heart to this? no, no; this sorrow shown by your tears shed, would have this lecture read-- 'that things of greatest, so of meanest worth, conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.' delight in disorder a sweet disorder in the dress [a happy kind of carelessness;] a lawn about the shoulders thrown into a fine distraction; an erring lace, which here and there enthralls the crimson stomacher; a cuff neglectful, and thereby ribands that flow confusedly; a winning wave, deserving note in the tempestuous petticoat; a careless shoe-string, in whose tie i see a wild civility; do more bewitch me, than when art is too precise in every part. cherry ripe cherry ripe, 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; whose plantations fully show all the year where cherries grow. virtue george herbert sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright the bridal of the earth and sky; the 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; thy music shows ye have your closes; and all must die. only a sweet and virtuous soul, like seasoned timber never gives; but, though the whole world turn to coal, then chiefly lives. the spanish armado some years of late, in eighty-eight, as i do well remember, it was, some say, the middle of may, and some say in september, and some say in september. the spanish train launch'd forth amain, with many a fine bravado, their (as they thought, but it prov'd not) invincible armado, invincible armado. there was a man that dwelt in spain who shot well with a gun a, don pedro hight, as black a wight as the knight of the sun a, as the knight of the sun a. king philip made him admiral, and bid him not to stay a, but to destroy both man and boy and so to come away a, and so to come away a. their navy was well victualled with bisket, pease, and bacon, they brought two ships, well fraught with whips, but i think they were mistaken, but i think they were mistaken. their men were young, munition strong, and to do us more harm a, they thought it meet to joyn their fleet all with the prince of parma, all with the prince of parma. they coasted round about our land, and so came in by dover: but we had men set on 'em then, and threw the rascals over, and threw the rascals over. the queen was then at tilbury, what could we more desire a? sir francis drake for her sweet sake did set them all on fire a, did set them all on fire a. then straight they fled by sea and land, that one man kill'd threescore a, and had not they all run away, in truth he had kill'd more a, in truth he had kill'd more a. then let them neither bray nor boast, but if they come again a, let them take heed they do not speed as they did you know when a, as they did you know when a. a ballad upon a wedding sir john suckling i tell thee, dick, where i have been; where i the rarest things have seen; oh, things without compare! such sights again can not be found in any place on english ground, be it at wake or faer. at charing cross, hard by the way where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, there is a house with stairs; and there did i see coming down such folks as are not in our town; vorty at least, in pairs. amongst the rest one pest'lent fine (his beard no bigger tho' than thine) walk'd on before the rest; our landlord looks like nothing to him; the king (god bless him), 'twould undo him, should he go still so drest. at course-a-park, without all doubt, he should have first been taken out by all the maids i' the town: though lusty roger there had been, or little george upon the green, or vincent of the crown. but wot you what? the youth was going to make an end of all his wooing: the parson for him staid: yet by his leave, for all his haste, he did not so much wish all past, perchance as did the maid. the maid (and thereby hangs a tale) for such a maid no whitson-ale could ever yet produce; no grape that's kindly ripe could be so round, so plump, so soft as she, nor half so full of juyce. her finger was so small, the ring would not stay on which they did bring; it was too wide a peck: and, to say truth (for out it must), it look'd like the great collar (just) about our young colt's neck. her feet beneath her petticoat, like little mice stole in and out, as if they fear'd the light: but oh! she dances such a way; no sun upon an easter day is half as fine a sight. her cheeks so rare, a white was on, no daisie make comparison (who sees them is undone); for streaks of red were mingled there, such as are on a kath'rine pear, the side that's next the sun. her lips were red; and one was thin, compared to what was next her chin (some bee had stung it newly); but, dick, her eyes so guard her face, i durst no more upon them gaze, than on a sun in july. her mouth so small, when she does speak, thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break that they might passage get; but she so handled still the matter, they came as good as ours, or better, and are not spent a whit. passion, oh me! how i run on! there's that that would be thought upon, i trow, beside the bride. the business of the kitchen's great; for it is fit that men should eat, nor was it there denied. just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, and all the waiters in a trice his summons did obey; each serving man, with dish in hand, march'd boldly up like our train'd band, presented, and away. when all the meat was on the table, what man of knife, or teeth, was able to stay to be entreated? and this the very reason was, before the parson could say grace the company was seated. now hats fly off, and youths carouse; healths first go round, and then the house, the bride's came thick and thick; and when 'twas named another's health, perhaps he made it her's by stealth, (and who could help it, dick?) o' th' sudden up they rise and dance; then sit again, and sigh, and glance: then dance again, and kiss: thus several ways the time did pass, till ev'ry woman wish'd her place, and ev'ry man wish'd his. by this time all were stolen aside to counsel and undress the bride; but that he must not know: but yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind and did not mean to stay behind above an hour or so. why so pale and wan? 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! go, lovely rose! edmund waller 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 hadst thou sprung in deserts, where no men abide, thou must have uncommended died. small is the worth of beauty from the light retired: bid her come forth, suffer herself to be desired, and not blush so to be admired. then die! that she the common fate of all things rare may read in thee: how small a part of time they share that are so wondrous sweet and fair! the frog he would a-wooing ride anonymous it was the frog in the well, humble dum, humble dum, and the merry mouse in the mill, tweedle, tweedle, twino. the frog would a-wooing ride, humble dum, humble dum, sword and buckler by his side, tweedle, tweedle, twino. when upon his high horse set, humble dum, humble dum, his boots they shone as black as jet, tweedle, tweedle, twino. when he came to the merry mill pin, lady mouse beene you within? then came out the dusty mouse, i am lady of this house; hast thou any mind of me? i have e'en great mind of thee. who shall this marriage make? our lord, which is the rat. what shall we have to our supper? three beans in a pound of butter. but, when supper they were at, the frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat, then came in tib, our cat, and caught the mouse e'en by the back, then did they separate: the frog leapt on the floor so flat; then came in dick, our drake, and drew the frog e'en to the lake, the rat he ran up the wall, and so the company parted all. to althea, from prison richard lovelace when love with unconfinèd wings hovers within my gates, and my divine althea brings to whisper at my grates; when i lie tangled in her hair, and fetter'd to her eye, the birds that wanton in the air know no such liberty. when flowing cups run swiftly round, with no allaying thames, our careless heads with roses bound, our hearts with loyal flames; when thirsty grief in wine we steep, when healths and draughts are free,-- fishes that tipple in the deep know no such liberty. when linnet-like confinèd, 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,-- enlargèd 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. to lucasta, on going to the wars 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. ye gentlemen of england martin parker ye gentlemen of england that live at home at ease, ah! little do ye 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 winds do blow. if enemies oppose us when england is at war with any foreign nation, we fear not wound or scar; 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 winds do blow. then courage, all brave mariners, and never be dismay'd; while 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 winds do blow. the fairy queen anonymous come follow, follow me, you, fairy elves that be: which circle on the greene, come follow mab your queene. hand in hand let's dance around, for this place is fairye ground. when mortals are at rest, and snoring in their nest; unheard, and unespy'd, through key-holes we do glide; over tables, stools, and shelves, we trip it with our fairy elves. and, if the house be foul with platter, dish, or bowl, upstairs we nimbly creep, and find the sluts asleep; there we pinch their armes and thighes; none escapes, nor none espies. but if the house be swept, and from uncleanness kept, we praise the household maid, and duely she is paid: for we use before we goe to drop a tester in her shoe. upon a mushroome'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 snailes, between two cockles stew'd, is meat that's easily chew'd; tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice, do make a dish that's wondrous nice. the grasshopper, gnat, and fly, serve for our minstrelsie; grace said, we dance a while, and so the time beguile: and if the moon doth hide her head, the gloe-worm lights us home to bed. on tops of dewie grasse so nimbly do we passe; the young and tender stalk ne'er bends when we do walk: yet in the morning may be seen where we the night before have been. the praise of a countryman's life john chalkhill 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 tried, 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 trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; no emperor so merrily does pass his time away: then care away, and wend along with me. to recompense our tillage the heavens afford us showers, 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. here's a health anonymous here's a health unto his majesty, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ confusion to his enemies, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ and he that will not drink his health, i wish him neither wit nor wealth, nor yet a rope to hang himself, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ black-eyed susan john gay all in the downs the fleet was moor'd, the streamers waving in the wind, when black-eyed susan came on board, 'oh, where shall i my true-love find? tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, does my sweet william sail among your crew?' william, who high upon the yard rock'd by the billows to and fro, soon as the 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 kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head: her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, 'adieu!' she cried, and wav'd her lily hand. annie laurie anonymous maxwellton braes are bonnie, where early fa's the dew, and 'twas there that annie laurie gied me her promise true; gied me her promise true, which ne'er forgot shall be, and for bonnie annie laurie, i'd lay me doon and dee. her brow is like the snaw-flake, her neck is like the swan, her face it is the fairest that e'er the sun shone on; that e'er the sun shone on, and dark blue is her e'e; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doon and dee. like dew on the gowan lying, is the fa' of her fairy feet; and like winds in summer sighing, her voice is low and sweet; her voice is low and sweet, and she's a' the world to me; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doon and dee. rule britannia james thomson when britain first at heaven's command arose from out the azure main, this was the charter of her land, and guardian angels sang the strain: rule britannia! britannia rules the waves! britons never shall 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! still more majestic shalt thou rise, more dreadful from each foreign stroke; as the last blast which tears the skies serves but to root thy native oak. thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; all their attempts to bend thee down will but arouse thy generous flame, and work their woe and thy renown. to thee belongs the rural reign; thy cities shall with commerce shine; all thine shall be the subject main, and every shore it circles thine 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! britannia rules the waves! britons never shall be slaves! waly, waly, but love be bonny anonymous o waly, waly up the bank, and waly, waly down the brae, and waly, waly yon burn-side, where i and my love wont to gae. i lean'd my back unto an aik, and thought it was a trusty tree, but first it bow'd, and syne it brak, sae my true love did lightly me. o waly, waly, but love is bonny, a little time while it is new, but when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, and fades away like morning dew. oh! wherefore should i busk my head? or wherefore should i kame my hair? for my true love has me forsook, and says he'll never love me mair. now arthur seat shall be my bed, the sheets shall ne'er be fil'd by me, saint anton's well shall be my drink, since my true love's forsaken me. martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, and shake the green leaves off the tree? oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come? for of my life i am weary. 'tis not the frost that freezes fell, nor blowing snow's inclemency; 'tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, but my love's heart grown cauld to me. when we came in by glasgow town, we were a comely sight to see; my love was clad in the black velvet, and i mysel' in cramasie. but had i wist before i kiss'd that love had been so ill to win, i'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, and pinn'd it with a silver pin. and oh! if my young babe were born, and set upon the nurse's knee, and i mysel' were dead and gane, wi' the green grass growin' over me! sally in our alley henry carey of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like pretty sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. there's ne'er a lady in the land is half so sweet as sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. her father he makes cabbage nets, and through the streets doth cry them; her mother she sells laces long to such as please to buy them: but sure such folk can have no part in such a girl as sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. when she is by, i leave my work, i love her so sincerely; my master comes, like any turk, and bangs me most severely: but let him bang, long as he will, i'll bear it all for sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. of all the days are in the week, i dearly love but one day, and that's the day that comes betwixt a saturday and monday; for then i'm dress'd, in all my best, to walk abroad with sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. my master carries me to church, and often i am blamèd, because i leave him in the lurch, soon as the text is namèd: i leave the church in sermon time, and slink away to sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. when christmas comes about again, o then i shall have money; i'll hoard it up and, box and all, i'll give unto my honey: i would it were ten thousand pounds, i'd give it all to sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. my master and the neighbours all, make game of me and sally, and but for she i'd better be a slave, and row a galley: but when my seven long years are out, o then i'll marry sally, and then how happily we'll live-- but not in our alley. the braes of yarrow william hamilton busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, and think nae mair on the braes of yarrow. where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? where gat ye that winsome marrow? i gat her where i daurna weel be seen, pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow; nor let thy heart lament to leive pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? and why daur ye nae mair weel be seen pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow? lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, and lang maun i nae mair weel be seen pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. for she has tint her luver, luver dear, her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; and i hae slain the comliest swain that eir pu'd birks on the braes of yarrow. why rins thy stream, o yarrow, yarrow, reid? why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? and why yon melancholious weids hung on the bonny birks of yarrow? what's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? what's yonder floats? o dule and sorrow! o 'tis he the comely swain i slew upon the duleful braes of yarrow. wash, o wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, his wounds in tears with dule and sorrow; and wrap his limbs in mourning weids, and lay him on the braes of yarrow. then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; and weep around in waeful wise his hapless fate on the braes of yarrow! curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, my arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, the fatal spear that pierc'd his breast, his comely breast, on the braes of yarrow. did i not warn thee, not to, not to luve? and warn from fight? but to my sorrow too rashly bauld a stronger arm thou mett'st, and fell on the braes of yarrow. sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, yellow on yarrow's bank the gowan; fair hangs the apple frae the rock, sweet the wave of yarrow flowin'! flows yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows tweed, as green its grass, its gowan as yellow, as sweet smells on its braes the birk, the apple frae its rocks as mellow. fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, in flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; tho' he was fair, and weel beluv'd again than me he never luv'd thee better. busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, busk ye, and luve me on the banks of tweed, and think nae mair on the braes of yarrow. how can i busk a bonny bonny bride? how can i busk a winsome marrow? how luve him on the banks of tweed, that slew my luve on the braes of yarrow? o yarrow fields, may never never rain, nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, for there was basely slain my luve, my luve, as he had not been a lover. the boy put on his robes, his robes of green, his purple vest--'twas my awn sewing: ah! wretched me! i little, little kenn'd he was in these to meet his ruin. the boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, unheedful of my dule and sorrow: but ere the toofall of the night he lay a corpse on the braes of yarrow. much i rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day; i sang, my voice the woods returning: but lang ere night the spear was flown, that slew my luve, and left me mourning. what can my barbarous barbarous father do, but with his cruel rage pursue me? my luver's blood is on thy spear-- how canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? my happy sisters may be, may be proud with cruel and ungentle scoffin', may bid me seek on yarrow braes my luver nailed in his coffin. my brother douglas may upbraid, upbraid, and strive with threatning words to muve me: my luver's blood is on thy spear-- how canst thou ever bid me luve thee? yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, with bridal sheets my body cover, unbar, ye bridal maids, the door! let in the expected husband-luver. but who the expected husband husband is? his hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter. ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after? pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, o lay his cold head on my pillow! take aff, take aff these bridal weids, and crown my careful head with willow. pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd, o could my warmth to life restore thee! ye'd lye all night between my breists-- no youth lay ever there before thee! pale, pale indeed, o luvely luvely youth, forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, and lye all night between my breists, no youth shall ever lye there after. _a._ return, return, o mournful, mournful bride! return and dry thy useless sorrow! thy luver heeds none of thy sighs, he lyes a corpse on the braes of yarrow. the shepherd's home william shenstone my banks they are furnished with bees, whose murmur invites one to sleep; my grottoes are shaded with trees, and my hills are white over with sheep. i seldom have met with a loss, such health do my fountains bestow; my fountains all bordered with moss, where the harebells and violets blow. not a pine in the grove is there seen, but with tendrils of woodbine is bound; not a beech's more beautiful green, but a sweet-briar entwines it around. not my fields in the prime of the year, more charms than my cattle unfold; not a brook that is limpid and clear, but it glitters with fishes of gold. i have found out a gift for my fair, i have found where the wood-pigeons breed; but let me such plunder forbear, she will say 'twas a barbarous deed; for he ne'er could be true, she averred, who would rob a poor bird of its young; and i loved her the more when i heard such tenderness fall from her tongue. the diverting history of john gilpin william cowper john gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown, a train-band captain eke was he of famous london town. john gilpin's spouse said to her dear: 'though wedded we have been these twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen. 'to-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair unto the bell at edmonton all in a chaise and pair. 'my sister, and my sister's child, myself and children three, will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after we.' he soon replied: 'i do admire of womankind but one, and you are she, my dearest dear; therefore, it shall be done. 'i am a linen-draper bold, as all the world doth know, and my good friend the calender will lend his horse to go.' quoth mrs. gilpin: 'that's well said; and for that wine is dear, we will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear.' john gilpin kissed his loving wife; o'erjoyed was he to find that, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind. the morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed to drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud. so three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in; six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin. smack went the whip, round went the wheels, were never folk so glad; the stones did rattle underneath, as if cheapside were mad. john gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane, and up he got, in haste to ride, but soon came down again; for saddle-tree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin, when, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in. so down he came; for loss of time, although it grieved him sore, yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more. 'twas long before the customers were suited to their mind, when betty screaming came down stairs: 'the wine is left behind!' 'good lack!' quoth he--'yet bring it me, my leathern belt likewise, in which i bear my trusty sword when i do exercise.' now mrs. gilpin--careful soul!-- had two stone-bottles found, to hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound. each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew, and hung a bottle on each side, to make his balance true. then over all, that he might be equipped from top to toe, his long red cloak, well brushed and neat, he manfully did throw. now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed, full slowly pacing o'er the stones with caution and good heed. but finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet, the snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat. so, 'fair and softly,' john he cried, but john he cried in vain; that trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein. so stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright, he grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his might. his horse, which never in that sort had handled been before, what thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more. away went gilpin, neck or nought; away went hat and wig; he little dreamt when he set out of running such a rig. the wind did blow, the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay, till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away. then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung; a bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung. the dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all; and every soul cried out: 'well done!' as loud as he could bawl. away went gilpin--who but he? his fame soon spread around; he carries weight! he rides a race! 'tis for a thousand pound! and still, as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view how in a trice the turnpike-men their gates wide open threw. and now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low, the bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow. down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen, which made his horse's flanks to smoke as they had basted been. but still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced; for all might see the bottle necks still dangling at his waist. thus all through merry islington these gambols he did play, until he came unto the wash of edmonton so gay; and there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way, just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play. at edmonton his loving wife from the balcony spied her tender husband, wondering much to see how he did ride. 'stop, stop, john gilpin!--here's the house'-- they all aloud did cry; 'the dinner waits, and we are tired!' said gilpin: 'so am i!' but yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there; for why? his owner had a house full ten miles off, at ware. so like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong; so did he fly--which brings me to the middle of my song. away went gilpin out of breath, and sore against his will, till at his friend the calender's his horse at last stood still. the calender, amazed to see his neighbour in such trim, laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him: 'what news? what news? your tidings tell-- tell me you must and shall-- say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all?' now gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke; and thus unto the calender in merry guise he spoke: 'i came because your horse would come; and, if i well forebode, my hat and wig will soon be here-- they are upon the road.' the calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin, returned him not a single word, but to the house went in; whence straight he came with hat and wig; a wig that flowed behind, a hat not much the worse for wear, each comely in its kind. he held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit: 'my head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit. 'but let me scrape the dirt away that hangs upon your face: and stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case.' said john: 'it is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare if wife should dine at edmonton, and i should dine at ware.' so turning to his horse, he said: 'i am in haste to dine; 'twas for your pleasure you came here, you shall go back for mine.' ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! for which he paid full dear; for, while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear; whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar, and galloped off with all his might, as he had done before. away went gilpin, and away went gilpin's hat and wig; he lost them sooner than at first; for why?--they were too big. now mrs. gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down into the country far away, she pulled out half-a-crown; and thus unto the youth she said that drove them to the bell: 'this shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well.' the youth did ride, and soon did meet john coming back amain; whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein; but not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, the frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run. away went gilpin, and away went post-boy at his heels, the post-boy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels. six gentlemen upon the road thus seeing gilpin fly, with post-boy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry: 'stop thief! stop thief!'--a highwayman, not one of them was mute; and all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit. and now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space; the tollmen thinking as before that gilpin rode a race. and so he did, and won it too, for he got first to town; nor stopped till where he had got up he did again get down. now let us sing, long live the king, and gilpin, long live he; and, when he next doth ride abroad, may i be there to see! the 'royal george' 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. 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. boadicea when the british warrior queen, bleeding from the roman rods, sought, with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods, sage beneath the spreading oak sat the druid, hoary chief; every burning word he spoke full of rage, and full of grief. 'princess, if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues. 'rome shall perish--write that word in the blood that she has spilt; perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, deep in ruin as in guilt. 'rome, for empire far renown'd, tramples on a thousand states; soon her pride shall kiss the ground-- hark! the gaul is at her gates! 'other romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name; sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame. 'then the progeny that springs from the forests of our land, arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command. 'regions cæsar never knew thy posterity shall sway; where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they.' such the bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire, bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre. she, with all a monarch's pride, felt them in her bosom glow; rush'd to battle, fought, and died; dying hurl'd them at the foe. 'ruffians, pitiless as proud, heaven awards the vengeance due; empire is on us bestow'd, shame and ruin wait for you.' hearts of oak david garrick 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, hearts of oak 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 we wish them to stay, they never see us but they wish us away; if they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, for if they won't fight us, we cannot do more. hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, we always are ready, steady, boys, steady, we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. still britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, her standard be justice, her watchword 'be free'; then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, we always are ready, steady, boys, steady, we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. an elegy on the death of a mad dog oliver goldsmith good people all, of every sort, give ear unto my song; and if you find it wondrous short, it cannot hold you long. in islington there was a man, of whom the world might say, that still a godly race he ran whene'er he went to pray. a kind and gentle heart he had, to comfort friends and foes; the naked every day he clad, when he put on his clothes. and in that town a dog was found, as many dogs there be, both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree. this dog and man at first were friends; but when a pique began, the dog, to gain his private ends, went mad, and bit the man. around from all the neighbouring streets the wondering neighbours ran, and swore the dog had lost his wits, to bite so good a man. the wound it seem'd both sore and sad to every christian eye: and while they swore the dog was mad, they swore the man would die. but soon a wonder came to light, that show'd the rogues they lied, the man recover'd of the bite, the dog it was that died. edwin and angelina 'turn, gentle hermit of the dale, and guide my lonely way, to where yon taper cheers the vale with hospitable ray. 'for here forlorn and lost i tread, with fainting steps and slow; where wilds immeasurably spread, seem lengthening as i go.' 'forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 'to tempt the dangerous gloom; for yonder phantom only flies to lure thee to thy doom. 'here, to the houseless child of want, my door is open still: and though my portion is but scant, i give it with goodwill. 'then turn to-night, and freely share whate'er my cell bestows; my rushy couch and frugal fare, my blessing and repose. 'no flocks that range the valley free, to slaughter i condemn; taught by that power that pities me, i learn to pity them. 'but from the mountain's grassy side, a guiltless feast i bring; a script, with herbs and fruits supplied, and water from the spring. 'then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; all earth-born cares are wrong: man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long.' soft as the dew from heaven descends, his gentle accents fell; the modest stranger lowly bends, and follows to the cell. far in a wilderness obscure, the lonely mansion lay; a refuge to the neighbouring poor, and strangers led astray. no stores beneath its humble thatch required a master's care; the wicket, opening with a latch, received the harmless pair. and now, when busy crowds retire, to take their evening rest, the hermit trimmed his little fire, and cheered his pensive guest; and spread his vegetable store, and gaily pressed and smiled; and, skilled in legendary lore, the lingering hours beguiled. around, in sympathetic mirth, its tricks the kitten tries; the cricket chirrups in the hearth, the crackling fagot flies. but nothing could a charm impart, to soothe the stranger's woe; for grief was heavy at his heart, and tears began to flow. his rising cares the hermit spied, with answering care opprest: 'and whence, unhappy youth,' he cried, 'the sorrows of thy breast? 'from better habitations spurned, reluctant dost thou rove? or grieve for friendship unreturned, or unregarded love? 'alas! the joys that fortune brings are trifling, and decay; and those who prize the paltry things more trifling still than they. 'and what is friendship but a name: a charm that lulls to sleep! a shade that follows wealth or fame, and leaves the wretch to weep! 'and love is still an emptier sound, the modern fair-one's jest; on earth unseen, or only found to warm the turtle's nest. 'for shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, and spurn the sex,' he said: but while he spoke, a rising blush his love-lorn guest betrayed. surprised he sees new beauties rise, swift mantling to the view, like colours o'er the morning skies, as bright, as transient too. the bashful look, the rising breast, alternate spread alarms; the lovely stranger stands confest a maid in all her charms. 'and ah! forgive a stranger rude, a wretch forlorn,' she cried, 'whose feet unhallowed thus intrude where heaven and you reside. 'but let a maid thy pity share, whom love has taught to stray: who seeks for rest, but finds despair companion of her way. 'my father lived beside the tyne, a wealthy lord was he; and all his wealth was marked as mine; he had but only me. 'to win me from his tender arms, unnumbered suitors came; who praised me for imputed charms, and felt, or feigned, a flame. 'each hour a mercenary crowd with richest proffers strove; amongst the rest young edwin bowed, but never talked of love. 'in humblest, simplest habit clad, no wealth nor power had he; wisdom and worth were all he had; but these were all to me. 'the blossom opening to the day, the dews of heaven refined, could nought of purity display, to emulate his mind. 'the dew, the blossoms of the tree, with charms inconstant shine; their charms were his; but, woe to me, their constancy was mine. 'for still i tried each fickle art, importunate and vain; and while his passion touched my heart, i triumphed in his pain. 'till quite dejected with my scorn, he left me to my pride; and sought a solitude forlorn, in secret, where he died! 'but mine the sorrow, mine the fault, and well my life shall pay: i'll seek the solitude he sought, and stretch me where he lay. 'and there, forlorn, despairing, hid, i'll lay me down and die: 'twas so for me that edwin did, and so for him will i.' 'forbid it, heaven!' the hermit cried, and clasped her to his breast: the wondering fair one turned to chide: 'twas edwin's self that prest! 'turn, angelina, ever dear, my charmer, turn to see thy own, thy long-lost edwin here, restored to love and thee. 'thus let me hold thee to my heart, and every care resign; and shall we never, never part, my life--my all that's mine? 'no, never from this hour to part, we'll live and love so true; the sigh that rends thy constant heart, shall break thy edwin's too.' auld robin gray lady anne barnard when the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame, and a' the weary warld to rest are gane, the waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. young jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, but saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside; to make the crown a pound my jamie gaed to sea, and the crown and the pound--they were baith for me. he hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, when my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away; my mither she fell sick--my jamie was at sea, and auld robin gray came a courting me. my father couldna work--my mither couldna spin-- i toiled day and night, but their bread i couldna win; auld rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, said: 'jeanie, o for their sakes, will ye no marry me?' my heart it said na, and i looked for jamie back, but hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack, his ship was a wrack--why didna jamie die, or why am i spared to cry wae is me? my father urged me sair--my mither didna speak, but she looked in my face till my heart was like to break; they gied him my hand--my heart was in the sea-- and so robin gray he was gudeman to me. i hadna been his wife a week but only four, when, mournfu' as i sat on the stane at my door, i saw my jamie's ghaist, for i couldna think it he till he said: 'i'm come hame, love, to marry thee!' oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', i gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa'-- i wish that i were dead, but i'm na like to die, for, though my heart is broken, i'm but young, wae is me! i gang like a ghaist, and i carena much to spin, i darena think o' jamie, for that wad be a sin, but i'll do my best a gude wife to be, for, oh! robin gray, he is kind to me. woo'd, and married, and a'. alexander ross the bride cam' out o' the byre, and, oh, as she dighted her cheeks: 'sirs, i'm to be married the night, and have neither blankets nor sheets; have neither blankets nor sheets, nor scarce a coverlet too; the bride that has a' thing to borrow, has e'en right muckle ado.' woo'd, and married, and a', married, and woo'd, and a'! and was she nae very weel off, that was woo'd, and married, and a'? out spake the bride's father, as he cam' in frae the pleugh: 'oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, and ye'se get gear eneugh; the stirk stands i' the tether, and our braw bawsint yaud, will carry ye hame your corn-- what wad ye be at, ye jaud?' out spake the bride's mither: 'what deil needs a' this pride? i hadna a plack in my pouch that night i was a bride; my gown was linsey-woolsey, and ne'er a sark ava; and ye hae ribbons and buskins, mae than ane or twa.' out spake the bride's brither, as he cam' in wi' the kye: 'poor willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, had he kent ye as weel as i; for ye're baith proud and saucy, and no for a poor man's wife; gin i canna get a better, i'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.' the british grenadiers anonymous some talk of alexander, and some of hercules, of hector and lysander, and such great names as these, but of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare, with a tow, 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, for the british grenadiers! whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades, we throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears, sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the british grenadiers! and when the siege is over, we to the town repair, the townsmen cry, 'hurrah, 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, the british grenadiers! then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes, may they and their commanders live happy all their years, with a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the british grenadiers! here's to the maiden anonymous here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; now to the widow of fifty; here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, and here's to the housewife that's thrifty. let the toast pass, drink to the lass, i'll 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. 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. 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, drink to the lass, i'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. bristow tragedy thomas chatterton the feathered songster chanticleer had wound his bugle-horn, and told the early villager the coming of the morn: king edward saw the ruddy streaks of light eclipse the gray, and heard the raven's croaking throat, proclaim the fated day. 'thou 'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the god that sits enthroned on high! charles bawdin, and his fellows twain, to-day shall surely die.' then with a jug of nappy ale his knights did on him wait; 'go tell the traitor, that to-day he leaves this mortal state.' sir canterlone then bended low, with heart brimful of woe; he journeyed to the castle-gate, and to sir charles did go. but when he came, his children twain, and eke his loving wife, with briny tears did wet the floor, for good sir charles's life. 'o good sir charles,' said canterlone, 'bad tidings i do bring.' 'speak boldly, man,' said brave sir charles, 'what says the traitor-king?' 'i grieve to tell: before yon sun does from the welkin fly, he hath upon his honour sworn, that thou shalt surely die.' 'we all must die,' said brave sir charles; 'of that i'm not afraid; what boots to live a little space? thank jesus, i'm prepared. 'but tell thy king, for mine he's not, i'd sooner die to-day, than live his slave, as many are, though i should live for aye.' then canterlone he did go out, to tell the mayor straight to get all things in readiness for good sir charles's fate. then mr. canynge sought the king, and fell down on his knee; 'i'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your grace, to move your clemency.' 'then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out, you have been much our friend: whatever your request may be, we will to it attend.' 'my noble liege, all my request is for a noble knight, who, though mayhap he has done wrong, he thought it still was right. 'he has a spouse and children twain; all ruined are for aye, if that you are resolved to let charles bawdin die to-day.' 'speak not of such a traitor vile,' the king in fury said; 'before the evening-star doth shine, bawdin shall lose his head: 'justice does loudly for him call, and he shall have his meed: speak, mr. canynge, what thing else at present do you need?' 'my noble liege,' good canynge said, 'leave justice to our god, and lay the iron rule aside; be thine the olive rod. 'was god to search our hearts and reins, the best were sinners great; christ's vicar only knows no sin, in all this mortal state. 'let mercy rule thine infant reign, 'twill fix thy crown full sure; from race to race thy family all sovereigns shall endure. 'but if with blood and slaughter thou begin thy infant reign, thy crown upon thy children's brows will never long remain.' 'canynge, away! this traitor vile has scorned my power and me; how canst thou, then, for such a man entreat my clemency?' 'my noble liege, the truly brave will valorous actions prize: respect a brave and noble mind, although in enemies.' 'canynge, away! by god in heaven that did me being give, i will not taste a bit of bread whilst this sir charles doth live! 'by mary, and all saints in heaven, this sun shall be his last!' then canynge dropped a briny tear, and from the presence passed. with heart brimful of gnawing grief, he to sir charles did go, and sat him down upon a stool, and tears began to flow. 'we all must die,' said brave sir charles; 'what boots it how or when? death is the sure, the certain fate, of all we mortal men. 'say why, my friend, thy honest soul runs over at thine eye; is it for my most welcome doom that thou dost child-like cry?' saith godly canynge: 'i do weep, that thou so soon must die, and leave thy sons and helpless wife; 'tis this that wets mine eye.' 'then dry the tears that out thine eye from godly fountains spring; death i despise, and all the power of edward, traitor-king. 'when through the tyrant's welcome means i shall resign my life, the god i serve will soon provide for both my sons and wife. 'before i saw the lightsome sun, this was appointed me; shall mortal man repine or grudge what god ordains to be? 'how oft in battle have i stood, when thousands died around; when smoking streams of crimson blood imbrued the fattened ground? 'how did i know that every dart that cut the airy way, might not find passage to my heart, and close mine eyes for aye? 'and shall i now, for fear of death, look wan and be dismayed? no! from my heart fly childish fear; be all the man displayed. 'ah, godlike henry, god forefend, and guard thee and thy son, if 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, why, then his will be done. 'my honest friend, my fault has been to serve god and my prince; and that i no time-server am, my death will soon convince. 'in london city was i born, of parents of great note; my father did a noble arms emblazon on his coat: 'i make no doubt but he is gone where soon i hope to go, where we for ever shall be blest, from out the reach of woe. 'he taught me justice and the laws with pity to unite; and eke he taught me how to know the wrong cause from the right: 'he taught me with a prudent hand to feed the hungry poor, nor let my servants drive away the hungry from my door: 'and none can say but all my life i have his wordis kept; and summed the actions of the day each night before i slept. 'i have a spouse, go ask of her if i defiled her bed? i have a king, and none can lay black treason on my head. 'in lent, and on the holy eve, from flesh i did refrain; why should i then appear dismayed to leave this world of pain? 'no, hapless henry, i rejoice i shall not see thy death; most willingly in thy just cause do i resign my breath. 'oh, fickle people! ruined land! thou wilt ken peace no moe; while richard's sons exalt themselves, thy brooks with blood will flow. 'say, were ye tired of godly peace, and godly henry's reign, that you did chop your easy days for those of blood and pain? 'what though i on a sledge be drawn, and mangled by a hind, i do defy the traitor's power; he cannot harm my mind: 'what though, uphoisted on a pole, my limbs shall rot in air, and no rich monument of brass charles bawdin's name shall bear; 'yet in the holy book above, which time can't eat away, there with the servants of the lord my name shall live for aye. 'then welcome death, for life eterne i leave this mortal life: farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, my sons and loving wife! 'now death as welcome to me comes as e'er the month of may; now would i even wish to live, with my dear wife to stay.' saith canynge: ''tis a goodly thing to be prepared to die; and from this world of pain and grief to god in heaven to fly.' and now the bell began to toll, and clarions to sound; sir charles he heard the horses' feet a-prancing on the ground. and just before the officers, his loving wife came in, weeping unfeignèd tears of woe with loud and dismal din. 'sweet florence, now i pray forbear, in quiet let me die; pray god that every christian soul may look on death as i. 'sweet florence, why these briny tears? they wash my soul away, and almost make me wish for life, with thee, sweet dame, to stay. ''tis but a journey i shall go unto the land of bliss; now, as a proof of husband's love receive this holy kiss.' then florence, faltering in her say, trembling these wordis spoke: 'ah, cruel edward! bloody king! my heart is well-nigh broke. 'ah, sweet sir charles, why wilt thou go without thy loving wife? the cruel axe that cuts thy neck, it eke shall end my life.' and now the officers came in to bring sir charles away, who turnèd to his loving wife, and thus to her did say: 'i go to life, and not to death; trust thou in god above, and teach thy sons to fear the lord, and in their hearts him love. 'teach them to run the noble race that i their father run. florence, should death thee take--adieu! ye officers, lead on.' then florence raved as any mad, and did her tresses tear; 'o stay, my husband, lord, and life!'-- sir charles then dropped a tear. till tirèd out with raving loud, she fell upon the floor; sir charles exerted all his might, and marchèd from out the door. upon a sledge he mounted then, with looks full brave and sweet; looks that enshone no more concern than any in the street. before him went the council-men, in scarlet robes and gold, and tassels spangling in the sun, much glorious to behold: the friars of saint augustine next appearèd to the sight, all clad in homely russet weeds, of godly monkish plight: in different parts a godly psalm most sweetly they did chant; behind their back six minstrels came, who tuned the strange bataunt. then five-and-twenty archers came; each one the bow did bend, from rescue of king henry's friends sir charles for to defend. bold as a lion came sir charles, drawn on a cloth-laid sledde, by two black steeds in trappings white, with plumes upon their head. behind him five-and-twenty more of archers strong and stout, with bended bow each one in hand, marchèd in goodly rout. saint james's friars marched next, each one his part did chant; behind their backs six minstrels came, who tuned the strange bataunt. then came the mayor and aldermen, in cloth of scarlet decked; and their attending men each one, like eastern princes tricked. and after them a multitude of citizens did throng; the windows were all full of heads, as he did pass along. and when he came to the high cross, sir charles did turn and say: 'o thou that savest man from sin, wash my soul clean this day.' at the great minster window sat the king in mickle state, to see charles bawdin go along to his most welcome fate. soon as the sledde drew nigh enough, that edward he might hear, the brave sir charles he did stand up, and thus his words declare: 'thou seest me, edward! traitor vile! exposed to infamy; but be assurèd, disloyal man, i'm greater now than thee. 'by foul proceedings, murder, blood, thou wearest now a crown; and hast appointed me to die by power not thine own. 'thou thinkest i shall die to-day; i have been dead till now, and soon shall live to wear a crown for aye upon my brow; 'whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, shalt rule this fickle land, to let them know how wide the rule 'twixt king and tyrant hand. 'thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! shall fall on thy own head'-- from out of hearing of the king departed then the sledde. king edward's soul rushed to his face, he turned his head away, and to his brother gloucester he thus did speak and say: 'to him that so-much-dreaded death no ghastly terrors bring; behold the man! he spake the truth; he's greater than a king!' 'so let him die!' duke richard said; 'and may each one our foes bend down their necks to bloody axe, and feed the carrion crows.' and now the horses gently drew sir charles up the high hill; the axe did glister in the sun, his precious blood to spill. sir charles did up the scaffold go, as up a gilded car of victory, by valorous chiefs gained in the bloody war. and to the people he did say: 'behold you see me die, for serving loyally my king, my king most rightfully. 'as long as edward rules this land, no quiet you will know; your sons and husbands shall be slain, and brooks with blood shall flow. 'you leave your good and lawful king when in adversity; like me, unto the true cause stick, and for the true cause die.' then he, with priests, upon his knees, a prayer to god did make, beseeching him unto himself his parting soul to take. then, kneeling down, he laid his head most seemly on the block; which from his body fair at once the able headsman stroke: and out the blood began to flow, and round the scaffold twine; and tears, enough to wash't away, did flow from each man's eyne. the bloody axe his body fair into four partis cut; and every part, and eke his head, upon a pole was put. one part did rot on kinwulph-hill, one on the minster-tower, and one from off the castle-gate the crowen did devour. the other on saint paul's good gate, a dreary spectacle; his head was placed on the high cross, in high street most noble. thus was the end of bawdin's fate: god prosper long our king, and grant he may, with bawdin's soul, in heaven god's mercy sing! minstrel's song in ella oh, sing unto my roundelay; oh, drop the briny tear with me; dance no more at holiday, like a running river be; my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. black his hair as the winter night, white his neck as summer snow, ruddy his face as the morning light, cold he lies in the grave below: my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. sweet his tongue as throstle's note, quick in dance as thought was he; deft his tabor, cudgel stout; oh! he lies by the willow-tree. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. hark! the raven flaps his wing, in the briered dell below; hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, to the nightmares as they go. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. see! the white moon shines on high; whiter is my true-love's shroud; whiter than the morning sky, whiter than the evening cloud. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. here, upon my true-love's grave, shall the garish flowers be laid, nor one holy saint to save all the sorrows of a maid. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. with my hands i'll bind the briers, round his holy corse to gre; elfin-fairy, light your fires, here my body still shall be. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. come with acorn cup and thorn, drain my heart's blood all away; life and all its good i scorn, dance by night, or feast by day, my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. water-witches, crowned with reytes, bear me to your deadly tide. i die--i come--my true-love waits. thus the damsel spake, and died. the piper william blake piping down the valleys wild, piping songs of pleasant glee, on a cloud i saw a child, and he, laughing, said to me, 'pipe a song about a lamb,' so i piped with merry cheer; 'piper, pipe that song again,' so i piped: he wept to hear. 'drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, sing thy songs of happy cheer.' so i sang the same again, while he wept with joy to hear. 'piper, sit thee down and write in a book that all may read.' so he vanish'd from my sight: and i pluck'd a hollow reed, and i made a rural pen, and i stain'd the water clear, and i wrote my happy songs every child may joy to hear. the tiger tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forest of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? in what distant deeps or skies burnt the ardour of thine eyes? on what wings dare he aspire-- what the hand dare seize the fire? and what shoulder, and what art could twist the sinews of thy heart? and when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand form'd thy dread feet? what the hammer, what the chain, in what furnace was thy brain? did god smile his work to see? did he who made the lamb make thee? scots wha hae robert burns scots, wha hae wi' wallace bled, scots, wham bruce has aften led; welcome to your gory bed, or to victorie! now's the day, and now's the hour; see the front of battle lour; see approach proud edward's power-- chains and slaverie! wha will be a traitor knave? wha can fill a coward's grave? wha sae base as be a slave? let him turn and flee! wha for scotland's king and law freedom's sword will strongly draw, freeman stand, or free-man fa'? let him follow me! by oppression's woes and pains! by your sons in servile chains! we will drain our dearest veins, but they shall be free! lay the proud usurpers low! tyrants fall in every foe! liberty's in every blow! let us do, or die! for a' that is there, for honest poverty, that hings his head, and a' that; the coward-slave, we pass him by, we dare be poor for a' that! for a' that, and a' that; our toils obscure, and a' that; the rank is but the guinea's stamp: the man's the gowd for a' that. what tho' on hamely fare we dine, wear hoddin grey, and a' that; gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, a man's a man for a' that. for a' that, and a' that, their tinsel show, and a' that; the honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, is king o' men for a' that. ye see yon birkie, ca'd 'a lord,' wha struts, and stares, and a' that; tho' hundreds worship at his word, he's but a coof for a' that: for a' that, and a' that, his riband, star, an' a' that, the man of independent mind, he looks and laughs at a' that. a prince can mak' a belted knight, a marquis, duke, an' a' that; but an honest man's aboon his might, guid faith he mauna fa' that! for a' that, an' a' that, their dignities, and a' that, the pith o' sense an' pride o' worth, are higher rank than a' that. then let us pray that come it may, as come it will for a' that; that sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, may bear the gree, an' a' that. for a' that, and a' that, it's comin' yet, for a' that, that man to man, the warld o'er, shall brothers be for a' that. a red, red rose o, my luve's like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in june: o, my luve's like the melodie that's sweetly play'd in tune. as fair art thou, my bonie lass, so deep in luve am i: and i will luve thee still, my dear, till a' the seas gang dry. till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi' the sun: i will luve thee still, my dear, while the sands o' life shall run. and fare thee weel, my only luve, and fare thee weel awhile! and i will come again, my luve, tho' it were ten thousand mile! comin' thro' the rye o, jenny's a' weet, poor body, jenny's seldom dry; she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye. comin' thro' the rye, poor body, comin' thro' the rye, she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye! gin a body meet a body-- comin' thro' the rye; gin a body kiss a body-- need a body cry? gin a body meet a body comin' thro' the glen, gin a body kiss a body-- need the warld ken? jenny's a' weet, poor body; jenny's seldom dry; she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye. phillis the fair while larks with little wing fann'd the pure air, tasting the breathing spring, forth i did fare: gay the sun's golden eye peep'd o'er the mountains high; 'such thy morn,' did i cry, 'phillis the fair!' in each bird's careless song glad did i share; while yon wild flowers among, chance led me there: sweet to the opening day, rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 'such thy bloom,' did i say, 'phillis the fair!' down in a shady walk, doves cooing were, i mark'd the cruel hawk caught in a snare; so kind may fortune be, such make his destiny, he who would injure thee, phillis the fair! ae fond kiss ae fond kiss, and then we sever; ae fareweel, alas! for ever! deep in heart-wrung tears i'll pledge thee, warring sighs and groans i'll wage thee. who shall say that fortune grieves him, while the star of hope she leaves him? me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; dark despair around benights me. i'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, naething could resist my nancy; but to see her was to love her; love but her, and love for ever. had we never loved sae kindly, had we never loved sae blindly, never met--or never parted, we had ne'er been broken-hearted. fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! thine be ilka joy and treasure, peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! ae fond kiss, and then we sever; ae fareweel, alas! for ever! deep in heart-wrung tears i'll pledge thee, warring sighs and groans i'll wage thee! my bonny mary go fetch to me a pint o' wine, and fill it in a silver tassie; that i may drink, before i go, a service to my bonny lassie; the boat rocks at the pier o' leith, fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; the ship rides by the berwick law, and i maun leave my bonny mary. the trumpets sound, the banners fly, the glittering spears are ranked ready; the shouts o' war are heard afar, the battle closes thick and bloody; but it's not the roar o' sea or shore wad make me langer wish to tarry; nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-- it's leaving thee, my bonny mary. afton water flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes, flow gently, i'll sing thee a song in thy praise; my mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, flow gently, sweet afton, disturb not her dream. thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, i charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. how lofty, sweet afton, thy neighbouring hills, far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; there daily i wander as noon rises high, my flocks and my mary's sweet cot in my eye. how pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; there oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, the sweet-scented birk shades my mary and me. thy crystal stream, afton, how lovely it glides, and winds by the cot where my mary resides; how wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, as gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes, flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; my mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, flow gently, sweet afton, disturb not her dream. for the sake of somebody my heart is sair, i daurna tell, my heart is sair for somebody; i could wake a winter night, for the sake o' somebody! oh-hon! for somebody! oh-hey! for somebody! i could range the world around, for the sake o' somebody. ye powers that smile on virtuous love, o, sweetly smile on somebody! frae ilka danger keep him free, and send me safe my somebody. oh-hon! for somebody! oh-hey! for somebody! i wad do--what wad i not? for the sake o' somebody! whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad; o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad: tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad. but warily tent, when ye come to court me, and come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, and come as ye were na comin' to me. at kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie: but steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee, yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, and whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; but court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be, for fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad; o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad: tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad. the de'il's awa' wi' the exciseman the de'il cam fiddling thro' the town, and danc'd awa wi' the exciseman; and ilka wife cry'd 'auld mahoun, we wish you luck o' your prize, man. we'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, we'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; and monie thanks to the muckle black de'il that danc'd awa wi' the exciseman. 'there's threesome reels, and foursome reels, there's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; but the ae best dance that cam to our lan', was--the de'il's awa wi' the exciseman. we'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, we'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; and monie thanks to the muckle black de'il that danc'd awa wi' the exciseman.' lassie wi' the lint-white locks lassie wi' the lint-white locks, bonie lassie, artless lassie, wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? wilt thou be my dearie o? now nature cleeds the flowery lea, and a' is young and sweet like thee; o wilt thou share its joys wi' me, and say thou'lt be my dearie o? lassie wi' the lint-white locks... and when the welcome simmer-shower has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, we'll to the breathing woodbine bower at sultry noon, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks... when cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, the weary shearer's hameward way, thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, and talk o' love, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks... and when the howling wintry blast disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; enclasped to my faithfu' breast, i'll comfort thee, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks, bonie lassie, artless lassie, wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? wilt thou be my dearie o? i love my jean of a' the airts the wind can blaw, i dearly like the west, for there the bonie lassie lives, the lassie i lo'e best: there wild woods grow, and rivers row, and monie a hill between; but day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my jean. i see her in the dewy flowers, i see her sweet and fair: i hear her in the tunefu' birds, i hear her charm the air: there's not a bonie flower that springs by fountain, shaw, or green; there's not a bonie bird that sings, but minds me o' my jean. the happy trio o, willie brew'd a peck o' maut, and rob and allan cam to pree; three blither hearts that lee-lang night, ye wad na find in christendie. we are na fou, we're no that fou, but just a drappie in our ee: the cock may craw, the day may daw, and aye we'll taste the barley bree. here are we met, three merry boys, three merry boys, i trow, are we; and monie a night we've merry been, and monie mae we hope to be! it is the moon, i ken her horn, that's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; she shines sae bright to wyle us hame, but by my sooth she'll wait a wee! wha first shall rise to gang awa, a cuckold, coward loun is he! wha first beside his chair shall fa', he is the king amang us three! we are na fou, we're no that fou, but just a drappie in our ee: the cock may craw, the day may daw, and aye we'll taste the barley bree. john anderson my jo john anderson my jo, john, when we were first acquent, your locks were like the raven, your bonie brow was brent; but now your brow is beld, john, your locks are like the snaw; but blessings on your frosty pow, john anderson my jo. john anderson my jo, john, we clamb the hill thegither; and monie a canty day, john, we've had wi' ane anither: now we maun totter down, john, but hand in hand we'll go, and sleep thegither at the foot, john anderson my jo. my wife's a winsome wee thing she is a winsome wee thing, she is a handsome wee thing, she is a bonie wee thing, this sweet wee wife o' mine. i never saw a fairer, i never lo'ed a dearer, and neist my heart i'll wear her, for fear my jewel tine. she is a winsome wee thing, she is a handsome wee thing, she is a bonie wee thing, this sweet wee wife o' mine. the warld's wrack, we share o't, the warstle and the care o't; wi' her i'll blythely bear it, and think my lot divine. duncan gray duncan gray came here to woo, ha, ha, the wooing o't, on blithe yule night when we were fou, ha, ha, the wooing o't. maggie coost her head fu' high, look'd asklent and unco skeigh, gart poor duncan stand abeigh; ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan fleech'd, and duncan pray'd; ha, ha, the wooing o't, meg was deaf as ailsa craig, ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan sigh'd baith out and in, grat his een baith bleer't and blin', spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; ha, ha, the wooing o't. time and chance are but a tide, ha, ha, the wooing o't, slighted love is sair to bide, ha, ha, the wooing o't. shall i, like a fool, quoth he, for a haughty hizzie die? she may gae to--france for me! ha, ha, the wooing o't. how it comes let doctors tell, ha, ha, the wooing o't, meg grew sick--as he grew well, ha, ha, the wooing o't. something in her bosom wrings, for relief a sigh she brings; and o, her een, they spak sic things! ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan was a lad o' grace, ha, ha, the wooing o't, maggie's was a piteous case, ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan couldna be her death, swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; now they're crouse and cantie baith! ha, ha, the wooing o't. my ain kind dearie o when o'er the hill the eastern star tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; and owsen frae the furrow'd field return sae dowf and wearie o; down by the burn, where scented birks wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, i'll meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. in mirkest glen, at midnight hour, i'd rove, and ne'er be eerie o, if thro' that glen i gaed to thee, my ain kind dearie o. altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, and i were ne'er sae wearie o, i'd meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. the hunter lo'es the morning sun, to rouse the mountain deer, my jo; at noon the fisher seeks the glen, along the burn to steer, my jo; gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, it maks my heart sae cheery o, to meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. the thorn from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested a sprig her fair breast to adorn, from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested, a sprig her fair breast to adorn. no! by heav'n! i exclaimed, may i perish, if ever i plant in that bosom a thorn! when i show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, she blushed like the dawning of morn, when i show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, she blushed like the dawning of morn. yes! i'll consent, she replied, if you promise, that no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn. john barleycorn there was three kings into the east, three kings both great and high, and they hae sworn a solemn oath, john barleycorn should die. they took a plough and plough'd him down, put clods upon his head, and they hae sworn a solemn oath, john barleycorn was dead. but the cheerful spring came kindly on, and showers began to fall; john barleycorn got up again, and sore surpris'd them all. the sultry suns of summer came, and he grew thick and strong, his head well-armed wi' pointed spears, that no one should him wrong. the sober autumn enter'd mild, when he grew wan and pale; his bending joints and drooping head show'd he began to fail. his colour sicken'd more and more, he faded into age; and then his enemies began to show their deadly rage. they've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, and cut him by the knee; and tied him fast upon the cart, like a rogue for forgerie. they laid him down upon his back, and cudgell'd him full sore; they hung him up before the storm, and turn'd him o'er and o'er. they fillèd up a darksome pit with water to the brim, they heavèd in john barleycorn, there let him sink or swim. they laid him out upon the floor, to work him further woe, and still as signs of life appear'd, they toss'd him to and fro. they wasted, o'er a scorching flame, the marrow of his bones; but a miller used him worst of all, for he crush'd him between two stones. and they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, and drank it round and round; and still the more and more they drank, their joy did more abound. john barleycorn was a hero bold, of noble enterprise; for if you do but taste his blood, 'twill make your courage rise. 'twill make a man forget his woe; 'twill heighten all his joy; 'twill make the widow's heart to sing, tho' the tear were in her eye. then let us toast john barleycorn, each man a glass in hand; and may his great prosperity ne'er fail in old scotland! the banks of allan water anonymous on the banks of allan water, when the sweet spring time did fall, was the miller's lovely daughter, fairest of them all. for his bride a soldier sought her, and a winning tongue had he, on the banks of allan water, none so gay as she. on the banks of allan water, when brown autumn spread his store, there i saw the miller's daughter, but she smiled no more. for the summer grief had brought her, and the soldier false was he, on the banks of allan water, none so sad as she. on the banks of allan water, when the winter snow fell fast, still was seen the miller's daughter, chilling blew the blast. but the miller's lovely daughter, both from cold and care was free, on the banks of allan water, there a corse lay she. 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 nuts at liberty. in orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, that breathe a gale of fragrance round, i charm the fairy-footed hours with my loved lute's romantic sound; or crowns of living laurel weave for those that win the race at eve. the shepherd's horn at break of day, the ballet danced in twilight glade, the canzonet and roundelay sung in the silent greenwood shade: these simple joys, that never fail, shall bind me to my native vale. a wish 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 ivied 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 beneath the trees, where first our marriage-vows were given, with merry peals shall swell the breeze, and point with taper spire to heaven. the fakenham ghost robert bloomfield the lawns were dry in euston park; (here truth inspires my tale) the lonely footpath, still and dark, led over hill and dale. benighted was an ancient dame, and fearful haste she made to gain the vale of fakenham and hail its willow shade. her footsteps knew no idle stops, but followed faster still, and echoed to the darksome copse that whispered on the hill; where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed, bespoke a peopled shade, and many a wing the foliage brushed, and hovering circuits made. the dappled herd of grazing deer, that sought the shades by day, now started from her path with fear, and gave the stranger way. darker it grew; and darker fears came o'er her troubled mind-- when now a short quick step she hears come patting close behind. she turned; it stopped; nought could she see upon the gloomy plain! but as she strove the sprite to flee, she heard the same again. now terror seized her quaking frame, for, where the path was bare, the trotting ghost kept on the same she muttered many a prayer. yet once again, amidst her fright, she tried what sight could do; when through the cheating glooms of night a monster stood in view. regardless of whate'er she felt, it followed down the plain! she owned her sins, and down she knelt and said her prayers again. then on she sped; and hope grew strong, the white park gate in view; which pushing hard, so long it swung that ghost and all passed through. loud fell the gate against the post! her heart-strings like to crack; for much she feared the grisly ghost would leap upon her back. still on, pat, pat, the goblin went, as it had done before; her strength and resolution spent, she fainted at the door. out came her husband, much surprised, out came her daughter dear; good-natured souls! all unadvised of what they had to fear. the candle's gleam pierced through the night, some short space o'er the green; and there the little trotting sprite distinctly might be seen. an ass's foal had lost its dam within the spacious park; and simple as the playful lamb had followed in the dark. no goblin he; no imp of sin; no crimes had ever known; they took the shaggy stranger in, and reared him as their own. his little hoofs would rattle round upon the cottage floor; the matron learned to love the sound that frightened her before. a favourite the ghost became, and 'twas his fate to thrive; and long he lived and spread his fame, and kept the joke alive. for many a laugh went through the vale; and some conviction too: each thought some other goblin tale, perhaps, was just as true. the keel row anonymous as i came thro' sandgate, thro' sandgate, thro' sandgate, as i came thro' sandgate i heard a lassie sing, o weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, o weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in. o wha's like my johnny, sae leith, sae blythe, sae bonny? he's foremost among the mony keel lads o' coaly tyne: he'll set and row so tightly, or in the dance--so sprightly-- he'll cut and shuffle sightly; 'tis true,--were he not mine. he wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet; he wears a blue bonnet,-- and a dimple in his chin: and weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row; and weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in. the blue bell of scotland anonymous oh where, and oh where, is your highland laddie gone? he's gone to fight the french for king george upon the throne; and it's oh, in my heart, how i wish him safe at home! oh where, and oh where, does your highland laddie dwell? he dwells in merry scotland, at the sign of the blue bell; and it's oh, in my heart, that i love my laddie well. in what clothes, in what clothes is your highland laddie clad? his bonnet's of the saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid; and it's oh, in my heart, that i love my highland lad. suppose, oh, suppose that your highland lad should die? the bagpipes shall play over him, and i'll lay me down and cry; and it's oh, in my heart, i wish he may not die. the laird o' cockpen lady nairne the laird o' cockpen he's proud an' he's great, his mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state; he wanted a wife his braw house to keep, but favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. doon by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, at his table-head he thocht she'd look well; m'cleish's ae dochter, o' clavers-ha' lee, a penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. his wig was weel pouther'd, as gude as when new; his waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; he put on a ring, a sword, an' cocked hat, an' wha could refuse the laird wi' a' that? he took the grey mare, he rade cannilie, an' rapped at the yett o' clavers-ha' lee; 'gae tell mistress jean to come speedily ben,-- she's wanted to speak wi' the laird o' cockpen.' mistress jean she was makin' the elder-flow'r wine; 'an' what brings the laird at sic a like time?' she put aff her apron, an' on her silk goon, her mutch wi' red ribbons, an' gaed awa' doon. an' when she cam' ben he bowèd fu' low, an' what was his errand he soon let her know; amazed was the laird when the lady said 'na!' an' wi' a laigh curtsie she turnèd awa'! dumfounder'd was he, but nae sigh did he gi'e, he mounted his mare an' he rade cannilie; an' often he thocht, as he gaed through the glen, 'she's daft to refuse the laird o' cockpen!' caller herrin' wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; wha'll buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth? when ye were sleepin' on your pillows, dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows, darkling as they faced the billows, a' to fill the woven willows? buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they're no brought here without brave darin'; buy my caller herrin', hauled thro' wind and rain. wha'll buy my caller herrin'?... wha'll buy my caller herrin'? oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; wives and mithers, maist despairin', ca' them lives o' men. wha'll buy my caller herrin'?... when the creel o' herrin' passes, ladies, clad in silks and laces, gather in their braw pelisses, cast their heads, and screw their faces. wha'll buy my caller herrin'?... caller herrin's no got lightlie, ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', gow has set you a' a-singin'. wha'll buy my caller herrin'?... neebour wives, now tent my tellin', when the bonnie fish ye're sellin', at ae word be in yer dealin'-- truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they're bonnie fish and halesome farin' wha'll buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth? tom bowling charles 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 broach'd 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 blithe 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 despatches, in vain tom's life has doff'd, for, though his body's under hatches, his soul has gone aloft. blow high, blow low blow high, blow low, let tempests tear the mainmast 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. and on that night when all the crew the mem'ry of their former lives o'er flowing cans of flip renew, and drink their sweethearts and their wives, i'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; and, as the ship rolls through the sea, the burthen of my song shall be-- blow high, blow low. the jolly young waterman and did you not hear of a jolly young waterman, who at blackfriars bridge us'd for to ply, and he feather'd his oars with such skill and dexterity, winning each heart and delighting each eye. he look'd so neat and row'd so steadily, the maidens all flock'd to his boat so readily, and he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, that this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. what sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry, 'twas cleaned out so nice and so painted withall, he always was first oars when the fine city ladies, in a party to ranelagh went, or vauxhall. and oft-times would they be giggling and leering, but 'twas all one to tom their jibing and jeering, for loving or liking he little did care, for this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. and yet but to see how strangely things happen, as he row'd along thinking of nothing at all, he was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, that she smil'd, and so straightway in love he did fall. and would this young damsel e'en banish his sorrow, he'd wed her to-night, before even to-morrow, and how should this waterman ever know care, when he's married and never in want of a fare? the rime of the ancient mariner samuel taylor coleridge part i [sidenote: an ancient mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.] it is an ancient mariner, and he stoppeth one of three. 'by thy long grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stopp'st thou me? the bridegroom's doors are opened wide, and i am next of kin; the guests are met, the feast is set: may'st hear the merry din.' he holds him with his skinny hand, 'there was a ship,' quoth he. 'hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' eftsoons his hand dropt he. [sidenote: the wedding-guest is spellbound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.] he holds him with his glittering eye-- the wedding-guest stood still, and listens like a three years' child: the mariner hath his will. the wedding-guest sat on a stone: he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. 'the ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, merrily did we drop below the kirk, below the hill, below the lighthouse top. [sidenote: the mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the line.] the sun came up upon the left, out of the sea came he! and he shone bright, and on the right, went down into the sea. higher and higher every day, till over the mast at noon'-- the wedding-guest here beat his breast, for he heard the loud bassoon. [sidenote: the wedding-guest heareth the bridal music; but the mariner continueth his tale.] the bride hath paced into the hall, red as a rose is she; nodding their heads before her goes the merry minstrelsy. the wedding-guest he beat his breast, yet he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. [sidenote: the ship drawn by a storm toward the south pole.] 'and now the storm-blast came, and he was tyrannous and strong: he struck with his o'ertaking wings, and chased us south along. with sloping masts and dipping prow, as who pursued with yell and blow still treads the shadow of his foe and forward bends his head, the ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, and southward aye we fled. and now there came both mist and snow, and it grew wondrous cold: and ice, mast-high, came floating by, as green as emerald. [sidenote: the land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.] and through the drifts the snowy clifts did send a dismal sheen: nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-- the ice was all between. the ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around: it cracked and growled, and roared and howled, like noises in a swound! [sidenote: till a great sea-bird, called the albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality] at length did cross an albatross: thorough the fog it came; as if it had been a christian soul, we hailed it in god's name. it ate the food it ne'er had eat, and round and round it flew. the ice did split with a thunder-fit; the helmsman steered us through! [sidenote: and lo! the albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward, through fog and floating ice.] and a good south wind sprung up behind; the albatross did follow, and every day, for food or play, came to the mariners' hollo! in mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, it perched for vespers nine; whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, glimmered the white moon-shine.' [sidenote: the ancient mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.] 'god save thee, ancient mariner! from the fiends, that plague thee thus!-- why look'st thou so?'--'with my cross-bow i shot the albatross! part ii 'the sun now rose upon the right: out of the sea came he, still hid in mist, and on the left went down into the sea. and the good south wind still blew behind, but no sweet bird did follow, nor any day, for food or play, came to the mariners' hollo! [sidenote: his shipmates cry out against the ancient mariner, for killing the bird of good luck.] and i had done a hellish thing, and it would work 'em woe; for all averred, i had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow. "ah wretch," said they, "the bird to slay, that made the breeze to blow!" [sidenote: but when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.] nor dim nor red, like god's own head, the glorious sun uprist: then all averred, i had killed the bird that brought the fog and mist. "'twas right," said they, "such birds to slay, that bring the fog and mist." [sidenote: the fair breeze continues; the ship enters the pacific ocean and sails northward, even till it reaches the line.] the fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, the furrow streamed off free: we were the first that ever burst into that silent sea. [sidenote: the ship hath been suddenly becalmed.] down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'twas sad as sad could be; and we did speak only to break the silence of the sea! all in a hot and copper sky, the bloody sun, at noon, right up above the mast did stand, no bigger than the moon. day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion; as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. [sidenote: and the albatross begins to be avenged.] water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink; water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. the very deep did rot: o christ that ever this should be! yea, slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea. about, about, in reel and rout the death-fires danced at night; the water, like a witch's oils, burnt green, and blue, and white. [sidenote: a spirit had followed them: one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned jew, josephus, and the platonic constantinopolitan, michael psellus, may be consulted. they are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.] and some in dreams assurèd were of the spirit that plagued us so: nine fathom deep he had followed us from the land of mist and snow. and every tongue, through utter drought, was withered at the root; we could not speak, no more than if we had been choked with soot. [sidenote: the shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.] ah! well a-day! what evil looks had i from old and young! instead of the cross, the albatross about my neck was hung. part iii 'here passed a weary time. each throat was parched, and glazed each eye. a weary time! a weary time! how glazed each weary eye! when looking westward i beheld a something in the sky. [sidenote: the ancient mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.] at first it seemed a little speck, and then it seemed a mist: it moved and moved, and took at last a certain shape, i wist. a speck, a mist, a shape, i wist! and still it neared and neared: as if it dodged a water-sprite, it plunged and tacked and veered. [sidenote: at its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.] with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, we could nor laugh nor wail; through utter drought all dumb we stood! i bit my arm, i sucked the blood, and cried, "a sail! a sail!" [sidenote: a flash of joy.] with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, agape they heard me call: gramercy! they for joy did grin, and all at once their breath drew in, as they were drinking all. [sidenote: and horror follows. for can it be a _ship_ that comes onward without wind or tide?] "see! see!" (i cried) "she tacks no more! hither to work us weal; without a breeze, without a tide, she steadies with upright keel!" the western wave was all a-flame, the day was well nigh done! almost upon the western wave rested the broad bright sun; when that strange shape drove suddenly betwixt us and the sun. [sidenote: it seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.] and straight the sun was flecked with bars, (heaven's mother send us grace!) as if through a dungeon grate he peered, with broad and burning face. "alas!" (thought i, and my heart beat loud) how fast she nears and nears! are those her sails that glance in the sun, like restless gossameres? [sidenote: and its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting sun.] [sidenote: the spectre-woman and her death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship.] are those her ribs through which the sun did peer, as through a grate? and is that woman all her crew? is that a death? and are there two? is death that woman's mate? [sidenote: like vessel, like crew!] her lips were red, her looks were free, her locks were yellow as gold: her skin was as white as leprosy, the night-mare life-in-death was she, who thicks man's blood with cold. [sidenote: death and life-in-death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient mariner.] the naked hulk alongside came, and the twain were casting dice; "the game is done! i've won, i've won!" quoth she, and whistles thrice. the sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: at one stride comes the dark; with far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, off shot the spectre-bark. [sidenote: at the rising of the moon,] we listened and looked sideways up! fear at my heart, as at a cup, my life-blood seemed to sip! the stars were dim, and thick the night, the steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; from the sails the dew did drip-- till clomb above the eastern bar the hornèd moon, with one bright star within the nether tip. [sidenote: one after another,] one after one, by the star-dogged moon, too quick for groan or sigh, each turned his face with a ghastly pang, and cursed me with his eye. [sidenote: his shipmates drop down dead.] four times fifty living men, (and i heard nor sigh nor groan) with heavy thump, a lifeless lump, they dropped down one by one. [sidenote: but life-in-death begins her work on the ancient mariner.] the souls did from their bodies fly,-- they fled to bliss or woe! and every soul, it passed me by, like the whizz of my cross-bow!' part iv [sidenote: the wedding-guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him;] 'i fear thee, ancient mariner! i fear thy skinny hand! and thou art long, and lank, and brown, as is the ribbed sea-sand. [sidenote: but the ancient mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.] i fear thee and thy glittering eye, and thy skinny hand, so brown.'-- 'fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest! this body dropt not down. alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide wide sea! and never a saint took pity on my soul in agony. [sidenote: he despiseth the creatures of the calm,] the many men, so beautiful! and they all dead did lie: and a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did i. [sidenote: and envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.] i looked upon the rotting sea, and drew my eyes away; i looked upon the rotting deck, and there the dead men lay. i looked to heaven, and tried to pray; but or ever a prayer had gusht, a wicked whisper came, and made my heart as dry as dust. i closed my lids, and kept them close, and the balls like pulses beat; for the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, lay like a load on my weary eye, and the dead were at my feet. [sidenote: but the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.] the cold sweat melted from their limbs, nor rot nor reek did they: the look with which they looked on me had never passed away. an orphan's curse would drag to hell a spirit from on high; but oh! more horrible than that is the curse in a dead man's eye! seven days, seven nights, i saw that curse, and yet i could not die. [sidenote: in his loneliness and fixedness, he yearneth towards the journeying moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country, and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.] the moving moon went up the sky, and nowhere did abide: softly she was going up, and a star or two beside. her beams bemocked the sultry main, like april hoar-frost spread; but where the ship's huge shadow lay, the charmèd water burnt alway a still and awful red. [sidenote: by the light of the moon he beholdeth god's creatures of the great calm.] beyond the shadow of the ship, i watched the water-snakes: they moved in tracks of shining white, and when they reared, the elfish light fell off in hoary flakes. within the shadow of the ship i watched their rich attire: blue, glossy green, and velvet black, they coiled and swam; and every track was a flash of golden fire. [sidenote: their beauty and their happiness.] [sidenote: he blesseth them in his heart.] o happy living things! no tongue their beauty might declare: a spring of love gushed from my heart, and i blessed them unaware! sure my kind saint took pity on me, and i blessed them unaware. [sidenote: the spell begins to break.] the selfsame moment i could pray; and from my neck so free the albatross fell off, and sank like lead into the sea. part v 'oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole! to mary queen the praise be given! she sent the gentle sleep from heaven, that slid into my soul. [sidenote: by grace of the holy mother, the ancient mariner is refreshed with rain.] the silly buckets on the deck, that had so long remained, i dreamt that they were filled with dew; and when i awoke, it rained. my lips were wet, my throat was cold, my garments all were dank; sure i had drunken in my dreams, and still my body drank. i moved, and could not feel my limbs: i was so light--almost i thought that i had died in sleep and was a blessed ghost. [sidenote: he heareth sounds, and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.] and soon i heard a roaring wind: it did not come anear; but with its sound it shook the sails, that were so thin and sere. the upper air burst into life, and a hundred fire-flags sheen; to and fro they were hurried about; and to and fro, and in and out, the wan stars danced between. and the coming wind did roar more loud, and the sails did sigh like sedge; and the rain poured down from one black cloud; the moon was at its edge. the thick black cloud was cleft, and still the moon was at its side: like waters shot from some high crag, the lightning fell with never a jag, a river steep and wide. [sidenote: the bodies of the ship's crew are inspirited, and the ship moves on;] the loud wind never reached the ship, yet now the ship moved on! beneath the lightning and the moon the dead men gave a groan. they groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, nor spake, nor moved their eyes; it had been strange, even in a dream, to have seen those dead men rise. the helmsman steered, the ship moved on; yet never a breeze up blew; the mariners all 'gan work the ropes, where they were wont to do: they raised their limbs like lifeless tools-- we were a ghastly crew. the body of my brother's son stood by me, knee to knee: the body and i pulled at one rope, but he said nought to me.' [sidenote: but not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.] 'i fear thee, ancient mariner!' 'be calm, thou wedding-guest! 'twas not those souls that fled in pain, which to their corses came again, but a troop of spirits blest: for when it dawned--they dropped their arms, and clustered round the mast; sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, and from their bodies passed. around, around, flew each sweet sound, then darted to the sun; slowly the sounds came back again, now mixed, now one by one. sometimes a-dropping from the sky i heard the sky-lark sing; sometimes all little birds that are, how they seemed to fill the sea and air with their sweet jargoning! and now 'twas like all instruments, now like a lonely flute; and now it is an angel's song, that makes the heavens be mute. it ceased; yet still the sails made on a pleasant noise till noon, a noise like of a hidden brook in the leafy month of june, that to the sleeping woods all night singeth a quiet tune. till noon we quietly sailèd on, yet never a breeze did breathe: slowly and smoothly went the ship, moved onward from beneath. [sidenote: the lonesome spirit from the south pole carries on the ship as far as the line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.] under the keel nine fathom deep, from the land of mist and snow, the spirit slid; and it was he that made the ship to go. the sails at noon left off their tune, and the ship stood still also. the sun, right up above the mast, had fixed her to the ocean; but in a minute she 'gan stir, with a short uneasy motion-- backwards and forwards half her length, with a short uneasy motion. then like a pawing horse let go, she made a sudden bound: it flung the blood into my head, and i fell down in a swound. [sidenote: the polar spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient mariner hath been accorded to the polar spirit, who returneth southward.] how long in that same fit i lay, i have not to declare; but ere my living life returned, i heard, and in my soul discerned two voices in the air. "is it he?" quoth one, "is this the man? by him who died on cross, with his cruel bow he laid full low the harmless albatross. the spirit who bideth by himself in the land of mist and snow, he loved the bird that loved the man who shot him with his bow." the other was a softer voice, as soft as honey-dew: quoth he, "the man hath penance done, and penance more will do." part vi _first voice_ "but tell me, tell me! speak again, thy soft response renewing-- what makes that ship drive on so fast? what is the ocean doing?" _second voice_ "still as a slave before his lord, the ocean hath no blast; his great bright eye most silently up to the moon is cast-- if he may know which way to go; for she guides him smooth or grim. see, brother, see! how graciously she looketh down on him." [sidenote: the mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward, faster than human life could endure.] _first voice_ "but why drives on that ship so fast, without or wave or wind?" _second voice_ "the air is cut away before, and closes from behind. fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! or we shall be belated: for slow and slow that ship will go, when the mariner's trance is abated." [sidenote: the supernatural motion is retarded; the mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.] i woke, and we were sailing on as in a gentle weather: 'twas night, calm night, the moon was high; the dead men stood together. all stood together on the deck, for a charnel-dungeon fitter: all fixed on me their stony eyes, that in the moon did glitter. the pang, the curse, with which they died, had never passed away: i could not draw my eyes from theirs, nor turn them up to pray. [sidenote: the curse is finally expiated,] and now this spell was snapt: once more i viewed the ocean green, and looked far forth, yet little saw of what had else been seen-- like one, that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round, walks on, and turns no more his head; because he knows, a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread. but soon there breathed a wind on me nor sound nor motion made: its path was not upon the sea, in ripple or in shade. it raised my hair, it fanned my cheek like a meadow-gale of spring-- it mingled strangely with my fears, yet it felt like a welcoming. swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, yet she sailed softly too: sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-- on me alone it blew. [sidenote: and the ancient mariner beholdeth his native country.] oh dream of joy! is this indeed the lighthouse top i see? is this the hill? is this the kirk? is this mine own countree? we drifted o'er the harbour-bar, and i with sobs did pray-- "o let me be awake, my god! or let me sleep alway." the harbour-bay was clear as glass, so smoothly it was strewn! and on the bay the moonlight lay, and the shadow of the moon. the rock shone bright, the kirk no less, that stands above the rock: the moonlight steeped in silentness the steady weathercock. [sidenote: the angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,] and the bay was white with silent light, till rising from the same, full many shapes, that shadows were, in crimson colours came. [sidenote: and appear in their own forms of light.] a little distance from the prow those crimson shadows were: i turned my eyes upon the deck-- oh, christ! what saw i there! each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, and, by the holy rood! a man all light, a seraph-man, on every corse there stood. this seraph-band, each waved his hand: it was a heavenly sight! they stood as signals to the land, each one a lovely light: this seraph-band, each waved his hand, no voice did they impart-- no voice; but oh! the silence sank like music on my heart. but soon i heard the dash of oars, i heard the pilot's cheer; my head was turned perforce away, and i saw a boat appear. the pilot, and the pilot's boy, i heard them coming fast: dear lord in heaven! it was a joy the dead men could not blast. i saw a third--i heard his voice: it is the hermit good! he singeth loud his godly hymns that he makes in the wood. he'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away the albatross's blood. part vii [sidenote: the hermit of the wood] 'this hermit good lives in that wood which slopes down to the sea. how loudly his sweet voice he rears! he loves to talk of marineres that come from a far countree. he kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-- he hath a cushion plump: it is the moss that wholly hides the rotted old oak stump. the skiff-boat neared: i heard them talk, "why, this is strange, i trow! where are those lights so many and fair, that signal made but now?" [sidenote: approacheth the ship with wonder.] "strange, by my faith!" the hermit said-- "and they answered not our cheer! the planks look warped! and see those sails, how thin they are and sere! i never saw aught like to them, unless perchance it were brown skeletons of leaves that lag my forest-brook along: when the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, and the owlet whoops to the wolf below, that eats the she-wolf's young." "dear lord! it hath a fiendish look"-- (the pilot made reply) "i am a-feared"--"push on, push on!" said the hermit cheerily. the boat came closer to the ship, but i nor spake nor stirred; the boat came close beneath the ship, and straight a sound was heard. [sidenote: the ship suddenly sinketh.] under the water it rumbled on, still louder and more dread: it reached the ship, it split the bay; the ship went down like lead. [sidenote: the ancient mariner is saved in the pilot's boat.] stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, which sky and ocean smote, like one that hath been seven days drowned, my body lay afloat; but swift as dreams, myself i found within the pilot's boat. upon the whirl, where sank the ship, the boat spun round and round; and all was still, save that the hill was telling of the sound. i moved my lips--the pilot shrieked and fell down in a fit; the holy hermit raised his eyes, and prayed where he did sit. i took the oars: the pilot's boy, who now doth crazy go, laughed loud and long, and all the while his eyes went to and fro. "ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain i see, the devil knows how to row." and now, all in my own countree, i stood on the firm land! the hermit stepped forth from the boat, and scarcely he could stand. [sidenote: the ancient mariner earnestly entreateth the hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.] "o shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" the hermit crossed his brow. "say quick," quoth he, "i bid thee say-- what manner of man art thou?" forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched with a woful agony, which forced me to begin my tale; and then it left me free. [sidenote: and ever and anon throughout his future life and agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,] since then, at an uncertain hour, that agony returns; and till my ghastly tale is told, this heart within me burns. i pass, like night, from land to land; i have strange power of speech; that moment that his face i see, i know the man that must hear me: to him my tale i teach. what loud uproar bursts from that door! the wedding-guests are there; but in the garden-bower the bride and bride-maids singing are; and hark the little vesper bell, which biddeth me to prayer! o wedding-guest! this soul hath been alone on a wide wide sea: so lonely 'twas, that god himself scarce seemed there to be. o sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'tis sweeter far to me, to walk together to the kirk with a goodly company!-- to walk together to the kirk, and all together pray, while each to his great father bends, old men, and babes, and loving friends, and youths and maidens gay! [sidenote: and to teach by his own example, love and reverence to all things that god made and loveth.] farewell, farewell! but this i tell to thee, thou wedding-guest! he prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast. he prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small; for the dear god who loveth us, he made and loveth all.' the mariner, whose eye is bright, whose beard with age is hoar, is gone; and now the wedding-guest turned from the bridegroom's door. he went like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense forlorn: a sadder and a wiser man, he rose the morrow morn. the vicar of bray anonymous in good king charles's golden days, when loyalty no harm meant, a zealous high churchman was i, and so i got preferment; to teach my flock i never miss'd, kings were by god appointed; and damn'd are those who do resist, or touch the lord's anointed. and this is law, that i'll maintain, until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign, i'll be the vicar of bray, sir. when royal james obtained the crown, and pop'ry 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. when william was our king declared, to ease the nation's grievance, with this new wind about i steered, 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. 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 thought the church in danger was, by such prevarication. when george in pudding-time came o'er, and moderate men looked big, sir, i turned 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 every day abjured the pope and the pretender. the 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 falter, and george my lawful king shall be, until the times do alter. and this is law, that i'll maintain, until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign, i'll be the vicar of bray, sir. there's nae luck about the house william julius mickle but are ye sure the news is true? and are ye sure he's weel? is this a time to think o' wark? ye jauds, fling by your wheel. there's nae luck about the house, there's nae luck at a', there's nae luck about the house, when our gudeman's awa'. is this a time to think o' wark, when colin's at the door? rax down my cloak--i'll to the key, and see him come ashore. rise up and make a clean fireside, put on the mickle pat; gie little kate her cotton goun, and jock his sunday's coat. and mak their shoon as black as slaes, their stockins white as snaw; it's a' to pleasure our gudeman-- he likes to see them braw. there are twa hens into the crib, hae fed this month and mair, mak haste and thraw their necks about, that colin weel may fare. bring down to me my bigonet, my bishop's sattin gown, for i maun tell the bailie's wife, that colin's come to town. my turkey slippers i'll put on, my stockins pearl blue-- it's a' to pleasure our gudeman, for he's baith leal and true. sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue; his breath's like caller air; his very fit has music in 't as he comes up the stair. and will i see his face again? and will i hear him speak? i'm downright dizzy wi' the thought: in troth, i'm like to greet. the girl i left behind me anonymous i'm lonesome since i cross'd the hill, and o'er the moor and valley; such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, since parting with my sally. i seek no more the fine or gay, for each does but remind me how swift the hours did pass away, with the girl i've left behind me. oh, ne'er shall i forget the night the stars were bright above me, and gently lent their silv'ry light when first she vowed to love me. but now i'm bound to brighton camp kind heaven, then, pray guide me, and send me safely back again to the girl i've left behind me. my mind her form shall still retain, in sleeping, or in waking, until i see my love again, for whom my heart is breaking. if ever i return that way, and she should not decline me, i evermore will live and stay with the girl i've left behind me. edward! edward! sir david dalrymple 'why does your brand so drop with blood? edward! edward! why does your brand so drop with blood? and why so sad go ye, o?' 'o! i have killed my hawk so good, mother! mother! o! i have killed my hawk so good, and i have no more but he, o!' 'your hawk's blood was never so red, edward! edward! your hawk's blood was never so red, my dear son, i tell thee, o!' 'o! i have killed my red roan steed, mother! mother! o! i have killed my red roan steed, that once was fair and free, o!' 'your steed was old and ye have got more, edward! edward! your steed was old and ye have got more, some other dule you drie, o!' 'o! i have killed my father dear, mother! mother! o! i have killed my father dear, alas, and woe is me, o!' 'and what penance will ye drie for that? edward! edward! and what penance will ye drie for that? my dear son, now tell me, o!' 'i'll set my feet in yonder boat, mother! mother! i'll set my feet in yonder boat, and i'll fare over the sea, o!' 'and what will you do with your towers and your hall? edward! edward! and what will you do with your towers and your hall? they were so fair to see, o!' 'i'll let them stand till they down fall, mother! mother! i'll let them stand till they down fall, for here never more must i be, o!' 'and what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? edward! edward! and what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? when you go over the sea, o!' 'the world's room, let them beg through life, mother! mother! the world's room, let them beg through life, for them never more will i see, o!' 'and what will you leave to your own mother dear? edward! edward! and what will you leave to your own mother dear? my dear son, now tell me, o!' 'the curse of hell from me shall you bear, mother! mother! the curse of hell from me shall you bear, such counsels you gave to me, o!' o nanny, wilt thou go with me? thomas percy o nanny, 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 drest in silken sheen, no longer deck'd with jewels rare,-- say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? o nanny, 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? oh, can that soft and gentle mien extremes of hardship learn to bear, nor sad, regret each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? o nanny, canst thou love so true, through perils keen with me to go, or when thy swain mishap shall rue, to share with him the pang of woe? say, should disease or pain befall, wilt thou assume the nurse's care, nor wistful those gay scenes recall, where thou wert fairest of the fair? and when at last thy love shall die, wilt thou receive his parting breath, wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, and cheer with smiles the bed of death? and wilt thou o'er his breathless clay strew flowers and drop the tender tear, nor then regret those scenes so gay, where thou wert fairest of the fair? the friar of orders gray 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?' 'oh, 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.' 'o 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. 'they 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!' 'oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, some ghostly comfort seek; let not vain sorrows rive thy heart, nor tears bedew thy cheek.' 'oh, 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'll ever 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 shower will ne'er make grow again. 'our joys as wingèd dreams do fly, why then should sorrow last? since grief but aggravates thy loss, grieve not for what is past.' 'oh, 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? 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, oh, he was ever true! 'and art thou dead, thou much lov'd 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'll lay, and thrice i'll kiss the green-grass turf that wraps his breathless clay.' 'yet stay, fair lady, rest a while beneath this cloister wall; see, through the thorn blows cold the wind and drizzly rain doth fall.' 'oh, stay me not, thou holy friar; oh, 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 pearly tears; for see, beneath this gown of grey 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 pass'd 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.' the inchcape rock robert southey no stir in the air, no stir in the sea, the ship was still as she could be, her sails from heaven received no motion, her keel was steady in the ocean. without either sign or sound of their shock the waves flow'd over the inchcape rock; so little they rose, so little they fell, they did not move the inchcape bell. the worthy abbot of aberbrothock had placed that bell on the inchcape rock; on a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, and over the waves its warning rung. when the rock was hid by the surge's swell, the mariners heard the warning bell; and then they knew the perilous rock, and bless'd the abbot of aberbrothock. the sun in heaven was shining gay, all things were joyful on that day; the sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round, and there was joyaunce in the sound. the buoy of the inchcape bell was seen, a darker speck on the ocean green; sir ralph the rover walk'd his deck, and he fixed his eye on the darker speck. he felt the cheering power of spring, it made him whistle, it made him sing; his heart was mirthful to excess, but the rover's mirth was wickedness. his eye was on the inchcape float; quoth he, 'my men, put out the boat, and row me to the inchcape rock, and i'll plague the abbot of aberbrothock.' the boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, and to the inchcape rock they go; sir ralph bent over from the boat, and he cut the bell from the inchcape float. down sank the bell with a gurgling sound, the bubbles arose and burst around; quoth sir ralph, 'the next who comes to the rock won't bless the abbot of aberbrothock.' sir ralph the rover sail'd away, he scour'd the seas for many a day; and now grown rich with plunder'd store, he steers his course for scotland's shore. so thick a haze o'erspreads the sky they cannot see the sun on high; the wind hath blown a gale all day, at evening it hath died away. on deck the rover takes his stand, so dark it is they see no land; quoth sir ralph, 'it will be lighter soon, for there is the dawn of the rising moon.' 'canst hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar? for methinks we should be near the shore.' 'now where we are i cannot tell, but i wish i could hear the inchcape bell.' they hear no sound, the swell is strong; though the wind hath fallen they drift along, till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,-- 'oh christ! it is the inchcape rock!' sir ralph the rover tore his hair; he curst himself in his despair; but the waves rush in on every side, and the vessel sinks beneath the tide. the well of st. keyne a well there is in the west country, and a clearer one never was seen; there is not a wife in the west country but has heard of the well of st. keyne. an oak and an elm tree stand beside, and behind doth an ash-tree grow, and a willow from the bank above droops to the water below. a traveller came to the well of st. keyne; joyfully he drew nigh, for from cock-crow he had been travelling, and there was not a cloud in the sky. he drank of the water so cool and clear, for thirsty and hot was he, and he sat down upon the bank under the willow-tree. there came a man from the house hard by at the well to fill his pail; on the well-side he rested it, and he bade the stranger hail. 'now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he, 'for an if thou hast a wife, the happiest draught thou hast drunk this day that ever thou didst in thy life. 'or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, ever here in cornwall been? for an if she have, i'll venture my life she has drunk of the well of st. keyne.' 'i have left a good woman who never was here,' the stranger he made reply, 'but that my draught should be the better for that, i pray you answer me why?' 'st. keyne,' quoth the cornish-man, 'many a time drank of this crystal well, and before the angel summon'd her, she laid on the water a spell. 'if the husband, of this gifted well, shall drink before his wife, a happy man thenceforth is he, for he shall be master for life. 'but if the wife shall drink of it first, god help the husband then!' the stranger stoopt to the well of st. keyne, and drank of the water again. 'you drank of the well i warrant betimes?' he to the cornish-man said: but the cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, and sheepishly shook his head. 'i hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, and left my wife in the porch; but i' faith she had been wiser than me, for she took a bottle to church.' the battle of blenheim it was a summer evening, old kaspar's work was done, and he before his cottage door was sitting in the sun, and by sported on the green his little grandchild wilhelmine. she saw her brother peterkin roll something large and round, which he beside the rivulet in playing there had found; he came to ask what he had found, that was so large, and smooth, and round. old kaspar took it from the boy, who stood expectant by; and then the old man shook his head, and with a natural sigh, ''tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'who fell in that great victory. 'i find them in the garden, for there's many here about; and often when i go to plough, the ploughshare turns them out! for many thousand men,' said he, 'were slain in that great victory.' 'now tell us what 'twas all about,' young peterkin he cries; and little wilhelmine looks up with wonder-waiting eyes; 'now tell us all about the war, and what they fought each other for.' 'it was the english,' kaspar cried, 'who put the french to rout; but what they fought each other for, i could not well make out; but everybody said,' quoth he, 'that 'twas a famous victory. 'my father lived at blenheim then, yon little stream hard by; they burnt his dwelling to the ground, and he was forced to fly; so with his wife and child he fled, nor had he where to rest his head. 'with fire and sword the country round was wasted far and wide, and many a tender mother then, and new-born baby, died; but things like that, you know, must be at every famous victory. 'they say it was a shocking sight after the field was won; for many thousand bodies here lay rotting in the sun; but things like that, you know, must be after a famous victory; 'great praise the duke of marlbro' won, and our good prince eugene.'-- 'why, 'twas a very wicked thing!' said little wilhelmine. 'nay--nay--my little girl,' quoth he, 'it was a famous victory; 'and everybody praised the duke who this great fight did win.' 'but what good came of it at last?' quoth little peterkin. 'why, that i cannot tell,' said he, 'but 'twas a famous victory.' father william you are old, father william, the young man cried, the few locks that are left you are gray; you are hale, father william, a hearty old man, now tell me the reason, i pray. in the days of my youth, father william replied, i remember'd that youth would fly fast, and abused not my health and my vigour at first, that i never might need them at last. you are old, father william, the young man cried, and pleasures with youth pass away, and yet you lament not the days that are gone, now tell me the reason, i pray. in the days of my youth, father william replied, i remember'd that youth could not last; i thought of the future, whatever i did, that i never might grieve for the past. you are old, father william, the young man cried, and life must be hastening away; you are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! now tell me the reason, i pray. i am cheerful, young man, father william replied; let the cause thy attention engage: in the days of my youth i remember'd my god! and he hath not forgotten my age. the flowers of the forest mrs. cockburn i've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling; i've felt all its favours, and found its decay: sweet was its blessing, kind its caressing; but now it is fled--it is fled far away. i've seen the forest adornèd the foremost with flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; sae bonny was their blooming! their scent the air perfuming! but now they are withered and weeded away. i've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, and loud tempest storming before the mid-day, i've seen tweed's silver streams, shining in the sunny beams, grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. o fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting? oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? nae mair your smiles can cheer me, nae mair your frowns can fear me; for the flowers of the forest are a' wede away. lucy gray william wordsworth oft i had heard of lucy gray; and, when i crossed the wild, i chanced to see at break of day, the solitary child. no mate, no comrade, lucy knew; she dwelt on a wide moor, --the sweetest thing that ever grew beside a human door! you yet may spy the fawn at play, the hare upon the green; but the sweet face of lucy gray will never more be seen. 'to-night will be a stormy night-- you to the town must go; and take a lantern, child, to light your mother through the snow.' 'that, father, will i gladly do! 'tis scarcely afternoon-- the minster-clock has just struck two, and yonder is the moon.' at this the father raised his hook and snapped a fagot band; he plied his work;--and lucy took the lantern in her hand. not blither is the mountain roe: with many a wanton stroke her feet disperse the powdery snow, that rises up like smoke. the storm came on before its time: she wandered up and down: and many a hill did lucy climb; but never reached the town. the wretched parents all that night, went shouting far and wide; but there was neither sound nor sight to serve them for a guide. at daybreak on a hill they stood that overlooked the moor; and thence they saw the bridge of wood, a furlong from the door. and, turning homeward, now they cried, 'in heaven we all shall meet!' --when in the snow the mother spied the print of lucy's feet. then downward from the steep hill's edge they tracked the footmarks small; and through the broken hawthorn hedge, and by the long stone wall: and then an open field they crossed: the marks were still the same; they tracked them on, nor ever lost; and to the bridge they came. they followed from the snowy bank the footmarks, one by one, into the middle of the plank; and further there were none! --yet some maintain that to this day she is a living child; that you may see sweet lucy gray upon the lonesome wild. o'er rough and smooth she trips along, and never looks behind; and sings a solitary song that whistles in the wind. we are seven a simple child that lightly draws its breath, and feels its life in every limb, what should it know of death? i met a little cottage girl: she was eight years old, she said; her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head. she had a rustic, woodland air, and she was wildly clad; her eyes were fair, and very fair; --her beauty made me glad. 'sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?' 'how many? seven in all,' she said, and wondering looked at me. 'and where are they? i pray you tell.' she answered, 'seven are we; and two of us at conway dwell, and two are gone to sea. 'two of us in the churchyard lie, my sister and my brother; and, in the churchyard cottage, i dwell near them with my mother.' 'you say that two at conway dwell, and two are gone to sea, yet ye are seven!--i pray you tell, sweet maid, how this may be?' then did the little maid reply, 'seven boys and girls are we; two of us in the churchyard lie, beneath the churchyard tree.' 'you run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive; if two are in the churchyard laid, then ye are only five.' 'their graves are green, they may be seen,' the little maid replied, 'twelve steps or more from my mother's door, and they are side by side. 'my stockings there i often knit, my kerchief there i hem; and there upon the ground i sit-- i sit and sing to them. 'and often after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair, i take my little porringer, and eat my supper there. 'the first that died was little jane; in bed she moaning lay, till god released her of her pain: and then she went away. 'so in the churchyard she was laid; and all the summer dry, together round her grave we played, my brother john and i. 'and when the ground was white with snow, and i could run and slide, my brother john was forced to go, and he lies by her side.' 'how many are you, then,' said i, 'if they two are in heaven?' the little maiden did reply, 'o master! we are seven.' 'but they are dead: those two are dead! their spirits are in heaven!' 'twas throwing words away: for still the little maid would have her will, and said, 'nay, we are seven!' she dwelt among untrodden ways she dwelt among the untrodden ways beside the springs of dove, a maid whom there were none to praise and very few to love: a violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye! fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky. she lived unknown, and few could know when lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and oh, the difference to me! i travelled among unknown men i travell'd among unknown men, in lands beyond the sea; nor, england! did i know till then what love i bore to thee. 'tis past, the melancholy dream! nor will i quit thy shore a second time; for still i seem to love thee more and more. among thy mountains did i feel the joy of my desire; and she i cherish'd turn'd her wheel beside an english fire. thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd, the bowers where lucy play'd; and thine too is the last green field that lucy's eyes survey'd. lochinvar sir walter scott o, young lochinvar is come out of the west, through all the wide border his steed was the best, and save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; he rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar. he stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, he swam the eske river where ford there was none; but, ere he alighted at netherby gate, the bride had consented, the gallant came late for a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, was to wed the fair ellen of brave lochinvar. so boldly he entered the netherby hall, among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (for the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 'o come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal, young lord lochinvar?' 'i long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;-- love swells like the solway, but ebbs like its tide-- and now i am come, with this lost love of mine, to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. there are maidens in scotland more lovely by far, that would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar.' the bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, he quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, she looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. he took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- 'now tread we a measure!' said young lochinvar. so stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a galliard did grace; while her mother did fret, and her father did fume, and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; and the bride-maidens whispered, ''twere better by far to have matched our fair cousin with young lochinvar.' one touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, when they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; so light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, so light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'she is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; they'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young lochinvar. there was mounting 'mong græmes of the netherby clan; forsters, fenwicks, and musgraves, they rode and they ran: there was racing, and chasing, on cannobie lee, but the lost bride of netherby ne'er did they see. so daring in love, and so dauntless in war, have ye e'er heard of gallant like young lochinvar? coronach he is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest, like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest, the font, reappearing, from the rain-drops shall borrow, but to us comes no cheering, to duncan no morrow! the hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary, but the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory. the autumn winds rushing, waft the leaves that are searest, but our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest. fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber, red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber! like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and for ever! a weary lot is thine 'a weary lot is thine, fair maid, a weary lot is thine! to pull the thorn thy brow to braid, and press the rue for wine! a lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, a feather of the blue, a doublet of the lincoln green,-- no more of me you knew, my love! no more of me you knew. 'this morn is merry june, i trow, the rose is budding fain; but she shall bloom in winter snow, ere we two meet again.' he turned his charger as he spake, upon the river shore, he gave his bridle-reins a shake, said 'adieu for evermore, my love! and adieu for evermore.' allen-a-dale allen-a-dale has no fagot for burning, allen-a-dale has no furrow for turning, allen-a-dale has no fleece for the spinning, yet allen-a-dale has red gold for the winning. come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! and tell me the craft of bold allen-a-dale. the baron of ravensworth prances in pride, and he views his domains upon arkindale side. the mere for his net, and the land for his game, the chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, are less free to lord dacre than allen-a-dale. allen-a-dale was ne'er belted a knight, though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; allen-a-dale is no baron or lord, yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; and the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil, who at rere-cross on stanmore meets allen-a-dale. allen-a-dale to his wooing is come; the mother, she asked of his household and home: 'though the castle of richmond stand fair on the hill, my hall,' quoth bold allen, 'shows gallanter still; 'tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, and with all its bright spangles!' said allen-a-dale. the father was steel, and the mother was stone; they lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; but loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry: he had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, and she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, and the youth it was told by was allen-a-dale. pibroch of donuil dhu pibroch of donuil dhu, pibroch of donuil, wake thy wild voice anew, summon clan conuil. come away, come away, hark to the summons! come in your war array, gentles and commons! come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky; the war-pipe and pennon are at inverlochy. come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one; come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one! leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar. leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges; come with your fighting-gear, broadswords and targes. come as the winds come, when forests are rended: come as the waves come, when navies are stranded. faster come, faster come, faster and faster; chief, vassal, page, and groom, tenant and master. fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set; pibroch of donuil dhu, knell for the onset! song from 'the pirate' love wakes and weeps while beauty sleeps! o for music's softest numbers, to prompt a theme for beauty's dream, soft as the pillow of her slumbers! through groves of palm sigh gales of balm, fire-flies on the air are wheeling; while through the gloom comes soft perfume, the distant beds of flowers revealing. o wake and live! no dreams can give a shadowed bliss, the real excelling; no longer sleep, from lattice peep, and list the tale that love is telling! rosabelle o listen, listen, ladies gay! no haughty feat of arms i tell; soft is the note, and sad the lay that mourns the lovely rosabelle. 'moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! and, gentle ladye, deign to stay! rest thee in castle ravensheuch, nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 'the blackening wave is edged with white; to inch and rock the sea-mews fly; the fishers have heard the water-sprite, whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. 'last night the gifted seer did view a wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; then stay thee, fair, in ravensheuch; why cross the gloomy firth to-day? ''tis not because lord lindesay's heir to-night at roslin leads the ball, but that my ladye-mother there sits lonely in her castle-hall. ''tis not because the ring they ride, and lindesay at the ring rides well, but that my sire the wine will chide if 'tis not fill'd by rosabelle.' --o'er roslin all that dreary night a wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; twas broader than the watch-fire's light, and redder than the bright moonbeam. it glared on roslin's castled rock, it ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'twas seen from dryden's groves of oak, and seen from cavern'd hawthornden. seem'd all on fire that chapel proud where roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, each baron, for a sable shroud, sheathed in his iron panoply. seem'd all on fire within, around, deep sacristy and altar's pale; shone every pillar foliage-bound, and glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-- so still they blaze, when fate is nigh the lordly line of high saint clair. there are twenty of roslin's barons bold-- lie buried within that proud chapelle; each one the holy vault doth hold-- but the sea holds lovely rosabelle. and each saint clair was buried there, with candle, with book, and with knell; but the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung the dirge of lovely rosabelle. proud maisie proud maisie is in the wood, walking so early; sweet robin sits on the bush, singing so rarely. 'tell me, thou bonny bird, when shall i marry me?'-- 'when six braw gentlemen kirkward shall carry ye.' 'who makes the bridal bed, birdie, say truly?'-- 'the grey-headed sexton that delves the grave duly. 'the glow-worm o'er grave and stone shall light thee steady; the owl from the steeple sing welcome, proud lady.' lord ullin's daughter thomas campbell a chieftain to the highlands bound, cries, 'boatman, do not tarry! and i'll give thee a silver pound to row us o'er the ferry.' 'now, who be ye would cross lochgyle, this dark and stormy water?' 'oh, i'm the chief of ulva's isle, and this lord ullin's daughter. 'and fast before her father's men three days we've fled together; for, should he find us in the glen, my blood would stain the heather. 'his horsemen hard behind us ride; should they our steps discover, then who will cheer my bonny bride when they have slain her lover?' out spoke the hardy island wight, 'i'll go, my chief--i'm ready:-- it is not for your silver bright; but for your winsome lady: 'and by my word, the bonny bird in danger shall not tarry; so, though the waves are raging white, i'll row you o'er the ferry.' by this the storm grew loud apace, the water-wraith was shrieking; and in the scowl of heaven each face grew dark as they were speaking. but still as wilder blew the wind, and as the night grew drearer, adown the glen rode armèd men, their trampling sounded nearer. 'oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'though tempests round us gather; i'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.' the boat has left a stormy land, a stormy sea before her,-- when, oh! too strong for human hand, the tempest gathered o'er her. and still they rowed amidst the roar of waters fast prevailing; lord ullin reached that fatal shore, his wrath was changed to wailing. for sore dismayed through storm and shade, his child he did discover: one lovely hand she stretched for aid, and one was round her lover. 'come back! come back!' he cried in grief, 'across this stormy water; and i'll forgive your highland chief, my daughter!--oh! my daughter!' 'twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, return or aid preventing; the waters wild went o'er his child, and he was left lamenting. the soldier's dream our bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered and the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; and thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, the weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. when reposing that night on my pallet of straw, by the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, at the dead of the night a sweet vision i saw, and thrice ere the morning i dreamt it again. methought from the battlefield's dreadful array, far, far i had roamed on a desolate track; 'twas autumn--and sunshine arose on the way to the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. i flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft in life's morning march, when my bosom was young; i heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, and knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly i swore from my home and my weeping friends never to part; my little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, and my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 'stay, stay with us--rest, thou art weary and worn'; and fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; but sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, and the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. exile of erin there came to the beach a poor exile of erin, the dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: for his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing to wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. but the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, for it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, he sang the bold anthem of erin go bragh. sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, the wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; but i have no refuge from famine and danger, a home and a country remain not to me. never again in the green sunny bowers, where my forefathers lived, shall i spend the sweet hours, or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, and strike to the numbers of erin go bragh! erin my country! though sad and forsaken, in dreams i revisit thy sea-beaten shore; but alas! in a fair foreign land i awaken, and sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me in a mansion of peace--where no perils can chase me? never again shall my brothers embrace me? they died to defend me, or live to deplore! where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? where is the mother that looked on my childhood? and where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, why did it doat on a fast fading treasure? tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure, but rapture and beauty they cannot recall. yet all its sad recollection suppressing, one dying wish my lone bosom can draw: erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! land of my forefathers! erin go bragh! buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, green be thy fields--sweetest isle of the ocean! and thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion-- erin mavournin!--erin go bragh! ye mariners of england ye mariners of england, that guard our native seas; whose flag has braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze! your glorious standard launch again to match another foe; and sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! the spirits of your fathers shall start from every wave; for the deck it was their field of fame, and ocean was their grave: where blake and mighty nelson fell, your manly hearts shall glow, as ye sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain wave, her home is on the deep. with thunders from her native oak she quells the floods below, as they roar on the shore, when the stormy winds do blow; when the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! the meteor flag of england shall yet terrific burn, till danger's troubled night depart, and the star of peace return; then, then, ye ocean warriors, our song and feast shall flow to the fame of your name, when the storm has ceased to blow; when the fiery fight is heard no more, and the storm has ceased to blow. the battle of the baltic of nelson and the north sing the glorious day's renown, when to battle fierce came forth all the might of denmark's crown, and her arms along the deep proudly shone: by each gun the lighted brand in a bold, determined hand; and the prince of all the land led them on. like leviathans afloat, lay their bulwarks on the brine, while the sign of battle flew o'er the lofty british line: it was ten of april morn by the chime, as they drifted on their path; there was silence deep as death, and the boldest held his breath for a time. but the might of england flushed, to anticipate the scene; and her van the fleeter rushed o'er the deadly space between. 'hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun from its adamantine lips spread a death-shade round the ships, like the hurricane eclipse of the sun. again! again! again! and the havoc did not slack, till a feebler cheer the dane to our cheering sent us back; their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- then ceased, and all is wail, as they strike the shattered sail; or, in conflagration pale, light the gloom. out spoke the victor then, as he hailed them o'er the wave: 'ye are brothers! we are men! and we conquer but to save: so peace instead of death let us bring; but yield, proud foe, thy fleet, with the crews, at england's feet, and make submission meet to our king.' then denmark blessed our chief, that he gave her wounds repose; and the sounds of joy and grief from her people wildly rose, as death withdrew his shades from the day; while the sun looked smiling bright o'er a wide and woeful sight, where the fires of funeral light died away. now joy, old england raise, for the tidings of thy might, by the festal cities' blaze, whilst the wine-cup shines in light; and yet amidst that joy and uproar let us think of them that sleep, full many a fathom deep, by thy wild and stormy steep, elsinore! brave hearts! to britain's pride once so faithful and so true, on the deck of fame that died, with the gallant good riou: soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave; while the billow mournful rolls, and the mermaid's song condoles, singing glory to the souls of the brave. napoleon and the sailor napoleon's banners at boulogne arm'd in our island every freeman, his navy chanced to capture one poor british seaman. they suffer'd him--i know not how-- unprison'd on the shore to roam; and aye was bent his longing brow on england's home. his eye, methinks, pursued the flight of birds to britain half-way over; with envy they could reach the white dear cliffs of dover. a stormy midnight watch, he thought, than this sojourn would have been dearer, if but the storm his vessel brought to england nearer. at last, when care had banish'd sleep, he saw one morning--dreaming--doating, an empty hogshead from the deep come shoreward floating; he hid it in a cave, and wrought the livelong day laborious; lurking until he launch'd a tiny boat by mighty working. heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond description wretched: such a wherry perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond, or cross'd a ferry. for ploughing in the salt sea-field, it would have made the boldest shudder; untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, no sail--no rudder. from neighbouring woods he interlaced his sorry skiff with wattled willows; and thus equipp'd he would have pass'd the foaming billows-- but frenchmen caught him on the beach, his little argo sorely jeering; till tidings of him chanced to reach napoleon's hearing. with folded arms napoleon stood, serene alike in peace and danger; and in his wonted attitude, address'd the stranger:-- 'rash man that wouldst yon channel pass on twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; thy heart with some sweet british lass must be impassion'd.' 'i have no sweetheart,' said the lad; 'but--absent long from one another-- great was the longing that i had to see my mother!' 'and so thou shalt,' napoleon said, 'ye've both my favour fairly won; a noble mother must have bred so brave a son.' he gave the tar a piece of gold, and with a flag of truce commanded he should be shipp'd to england old, and safely landed. our sailor oft could scantly shift to find a dinner plain and hearty; but never changed the coin and gift of bonaparte. the parrot a parrot, from the spanish main, full young and early caged came o'er, with bright wings, to the bleak domain of mullah's shore. to spicy groves where he had won his plumage of resplendent hue, his native fruits, and skies, and sun, he bade adieu. for these he changed the smoke of turf, a heathery land and misty sky, and turned on rocks and raging surf his golden eye. but petted in our climate cold, he lived and chattered many a day: until with age, from green and gold his wings grew grey. at last when blind, and seeming dumb, he scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, a spanish stranger chanced to come to mullah's shore; he hail'd the bird in spanish speech, the bird in spanish speech replied; flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, dropt down, and died. hohenlinden on linden when the sun was low, all bloodless lay the untrodden snow; and dark as winter was the flow of iser rolling rapidly. but linden saw another sight when the drum beat at dead of night, commanding fires of death to light the darkness of her scenery. by torch and trumpet fast arrayed, each horseman drew his battle blade, and furious every charger neighed to join the dreadful revelry. then shook the hill, with thunder riven; then rushed the steed, to battle driven; and louder than the bolts of heaven far flashed the red artillery. but redder yet that light shall glow on linden's hills of stainèd snow, and bloodier yet the torrent flow of iser rolling rapidly. 'tis morn, but scarce yon level sun can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, where furious frank and fiery hun shout in their sulph'rous canopy. the combat deepens. on, ye brave, who rush to glory or the grave! wave, munich, all thy banners wave, and charge with all thy chivalry. few, few shall part where many meet; the snow shall be their winding-sheet; and every turf beneath their feet shall be a soldier's sepulchre. men of england men of england! who inherit rights that cost your sires their blood men whose undegenerate spirit has been proved on land and flood: yours are hampden's, russell's glory, sidney's matchless shade is yours,-- martyrs in heroic story, worth a thousand agincourts! we're the sons of sires that baffled crown'd and mitred tyranny: they defied the field and scaffold, for their birthright--so will we. when the kye comes hame james hogg come all ye jolly shepherds that whistle through the glen, i'll tell ye of a secret that courtiers dinna ken; what is the greatest bliss that the tongue o' man can name? 'tis to woo a bonny lassie when the kye comes hame. when the kye comes hame, when the kye comes hame, 'tween the gloamin' and the mirk, when the kye comes hame. 'tis not beneath the coronet, nor canopy of state, 'tis not on couch of velvet, nor arbour of the great-- 'tis beneath the spreading birk, in the glen without the name, wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, when the kye comes hame. see yonder pawky shepherd that lingers on the hill-- his yowes are in the fauld, and his lambs are lying still; yet he downa gang to bed, for his heart is in a flame to meet his bonny lassie when the kye comes hame. when the little wee bit heart rises high in the breast, and the little wee bit stars rise bright in the east, o there's a joy sae dear, that the heart can hardly frame, wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, when the kye comes hame. then since all nature joins in this love without alloy, o' wha wad prove a traitor to nature's dearest joy? or wha wad choose a crown, wi' its pearls and its fame, and miss his bonny lassie when the kye comes hame? when the kye comes hame, when the kye comes hame, 'tween the gloamin' and the mirk, when the kye comes hame. the skylark bird of the wilderness, blithesome and cumberless, sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place-- o to abide in the desert with thee! wild is thy lay and loud, far in the downy cloud, love gives it energy, love gave it birth, where, on thy dewy wing, where art thou journeying? thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. o'er fell and fountain sheen, o'er moor and mountain green, o'er the red streamer that heralds the day, over the cloudlet dim, over the rainbow's rim, musical cherub, soar, singing, away! then, when the gloaming comes, low in the heather blooms, sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place-- o to abide in the desert with thee! the young maxwell allan cunningham 'where gang ye, thou silly auld carle? and what do you carry there?' 'i'm gaun to the hillside, thou sodger gentleman, to shift my sheep their lair.' ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle, an' a gude lang stride took he: 'i trow thou to be a feck auld carle, will ye shaw the way to me?' and he has gane wi' the silly auld carle, adown by the greenwood side; 'light down and gang, thou sodger gentleman, for here ye canny ride.' he drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed, an' lightly down he sprang: of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat, whare the gowden tassels hang. he has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle, an' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree; an' wha was it but the young maxwell! an' his gude brown sword drew he! 'thou killed my father, thou vile south'ron! an' ye killed my brethren three! whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister, i loved as the light o' my e'e! 'draw out thy sword, thou vile south'ron! red wat wi' blude o' my kin! that sword it crapped the bonniest flower e'er lifted its head to the sun! 'there's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father! there's twa for my brethren three! an' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister, wham i loved as the light o' my e'e.' hame, hame, hame hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! when the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, the larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! the green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa', the bonny white rose it is withering an' a'; but i'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, an' green it will grow in my ain countrie. hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie! o there's naught frae ruin my country can save, but the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, that a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie, may rise again and fight for their ain countrie. hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! the great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save, the new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; but the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e, 'i'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.' hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie. a wet sheet and a flowing sea a wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast, and fills the white and rustling sail, and bends the gallant mast; and bends the gallant mast, my boys, while, like the eagle free, away the good ship flies, and leaves old england on the lee. o for a soft and gentle wind! i heard a landsman cry; but give to me the snoring breeze, and white waves heaving high; and white waves heaving high, my boys, the good ship tight and free-- the world of waters is our home, and merry men are we. there's tempest in yon hornèd moon, and lightning in yon cloud; and hark the music, mariners, the wind is piping loud; the wind is piping loud, my boys, the lightning flashing free-- while the hollow oak our palace is, our heritage the sea. my nanie o red rows the nith 'tween bank and brae, mirk is the night and rainie o, though heaven and earth should mix in storm, i'll gang and see my nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; my kind and winsome nanie o, she holds my heart in love's dear bands, and nane can do 't but nanie o. in preaching-time sae meek she stands, sae saintly and sae bonny o, i cannot get ae glimpse of grace, for thieving looks at nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; the world's in love with nanie o; that heart is hardly worth the wear that wadna love my nanie o. my breast can scarce contain my heart, when dancing she moves finely o; i guess what heaven is by her eyes, they sparkle sae divinely o; my nanie o, my nanie o, the flower o' nithsdale's nanie o; love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, and says, i dwell with nanie o. tell not, thou star at grey daylight, o'er tinwald-tap sae bonny o, my footsteps 'mang the morning dew when coming frae my nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; nane ken o' me and nanie o; the stars and moon may tell 't aboon, they winna wrang my nanie o! canadian boat-song thomas moore faintly as tolls the evening chime, our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. soon as the woods on shore look dim, we'll sing at st. ann's our parting hymn. row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past! why should we yet our sail unfurl? there's not a breath the blue wave to curl! but, when the wind blows off the shore, oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past! ottawa's tide! this trembling moon shall see us float o'er thy surges soon. saint of this green isle, hear our prayers, oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past! go where glory waits thee go where glory waits thee, but while fame elates thee, oh, still remember me. when the praise thou meetest to thine ear is sweetest, oh, then remember me. other arms may press thee, dearer friends caress thee, all the joys that bless thee sweeter far may be; but when friends are nearest, and when joys are dearest, oh, then remember me. when at eve thou rovest by the star thou lovest, oh, then remember me. think, when home returning, bright we've seen it burning. oh, thus remember me. oft as summer closes, when thine eye reposes on its lingering roses, once so loved by thee, think of her who wove them, her who made thee love them, oh, then remember me. when, around thee dying, autumn leaves are lying, oh, then remember me. and, at night, when gazing on the gay hearth blazing, oh, still remember me. then, should music, stealing all the soul of feeling, to thy heart appealing, draw one tear from thee; then let memory bring thee strains i used to sing thee,-- oh, then remember me. the harp that once through tara's halls the harp that once through tara's halls, the soul of music shed, now hangs as mute on tara's walls as if that soul were fled. so sleeps the pride of former days, so glory's thrill is o'er, and hearts, that once beat high for praise, now feel that pulse no more. no more to chiefs and ladies bright the harp of tara swells: the chord alone, that breaks at night, its tale of ruin tells. thus freedom now so seldom wakes, the only throb she gives is when some heart indignant breaks, to show that still she lives. rich and rare were the gems she wore rich and rare were the gems she wore, and a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; but, oh! her beauty was far beyond her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. 'lady, dost thou not fear to stray, so lone and lovely, through this bleak way? are erin's sons so good or so cold, as not to be tempted by woman or gold?' 'sir knight! i feel not the least alarm, no son of erin will offer me harm: for, though they love women and golden store sir knight! they love honour and virtue more. on she went, and her maiden smile in safety lighted her round the green isle; and blest for ever is she who relied upon erin's honour and erin's pride. the meeting of the waters there is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, as that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, oh! no--it was something more exquisite still. 'twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, and who felt how the best charms of nature improve, when we see them reflected from looks that we love. she is far from the land she is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, and lovers are round her sighing; but coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, for her heart in his grave is lying. she sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, every note which he loved awaking;-- ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, how the heart of the minstrel is breaking. he had lived for his love, for his country he died, they were all that to life had entwined him; nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, nor long will his love stay behind him. oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest when they promise a glorious morrow; they'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, from her own loved island of sorrow. believe me, if all those endearing young charms believe me, if all those endearing young charms which i gaze on so fondly to-day, were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, like fairy-gifts fading away, thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, let thy loveliness fade as it will, and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still. it is not while beauty and youth are thine own, and thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, that the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, to which time will but make thee more dear; no, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, but as truly loves on to the close, as the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, the same look which she turned when he rose. love's young dream oh, the days are gone, when beauty bright my heart's chain wove; when my dream of life from morn till night was love, still love. new hope may bloom, and days may come of milder, calmer beam, but there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream; no, there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream. though the bard to purer fame may soar, when wild youth's past; though he wins the wise, who frown'd before, to smile at last; he'll never meet a joy so sweet, in all his noon of fame, as when first he sung to woman's ear his soul-felt flame, and, at every close, she blushed to hear the one loved name. no--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot which first love traced; still it lingering haunts the greenest spot on memory's waste. 'twas odour fled as soon as shed; 'twas morning's wingèd dream; 'twas a light there ne'er can shine again on life's dull stream: oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again on life's dull stream. the last rose of summer 'tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone; all her lovely companions are faded and gone; no flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh, to reflect back her blushes, to give sigh for sigh. i'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem; since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them. thus kindly i scatter thy leaves o'er the bed, where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead. so soon may i follow, when friendships decay, and from love's shining circle the gems drop away! when true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown, oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone? the minstrel-boy the minstrel-boy to the war is gone, in the ranks of death you'll find him; his father's sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him.-- 'land of song!' said the warrior-bard, 'though all the world betrays thee, one sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, one faithful harp shall praise thee!' the minstrel fell--but the foeman's chain could not bring his proud soul under; the harp he loved ne'er spoke again, for he tore its cords asunder; and said, 'no chains shall sully thee, thou soul of love and bravery! thy songs were made for the brave and free, they shall never sound in slavery!' the time i've lost in wooing the time i've lost in wooing, in watching and pursuing the light that lies in woman's eyes, has been my heart's undoing. though wisdom oft has sought me, i scorned the lore she brought me, my only books were women's looks, and folly's all they've taught me. her smile when beauty granted, i hung with gaze enchanted, like him the sprite whom maids by night oft meet in glen that's haunted. like him, too, beauty won me; but while her eyes were on me, if once their ray was turned away, oh, winds could not outrun me. and are those follies going? and is my proud heart growing too cold or wise for brilliant eyes again to set it glowing? no--vain, alas! th' endeavour from bonds so sweet to sever;-- poor wisdom's chance against a glance is now as weak as ever. the light of other days oft in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, fond memory brings the light of other days around me: the smiles, the tears of boyhood's years, the words of love then spoken; the eyes that shone, now dimm'd and gone, the cheerful hearts now broken! thus in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, sad memory brings the light of other days around me. when i remember all the friends so link'd together, i've seen around me fall like leaves in wintry weather, i feel like one who treads alone some banquet-hall deserted, whose lights are fled whose garlands dead and all but he departed! thus in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, sad memory brings the light of other days around me. the destruction of sennacherib lord byron the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; and the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, when the blue wave rolls nightly on deep galilee. like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, that host with their banners at sunset were seen: like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strown. for the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; and the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! and there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, but through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: and the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, and cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. and there lay the rider distorted and pale, with the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; and the tents were all silent, the banners alone, the lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. and the widows of ashur are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of baal; and the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword, hath melted like snow in the glance of the lord! when we two parted when we two parted in silence and tears, half broken-hearted to sever for years, pale grew thy cheek and cold, colder thy kiss; truly that hour foretold sorrow to this. the dew of the morning sank 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 knew 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 thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. if i should meet thee after long years, how should i greet thee?-- with silence and tears. song there be none of beauty's daughters with a magic like thee; and like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me: when, as if its sound were causing the charmèd ocean's pausing, the waves lie still and gleaming, and the lull'd winds seem dreaming: and the midnight moon is weaving her bright chain o'er the deep; whose breast is gently heaving, as an infant's asleep: so the spirit bows before thee, to listen and adore thee; with a full but soft emotion, like the swell of summer's ocean. we'll go no more a-roving so, we'll go no more a-roving so late into the night, though the heart be still as loving, and the moon be still as bright. for the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast, and the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest. though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. she walks in beauty she walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes, and starry skies: and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes: thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. one shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace, which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place. and on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent. a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent! king death b.w. procter king death was a rare old fellow, he sat where no sun could shine, and he lifted his hand so yellow, and poured 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, for the coal-black wine! the scholar left all his learning, the poet his fancied woes, and the beauty her bloom returning, like life to the fading rose. hurrah, for the coal-black wine! all came to the rare old fellow, who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, and he gave them his hand so yellow, and pledged them in death's black wine. hurrah, for the coal-black wine! song for twilight hide me, o twilight air, hide me from thought, from care, from all things foul or fair, until to-morrow! to-night i 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 shouldst 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. the burial of sir john moore at corunna charles wolfe not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corpse to the rampart we hurried; not a soldier discharged his farewell shot o'er the grave where our hero we buried. we buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning; by the struggling moonbeam's misty light and the lantern dimly burning. no useless coffin enclosed his breast, not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; but he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him. few and short were the prayers we said, and we spoke not a word of sorrow; but we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow. we thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed and smoothed down his lonely pillow, that the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, and we far away on the billow! lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone and o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- but little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on in the grave where a briton has laid him. but half of our heavy task was done when the clock struck the hour for retiring: and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory; we carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, but we left him alone with his glory. i arise from dreams of thee percy bysshe shelley i arise from dreams of thee, in the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright; i arise from dreams of thee, and a spirit in my feet has led me--who knows how? to thy chamber-window, sweet the wandering airs they faint on the dark, the silent stream,-- the champetre odours fail, like sweet thoughts in a dream, the nightingale's complaint it dies upon her heart, as i must die on thine, o beloved as thou art! o lift me from the grass! i die, i faint, i fail. let thy love in kisses rain on my lips and eyelids pale. my cheek is cold and white, alas! my heart beats loud and fast. oh! press it close to thine again, where it will break at last. lament o world! o life! o time! on whose last steps i climb, trembling at that where i had stood before; when will return the glory of your prime? no more--oh, never more! out of the day and night a joy has taken flight: fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, move my faint heart with grief, but with delight no more--oh, never more! love's philosophy the fountains mingle with the river, and the rivers with the ocean, the winds of heaven mix for ever with a sweet emotion; nothing in the world is single; all things by a law divine in one another's being mingle-- why not i with thine? see the mountains kiss high heaven, and the waves clasp one another; no sister flower would be forgiven if it disdained its brother: and the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea;-- what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me? hymn of pan from the forests and highlands we come, we come; from the river-girt islands, where loud waves are dumb, listening to my sweet pipings. the wind in the reeds and the rushes, the bees on the bells of thyme, the birds on the myrtle bushes, the cicale above in the lime, and the lizards below in the grass, were as silent as ever old tmolus was, listening to my sweet pipings. liquid peneus was flowing, and all dark tempe lay in pelion's shadow, outgrowing the light of the dying day, speeded by my sweet pipings. the sileni and sylvans and fauns, and the nymphs of the woods and waves, to the edge of the moist river-lawns, and the brink of the dewy caves, and all that did then attend and follow, were silent with love, as you now, apollo, with envy of my sweet pipings. i sang of the dancing stars, i sang of the dædal earth, and of heaven, and the giant wars, and love, and death, and birth. and then i changed my pipings-- singing how down the vale of mænalus i pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: gods and men, we are all deluded thus; it breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. all wept--as i think both ye now would, if envy or age had not frozen your blood-- at the sorrow of my sweet pipings. la belle dame sans merci john keats 'o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? the sedge has wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing. 'o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! so haggard and so woebegone? the squirrel's granary is full, and the harvest's done. 'i see a lily on thy brow with anguish moist and fever-dew. and on thy cheeks a fading rose fast withereth too.' 'i met a lady in the meads, full beautiful--a faery's child, her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild. 'i made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; she look'd at me as she did love, and made sweet moan. 'i set her on my pacing steed and nothing else saw all day long, for sidelong would she bend, and sing a faery's song. 'she found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild and manna-dew, and sure in language strange she said, "i love thee true." 'she took me to her elfin grot, and there she wept and sigh'd full sore; and there i shut her wild wild eyes with kisses four. 'and there she lullèd me asleep, and there i dream'd--ah! woe betide the latest dream i ever dream'd on the cold hill's side. 'i saw pale kings and princes too, pale warriors, death-pale were they all: they cried--"la belle dame sans merci hath thee in thrall!" 'i saw their starved lips in the gloam with horrid warning gapèd wide, and i awoke and found me here on the cold hill's side. 'and this is why i sojourn here alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing.' gaffer gray thomas holcroft ho, why dost thou shiver and shake, gaffer gray? and why does thy nose look so blue? ''tis the weather that's cold, 'tis i'm grown very old, and my doublet is not very new, well-a-day!' then line thy worn doublet with ale, gaffer gray; and warm thy old heart with a glass. 'nay, but credit i've none, and my money's all gone; then say how may that come to pass? well-a-day!' hie away to the house on the brow, gaffer gray; and knock at the jolly priest's door. 'the priest often preaches against worldly riches, but ne'er gives a mite to the poor, well-a-day!' the lawyer lives under the hill, gaffer gray; warmly fenced both in back and in front. 'he will fasten his locks, and will threaten the stocks should he ever more find me in want, well-a-day!' the squire has fat beeves and brown ale, gaffer gray; and the season will welcome you there. 'his fat beeves and his beer, and his merry new year, are all for the flush and the fair, well-a-day!' my keg is but low, i confess, gaffer gray; what then? while it lasts, man, we'll live. 'the poor man alone, when he hears the poor moan, of his morsel a morsel will give, well-a-day!' the pilgrim fathers felicia hemans the breaking waves dash'd high on a stern and rock-bound coast; and the woods, against a stormy sky, their giant branches toss'd; and the heavy night hung dark, the hills and waters o'er, when a band of exiles moor'd their bark on the wild new england shore. not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came;-- not with the roll of the stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame;-- not as the flying come, in silence, and in fear;-- they shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer. amidst the storm they sang: till the stars heard, and the sea; and the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang, to the anthem of the free. the ocean-eagle soar'd from his nest, by the white wave's foam, and the rocking pines of the forest roar'd:-- such was their welcome home. there were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band: why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land? there was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; there was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. what sought they thus afar? bright jewels of the mine? the wealth of seas? the spoils of war?-- no--'twas a faith's pure shrine. yes, call it holy ground,-- which first their brave feet trod! they have left unstain'd what there they found-- freedom to worship god! the voice of spring i come, i come! ye have called me long, i come o'er the mountains with light and song; ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, by the winds which tell of the violet's birth, by the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, by the green leaves opening as i pass. i have breathed on the south, and the chestnut-flowers by thousands have burst from the forest-bowers; and the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, are veiled with wreaths on italian plains. --but it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, to speak of the ruin or the tomb! i have passed o'er the hills of the stormy north, and the larch has hung all his tassels forth, the fisher is out on the sunny sea, and the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, and the pine has a fringe of softer green, and the moss looks bright where my step has been. i have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, and called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, from the night-bird's lay through the starry time, in the groves of the soft hesperian clime, to the swan's wild note by the iceland lakes, when the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. from the streams and founts i have loosed the chain; they are sweeping on to the silvery main, they are flashing down from the mountain-brows, they are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, they are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, and the earth resounds with the joy of waves. come forth, o ye children of gladness, come! where the violets lie may now be your home. ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, and the bounding footstep, to meet me fly, with the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, come forth to the sunshine,--i may not stay. away from the dwellings of care-worn men, the waters are sparkling in wood and glen; away from the chamber and dusky hearth, the young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth, their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, and youth is abroad in my green domains. the homes of england the stately homes of england, how beautiful they stand, amidst their tall ancestral trees, o'er all the pleasant land! the deer across their greensward bound through shade and sunny gleam, and the swan glides past them with the sound of some rejoicing stream. the merry homes of england-- around their hearths by night, what gladsome looks of household love meet in the ruddy light! there woman's voice flows forth in song, or childhood's tale is told; or lips move tunefully along some glorious page of old. the blessed homes of england, how softly on their bowers, is laid the holy quietness that breathes from sabbath hours! solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime floats through their woods at morn, all other sounds in that still time of breeze and leaf are born. the cottage homes of england by thousands on her plains, they are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, and round the hamlet fanes. through glowing orchards forth they peep, each from its nook of leaves, and fearless there the lowly sleep, as the bird beneath their eaves. the free fair homes of england, long, long, in hut and hall, may hearts of native proof be reared to guard each hallowed wall. and green for ever be the groves, and bright the flowery sod, where first the child's glad spirit loves its country and its god. the child's first grief 'oh, call my brother back to me! i cannot play alone; the summer comes with flower and bee-- where is my brother gone? 'the butterfly is glancing bright across the sunbeam's track; i care not now to chase its flight-- oh, call my brother back! 'the flowers run wild--the flowers we sow'd around our garden tree; our vine is drooping with its load-- oh, call him back to me!' 'he could not hear thy voice, fair child, he may not come to thee; the face that once like spring-time smiled, on earth no more thou'lt see. 'a rose's brief bright life of joy, such unto him was given; go--thou must play alone, my boy! thy brother is in heaven!' 'and has he left his birds and flowers, and must i call in vain? and, through the long, long summer hours, will he not come again? 'and by the brook, and in the glade, are all our wanderings o'er? oh, while my brother with me play'd, would i had loved him more!' the graves of a household they grew in beauty side by side, they filled one home with glee, their graves are severed far and wide, by mount, and stream, and sea. the same fond mother bent at night o'er each fair sleeping brow, she had each folded flower in sight, where are those dreamers now? one midst the forests of the west, by a dark stream, is laid; the indian knows his place of rest far in the cedar's shade. the sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, he lies where pearls lie deep, he was the loved of all, yet none o'er his low bed may weep. one sleeps where southern vines are drest above the noble slain; he wrapt his colours round his breast on a blood-red field of spain. and one, o'er her the myrtle showers its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; she faded midst italian flowers, the last of that bright band. and, parted thus, they rest--who played beneath the same green tree, whose voices mingled as they prayed around one parent knee! they that with smiles lit up the hall, and cheered with song the hearth, alas for love, if thou wert all, and nought beyond, oh earth! casabianca the boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled; the flame that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him o'er the dead. yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm; a creature of heroic blood, a proud, though child-like form. the flames roll'd on--he would not go, without his father's word; that father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. he call'd aloud--'say, father, say if yet my task is done?' he knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. 'speak, father!' once again he cried, 'if i may yet be gone!' --and but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames roll'd on. upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair; and look'd from that lone post of death, in still, yet brave despair: and shouted but once more aloud, 'my father! must i stay?' while o'er him fast, through sail and shroud the wreathing fires made way. they wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high, and stream'd above the gallant child, like banners in the sky. there came a burst of thunder sound-- the boy--oh, where was he? --ask of the winds that far around with fragments strew'd the sea! the dream of eugene aram thomas hood 'twas in the prime of summer time, an evening calm and cool, and four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school: there were some that ran, and some that leapt, like troutlets in a pool. away they sped with gamesome minds, and souls untouch'd by sin; to a level mead they came, and there they drave the wickets in; pleasantly shone the setting sun over the town of lynn. like sportive deer they coursed about, and shouted as they ran-- turning to mirth all things of earth, as only boyhood can: but the usher sat remote from all, a melancholy man. his hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessèd breeze; for a burning thought was in his brow, and his bosom ill at ease: so he lean'd his head on his hands, and read the book between his knees. leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, nor ever glanced aside; for the peace of his soul he read that book in the golden eventide: much study had made him very lean, and pale, and leaden-eyed. at last he shut the ponderous tome; with a fast and fervent grasp he strain'd the dusky covers close, and fix'd the brazen hasp: 'o heav'n, could i so close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp!' then leaping on his feet upright, some moody turns he took; now up the mead, then down the mead, and past a shady nook: and lo, he saw a little boy that pored upon a book. 'my gentle lad, what is 't you read-- romance or fairy fable? or is it some historic page of kings and crowns unstable?' the young boy gave an upward glance-- 'it is the death of abel.' the usher took six hasty strides, as smit with sudden pain; six hasty strides beyond the place, then slowly back again: and down he sat beside the lad, and talked with him of cain; and long since then, of bloody men, whose deeds tradition saves; of lonely folk cut off unseen, and hid in sudden graves; of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, and murders done in caves; and how the sprites of injured men shriek upward from the sod-- ay, how the ghostly hand will point to show the burial clod; and unknown facts of guilty acts are seen in dreams from god. he told how murderers walk'd the earth beneath the curse of cain-- with crimson clouds before their eyes, and flames about their brain: for blood has left upon their souls its everlasting stain. 'and well,' quoth he, 'i know, for truth, their pangs must be extreme-- wo, wo, unutterable wo-- who spill life's sacred stream! for why? methought last night i wrought a murder in a dream! 'one that had never done me wrong-- a feeble man, and old; i led him to a lonely field, the moon shone clear and cold: now here, said i, this man shall die, and i will have his gold! 'two sudden blows with a ragged stick, and one with a heavy stone, one hurried gash with a hasty knife, and then the deed was done: there was nothing lying at my feet, but lifeless flesh and bone! 'nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, that could not do me ill; and yet i fear'd him all the more, for lying there so still: there was a manhood in his look that murder could not kill. 'and lo, the universal air seem'd lit with ghastly flame-- ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes were looking down in blame: i took the dead man by the hand, and call'd upon his name! 'oh me, it made me quake to see such sense within the slain! but when i touch'd the lifeless clay, the blood gush'd out amain! for every clot, a burning spot was scorching in my brain! 'my head was like an ardent coal, my heart as solid ice; my wretched, wretched soul, i knew, was at the devil's price: a dozen times i groan'd; the dead had never groan'd but twice. 'and now from forth the frowning sky, from the heaven's topmost height, i heard a voice--the awful voice of the blood-avenging sprite: "thou guilty man, take up thy dead, and hide it from my sight!" 'i took the dreary body up and cast it in a stream-- a sluggish water, black as ink, the depth was so extreme. my gentle boy, remember, this is nothing but a dream! 'down went the corse with a hollow plunge, and vanish'd in the pool; anon i cleansed my bloody hands, and washed my forehead cool, and sat among the urchins young that evening in the school. 'o heaven, to think of their white souls, and mine so black and grim! i could not share in childish prayer, nor join in evening hymn: like a devil of the pit i seem'd, 'mid holy cherubim! 'and peace went with them, one and all, and each calm pillow spread; but guilt was my grim chamberlain that lighted me to bed, and drew my midnight curtains round, with fingers bloody red! 'all night i lay in agony, in anguish dark and deep; my fever'd eyes i dared not close, but star'd aghast at sleep; for sin had render'd unto her the keys of hell to keep! 'all night i lay in agony, from weary chime to chime, with one besetting horrid hint, that rack'd me all the time-- a mighty yearning, like the first fierce impulse unto crime. 'one stern tyrannic thought that made all other thoughts its slave; stronger and stronger every pulse did that temptation crave-- still urging me to go and see the dead man in his grave. 'heavily i rose up--as soon as light was in the sky-- and sought the black accursèd pool with a wild misgiving eye; and i saw the dead, in the river bed, for the faithless stream was dry! 'merrily rose the lark, and shook the dew-drop from its wing; but i never mark'd its morning flight, i never heard it sing: for i was stooping once again under the horrid thing. 'with breathless speed, like a soul in chase, i took him up and ran-- there was no time to dig a grave before the day began: in a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, i hid the murder'd man. 'and all that day i read in school, but my thought was otherwhere; as soon as the mid-day task was done, in secret i was there: and a mighty wind had swept the leaves, and still the corse was bare! 'then down i cast me on my face, and first began to weep; for i knew my secret then was one that earth refused to keep; or land, or sea, though he should be ten thousand fathoms deep. 'so wills the fierce avenging sprite, till blood for blood atones; ay, though he's buried in a cave, and trodden down with stones, and years have rotted off his flesh-- the world shall see his bones. 'oh me--that horrid, horrid dream besets me now awake! again, again, with a dizzy brain, the human life i take; and my red right hand grows raging hot, like cranmer's at the stake. 'and still no peace for the restless clay will wave or mould allow; the horrid thing pursues my soul-- it stands before me now!' the fearful boy looked up and saw huge drops upon his brow. that very night, while gentle sleep the urchin's eyelids kiss'd, two stern-faced men set out from lynn through the cold and heavy mist; and eugene aram walk'd between, with gyves upon his wrist. the song of the shirt 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 the shirt. 'work--work--work while the cock is crowing aloof; and work--work--work till the stars shine through the roof! it's o! 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! 'o men with sisters dear! o 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-- 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 what are its wages? a bed of straw, a crust of bread--and rags. that shattered 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 benumbed, 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! 'oh, but for one short hour! a respite however brief! no blessèd 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 shirt!' the stars are with the voyager the stars are with the voyager, wherever he may sail; the moon is constant to her time, the sun will never fail, but follow, follow, round the world, the green earth and the sea; so love is with the lover's heart, wherever he may be. wherever he may be, the stars must daily lose their light, the moon will veil her in the shade, the sun will set at night; the sun may set, but constant love will shine when he's away, so that dull night is never night, and day is brighter day. ruth she stood breast high amid the corn, clasped by the golden light of morn, like the sweetheart of the sun, who many a glowing kiss had won. on her cheek an autumn flush deeply ripened--such a blush in the midst of brown was born-- like red poppies grown with corn. round her eyes her tresses fell, which were blackest none could tell, but long lashes veiled a light that had else been all too bright. and her hat, with shady brim, made her tressy forehead dim:-- thus she stood amid the stooks, praising god with sweetest looks:-- sure, i said, heav'n did not mean where i reap thou shouldst but glean, lay thy sheaf adown and come share my harvest and my home. ivry lord macaulay now glory to the lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! and glory to our sovereign liege, king henry of navarre! now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of france! and thou, rochelle, our own rochelle, proud city of the waters, again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. as thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, for cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, hurrah! hurrah! for ivry, and henry of navarre. oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, we saw the army of the league drawn out in long array; with all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, and appenzel's stout infantry, and egmont's flemish spears. there rode the brood of false lorraine, the curses of our land; and dark mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: and, as we looked on them, we thought of seine's empurpled flood, and good coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; and we cried unto the living god, who rules the fate of war, to fight for his own holy name, and henry of navarre. the king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest; and he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. he looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; he looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, down all our line, a deafening shout, 'god save our lord the king.' 'and if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may-- for never saw i promise yet of such a bloody fray-- press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, and be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of navarre.' hurrah! the foes are moving! hark to the mingled din of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. the fiery duke is pricking fast across st. andré's plain, with all the hireling chivalry of guelders and almayne. now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of france, charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance! a thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, a thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; and in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding-star, amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of navarre. now, god be praised, the day is ours! mayenne hath turned his rein. d'aumale hath cried for quarter. the flemish count is slain. their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a biscay gale; the field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. and then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 'remember st. bartholomew,' was passed from man to man; but out spake gentle henry: 'no frenchman is my foe: down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.' oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, as our sovereign lord, king henry, the soldier of navarre! right well fought all the frenchmen who fought for france to-day; and many a lordly banner god gave them for a prey. but we of the religion have borne us best in fight; and the good lord of rosny hath ta'en the cornet white. our own true maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, the cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false lorraine. up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know how god hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe. then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for henry of navarre. ho! maidens of vienna! ho! matrons of lucerne! weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. ho! philip, send, for charity, thy mexican pistoles, that antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls! ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright; ho! burghers of saint genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. for our god hath crushed the tyrant, our god hath raised the slave, and mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; and glory to our sovereign lord, king henry of navarre. the armada attend, all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise: i sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, when that great fleet invincible, against her bore, in vain, the richest spoils of mexico, the stoutest hearts in spain. it was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, there came a gallant merchant ship full sail to plymouth bay; the crew had seen castile's black fleet, beyond aurigny's isle, at earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile. at sunrise she escaped their van, by god's especial grace; and the tall pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; the beacon blazed upon the roof of edgecombe's lofty hall; many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast; and with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post. with his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums: the yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and ample space, for there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace: and haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, as slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, and underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! so stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed picard field, bohemia's plume, and genoa's bow, and cæsar's eagle shield; so glared he when, at agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, and crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades! thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide! our glorious _semper eadem_! the banner of our pride! the fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold-- the parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; such night in england ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. from eddystone to berwick bounds, from lynn to milford bay, that time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day; for swift to east, and swift to west, the warning radiance spread-- high on st. michael's mount it shone--it shone on beachy head; far o'er the deep the spaniard saw, along each southern shire, cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. the fisher left his skiff to rock on tamar's glittering waves, the rugged miners poured to war, from mendip's sunless caves; o'er longleat's towers, or cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, and roused the shepherds of stonehenge--the rangers of beaulieu. right sharp and quick the bells rang out all night from bristol town; and, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on clifton down. the sentinel on whitehall gate looked forth into the night, and saw, o'er hanging richmond hill, that streak of blood-red light: the bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, and with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; at once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; at once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; from all the batteries of the tower pealed loud the voice of fear, and all the thousand masts of thames sent back a louder cheer: and from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, and the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each rousing street: and broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, as fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; and eastward straight, for wild blackheath, the warlike errand went; and roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of kent: southward, for surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright coursers forth; high on black hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; and on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; all night from tower to tower they sprang, all night from hill to hill; till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er derwent's rocky dales; till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of wales; till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on malvern's lonely height; till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the wrekin's crest of light; till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on ely's stately fane, and town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; till belvoir's lordly towers the sign to lincoln sent, and lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of trent; till skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on gaunt's embattled pile, and the red glare on skiddaw roused the burghers of carlisle. lady clare lord tennyson it was the time when lilies blow, and clouds are highest up in air, lord ronald brought a lily-white doe to give his cousin, lady clare. i trow they did not part in scorn: lovers long-betroth'd were they: they two will wed the morrow morn; god's blessing on the day! 'he does not love me for my birth, nor for my lands so broad and fair; he loves me for my own true worth, and that is well,' said lady clare. in there came old alice the nurse, said, 'who was this that went from thee?' 'it was my cousin,' said lady clare, 'to-morrow he weds with me.' 'o god be thank'd!' said alice the nurse, 'that all comes round so just and fair: lord ronald is heir of all your lands, and you are not the lady clare.' 'are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?' said lady clare, 'that ye speak so wild?' 'as god's above,' said alice the nurse, 'i speak the truth: you are my child. 'the old earl's daughter died at my breast; i speak the truth, as i live by bread! i buried her like my own sweet child, and put my child in her stead.' 'falsely, falsely have ye done, o mother,' she said, 'if this be true, to keep the best man under the sun so many years from his due.' 'nay now, my child,' said alice the nurse, 'but keep the secret for your life, and all you have will be lord ronald's, when you are man and wife.' 'if i'm a beggar born,' she said, 'i will speak out, for i dare not lie. pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, and fling the diamond necklace by.' 'nay now, my child,' said alice the nurse, 'but keep the secret all ye can.' she said, 'not so: but i will know if there be any faith in man.' 'nay now, what faith?' said alice the nurse, 'the man will cleave unto his right.' 'and he shall have it,' the lady replied, 'tho' i should die to-night.' 'yet give one kiss to your mother dear! alas, my child, i sinn'd for thee.' 'o mother, mother, mother,' she said, 'so strange it seems to me. 'yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, my mother dear, if this be so, and lay your hand upon my head, and bless me, mother, ere i go.' she clad herself in a russet gown, she was no longer lady clare: she went by dale, and she went by down, with a single rose in her hair. the lily-white doe lord ronald had brought leapt up from where she lay, dropt her head in the maiden's hand, and follow'd her all the way. down stept lord ronald from his tower: 'o lady clare, you shame your worth! why come you drest like a village maid, that are the flower of the earth?' 'if i come drest like a village maid, i am but as my fortunes are: i am a beggar born,' she said, 'and not the lady clare.' 'play me no tricks,' said lord ronald, 'for i am yours in word and in deed. play me no tricks,' said lord ronald, 'your riddle is hard to read.' o and proudly stood she up! her heart within her did not fail: she look'd into lord ronald's eyes, and told him all her nurse's tale. he laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: he turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood; 'if you are not the heiress born, and i,' said he, 'the next in blood-- 'if you are not the heiress born, and i,' said he, 'the lawful heir, we two will wed to-morrow morn, and you shall still be lady clare.' the lord of burleigh in her ear he whispers gaily, 'if my heart by signs can tell, maiden, i have watch'd thee daily, and i think thou lov'st me well.' she replies, in accents fainter, 'there is none i love like thee.' he is but a landscape-painter, and a village maiden she. he to lips, that fondly falter, presses his without reproof: leads her to the village altar, and they leave her father's roof. 'i can make no marriage present: little can i give my wife. love will make our cottage pleasant, and i love thee more than life.' they by parks and lodges going see the lordly castles stand: summer woods, about them blowing, made a murmur in the land. from deep thought himself he rouses, says to her that loves him well, 'let us see these handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell.' so she goes by him attended, hears him lovingly converse, sees whatever fair and splendid lay betwixt his home and hers; parks with oak and chestnut shady, parks and order'd gardens great, ancient homes of lord and lady, built for pleasure and for state. all he shows her makes him dearer: evermore she seems to gaze on that cottage growing nearer, where they twain will spend their days. o but she will love him truly! he shall have a cheerful home; she will order all things duly, when beneath his roof they come. thus her heart rejoices greatly, till a gateway she discerns with armorial bearings stately, and beneath the gate she turns; sees a mansion more majestic than all those she saw before: many a gallant gay domestic bows before him at the door. and they speak in gentle murmur, when they answer to his call, while he treads with footstep firmer, leading on from hall to hall. and, while now she wonders blindly, nor the meaning can divine, proudly turns he round and kindly, 'all of this is mine and thine.' here he lives in state and bounty, lord of burleigh, fair and free, not a lord in all the county is so great a lord as he. all at once the colour flushes her sweet face from brow to chin: as it were with shame she blushes, and her spirit changed within. then her countenance all over pale again as death did prove: but he clasp'd her like a lover, and he cheer'd her soul with love. so she strove against her weakness, tho' at times her spirits sank: shaped her heart with woman's meekness to all duties of her rank: and a gentle consort made he, and her gentle mind was such that she grew a noble lady, and the people loved her much. but a trouble weigh'd upon her, and perplex'd her, night and morn, with the burthen of an honour unto which she was not born. faint she grew, and ever fainter, as she murmur'd, 'oh, that he were once more that landscape-painter, which did win my heart from me!' so she droop'd and droop'd before him, fading slowly from his side: three fair children first she bore him, then before her time she died. weeping, weeping late and early, walking up and pacing down, deeply mourn'd the lord of burleigh, burleigh-house by stamford-town. and he came to look upon her, and he look'd at her and said, 'bring the dress and put it on her, that she wore when she was wed.' then her people, softly treading, bore to earth her body, drest in the dress that she was wed in, that her spirit might have rest. edward gray sweet emma moreland of yonder town met me walking on yonder way, 'and have you lost your heart?' she said; 'and are you married yet, edward gray?' sweet emma moreland spoke to me: bitterly weeping i turn'd away: 'sweet emma moreland, love no more can touch the heart of edward gray. 'ellen adair she loved me well, against her father's and mother's will: to-day i sat for an hour and wept, by ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 'shy she was, and i thought her cold; thought her proud, and fled over the sea; fill'd i was with folly and spite, when ellen adair was dying for me. 'cruel, cruel the words i said! cruelly came they back to-day: "you're too slight and fickle," i said, "to trouble the heart of edward gray.' 'there i put my face in the grass-- whisper'd, "listen to my despair: i repent me of all i did: speak a little, ellen adair!" 'then i took a pencil, and wrote on the mossy stone, as i lay, "here lies the body of ellen adair; and here the heart of edward gray!" 'love may come, and love may go, and fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: but i will love no more, no more, till ellen adair come back to me. 'bitterly wept i over the stone: bitterly weeping i turn'd away: there lies the body of ellen adair! and there the heart of edward gray!' the owl i when cats run home and light is come, and dew is cold upon the ground, and the far-off stream is dumb, and the whirring sail goes round, and the whirring sail goes round: alone and warming his five wits, the white owl in the belfry sits. ii when merry milkmaids click the latch, and rarely smells the new-mown hay, and the cock hath sung beneath the thatch twice or thrice his roundelay, twice or thrice his roundelay: alone and warming his five wits, the white owl in the belfry sits. oriana my heart is wasted with my woe, oriana. there is no rest for me below, oriana. when the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, and loud the norland whirlwinds blow, oriana, alone i wander to and fro, oriana. ere the light on dark was growing, oriana, at midnight the cock was crowing, oriana: winds were blowing, waters flowing, we heard the steeds to battle going, oriana; aloud the hollow bugle blowing, oriana. in the yew-wood black as night, oriana, ere i rode into the fight, oriana, while blissful tears blinded my sight by star-shine and by moonlight, oriana, i to thee my troth did plight, oriana. she stood upon the castle wall, oriana: she watch'd my crest among them all, oriana: she saw me fight, she heard me call, when forth there stept a foeman tall, oriana, atween me and the castle wall, oriana. the bitter arrow went aside, oriana: the false, false arrow went aside, oriana: the damned arrow glanced aside, and pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, oriana! thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, oriana! oh, narrow, narrow was the space, oriana. loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, oriana. oh, deathful stabs were dealt apace, the battle deepen'd in its place, oriana; but i was down upon my face, oriana. they should have stabb'd me where i lay, oriana! how could i rise and come away, oriana? how could i look upon the day? they should have stabb'd me where i lay oriana-- they should have trod me into clay, oriana. o breaking heart that will not break, oriana! o pale, pale face so sweet and meek, oriana! thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, and then the tears run down my cheek, oriana: what wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, oriana? i cry aloud: none hear my cries, oriana. thou comest atween me and the skies, oriana. i feel the tears of blood arise up from my heart unto my eyes, oriana. within my heart my arrow lies, oriana. o cursed hand! o cursed blow! oriana! o happy thou that liest low, oriana! all night the silence seems to flow beside me in my utter woe, oriana. a weary, weary way i go, oriana. when norland winds pipe down the sea, oriana, i walk, i dare not think of thee, oriana. thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, i dare not die and come to thee, oriana. i hear the roaring of the sea, oriana. the lady of shalott part i on either side the river lie long fields of barley and of rye, that clothe the wold and meet the sky; and thro' the field the road runs by to many-tower'd camelot; and up and down the people go, gazing where the lilies blow round an island there below, the island of shalott. willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver thro' the wave that runs for ever by the island in the river flowing down to camelot. four gray walls, and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle embowers the lady of shalott. by the margin, willow-veil'd, slide the heavy barges trail'd by slow horses; and unhail'd the shallop flitteth silken sail'd skimming down to camelot: but who hath seen her wave her hand? or at the casement seen her stand? or is she known in all the land, the lady of shalott? only reapers, reaping early in among the bearded barley, hear a song that echoes cheerly from the river winding clearly, down to tower'd camelot: and by the moon the reaper weary, piling sheaves in uplands airy, listening, whispers ''tis the fairy lady of shalott.' part ii there she weaves by night and day a magic web with colours gay. she has heard a whisper say, a curse is on her if she stay to look down to camelot. she knows not what the curse may be, and so she weaveth steadily, and little other care has she, the lady of shalott. and moving thro' a mirror clear that hangs before her all the year, shadows of the world appear. there she sees the highway near winding down to camelot: there the river eddy whirls, and there the surly village-churls, and the red cloaks of market girls, pass onward from shalott. sometimes a troop of damsels glad, an abbot on an ambling pad, sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, goes by to tower'd camelot; and sometimes thro' the mirror blue the knights come riding two and two. she hath no loyal knight and true, the lady of shalott. but in her web she still delights to weave the mirror's magic sights, for often thro' the silent nights a funeral, with plumes and lights, and music, went to camelot: or when the moon was overhead, came two young lovers lately wed; 'i am half sick of shadows,' said the lady of shalott. part iii a bow-shot from her bower-eaves, he rode between the barley-sheaves, the sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, and flamed upon the brazen greaves of bold sir lancelot. a red-cross knight for ever kneel'd to a lady in his shield, that sparkled on the yellow field beside remote shalott. the gemmy bridle glitter'd free, like to some branch of stars we see hung in the golden galaxy. the bridle bells rang merrily as he rode down to camelot: and from his blazon'd baldric slung a mighty silver bugle hung, and as he rode his armour rung, beside remote shalott. all in the blue unclouded weather thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather the helmet and the helmet-feather burn'd like one burning flame together, as he rode down to camelot. as often thro' the purple night, below the starry clusters bright, some bearded meteor, trailing light, moves over still shalott. his broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; on burnish'd hooves his war-horse trod; from underneath his helmet flow'd his coal-black curls as on he rode, as he rode down to camelot. from the bank and from the river he flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'tirra lirra,' by the river sang sir lancelot. she left the web, she left the loom, she made three paces thro' the room, she saw the water-lily bloom, she saw the helmet and the plume, she look'd down to camelot. out flew the web and floated wide; the mirror crack'd from side to side; 'the curse is come upon me,' cried the lady of shalott. part iv in the stormy east-wind straining, the pale yellow woods were waning, the broad stream in his banks complaining, heavily the low sky raining over tower'd camelot; down she came and found a boat beneath a willow left afloat, and round about the prow she wrote _the lady of shalott_. and down the river's dim expanse-- like some bold seër in a trance, seeing all his own mischance-- with a glassy countenance did she look to camelot. and at the closing of the day she loosed the chain, and down she lay; the broad stream bore her far away, the lady of shalott. lying, robed in snowy white that loosely flew to left and right-- the leaves upon her falling light-- thro' the noises of the night she floated down to camelot: and as the boat-head wound along the willowy hills and fields among, they heard her singing her last song, the lady of shalott. heard a carol, mournful, holy, chanted loudly, chanted lowly, till her blood was frozen slowly, and her eyes were darken'd wholly, turn'd to tower'd camelot; for ere she reach'd upon the tide the first house by the water-side, singing in her song she died, the lady of shalott. under tower and balcony, by garden-wall and gallery, a gleaming shape she floated by, dead-pale between the houses high, silent into camelot. out upon the wharfs they came, knight and burgher, lord and dame, and round the prow they read her name, _the lady of shalott_. who is this? and what is here? and in the lighted palace near died the sound of royal cheer; and they cross'd themselves for fear, all the knights at camelot: but lancelot mused a little space; he said, 'she has a lovely face; god in his mercy lend her grace, the lady of shalott.' song move eastward, happy earth, and leave yon orange sunset waning slow: from fringes of the faded eve, o, happy planet, eastward go; till over thy dark shoulder glow thy silver sister-world, and rise to glass herself in dewy eyes that watch me from the glen below. ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, dip forward under starry light, and move me to my marriage-morn, and round again to happy night. break, break, break break, break, break, on thy cold grey stones, o sea! and i would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. o well for the fisherman's boy, that he shouts with his sister at play! o well for the sailor lad, that he sings in his boat on the bay. and the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill; but o for the touch of a vanish'd hand, and the sound of a voice that is still! break, break, break, at the foot of thy crags, o sea! but the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me. the goose i knew an old wife lean and poor, her rags scarce held together; there strode a stranger to the door, and it was windy weather. he held a goose upon his arm, he utter'd rhyme and reason, 'here, take the goose, and keep you warm, it is a stormy season.' she caught the white goose by the leg, a goose--'twas no great matter. the goose let fall a golden egg with cackle and with clatter. she dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, and ran to tell her neighbours; and bless'd herself, and cursed herself, and rested from her labours. and feeding high, and living soft, grew plump and able-bodied; until the grave churchwarden doff'd, the parson smirk'd and nodded. so sitting, served by man and maid, she felt her heart grow prouder: but ah! the more the white goose laid it clack'd and cackled louder. it clutter'd here, it chuckled there; it stirr'd the old wife's mettle: she shifted in her elbow-chair, and hurl'd the pan and kettle. 'a quinsy choke thy cursed note!' then wax'd her anger stronger. 'go, take the goose, and wring her throat, i will not bear it longer.' then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; ran gaffer, stumbled gammer. the goose flew this way and flew that, and fill'd the house with clamour. as head and heels upon the floor they flounder'd all together, there strode a stranger to the door, and it was windy weather: he took the goose upon his arm, he utter'd words of scorning; 'so keep you cold, or keep you warm, it is a stormy morning.' the wild wind rang from park and plain, and round the attics rumbled, till all the tables danced again, and half the chimneys tumbled. the glass blew in, the fire blew out, the blast was hard and harder. her cap blew off, her gown blew up, and a whirlwind clear'd the larder; and while on all sides breaking loose her household fled the danger, quoth she, 'the devil take the goose, and god forget the stranger!' in autumn i a spirit haunts the year's last hours dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: to himself he talks; for at eventide, listening earnestly. at his work you may hear him sob and sigh in the walks; earthward he boweth the heavy stalks of the mouldering flowers: heavily hangs the broad sunflower over its grave i' the earth so chilly; heavily hangs the hollyhock, heavily hangs the tiger-lily. ii the air is damp, and hush'd, and close, as a sick man's room when he taketh repose an hour before death; my very heart faints and my whole soul grieves at the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, and the breath of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year's last rose. heavily hangs the broad sunflower over its grave i' the earth so chilly; heavily hangs the hollyhock, heavily hangs the tiger-lily. as through the land at eve we went as thro' the land at eve we went, and plucked the ripened ears, we fell out, my wife and i, we fell out, i know not why, and kissed again with tears. and blessings on the falling out that all the more endears, when we fall out with those we love, and kiss again with tears! for when we came where lies the child we lost in other years, there above the little grave, o there above the little grave, we kissed again with tears. the bugle 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. o hark, o hear! how thin and clear, and thinner, clearer, farther going! o 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. o love, they die in yon rich sky, they faint on hill or field or 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. home they brought her warrior dead home they brought her warrior dead: she nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: all her maidens, watching, said, 'she must weep or she will die.' then they praised him, soft and low, call'd him worthy to be loved, truest friend and noblest foe; yet she neither spoke nor moved. stole a maiden from her place, lightly to the warrior stept, took the face-cloth from the face; yet she neither moved nor wept. rose a nurse of ninety years, set his child upon her knee-- like summer tempest came her tears-- 'sweet my child, i live for thee.' the brook i come from haunts of coot and hern, i make a sudden sally, and sparkle out among the fern, to bicker down a valley. by thirty hills i hurry down, or slip between the ridges, by twenty thorps, a little town, and half a hundred bridges. till last by philip's farm i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i chatter over stony ways, in little sharps and trebles, i bubble into eddying bays, i babble on the pebbles. with many a curve my bank i fret by many a field and fallow, and many a fairy foreland set with willow-weed and mallow. i chatter, chatter, as i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, and here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling, and here and there a foamy flake upon me as i travel, with many a silvery waterbreak above the golden gravel, and draw them all along and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i steal by lawns and grassy plots, i slide by hazel covers, i move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers. i slip, i slide, i gloom, i glance, among my skimming swallows; i make the netted sunbeam dance against my sandy shallows. i murmur under moon and stars in brambly wildernesses; i linger by my shingly bars; i loiter round my cresses; and out again i curve and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. sweet and low sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, low, low, breathe and blow, wind of the western sea! over the rolling waters go, come from the dropping moon, and blow, blow him again to me; while my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. sleep and rest, sleep and rest, father will come to thee soon; rest, rest, on mother's breast, father will come to thee soon; father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west under the silver moon: sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. come into the garden, maud come into the garden, maud, for the black bat, night, has flown, come into the garden, maud, i am here at the gate alone; and the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, and the musk of the roses blown. for a breeze of morning moves, and the planet of love is on high, beginning to faint in the light that she loves on a bed of daffodil sky, to faint in the light of the sun she loves, to faint in his light, and to die. all night have the roses heard the flute, violin, bassoon; all night has the casement jessamine stirr'd to the dancers dancing in tune; till a silence fell with the waking bird, and a hush with the setting moon. i said to the lily, 'there is but one with whom she has heart to be gay. when will the dancers leave her alone? she is weary of dance and play.' now half to the setting moon are gone, and half to the rising day; low on the sand and loud on the stone the last wheel echoes away. i said to the rose, 'the brief night goes in babble and revel and wine. o young lord-lover, what sighs are those, for one that will never be thine? but mine, but mine,' so i sware to the rose, 'for ever and ever, mine.' and the soul of the rose went into my blood, as the music clash'd in the hall; and long by the garden lake i stood, for i heard your rivulet fall from the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, our wood, that is dearer than all; from the meadow your walks have left so sweet that whenever a march-wind sighs he sets the jewel-print of your feet in violets blue as your eyes, to the woody hollows in which we meet and the valleys of paradise. the slender acacia would not shake one long milk-bloom on the tree; the white lake-blossom fell into the lake, as the pimpernel dozed on the lea; but the rose was awake all night for your sake, knowing your promise to me; the lilies and roses were all awake, they sigh'd for the dawn and thee. queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, come hither, the dances are done, in gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, queen lily and rose in one; shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, to the flowers, and be their sun. there has fallen a splendid tear from the passion-flower at the gate. she is coming, my dove, my dear; she is coming, my life, my fate; the red rose cries, 'she is near, she is near'; and the white rose weeps, 'she is late'; the larkspur listens, 'i hear, i hear'; and the lily whispers, 'i wait.' she is coming, my own, my sweet, were it ever so airy a tread, my heart would hear her and beat, were it earth in an earthy bed; my dust would hear her and beat, had i lain for a century dead; would start and tremble under her feet, and blossom in purple and red. ask me no more ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; the cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, with fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; but o too fond, when have i answer'd thee? ask me no more. ask me no more: what answer should i give? i love not hollow cheek or faded eye: yet, o my friend, i will not have thee die! ask me no more, lest i should bid thee live; ask me no more. ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: i strove against the stream and all in vain: let the great river take me to the main: no more, dear love, for at a touch i yield; ask me no more. the soldier when all among the thundering drums thy soldier in the battle stands, thy face across his fancy comes and gives the battle to his hands: a moment while the trumpets blow, he sees his brood about thy knee-- the next--like fire he meets the foe, and strikes him dead for them and thee! tara ta tantara! dusk now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: the fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me. now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, and like a ghost she glimmers on to me. now lies the earth all danaë to the stars, and all thy heart lies open unto me. now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. now folds the lily all her sweetness up, and slips into the bosom of the lake: so fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip into my bosom and be lost in me. a farewell flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, thy tribute wave deliver: no more by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, a rivulet then a river: no where by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. but here will sigh thine alder-tree, and here thine aspen shiver; and here by thee will hum the bee, for ever and for ever. a thousand suns will stream on thee, a thousand moons will quiver; but not by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. the beggar maid her arms across her breast she laid; she was more fair than words can say: bare-footed came the beggar maid before the king cophetua. in robe and crown the king stept down, to meet and greet her on her way; 'it is no wonder,' said the lords, 'she is more beautiful than day.' as shines the moon in clouded skies, she in her poor attire was seen: one praised her ankles, one her eyes, one her dark hair and lovesome mien. so sweet a face, such angel grace, in all that land had never been cophetua sware a royal oath: 'this beggar maid shall be my queen!' come not, when i am dead come not, when i am dead, to drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, to trample round my fallen head, and vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. there let the wind sweep and the plover cry; but thou, go by. child, if it were thine error or thy crime i care no longer, being all unblest: wed whom thou wilt, but i am sick of time, and i desire to rest. pass on, weak heart, and leave me where i lie: go by, go by. o swallow, swallow 'o swallow, swallow, flying, flying south, fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, and tell her, tell her what i tell to thee. 'o tell her, swallow, thou that knowest each, that bright and fierce and fickle is the south, and dark and true and tender is the north. 'o swallow, swallow, if i could follow, and light upon her lattice, i would pipe and trill, and cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 'o were i thou that she might take me in, and lay me on her bosom, and her heart would rock the snowy cradle till i died. 'why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, delaying as the tender ash delays to clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 'o tell her, swallow, that thy brood is flown: say to her, i do but wanton in the south but in the north long since my nest is made. 'o tell her, brief is life but love is long, and brief the sun of summer in the north, and brief the moon of beauty in the south. 'o swallow, flying from the golden woods, fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, and tell her, tell her, that i follow thee.' the miller's daughter it is the miller's daughter, and she is grown so dear, so dear, that i would be the jewel that trembles at her ear: for hid in ringlets day and night, i'd touch her neck so warm and white. and i would be the girdle about her dainty dainty waist, and her heart would beat against me, in sorrow and in rest: and i should know if it beat right, i'd clasp it round so close and tight. and i would be the necklace, and all day long to fall and rise upon her balmy bosom, with her laughter or her sighs, and i would lie so light, so light, i scarce should be unclasp'd at night. little billee william makepeace thackeray there were three sailors of bristol city who took a boat and went to sea, but first with beef and captain's biscuits and pickled pork they loaded she. there was gorging jack and guzzling jimmy, and the youngest he was little billee. now when they got as far as the equator they'd nothing left but one split pea. says gorging jack to guzzling jimmy, 'i am extremely hungaree.' to gorging jack says guzzling jimmy, 'we've nothing left; us must eat we.' says gorging jack to guzzling jimmy, 'with one another we shouldn't agree! 'there's little bill, he's young and tender, we're old and tough, so let's eat he.' 'oh, bill, we're going to kill and eat you, so undo the button of your chemie.' when bill received this information he used his pocket handkerchie. 'first let me say my catechism, which my poor mammy taught to me.' 'make haste, make haste,' says guzzling jimmy, while jack pulled out his snickersnee. so billy went up to the main-top gallant mast, and down he fell on his bended knee, he scarce had come to the twelfth commandment when up he jumps. 'there's land i see: 'there's jerusalem and madagascar, and north and south amerikee: 'there's the british flag a-riding at anchor, with admiral napier, k.c.b.' so when they got aboard of the admiral's, he hanged fat jack and flogged jimmee: but as for little bill, he made him the captain of a seventy-three. green fields of england arthur hugh clough green fields of england! wheresoe'er across this watery waste we fare, one image at our hearts we bear, green fields of england, everywhere. sweet eyes in england, i must flee past where the waves' last confines be, ere your loved smile i cease to see, sweet eyes in england, dear to me. dear home in england, safe and fast, if but in thee my lot lie cast, the past shall seem a nothing past to thee, dear home, if won at last; dear home in england, won at last. how they brought the good news from ghent to aix robert browning i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he; i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 'good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; 'speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through; behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear; at boom, a great yellow star came out to see; at düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; and from mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, so joris broke silence with 'yet there is time!' at aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper roland at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. and his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; and one eye's black intelligence--ever that glance o'er its white edge at me, his own master askance! and the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. by hasselt, dirck groaned; and cried joris, 'stay spur! your ross galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, we'll remember at aix'--for one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw her stretched neck and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. so we were left galloping, joris and i, past looz and past tongres, no cloud in the sky; the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; till over by dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, and 'gallop,' gasped joris, 'for aix is in sight!' 'how they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and crop over; lay dead as a stone; and there was my roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-socket's rim. then i cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is, friends flocking round as i sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. marching along i kentish sir byng stood for his king, bidding the crop-headed parliament swing: and, pressing a troop unable to stoop and see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, marched them along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. ii god for king charles! pym and such carles to the devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles. cavaliers, up! lips from the cup, hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup till you're-- marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. iii hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell serve hazelrig, fiennes, and young harry as well! england, good cheer! rupert is near! kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! iv then, god for king charles! pym and his snarls to the devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! hold by the right, you double your might; so, onward to nottingham, fresh for the fight, marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. the irish emigrant lady dufferin i'm sitting on the stile, mary, where we sat side by side, on a bright may morning long ago, when first you were my bride. the corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high, and the red was on your lip, mary, and the love light in your eye. the place is little changed, mary, the day's as bright as then; the lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again, but i miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your warm breath on my cheek, and i still keep listening for the words you never more may speak. 'tis but a step down yonder lane, the village church stands near,-- the church where we were wed, mary, i see the spire from here. but the grave-yard lies between, mary, and my step might break your rest, where i've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast. i'm very lonely now, mary, for the poor make no new friends; but, oh, they love the better the few our father sends. and you were all i had, mary, my blessing and my pride; there's nothing left to care for now, since my poor mary died. i'm bidding you a long farewell, my mary kind and true, but i'll not forget you, darling, in the land i'm going to. they say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there, but i'll not forget old ireland, were it fifty times less fair. song lord houghton i wander'd by the brook-side, i wander'd by the mill,-- i could not hear the brook flow, the noisy wheel was still; there was no burr of grasshopper, nor chirp of any bird; but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. i sat beneath the elm-tree, i watch'd the long, long shade, and as it grew still longer i did not feel afraid; for i listen'd for a footfall, i listen'd for a word,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. he came not,--no, he came not; the night came on alone; the little stars sat one by one each on his golden throne; the evening air pass'd by my cheek, the leaves above were stirr'd,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. fast silent tears were flowing, when some one stood behind; a hand was on my shoulder, i knew its touch was kind: it drew me nearer, nearer; we did not speak a word,-- for the beating of our own hearts was all the sound we heard. the long-ago on that deep-retiring shore frequent pearls of beauty lie, where the passion-waves of yore fiercely beat and mounted high: sorrows that are sorrows still lose the bitter taste of woe; nothing's altogether ill in the griefs of long-ago. tombs where lonely love repines, ghastly tenements of tears, wear the look of happy shrines through the golden mist of years death, to those who trust in good, vindicates his hardest blow; oh! we would not, if we could, wake the sleep of long-ago! though the doom of swift decay shocks the soul where life is strong, though for frailer hearts the day lingers sad and overlong-- still the weight will find a leaven, still the spoiler's hand is slow, while the future has its heaven, and the past its long-ago. the sands of dee rev. charles kingsley 'oh, mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, across the sands of dee.' the western wind was wild and dank with foam, and all alone went she. the western tide crept up along the sand, and o'er and o'er the sand, and round and round the sand, as far as eye could see. the rolling mist came down and hid the land: and never home came she. 'oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- a tress of golden hair, a drowned maiden's hair, above the nets at sea?' was never salmon yet that shone so fair among the stakes of dee. they rowed her in across the rolling foam, the cruel crawling foam, the cruel hungry foam, to her grave beside the sea. but still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, across the sands of dee. three fishers three fishers went sailing out into the west, out into the west, as the sun went down, each thought of the woman who loved him best, and the children stood watching them out of the town; for men must work, and women must weep, and there's little to earn, and many to keep, though the harbour-bar be moaning. three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, and they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, and the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; but men must work, and women must weep, though storms be sudden, and waters deep, and the harbour-bar be moaning. three corpses lie out on the shining sands, in the morning gleam, as the tide goes down, and the women are weeping and wringing their hands, for those who will never come home to the town. for men must work, and women must weep, and the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, and good-bye to the bar and its moaning. auld lang syne robert burns for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne! should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to min'? should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne. we twa hae run about the braes, and pou'd the gowans fine, but we've wander'd mony a weary fit sin' auld lang syne. we twa hae paidl'd i' the burn frae morning sun till dine, but seas between us braid hae roar'd sin' auld lang syne. and here's a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie's a hand o' thine, and we'll tak a right guid willie-waught for auld lang syne. and surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, and surely i'll be mine, and we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne. for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne! god save the king henry carey god save our gracious king, long live our noble king, god save the king. send him victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign over us, god save the king. o lord our god, arise! scatter his enemies, and make them fall! confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks; on thee our hopes we fix-- god save us all. thy choicest gifts in store on him be pleased to pour, long may he reign! may he defend our laws, and ever give us cause to sing, with heart and voice, god save the king! printed by t. and a. constable, (late) printers to her majesty at the edinburgh university press. * * * * * ------------------------------------------------------------------ transcriber's notes: p.xv. 'da rymple' is 'dalrymple' in table of contents, changed. p.viii. 'for auld lang syne, my dear,' is on p. , changed. p.x. 'my true love hath my heart,' is missing from table of contents, added. p.xii. 'sweet and low, sweet and low,' is on page , changed. p.xiii. 'weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,' is missing in table of contents, added. p.xv. 'burns, robert' on p. is missing from table of contents, added. p.xv. 'carey, henry' on p. is missing from table of contents, added. p.xv. 'dyer, sir edward' is missing in table of contents, added. p. . we praise the 'houshold' maid, changed to 'household'. p. . husband-lover changed to husband-luver. p. . with 'fragmeats' changed to 'fragments'. ------------------------------------------------------------------ the golden treasury of the best songs and lyrical pieces in the english language selected by francis turner palgrave illustrated by a. pearse london and glasgow collins' clear-type press dedication to alfred tennyson poet laureate. this book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man with whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region of english literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the noble gifts of nature, was most eminently distinguished by the noblest and the rarest,--just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. it would have been hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate what i have endeavoured to make a true national anthology of three centuries to henry hallam. but he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love and reverence; and i desire therefore to place before it a name united with his by associations which, whilst poetry retains her hold on the minds of englishmen, are not likely to be forgotten. your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of treryn dinas, led me to begin the work; and it has been completed under your advice and assistance. for the favour now asked i have thus a second reason: and to this i may add, the homage which is your right as poet, and the gratitude due to a friend, whose regard i rate at no common value. permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, i hope, may be found by many a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure; a source of animation to friends when they meet; and able to sweeten solitude itself with best society,--with the companionship of the wise and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music only heard in silence. if this collection proves a store-house of delight to labour and to poverty,--if it teaches those indifferent to the poets to love them, and those who love them to love them more, the aim and the desire entertained in framing it will be fully accomplished. f.t.p. may, . preface. this little collection differs, it is believed, from others in the attempt made to include in it all the best original lyrical pieces and songs in our language, by writers not living,--and none beside the best. many familiar verses will hence be met with; many also which should be familiar:--the editor will regard as his fittest readers those who love poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known and valued. for those who take up the book in a serious and scholarly spirit, the following remarks on the plan and the execution are added. the editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition of lyrical poetry; but he has found the task of practical decision increase in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work, whilst keeping in view a few simple principles. lyrical has been here held essentially to imply that each poem shall turn on some single thought, feeling, or situation. in accordance with this, narrative, descriptive, and didactic poems,--unless accompanied by rapidity of movement, brevity, and the colouring of human passion,--have been excluded. humorous poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances where a truly poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly personal, occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to the idea of the book. blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with all pieces markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from what is commonly understood by song, and rarely conforming to lyrical conditions in treatment. but it is not anticipated, nor is it possible, that all readers shall think the line accurately drawn. some poems, as gray's _elegy_, the _allegro_ and _penseroso_, wordsworth's _ruth_ or campbell's _lord ullin_, might be claimed with perhaps equal justice for a narrative or descriptive selection: whilst with reference especially to ballads and sonnets, the editor can only state that he has taken his utmost pains to decide without caprice or partiality. this also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable to question;--what degree of merit should give rank among the best. that a poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius,--that it shall reach a perfection commensurate with its aim,--that we should require finish in proportion to brevity,--that passion, colour, and originality cannot atone for serious imperfections in clearness, unity, or truth,--that a few good lines do not make a good poem,--that popular estimate is serviceable as a guidepost more than as a compass,--above all, that excellence should be looked for rather in the whole than in the parts,--such and other such canons have been always steadily regarded. he may however add that the pieces chosen, and a far larger number rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly considered; and that he has been aided throughout by two friends of independent and exercised judgment, besides the distinguished person addressed in the dedication. it is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been freed from that one-sidedness which must beset individual decisions:--but for the final choice the editor is alone responsible. chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible poets not contained in it, and the best anthologies of different periods, have been twice systematically read through: and it is hence improbable that any omissions which may be regretted are due to oversight. the poems are printed entire, except in a very few instances (specified in the notes) where a stanza has been omitted. the omissions have been risked only when the piece could be thus brought to a closer lyrical unity: and, as essentially opposed to this unity, extracts, obviously such, are excluded. in regard to the text, the purpose of the book has appeared to justify the choice of the most poetical version, wherever more than one exists: and much labour has been given to present each poem, in disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to the greatest advantage. in the arrangement, the most poetically effective order has been attempted. the english mind has passed through phases of thought and cultivation so various and so opposed during these three centuries of poetry, that a rapid passage between old and new, like rapid alteration of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will always be wearisome and hurtful to the sense of beauty. the poems have been therefore distributed into books corresponding, i. to the ninety years closing about , ii. thence to , iii. to , iv. to the half century just ended. or, looking at the poets who more or less give each portion its distinctive character, they might be called the books of shakespeare, milton, gray, and wordsworth. the volume, in this respect, so far as the limitations of its range allow, accurately reflects the natural growth and evolution of our poetry. a rigidly chronological sequence, however, rather fits a collection aiming at instruction than at pleasure, and the wisdom which comes through pleasure:--within each book the pieces have therefore been arranged in gradations of feeling or subject. the development of the symphonies of mozart and beethoven has been here thought of as a model, and nothing placed without careful consideration. and it is hoped that the contents of this anthology will thus be found to present a certain unity, "as episodes," in the noble language of shelley, "to that great poem which all poets, like the co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have built up since the beginning of the world." as he closes his long survey, the editor trusts he may add without egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular fame more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a criticism, would confine judgments on poetry to "the selected few of many generations." not many appear to have gained reputation without some gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses by certain writers who show less strength than sweetness, or more thought than mastery in expression, are printed in this volume, it should not be imagined that they have been excluded without much hesitation and regret,--far less that they have been slighted. throughout this vast and pathetic array of singers now silent, few have been honoured with the name poet, and have not possessed a skill in words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or seriousness in reflection, which render their works, although never perhaps attaining that loftier and finer excellence here required,--better worth reading than much of what fills the scanty hours that most men spare for self-improvement, or for pleasure in any of its more elevated and permanent forms. and if this be true of even mediocre poetry, for how much more are we indebted to the best! like the fabled fountain of the azores, but with a more various power, the magic of this art can confer on each period of life its appropriate blessing: on early years experience, on maturity calm, on age youthfulness. poetry gives treasures "more golden than gold," leading us in higher and healthier ways than those of the world, and interpreting to us the lessons of nature. but she speaks best for herself. her true accents, if the plan has been executed with success, may be heard throughout the following pages:-wherever the poets of england are honoured, wherever the dominant language of the world is spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience. f. t. palgrave. the golden treasury. first book. summary. the elizabethan poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms the substance of this book, which contains pieces from wyat under henry viii. to shakespeare midway through the reign of james i., and drummond who carried on the early manner to a still later period. there is here a wide range of style;--from simplicity expressed in a language hardly yet broken in to verse,--through the pastoral fancies and italian conceits of the strictly elizabethan time,--to the passionate reality of shakespeare: yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. few readers can fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, the single-hearted straightforwardness of the thoughts:--nor less, the limitation of subject to the many phases of one passion, which then characterised our lyrical poetry,--unless when, as with drummond and shakespeare, the "purple light of love" is tempered by a spirit of sterner reflection. it should be observed that this and the following summaries apply in the main to the collection here presented, in which (besides its restriction to lyrical poetry) a strictly representative or historical anthology has not been aimed at. great excellence, in human art as in human character, has from the beginning of things been even more uniform than mediocrity, by virtue of the closeness of its approach to nature:--and so far as the standard of excellence kept in view has been attained in this volume, a comparative absence of extreme or temporary phases in style, a similarity of tone and manner, will be found throughout:--something neither modern nor ancient but true in all ages, and like the works of creation perfect as on the first day. . spring. spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! the palm and may make country houses gay, lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, and we hear aye birds tune their merry lay, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! the fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, in every street these tunes our ears do greet, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! spring, the sweet spring! t. nash. . summons to love. phoebus, arise! and paint the sable skies with azure, white, and red: rouse memnon's mother from her tithon's bed that she may thy career with roses spread: the nightingales thy coming eachwhere sing: make an eternal spring! give life to this dark world which lieth dead; spread forth thy golden hair in larger locks than thou wast wont before, and emperor-like decore with diadem of pearl thy temples fair: chase hence the ugly night which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. --this is that happy morn, that day, long wishéd day of all my life so dark, (if cruel stars have not my ruin sworn and fates not hope betray), which, purely white, deserves an everlasting diamond should it mark. this is the morn should bring unto this grove my love, to hear and recompense my love. fair king, who all preserves, but show thy blushing beams, and thou two sweeter eyes shalt see than those which by penéus' streams did once thy heart surprize. now, flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: if that ye winds would hear a voice surpassing far amphion's lyre, your furious chiding stay; let zephyr only breathe and with her tresses play. --the winds all silent are, and phoebus in his chair ensaffroning sea and air makes vanish every star: night like a drunkard reels beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels: the fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, the clouds with orient gold spangle their blue; here is the pleasant place-- and nothing wanting is, save she, alas. william drummond of hawthornden. . time and love. when i have seen by time's fell hand defaced the rich proud cost of out-worn buried age; when sometime lofty towers i see down-razed, and brass eternal slave to mortal rage. when i have seen the hungry ocean gain advantage on the kingdom of the shore, and the firm soil win of the watery main, increasing store with loss, and loss with store. when i have seen such interchange of state, or state itself confounded to decay, ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate-- that time will come and take my love away. --this thought is as a death, which cannot choose but weep to have that which it fears to lose. w. shakespeare. . since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, but sad mortality o'ersways their power, how with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, whose action is no stronger than a flower? o how shall summer's honey breath hold out, against the wreckful siege of battering days, when rocks impregnable are not so stout, nor gates of steel so strong but time decays? o fearful meditation, where, alack! shall time's best jewel from time's chest lie hid? or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back, or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? o! none, unless this miracle have might, that in black ink my love may still shine bright. w. shakespeare. . the passionate shepherd to his love. come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield. there will we sit upon the rocks and see the shepherds feed their flocks by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals. there will i make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies, a cap of flowers, and a kirtle embroider'd all 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. a belt of straw and ivy-buds with coral clasps and amber studs: and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me and be my love. thy silver dishes for thy meat as precious as the gods do eat, shall on an ivory table be prepared each day for thee and me. 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. c. marlowe. . a madrigal. crabbed age and youth cannot live together: youth is full of pleasance, 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; o! my love, my love is young! age, i do defy thee-- o, sweet shepherd, hie thee, for methinks thou stay'st too long. w. shakespeare. . under the greenwood 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 we see no enemy but winter and rough weather. who doth ambition shun and loves to live i' the sun, seeking the food he eats and pleased with what he gets-- come hither, come hither, come hither! here shall he see no enemy but winter and rough weather. w. shakespeare. . it was a lover and his lass with a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonino! that o'er the green cornfield did pass, in the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing hey ding a ding: sweet lovers love the spring. between the acres of the rye these pretty country folks would lie: this carol they began that hour, how that life was but a flower: and therefore take the present time with a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonino! for love is crownéd with the prime in spring time, the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing, hey ding a ding; sweet lovers love the spring. w. shakespeare. . present in absence. absence, hear thou my protestation against thy strength, distance, and length: do what thou canst for alteration: for hearts of truest mettle absence doth join, and time doth settle. who loves a mistress of such quality, he soon hath found affection's ground beyond time, place, and all mortality. to hearts that cannot vary absence is presence, time doth tarry. by absence this good means i gain, that i can catch her, where none can watch her, in some close corner of my brain: there i embrace and kiss her, and so i both enjoy and miss her. anon. . absence. being your slave what should i do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? i have no precious time at all to spend, nor services to do, till you require: nor dare i chide the world-without-end hour whilst i, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, nor think the bitterness of absence sour when you have bid your servant once adieu: nor dare i question with my jealous thought where you may be, or your affairs suppose, but like a sad slave, stay and think of nought save where you are, how happy you make those;-- so true a fool is love, that in your will, though you do any thing, he thinks no ill. w. shakespeare. . how like a winter hath my absence been from thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! what freezings have i felt, what dark days seen, what old december's bareness everywhere! and yet this time removed was summer's time: the teeming autumn, big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease: yet this abundant issue seem'd to me but hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit; for summer and his pleasures wait on thee, and, thou away, the very birds are mute; or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, that leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. w. shakespeare. . a consolation. when in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes i all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself, and curse my fate; wishing me like to one more rich in hope, featured like him, like him with friends possest, desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, with what i most enjoy contented least; yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, haply i think on thee--and then my state, like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; for thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings that then i scorn to change my state with kings. w. shakespeare. . the unchangeable. o never say that i was false of heart, though absence seem'd my flame to qualify: as easy might i from my self depart as from my soul which in thy breast doth lie; that is my home of love, if i have ranged, like him that travels, i return again, just to the time, not with the time exchanged, so that myself bring water for my stain. never believe, though in my nature reign'd all frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, that it could so preposterously be stain'd to leave for nothing all thy sum of good: for nothing this wide universe i call, save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all. w. shakespeare. . to me, fair friend, you never can be old, for as you were when first your eye i eyed such seems your beauty still. three winters cold have from the forests shook three summers' pride; three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd, in process of the seasons have i seen, three april perfumes in three hot junes burn'd, since first i saw you fresh which yet are green. ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand, steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; so your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: for fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,-- ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. w. shakespeare. . diaphenia. diaphenia like the daffadowndilly, white as the sun, fair as the lily, heigh ho, how do i love thee! i do love thee as my lambs are belovéd of their dams; how blest were i if thou would'st prove me. diaphenia like the spreading roses, that in thy sweets all sweets encloses, fair sweet, how do i love thee! i do love thee as each flower loves the sun's life-giving power; for dead, thy breath to life might move me. diaphenia like to all things blesséd when all thy praises are expresséd, dear joy, how do i love thee! as the birds do love the spring, or the bees their careful king: then in requite, sweet virgin, love me! h. constable. . rosaline. like to the clear in highest sphere where all imperial glory shines, of selfsame colour is her hair whether unfolded, or in twines: heigh ho, fair rosaline! her eyes are sapphires set in snow, resembling heaven by every wink; the gods do fear whenas they glow, and i do tremble when i think heigh ho, would she were mine! her cheeks are like the blushing cloud that beautifies aurora's face, or like the silver crimson shroud that phoebus' smiling looks doth grace; heigh ho, fair rosaline! her lips are like two budded roses whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, within which bounds she balm encloses apt to entice a deity: heigh ho, would she were mine! her neck like to a stately tower where love himself imprison'd lies, to watch for glances every hour from her divine and sacred eyes: heigh ho, fair rosaline! her paps are centres of delight, her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, where nature moulds the dew of light to feed perfection with the same: heigh ho, would she were mine! with orient pearl, with ruby red, with marble white, with sapphire blue, her body every way is fed, yet soft in touch and sweet in view: heigh ho, fair rosaline! nature herself her shape admires; the gods are wounded in her sight; and love forsakes his heavenly fires and at her eyes his brand doth light: heigh ho, would she were mine! then muse not, nymphs, though i bemoan the absence of fair rosaline, since for a fair there's fairer none, nor for her virtues so divine: heigh ho, fair rosaline! heigh ho, my heart! would god that she were mine! t. lodge. . colin. beauty sat bathing by a spring where fairest shades did hide her; the winds blew calm, the birds did sing, the cool streams ran beside her. my wanton thoughts enticed mine eye to see what was forbidden: but better memory said, fie! so vain desire was chidden:-- hey nonny nonny o! hey nonny nonny! into a slumber then i fell, when fond imagination seeméd to see, but could not tell her feature or her fashion. but ev'n as babes in dreams do smile, and sometimes fall a-weeping, so i awaked as wise this while as when i fell a-sleeping:-- hey nonny nonny o! hey nonny nonny! the shepherd tonie. . to his love. shall i compare thee to a summer's day? thou art more lovely and more temperate: rough winds do shake the darling buds of may, and summer's lease hath all too short a date: sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm'd, and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd. but thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou growest. so long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee. w. shakespeare. . to his love. when in the chronicle of wasted time i see descriptions of the fairest wights, and beauty making beautiful old rhyme in praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights; then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, i see their antique pen would have exprest ev'n such a beauty as you master now. so all their praises are but prophecies of this our time, all, you prefiguring; and for they look'd but with divining eyes, they had not skill enough your worth to sing: for we, which now behold these present days, have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. w. shakespeare. . love's perjuries. on a day, alack the day! love, whose month is ever may, spied a blossom passing fair playing in the wanton air: through the velvet leaves the wind all unseen 'gan passage find; that the lover, sick to death, wish'd himself the heaven's breath. air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; air, would i might triumph so! but, alack, my hand is sworn ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: vow, alack, for youth unmeet; youth so apt to pluck a sweet. do not call it sin in me that i am forsworn for thee: thou for whom e'en jove would swear juno but an ethiope were, and deny himself for jove, turning mortal for thy love. w. shakespeare. . a supplication. forget not yet the tried intent of such a truth as i have meant; my great travail so gladly spent, forget not yet! forget not yet when first began the weary life ye know, since whan the suit, the service, none tell can; forget not yet! forget not yet the great assays, the cruel wrong, the scornful ways, the painful patience in delays, forget not yet! forget not! o, forget not this, how long ago hath been, and is the mind that never meant amiss-- forget not yet! forget not then thine own approved the which so long hath thee so loved, whose steadfast faith yet never moved-- forget not this! sir t. wyat. . to aurora. o if thou knew'st how thou thyself does harm, and dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil thy rest; then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast and thy relenting heart would kindly warm. o if thy pride did not our joys controul, what world of loving wonders should'st thou see! for if i saw thee once transform'd in me, then in thy bosom i would pour my soul; then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine, and if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone; no, i would have my share in what were thine: and whilst we thus should make our sorrows one, this happy harmony would make them none. w. alexander, earl of sterline. . true love. let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove:-- o no! it is an ever-fixéd mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wandering bark whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come; love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:-- if this be error and upon me proved, i never writ, nor no man ever loved. w. shakespeare. . a ditty. my true love hath my heart, and i have his, by just exchange one to the other given: i hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, there never was a better bargain driven: my true love hath my heart, and i have his. his heart in me keeps him and me in one, my heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: he loves my heart, for once it was his own, i cherish his because in me it bides: my true-love hath my heart, and i have his. sir p. sidney. . love's omnipresence. were i as base as is the lowly plain, and you, my love, as high as heaven above, yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain ascend to heaven, in honour of my love. were i as high as heaven above the plain, and you, my love, as humble and as low as are the deepest bottoms of the main, whereso'er you were, with you my love should go. were you the earth, dear love, and i the skies, my love should shine on you like to the sun, and look upon you with ten thousand eyes till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done. whereso'er i am, below, or else above you, whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. j. sylvester. . carpe diem. o mistress mine, where are you roaming? o, stay and hear! your true-love's coming that can sing both high and low; trip no further, pretty sweeting, journeys end in lovers' meeting-- every wise man's son doth know. what is love? 'tis not hereafter; present mirth hath present laughter; what's to come is still unsure: in delay there lies no plenty,-- then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty, youth's a stuff will not endure. w. shakespeare. . winter. when icicles hang by the wall and dick the shepherd blows his nail, and tom bears logs into the hall, and milk comes frozen home in pail; when blood is nipt, and ways be foul, then nightly sings the staring owl tuwhoo! tuwhit! tuwhoo! a merry note! while greasy joan doth keel the pot. when all around the wind doth blow, and coughing drowns the parson's saw, and birds sit brooding in the snow, and marian's nose looks red and raw: when roasted crabs hiss in the bowl-- then nightly sings the staring owl tuwhoo! tuwhit! tuwhoo! a merry note! while greasy joan doth keel the pot. w. shakespeare. . that time of year thou may'st in me behold when yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang upon those boughs which shake against the cold, bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. in me thou seest the twilight of such day as after sunset fadeth in the west, which by and by black night doth take away, death's second self, that seals up all in rest. in me thou seest the glowing of such fire, that on the ashes of his youth doth lie as the deathbed whereon it must expire, consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. --this thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long. w. shakespeare. . remembrance. when to the sessions of sweet silent thought i summon up remembrance of things past, i sigh the lack of many a thing i sought, and with old woes new wail my dear time's waste then can i drown an eye, unused to flow, for precious friends hid in death's dateless night, and weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe, and moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight. then can i grieve at grievances foregone, and heavily from woe to woe tell o'er the sad account of fore-bemoanéd moan, which i new pay as if not paid before: --but if the while i think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restored, and sorrows end. w. shakespeare. . revolutions. like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore so do our minutes hasten to their end; each changing place with that which goes before, in sequent toil all forwards do contend. nativity once in the main of light crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, and time that gave, doth now his gift confound. time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, and delves the parallels in beauty's brow; feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, and nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. and yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. w. shakespeare. . farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, and like enough thou know'st thy estimate: the charter of thy worth gives thee releasing, my bonds in thee are all determinate. for how do i hold thee but by thy granting? and for that riches where is my deserving? the cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, and so my patent back again is swerving. thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; so thy great gift, upon misprision growing, comes home again, on better judgement making. thus have i had thee as a dream doth flatter; in sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter. w. shakespeare. . the life without passion. they that have power to hurt, and will do none, that do not do the thing they most do show, who, moving others, are themselves as stone, unmovéd, cold, and to temptation slow,-- they rightly do inherit heaven's graces, and husband nature's riches from expense; they are the lords and owners of their faces, others, but stewards of their excellence. the summer's flower is to the summer sweet, though to itself it only live and die; but if that flower with base infection meet, the basest weed outbraves his dignity: for sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. w. shakespeare. . the lover's appeal. and wilt thou leave me thus? say nay! say nay! for shame, to save thee from the blame of all my grief and grame. and wilt thou leave me thus? say nay! say nay! and wilt thou leave me thus, that hath loved thee so long in wealth and woe among: and is thy heart so strong as for to leave me thus? say nay! say nay! and wilt thou leave me thus, that hath given thee my heart never for to depart neither for pain nor smart: and wilt thou leave me thus? say nay! say nay! and wilt thou leave me thus, and have no more pity of him that loveth thee? alas! thy cruelty! and wilt thou leave me thus? say nay! say nay! sir t. wyat. . the nightingale. as it fell upon a day in the merry month of may, sitting in a pleasant shade which a grove of myrtles made, beasts did leap and birds did sing, trees did grow and plants did spring, every thing did banish moan save the nightingale alone. she, poor bird, as all forlorn, lean'd her breast against a thorn, and there sung the dolefullest ditty, that to hear it was great pity. fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; tereu, tereu, by and by: that to hear her so complain scarce i could from tears refrain; for her griefs so lively shown made me think upon mine own. --ah! thought i, thou mourn'st in vain, none takes pity on thy pain: senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee; king pandion, he is dead, all thy friends are lapp'd in lead: all thy fellow birds do sing careless of thy sorrowing: even so, poor bird, like thee, none alive will pity me. r. barnefield. . care-charmer sleep, son of the sable night, brother to death, in silent darkness born, relieve my anguish, and restore the light; with dark forgetting of my care return. and let the day be time enough to mourn the shipwreck of my ill adventured youth: let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, without the torment of the night's untruth. cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, to model forth the passions of the morrow; never let rising sun approve you liars to add more grief to aggravate my sorrow: still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, and never wake to feel the day's disdain. s. daniel. . madrigal. take o 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, bring again-- seals of love, but seal'd in vain, seal'd in vain! w. shakespeare. . love's farewell. since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,-- nay, i have done, you get no more of me; and i am glad, yea glad with all my heart, that thus so cleanly i myself can free; shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, and when we meet at any time again, be it not seen in either of our brows that we one jot of former love retain. now at the last gasp of love's latest breath, when his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, when faith is kneeling by his bed of death, and innocence is closing up his eyes, --now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, from death to life thou might'st him yet recover! m. drayton. . to his lute. my lute, be as thou wert when thou did'st grow with thy green mother in some shady grove, when immelodious winds but made thee move, and birds their ramage did on thee bestow. since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, which wont in such harmonious strains to flow, is reft from earth to tune those spheres above, what art thou but a harbinger of woe? thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, but orphan's wailings to the fainting ear; each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear; for which be silent as in woods before: or if that any hand to touch thee deign, like widow'd turtle still her loss complain. w. drummond. . blind love. o me! what eyes hath love put in my head which have no correspondence with true sight: or if they have, where is my judgment fled that censures falsely what they see aright? if that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, what means the world to say it is not so? if it be not, then love doth well denote, love's eye is not so true as all men's: no, how can it? o how can love's eye be true, that is so vex'd with watching and with tears? no marvel then though i mistake my view: the sun itself sees not till heaven clears. o cunning love! with tears thou keep'st me blind, lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find! w. shakespeare. . the unfaithful shepherdess. while that the sun with his beams hot scorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain, philon the shepherd, late forgot, sitting beside a crystal fountain, in shadow of a green oak tree upon his pipe this song play'd he: adieu love, adieu love, untrue love, untrue love, untrue love, adieu love; your mind is light, soon lost for new love. so long as i was in your sight i was your heart, your soul, and treasure; and evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd burning in flames beyond all measure: --three days endured your love to me, and it was lost in other three! adieu love, adieu love, untrue love, untrue love, untrue love, adieu love; your mind is light, soon lost for new love. another shepherd you did see to whom your heart was soon enchainéd; full soon your love was leapt from me, full soon my place he had obtainéd. soon came a third, your love to win, and we were out and he was in. adieu love, adieu love, untrue love, untrue love, untrue love, adieu love; your mind is light, soon lost for new love. sure you have made me passing glad that you your mind so soon removéd, before that i the leisure had to choose you for my best belovéd: for all your love was past and done two days before it was begun:-- adieu love, adieu love, untrue love, untrue love, untrue love, adieu love; your mind is light, soon lost for new love. anon. . a renunciation. if women could be fair, and yet not fond, or that their love were firm, not fickle still, i would not marvel that they make men bond by service long to purchase their good will; but when i see how frail those creatures are, i muse that men forget themselves so far. to mark the choice they make, and how they change, how oft from phoebus they do flee to pan; unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, these gentle birds that fly from man to man; who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, and let them fly, fair fools, which way they list? yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, to pass the time when nothing else can please, and train them to our lure with subtle oath, till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease; and then we say when we their fancy try, to play with fools, o what a fool was i! e. vere, earl of oxford. . 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, that dost not bite so nigh as benefits forgot: though thou the waters warp, thy sting is not so sharp as friend remember'd not. 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. w. shakespeare. . madrigal. my thoughts hold mortal strife; i do detest my life, and with lamenting cries peace to my soul to bring oft call that prince which here doth monarchise: --but he, grim grinning king, who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, disdains to crop a weed, and will not come. w. drummond. . dirge of love. come away, come away, death, and in sad cypres let me be laid; fly away, fly away, breath; i am slain by a fair cruel maid. my shroud of white, stuck all with yew, o prepare it! my part of death no one so true did share it. not a flower, not a flower sweet, on my black coffin let there be strown; not a friend, not a friend greet my poor corpse, where my bones shall thrown: a thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me, o where sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there. w. shakespeare. . fidele. fear no more the heat o' the sun, nor the furious winter's rages: thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust. fear no more the frown o' the great, thou art past the tyrant's stroke; care no more to clothe and eat; to thee the reed is as the oak: the sceptre, learning, physic, must all follow this, and come to dust. fear no more the lightning flash nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; fear not slander, censure rash; thou hast finish'd joy and moan: all lovers young, all lovers must consign to thee, and come to dust. w. shakespeare. . a sea dirge. full fathom five thy father lies: of his bones are coral made; those are pearls that were his eyes: nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange; sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: hark! now i hear them,-- ding, dong, bell. w. shakespeare. . a land dirge. call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, since o'er shady groves they hover and with leaves and flowers do cover the friendless bodies of unburied men. call unto his funeral dole the ant, the field-mouse, and the mole to rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm and (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; but keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, for with his nails he'll dig them up again. j. webster. . post mortem. if thou survive my well-contented day when that churl death my bones with dust shall cover, and shalt by fortune once more re-survey these poor rude lines of thy deceaséd lover: compare them with the bettering of the time, and though they be outstripp'd by every pen, reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme exceeded by the height of happier men. o then vouchsafe me but this loving thought-- "had my friend's muse grown with this growing age, a dearer birth than this his love had brought, to march in ranks of better equipage: but since he died, and poets better prove, theirs for their style i'll read, his for his love." w. shakespeare. . the triumph of death. no longer mourn for me when i am dead than you shall hear the surly sullen bell give warning to the world, that i am fled from this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell; nay, if you read this line, remember not the hand that writ it; for i love you so, that i in your sweet thoughts would be forgot if thinking on me then should make you woe. o if, i say, you look upon this verse when i perhaps compounded am with clay do not so much as my poor name rehearse, but let your love even with my life decay; lest the wise world should look into your moan, and mock you with me after i am gone. w. shakespeare. . madrigal. tell me where is fancy bred, or in the heart or in the head? how begot, how nourishéd? reply, reply. it is engender'd in the eyes, with gazing fed; and fancy dies in the cradle where it lies: let us all ring fancy's knell; i'll begin it,--ding, dong, bell. --ding, dong, bell. w. shakespeare. . cupid and campaspe. cupid and my campaspe play'd at cards for kisses; cupid paid: he stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, his mother's doves, and team of sparrows; loses them too; then down he throws the coral of his lip, the rose growing on's cheek (but none knows how); with these, the crystal of his brow, and then the dimple on his chin; all these did my campaspe win: at last he set her both his eyes-- she won, and cupid blind did rise. o love! has she done this to thee? what shall, alas! become of me? j. lylye. . pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, with night we banish sorrow; sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft to give my love good-morrow! wings from the wind to please her mind, notes from the lark i'll borrow; bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, to give my love good-morrow; to give my love good-morrow notes from them both i'll borrow. wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast! 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, amongst yourselves sing my fair love good-morrow; to give my love good-morrow sing birds, in every furrow! t. heywood. . prothalamion. calm was the day, and through the trembling air sweet-breathing zephyrus did softly play-- a gentle spirit, that lightly did delay hot titan's beams, which then did glister fair; when i, (whom sullen care, through discontent of my long fruitless stay in princes' court, and expectation vain of idle hopes, which still do fly away like empty shadows, did afflict my brain) walk'd forth to ease my pain along the shore of silver-streaming thames; whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, was painted all with variable flowers, and all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems fit to deck maidens' bowers, and crown their paramours against the bridal day, which is not long: sweet thames! run softly, till i end my song. there in a meadow by the river's side, a flock of nymphs i chancéd to espy, all lovely daughters of the flood thereby, with goodly greenish locks all loose untied as each had been a bride; and each one had a little wicker basket made of fine twigs, entrailéd curiously, in which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket, and with fine fingers cropt full feateously the tender stalks on high. of every sort which in that meadow grew they gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue, the little daisy that at evening closes, the virgin lily and the primrose true: with store of vermeil roses, to deck their bridegrooms' posies against the bridal day, which was not long: sweet thames! run softly, till i end my song. with that i saw two swans of goodly hue come softly swimming down along the lee; two fairer birds i yet did never see; the snow which doth the top of pindus strow, did never whiter show, nor jove himself, when he a swan would be for love of leda, whiter did appear; yet leda was (they say) as white as he, yet not so white as these, nor nothing near; so purely white they were, that even the gentle stream, the which them bare, seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare to wet their silken feathers, lest they might soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, and mar their beauties bright that shone as heaven's light against their bridal day, which was not long: sweet thames! run softly, till i end my song. eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill, ran all in haste to see that silver brood as they came floating on the crystal flood; whom when they saw, they stood amazéd still their wondering eyes to fill; them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem them heavenly born, or to be that same pair which through the sky draw venus' silver team; for sure they did not seem to be begot of any earthly seed, but rather angels, or of angels' breed; yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say, in sweetest season, when each flower and weed the earth did fresh array; so fresh they seem'd as day, even as their bridal day, which was not long: sweet thames! run softly, till i end my song. then forth they all out of their baskets drew great store of flowers, the honour of the field, that to the sense did fragrant odours yield, all which upon those goodly birds they threw and all the waves did strew, that like old peneus' waters they did seem when down along by pleasant tempe's shore scatter'd with flowers, through thessaly they stream, that they appear, through lilies' plenteous store, like a bride's chamber-floor. two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, the which presenting all in trim array, their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd whilst one did sing this lay prepar'd against that day, against their bridal day, which was not long: sweet thames! run softly, till i end my song. "ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament, and heaven's glory, whom this happy hour doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower, joy may you have, and gentle hearts content of your loves complement; and let fair venus, that is queen of love, with her heart-quelling son upon you smile, whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove all love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile for ever to assoil. let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord, and blesséd plenty wait upon your board; and let your bed with pleasures chaste abound, that fruitful issue may to you afford which may your foes confound, and make your joys redound upon your bridal day, which is not long: sweet thames! run softly, till i end my song." so ended she; and all the rest around to her redoubled that her undersong, which said their bridal day should not be long: and gentle echo from the neighbour ground their accents did resound. so forth those joyous birds did pass along adown the lee that to them murmur'd low, as he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue, yet did by signs his glad affection show, making his stream run slow. and all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 'gan flock about these twain, that did excel the rest, so far as cynthia doth shend the lesser stars. so they, enrangéd well, did on those two attend, and their best service lend against their wedding day, which was not long: sweet thames! run softly, till i end my song. at length they all to merry london came, to merry london, my most kindly nurse, that to me gave this life's first native source, though from another place i take my name, an house of ancient fame: there when they came whereas those bricky towers the which on thames' broad agéd back do ride, where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, there whilome wont the templar-knights to bide, till they decay'd through pride: next whereunto there stands a stately place, where oft i gainéd gifts and goodly grace of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell, whose want too well now feels my friendless case; but ah! here fits not well old woes, but joys to tell against the bridal day, which is not long: sweet thames! run softly, till i end my song. yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, great england's glory and the world's wide wonder, whose dreadful name late thro' all spain did thunder, and hercules' two pillars standing near did make to quake and fear: fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry! that fillest england with thy triumphs' fame joy have thou of thy noble victory, and endless happiness of thine own name that promiseth the same; that through thy prowess and victorious arms, thy country may be freed from foreign harms, and great eliza's glorious name may ring through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms which some brave muse may sing to ages following, upon the bridal day, which is not long: sweet thames! run softly till i end my song. from those high towers this noble lord issúing, like radiant hesper, when his golden hair in th' ocean billows he hath bathéd fair, descended to the river's open viewing with a great train ensuing. above the rest were goodly to be seen two gentle knights of lovely face and feature, beseeming well the bower of any queen, with gifts of wit and ornaments of nature, fit for so goodly stature, that like the twins of jove they seem'd in sight which deck the baldric of the heavens bright; they two, forth pacing to the river's side, received those two fair brides, their love's delight; which, at th' appointed tide, each one did make his bride against their bridal day, which is not long: sweet thames! run softly, till i end my song. e. spenser. . the happy heart. art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? o sweet content! art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexéd? o punishment! dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexéd to add to golden numbers, golden numbers? o sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content! work apace, apace, apace, apace; honest labour bears a lovely face; then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring? o sweet content! swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? o punishment! then he that patiently want's burden bears, no burden bears, but is a king, a king! o sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content! work apace, apace, apace, apace; honest labour bears a lovely face; then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! t. dekker. . this life, which seems so fair, is like a bubble blown up in the air by sporting children's breath, who chase it everywhere and strive who can most motion it bequeath. and though it sometimes seem of its own might like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there, and firm to hover in that empty height, that only is because it is so light. --but in that pomp it doth not long appear; for when 'tis most admiréd, in a thought, because it erst was nought, it turns to nought. w. drummond. . soul and body. poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array, why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, painting thy outward walls so costly gay? why so large cost, having so short a lease, dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? shall worms, inheritors of this excess, eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, and let that pine to aggravate thy store; buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; within be fed, without be rich no more:-- so shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men, and death once dead, there's no more dying then. w. shakespeare. . life. the world's a bubble, and the life of man less than a span: in his conception wretched, from the womb so to the tomb; curst from his cradle, and brought up to years with cares and fears. who then to frail mortality shall trust, but limns on water, or but writes in dust. yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, what life is best? courts are but only superficial schools to dandle fools: the rural parts are turn'd into a den of savage men: and where's a city from foul vice so free, but may be term'd the worst of all the three? domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, or pains his head: those that live single, take it for a curse, or do things worse: some would have children: those that have them, moan or wish them gone: what is it, then, to have, or have no wife, but single thraldom, or a double strife? our own affections still at home to please is a disease: to cross the seas to any foreign soil, peril and toil: wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, we are worse in peace;-- what then remains, but that we still should cry for being born, or, being born, to die lord bacon . the lessons of nature. of this fair volume which we world do name if we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, of him who it corrects, and did it frame, we clear might read the art and wisdom rare: find out his power which wildest powers doth tame, his providence extending everywhere, his justice which proud rebels doth not spare, in every page, no period of the same. but silly we, like foolish children, rest well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold, fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best, on the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold; or if by chance we stay our minds on aught, it is some picture on the margin wrought. w. drummond. . doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move? is this the justice which on earth we find? is this that firm decree which all doth bind? are these your influences, powers above? those souls which vice's moody mists most blind, blind fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove; and they who thee, poor idle virtue! love, ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind. ah! if a providence doth sway this all, why should best minds groan under most distress? or why should pride humility make thrall, and injuries the innocent oppress? heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time when good may have, as well as bad, their prime! w. drummond. . the world's way. tired with all these, for restful death i cry-- as, to behold desert a beggar born, and needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, and purest faith unhappily forsworn, and gilded honour shamefully misplaced, and maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, and right perfection wrongfully disgraced, and strength by limping sway disabléd and art made tongue-tied by authority, and folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, and simple truth miscall'd simplicity, and captive good attending captain ill:-- --tired with all these, from these would i be gone, save that, to die, i leave my love alone. w. shakespeare. . saint john baptist. the last and greatest herald of heaven's king girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, among that savage brood the woods forth bring, which he more harmless found than man, and mild. his food was locusts, and what there doth spring with honey that from virgin hives distill'd; parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing made him appear, long since from earth exiled. there burst he forth: all ye whose hopes rely on god, with me amidst these deserts mourn, repent, repent, and from old errors turn! --who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? only the echoes, which he made relent, rung from their flinty caves, repent! repent! w. drummond. second book. summary. this division, embracing the latter eighty years of the seventeenth century, contains the close of our early poetical style and the commencement of the modern. in dryden we see the first master of the new: in milton, whose genius dominates here as shakespeare's in the former book,--the crown and consummation of the early period. their splendid odes are far in advance of any prior attempts, spenser's excepted: they exhibit the wider and grander range which years and experience and the struggles of the time conferred on poetry. poetry now gave expression to political feeling, to religious thought, to a high philosophic statesmanship in writers such as marvell, herbert, and wotton: whilst in marvell and milton, again, we find the first noble attempts at pure description of nature, destined in our own ages to be continued and equalled. meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although before often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought, and afterward by levity and an artificial tone,--produced in herrick and waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the elizabethan: until in the courtly compliments of sedley it seems to exhaust itself, and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of wither and suckling and the days of burns and cowper.--that the change from our early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of nature and simplicity is undeniable: yet the far bolder and wider scope which poetry took between and , and the successful efforts then made to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results have been no slight compensation. . ode on the morning of christ's nativity. this is the month, and this the happy morn wherein the son of heaven's eternal king of wedded maid and virgin mother born, our great redemption from above did bring; for so the holy sages once did sing that he our deadly forfeit should release, and with his father work us a perpetual peace. that glorious form, that light unsufferable, and that far-beaming blaze of majesty wherewith he wont at heaven's high council-table to sit the midst of trinal unity, he laid aside; and, here with us to be, forsook the courts of everlasting day, and chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. say, heavenly muse, shall not thy sacred vein afford a present to the infant god? hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain to welcome him to this his new abode, now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, hath took no print of the approaching light, and all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? see how from far, upon the eastern road, the star-led wizards haste with odours sweet: o run, prevent them with thy humble ode and lay it lowly at his blessed feet; have thou the honour first thy lord to greet, and join thy voice unto the angel quire from out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. the hymn. it was the winter wild while the heaven-born child all meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies nature in awe to him had doff'd her gaudy trim, with her great master so to sympathise: it was no season then for her to wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. only with speeches fair she woos the gentle air to hide her guilty front with innocent snow; and on her naked shame, pollute with sinful blame, the saintly veil of maiden white to throw; confounded, that her maker's eyes should look so near upon her foul deformities. but he, her fears to cease, sent down the meek-eyed peace, she crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding down through the turning sphere his ready harbinger, with turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; and waving wide her myrtle wand, she strikes a universal peace through sea and land. no war, or battle's sound was heard the world around: the idle spear and shield were high up hung; the hookéd chariot stood unstain'd with hostile blood; the trumpet spake not to the arméd throng; and kings sat still with awful eye, as if they surely knew their sovran lord was by. but peaceful was the night wherin the prince of light his reign of peace upon the earth began: the winds, with wonder whist, smoothly the waters kist whispering new joys to the mild oceán-- who now hath quite forgot to rave, while birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave. the stars with deep amaze stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, bending one way their precious influence; and will not take their flight for all the morning light, or lucifer that often warn'd them thence; but in their glimmering orbs did glow, until their lord himself bespake, and bid them go. and though the shady gloom had given day her room, the sun himself withheld his wonted speed, and hid his head for shame, as his inferior flame the new-enlightn'd world no more should need: he saw a greater sun appear then his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear. the shepherds on the lawn or ere the point of dawn sate simply chatting in a rustic row; full little thought they then that the mighty pan was kindly come to live with them below; perhaps their loves, or else their sheep was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. when such music sweet their hearts and ears did greet as never was by mortal finger strook-- divinely-warbled voice answering the stringéd noise, as all their souls in blissful rapture took: the air, such pleasure loth to lose, with thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. nature that heard such sound beneath the hollow round of cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, now was almost won to think her part was done, and that her reign had here its last fulfilling; she knew such harmony alone could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. at last surrounds their sight a globe of circular light that with long beams the shamefaced night array'd; the helméd cherubim and sworded seraphim, are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, harping in loud and solemn quire with unexpressive notes, to heaven's new-born heir. such music (as 'tis said) before was never made but when of old the sons of morning sung, while the creator great his constellations set and the well-balanced world on hinges hung; and cast the dark foundations deep, and bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. ring out, ye crystal spheres! once bless our human ears, if ye have power to touch our senses so; and let your silver chime move in melodious time; and let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; and with your ninefold harmony make up full concert to the angelic symphony. for if such holy song enwrap our fancy long, time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; and speckled vanity will sicken soon and die, and leprous sin will melt from earthly mould; and hell itself will pass away, and leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. yea, truth and justice then will down return to men, orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, mercy will sit between throned in celestial sheen, with radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; and heaven, as at some festival, will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. but wisest fate says no; this must not yet be so; the babe yet lies in smiling infancy that on the bitter cross must redeem our loss; so both himself and us to glorify: yet first to those ychain'd in sleep the wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep; with such a horrid clang as on mount sinai rang while the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: the aged earth agast with terrour of that blast shall from the surface to the centre shake, when at the worlds last sessión, the dreadful judge in middle air shall spread his throne. and then at last our bliss full and perfect is, but now begins; for from this happy day the old dragon, under ground in straiter limits bound, not half so far casts his usurpéd sway; and, wroth to see his kingdom fail, swinges the scaly horrour of his folded tail. the oracles are dumb; no voice or hideous hum runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving: apollo from his shrine can no more divine, with hollow shriek the steep of delphos leaving: no nightly trance or breathéd spell inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. the lonely mountains o'er and the resounding shore a voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; from haunted spring, and dale edged with poplar pale the parting genius is with sighing sent; with flower-inwoven tresses torn the nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. in consecrated earth and on the holy hearth, the lars and lemurés moan with midnight plaint; in urns, and altars round a drear and dying sound affrights the flamens at their service quaint; and the chill marble seems to sweat, while each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. peor and baalim forsake their temples dim, with that twice-batter'd god of palestine and moonéd ashtaroth heaven's queen and mother both, now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; the lybic hammon shrinks his horn, in vain the tyrian maids their wounded thammuz mourn. and sullen moloch, fled, hath left in shadows dread his burning idol all of blackest hue; in vain with cymbals' ring they call the grisly king, in dismal dance about the furnace blue; the brutish gods of nile as fast isis and orus, and the dog anubis, haste. nor is osiris seen in memphian grove, or green, trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud: nor can he be at rest within his sacred chest; naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; in vain with timbrell'd anthems dark the sable stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. he feels from juda's land the dreaded infant's hand; the rays of bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; nor all the gods beside longer dare abide, nor typhon huge ending in snaky twine: our babe, to shew his godhead true, can in his swaddling bands control the damnéd crew. so, when the sun in bed curtain'd with cloudy red pillows his chin upon an orient wave, the flocking shadows pale troop to the infernal jail, each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; and the yellow-skirted fays fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. but see, the virgin blest hath laid her babe to rest; time is, our tedious song should here have ending: heavens youngest-teeméd star, hath fixed her polish'd car, her sleeping lord with hand-maid lamp attending: and all about the courtly stable bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable. j. milton. . song for st cecilia's day, . from harmony, from heavenly harmony this universal frame began: when nature underneath a heap of jarring atoms lay and could not heave her head, the tuneful voice was heard from high arise, ye more than dead! then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry in order to their stations leap, and music's power obey. from harmony, from heavenly harmony this universal frame began: from harmony to harmony through all the compass of the notes it ran, the diapason closing full in man. what passion cannot music raise and quell? when jubal struck the chorded shell his listening brethren stood around, and, wondering, on their faces fell to worship that celestial sound. less than a god they thought there could not dwell within the hollow of that shell, that spoke so sweetly and so well. what passion cannot music raise and quell? the trumpet's loud clangor excites us to arms, with shrill notes of anger, and mortal alarms. the double double double beat of the thundering drum cries "hark! the foes come; charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!" the soft complaining flute in dying notes discovers the woes of hopeless lovers, whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. sharp violins proclaim their jealous pangs and desperation, fury, frantic indignation, depth of pains, and height of passion for the fair, disdainful dame. but oh! what art can teach, what human voice can reach the sacred organ's praise? notes inspiring holy love, notes that wing their heavenly ways to mend the choirs above. orpheus could lead the savage race, and trees uprooted left their place sequacious of the lyre: but bright cecilia raised the wonder higher: when to her organ vocal breath was given an angel heard, and straight appear'd-- mistaking earth for heaven! _grand chorus_: as from the power of sacred lays the spheres began to move, and sung the great creator's praise to all the blest above; so when the last and dreadful hour this crumbling pageant shall devour, the trumpet shall be heard on high, the dead shall live, the living die, and music shall untune the sky. j. dryden. . on the late massacre in piemont. avenge, o lord! thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones lie scatter'd on the alpine mountains cold; even them who kept thy truth so pure of old when all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones. forget not: in thy book record their groans who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold slain by the bloody piemontese, that roll'd mother with infant down the rocks. their moans the vales redoubled to the hills, and they to heaven. their martyr'd blood and ashes sow o'er all the italian field, where still doth sway the triple tyrant, that from these may grow a hundred-fold, who, having learnt thy way, early may fly the babylonian woe. j. milton. . horatian ode upon cromwell's return from ireland. the forward youth that would appear, must now forsake his muses dear, nor in the shadows sing his numbers languishing. 'tis time to leave the books in dust, and oil the unused armour's rust, removing from the wall the corslet of the hall. so restless cromwell could not cease in the inglorious arts of peace, but through adventurous war urgéd his active star: and like the three-fork'd lightning first breaking the clouds where it was nurst, did thorough his own side his fiery way divide: for 'tis all one to courage high the emulous, or enemy; and with such, to enclose is more than to oppose; then burning through the air he went and palaces and temples rent; and caesar's head at last did through his laurels blast. 'tis madness to resist or blame the face of angry heaven's flame; and if we would speak true, much to the man is due who, from his private gardens, where he lived reservéd and austere (as if he his highest plot to plant the bergamot) could by industrious valour climb to ruin the great work of time, and cast the kingdoms old into another mould. though justice against fate complain, and plead the ancient rights in vain-- but those do hold or break as men are strong or weak; nature, that hateth emptiness, allows of penetration less, and therefore must make room where greater spirits come. what field of all the civil war where his were not the deepest scar? and hampton shows what part he had of wiser art, where, twining subtle fears with hope, he wove a net of such a scope that charles himself might chase to carisbrook's narrow case; that thence the royal actor borne the tragic scaffold might adorn: while round the arméd bands did clap their bloody hands; he nothing common did or mean upon that memorable scene, but with his keener eye the axe's edge did try; nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite, to vindicate his helpless right; but bow'd his comely head down, as upon a bed. --this was that memorable hour which first assured the forcéd power: so when they did design the capitol's first line, a bleeding head, where they begun, did fright the architects to run; and yet in that the state foresaw its happy fate! and now the irish are ashamed to see themselves in one year tamed: so much one man can do that does both act and know. they can affirm his praises best, and have, though overcome, confest how good he is, how just and fit for highest trust; nor yet grown stiffer with command, but still in the republic's hand-- how fit he is to sway that can so well obey! he to the commons' feet presents a kingdom for his first year's rents, and (what he may) forbears his fame, to make it theirs: and has his sword and spoils ungirt to lay them at the public's skirt. so when the falcon high falls heavy from the sky, she, having kill'd, no more doth search but on the next green bough to perch, where, when he first does lure, the falconer has her sure. --what may not then our isle presume while victory his crest does plume? what may not others fear if thus he crowns each year! as caesar he, ere long, to gaul, to italy an hannibal, and to all states not free shall climacteric be. the pict no shelter now shall find within his parti-colour'd mind, but, from this valour, sad shrink underneath the plaid-- happy, if in the tufted brake the english hunter him mistake, nor lay his hounds in near the caledonian deer. but thou, the war's and fortune's son, march indefatigably on; and for the last effect still keep the sword erect: besides the force it has to fright the spirits of the shady night, the same arts that did gain a power, must it maintain. a. marvell. . lycidas _elegy on a friend drowned in the irish channel._ yet once more, o ye laurels, and once more ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, i come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, and with forced fingers rude shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear compels me to disturb your season due: for lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, young lycidas, and hath not left his peer: who would not sing for lycidas? he knew himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. he must not float upon his watery bier unwept, and welter to the parching wind, without the meed of some melodious tear. begin, then, sisters of the sacred well that from beneath the seat of jove doth spring; begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string; hence with denial vain and coy excuse: so may some gentle muse with lucky words favour my destined urn: and as he passes, turn and bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. for we were nursed upon the self-same hill, fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill: together both, ere the high lawns appear'd under the opening eye-lids of the morn, we drove a-field, and both together heard what time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, oft till the star that rose at evening bright toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute; temper'd to the oaten flute, rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel from the glad sound would not be absent long; and old damoetas loved to hear our song. but, o the heavy change, now thou art gone, now thou art gone and never must return! thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, with wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, and all their echoes, mourn. the willows and the hazel copses green shall now no more be seen fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:-- as killing as the canker to the rose, or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, when first the white-thorn blows; such, lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep closed o'er the head of your loved lycidas? for neither were ye playing on the steep where your old bards, the famous druids, lie, nor on the shaggy top of mona high, nor yet where deva spreads her wizard stream. ay me! i fondly dream-- had ye been there--for what could that have done? what could the muse herself that orpheus bore, the muse herself, for her enchanting son, whom universal nature did lament, when by the rout that made the hideous roar his gory visage down the stream was sent, down the swift hebrus to the lesbian shore? alas! what boots it with incessant care to tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade and strictly meditate the thankless muse? were it not better done, as others use, to sport with amaryllis in the shade, or with the tangles of neaera's hair? fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (that last infirmity of noble mind) to scorn delights and live laborious days; but the fair guerdon when we hope to find, and think to burst out into sudden blaze, comes the blind fury with the abhorréd shears and slits the thin-spun life. "but not the praise," phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; "fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, nor in the glistering foil set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies: but lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes and perfect witness of all-judging jove; as he pronounces lastly on each deed, of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." o fountain arethuse, and thou honour'd flood smooth-sliding mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds! that strain i heard was of a higher mood: but now my oat proceeds, and listens to the herald of the sea that came in neptune's plea; he ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, what hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? and question'd every gust of rugged wings that blows from off each beakéd promontory: they knew not of his story; and sage hippotadés their answer brings, that not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; the air was calm, and on the level brine sleek panopé with all her sisters play'd. it was that fatal and perfidious bark built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, that sunk so low that sacred head of thine. next, camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, his mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe: "ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge!" last came, and last did go the pilot of the galilean lake; two massy keys he bore of metals twain (the golden opes, the iron shuts amain); he shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: "how well could i have spared for thee, young swain, enow of such, as for their bellies' sake creep and intrude and climb into the fold! of other care they little reckoning make than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, and shove away the worthy bidden guest; blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold a sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least that to the faithful herdman's art belongs! what recks it them? what need they? they are sped; and, when they list, their lean and flashy songs grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; the hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, but, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: besides what the grim wolf with privy paw daily devours apace, and nothing said: --but that two-handed engine at the door stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." return, alphéus; the dread voice is past that shrunk thy streams; return, sicilian muse, and call the vales, and bid them hither cast their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks on whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks; throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes that on the green turf suck the honey'd showers and purple all the ground with vernal flowers. bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, the tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, the white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, the glowing violet, the musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, with cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, and every flower that sad embroidery wears: bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, and daffodillies fill their cups with tears to strew the laureate hearse where lycid lies. for so to interpose a little ease, let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas wash far away,--where'er thy bones are hurl'd; whether beyond the stormy hebrides where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide visitest the bottom of the monstrous world; or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, sleep'st by the fable of bellerus old, where the great vision of the guarded mount looks toward namancos and bayona's hold, --look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth: --and, o ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, for lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; so sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, and yet anon repairs his drooping head and tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore flames in the forehead of the morning sky: so lycidas sunk low, but mounted high through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves; where, other groves and other streams along, with nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, and hears the unexpressive nuptial song in the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. there entertain him all the saints above in solemn troops, and sweet societies, that sing, and singing, in their glory move, and wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. now, lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, in thy large recompense, and shalt be good to all that wander in that perilous flood. thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, while the still morn went out with sandals gray; he touch'd the tender stops of various quills, with eager thought warbling his doric lay: and now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, and now was dropt into the western bay: at last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: to-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. j. milton. . the tombs in westminster abbey. mortality, behold and fear what a change of flesh is here! think how many royal bones sleep within these heaps of stones; here they lie, had realms and lands, who now want strength to stir their hands, where from their pulpits seal'd with dust they preach, "in greatness is no trust." here's an acre sown indeed with the richest royallest seed that the earth did e'er suck in since the first man died for sin: here the bones of birth have cried "though gods they were, as men they died!" here are sands, ignoble things, dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings here's a world of pomp and state buried in dust, once dead by fate. f. beaumont. . the last conqueror. victorious men of earth, no more proclaim how wide your empires are; though you bind-in every shore and your triumphs reach as far as night and day, yet you, proud monarchs, must obey and mingle with forgotten ashes, when death calls ye to the crowd of common men. devouring famine, plague, and war, each able to undo mankind, death's servile emissaries are; nor to these alone confined, he hath at will more quaint and subtle ways to kill; a smile or kiss, as he will use the art, shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. j. shirley. . death the leveller. the glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things; there is no armour against fate; death lays his icy hand on kings: sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade. some men with swords may reap the field, and plant fresh laurels where they 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. the garlands wither on your brow; then boast no more your mighty deeds; upon death's purple altar now see where the victor-victim bleeds: your heads must come to the cold tomb; only the actions of the just smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. j. shirley. . when the assault was intended to the city. captain, or colonel, or knight in arms, whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, if deed of honour did thee ever please; guard them, and him within protect from harms. he can requite thee; for he knows the charms that call fame on such gentle acts as these. and he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. lift not thy spear against the muses' bower: the great emathian conqueror bid spare the house of pindarus, when temple and tower went to the ground: and the repeated air of sad electra's poet had the power to save the athenian walls from ruin bare. j. milton. . on his blindness. when i consider how my light is spent ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, and that one talent which is death to hide lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent to serve therewith my maker, and present my true account, lest he returning chide,-- doth god exact day-labour, light denied? i fondly ask:--but patience, to prevent that murmur, soon replies; god doth not need either man's work, or his own gifts: who best bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed and post o'er land and ocean without rest:-- they also serve who only stand and wait. j. milton. . character of a happy life. 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! whose passions not his masters are, whose soul is still prepared for death, not tied unto the world by care of public fame, or private breath; who envies none that chance doth raise or vice; who never 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 accusers great; who god doth late and early pray more of his grace than gifts to lend; and entertains the harmless day with a well-chosen book or friend; --this man is freed from servile bands of hope to rise, or fear to fall; lord of himself, though not of lands, and having nothing, yet hath all. sir h. wotton. . the noble nature. it is not growing like a tree in bulk, doth make man better be; or standing long an oak, three hundred year, to fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: a lily of a day is fairer far in may, although it fall and die that night-- it was the plant and flower of light. in small proportions we just beauties see; and in short measures life may perfect be. b. jonson . the gifts of god. when god at first made man, having a glass of blessings standing by; let us (said he) pour on him all we can: let the world's riches, which disperséd lie, contract into a span. so strength first made a way; then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure: when almost all was out, god made a stay, perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, rest in the bottom lay. for if i should (said he) bestow this jewel also on my creature, he would adore my gifts instead of me, and rest in nature, not the god of nature: so both should losers be. yet let him keep the rest, but keep them with repining restlessness: let him be rich and weary, that at least, if goodness lead him not, yet weariness may toss him to my breast. g. herbert. . the retreat. happy those early days, when i shined in my angel-infancy! before i understood this place appointed for my second race, or taught my soul to fancy aught but a white, celestial thought; when yet i had not walk'd above a mile or two from my first love, and looking back, at that short space could see a glimpse of his bright face; when on some gilded cloud or flower my gazing soul would dwell an hour, and in those weaker glories spy some shadows of eternity; before i taught my tongue to wound my conscience with a sinful sound, or had the black art to dispense a several sin to every sense, but felt through all this fleshly dress bright shoots of everlastingness. o how i long to travel back, and tread again that ancient track! that i might once more reach that plain, where first i left my glorious train; from whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees that shady city of palm trees! but ah! my soul with too much stay is drunk, and staggers in the way:-- some men a forward motion love, but i by backward steps would move; and when this dust falls to the urn, in that state i came, return. h. vaughan. . to mr. lawrence. lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, now that the fields are dank and ways are mire, where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire help waste a sullen day, what may be won from the hard season gaining? time will run on smoother, till favonius re-inspire the frozen earth, and cloth in fresh attire the lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. what neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, of attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise to hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice warble immortal notes and tuscan air? he who of those delights can judge, and spare to interpose them oft, is not unwise. j. milton. . to cyriack skinner. cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench of british themis, with no mean applause pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws, which others at their bar so often wrench; to-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench in mirth, that after no repenting draws; let euclid rest and archimedes pause, and what the swede intends, and what the french. to measure life learn thou betimes, and know toward solid good what leads the nearest way; for other things mild heaven a time ordains, and disapproves that care, though wise in show, that with superfluous burden loads the day, and, when god sends a cheerful hour, refrains. j. milton. . hymn to diana. queen and huntress, chaste and fair, now the sun is laid to sleep, seated in thy silver chair state in wonted manner keep: hesperus entreats thy light, goddess excellently bright. earth, let not thy envious shade dare itself to interpose; cynthia's shining orb was made heaven to clear when day did close; bless us then with wishéd sight, goddess excellently bright. lay thy bow of pearl apart and thy crystal-shining quiver; give unto the flying hart space to breathe, how short soever; thou that mak'st a day of night, goddess excellently bright. b. jonson. . wishes for the supposed mistress. whoe'er she be, that not impossible she that shall command my heart and me; where'er she lie, lock'd up from mortal eye in shady leaves of destiny: till that ripe birth of studied fate stand forth, and teach her fair steps to our earth; till that divine idea take a shrine of crystal flesh, through which to shine: --meet you her, my wishes, bespeak her to my blisses, and be ye call'd, my absent kisses. i wish her beauty, that owes not all its duty to gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie: something more than taffata or tissue can, or rampant feather, or rich fan. a face that's best by its own beauty drest, and can alone command the rest: a face made up out of no other shop than what nature's white hand sets ope. sydneian showers of sweet discourse, whose powers can crown old winter's head with flowers. whate'er delight can make day's forehead bright or give down to the wings of night. soft silken hours, open suns, shady bowers; 'bove all, nothing within that lowers. days, that need borrow no part of their good morrow from a fore-spent night of sorrow: days, that in spite of darkness, by the light of a clear mind are day all night. life, that dares send a challenge to his end, and when it comes, say, "welcome friend." i wish her store of worth may leave her poor of wishes; and i wish--no more. --now, if time knows that her, whose radiant brows weave them a garland of my vows; her that dares be what these lines wish to see; i seek no further, it is she. 'tis she, and here lo! i unclothe and clear my wishes' cloudy character. such worth as this is shall fix my flying wishes, and determine them to kisses. let her full glory, my fancies, fly before ye; be ye my fictions:--but her story. r. crashaw. . the great adventurer. over the mountains and over the waves, under the fountains and under the graves; under floods that are deepest, which neptune obey; over rocks that are steepest love will find out the way. when there is no place for the glow-worm to lie; when there is no space for receipt of a fly; when the midge dares not venture lest herself fast she lay; if love come, he will enter and will find out his way. you may esteem him a child for his might; or you may deem him a coward from his flight; but if she whom love doth honour be conceal'd from the day, set a thousand guards upon her, love will find out the way. some think to lose him by having him confined; and some do suppose him, poor thing, to be blind; but if ne'er so close ye wall him, do the best that you may, blind love, if so ye call him, will find out his way. you may train the eagle to stoop to your fist; or you may inveigle the phoenix of the east; the lioness, ye may move her to give o'er her prey; but you'll ne'er stop a lover: he will find out his way. anon. . child and maiden. ah, chloris! could i now but sit as unconcern'd as when your infant beauty could beget no happiness or pain! when i the dawn used to admire, and praised the coming day, i little thought the rising fire would take my rest away. your charms in harmless childhood lay like metals in a mine; age from no face takes more away than youth conceal'd in thine. but as your charms insensibly to their perfection prest, so love as unperceived did fly, and center'd in my breast. my passion with your beauty grew, while cupid at my heart still as his mother favour'd you, threw a new flaming dart: each gloried in their wanton part; to make a lover, he employ'd the utmost of his art-- to make a beauty, she. sir c. sedley. . counsel to girls. gather ye rose-buds while ye may, old time is still a-flying: and this same flower that smiles to-day, to-morrow will be dying. the glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, the higher he's a-getting the sooner will his race be run, and nearer he's to setting. that age is best which is the first, when youth and blood are warmer, but being spent, the worse, and worst times, still succeed the former. then be not coy, but use your time; and while ye may, go marry: for having lost but once your prime, you may for ever tarry. r. herrick. . to lucasta, on going to the wars. 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 shalt adore; i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honour more. colonel lovelace. . elizabeth of bohemia. you meaner beauties of the night, which poorly satisfy our eyes more by your number than your light, you common people of the skies, what are you, when the moon shall rise? ye violets that first appear, by your pure purple mantles known like the proud virgins of the year as if the spring were all your own,-- what are you, when the rose is blown? you curious chanters of the wood that warble forth dame nature's lays, thinking your passions understood by your weak accents; what's your praise when philomel her voice doth raise? 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 were not design'd th' eclipse and glory of her kind? sir h. wotton. . to the lady margaret ley. daughter to that good earl, once president of england's council and her treasury, who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, and left them both, more in himself content. till the sad breaking of that parliament broke him, as that dishonest victory at chaeronia, fatal to liberty, kill'd with report that old man eloquent;-- though later born than to have known the days wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you, madam, methinks i see him living yet; so well your words his noble virtues praise, that all both judge you to relate them true, and to possess them, honour'd margaret. j. milton. . the loveliness of love. it is not beauty i demand, a crystal brow, the moon's despair, nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair: tell me not of your starry eyes, your lips that seem on roses fed, your breasts, where cupid tumbling lies, nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:-- a bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks like hebe's in her ruddiest hours, a breath that softer music speaks than summer winds a-wooing flowers, these are but gauds: nay what are lips? coral beneath the ocean-stream, whose brink when your adventurer slips full oft he perisheth on them. and what are cheeks, but ensigns oft that wave hot youth to fields of blood? did helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, do greece or ilium any good? eyes can with baleful ardour burn; poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; there's many a white hand holds an urn with lovers hearts to dust consumed. for crystal brows there's nought within; they are but empty cells for pride; he who the syren's hair would win is mostly strangled in the tide. give me, instead of beauty's bust, a tender heart, a loyal mind which with temptation i would trust, yet never link'd with error find,-- one in whose gentle bosom i could pour my secret heart of woes, like the care-burthen'd honey-fly that hides his murmurs in the rose,-- my earthly comforter! whose love so indefeasible might be that, when my spirit wonn'd above, hers could not stay, for sympathy. anon. . the true beauty. he that loves a rosy cheek or a coral lip admires, or from star-like eyes doth seek fuel to maintain his fires; as old time makes these decay, so his flames must waste away. but a smooth and steadfast 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. t. carew. . to dianeme. sweet, be not proud of those two eyes which starlike sparkle in their skies; nor be you proud, that you can see all hearts your captives; yours yet free: be you not proud of that rich hair which wantons with the lovesick air; whenas that ruby which you wear, sunk from the tip of your soft ear, will last to be a precious stone, when all your world of beauty's gone. r. herrick. . 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 hadst thou sprung in deserts, where no men abide, thou must have uncommended died. small is the worth of beauty from the light retired: bid her come forth, suffer herself to be desired, and not blush so to be admired. then die! that she the common fate of all things rare may read in thee: how small a part of time they share that are so wondrous sweet and fair! e. waller. . to celia. drink to me only with thine eyes, and i will pledge with mine; or leave a kiss but in the cup and i'll not look for wine. the thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink 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 could not wither'd be; but thou thereon didst only breathe and sent'st it back to me; since when it grows, and smells, i swear, not of itself but thee! b. jonson. . cherry-ripe. there is a garden in her face where roses and white lilies blow; 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 enclose of orient pearl a double row, which when her lovely laughter shows, they look like rose-buds fill'd with snow: yet them no peer nor prince can buy till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. her eyes like angels watch them still; her brows like bended bows do stand, threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill all that approach with eye or hand these sacred cherries to come nigh, --till cherry-ripe themselves do cry! anon. . the poetry of dress. i. a sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a wantonness:-- a lawn about the shoulders thrown into a fine distractión,-- an erring lace, which here and there enthrals the crimson stomacher,-- a cuff neglectful, and thereby ribbands to flow confusedly,-- a winning wave, deserving note, in the tempestuous petticoat,-- a careless shoe-string, in whose tie i see a wild civility;-- do more bewitch me, than when art is too precise in every part. r. herrick. .--ii. whenas in silks my julia goes then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows that liquefaction of her clothes. next, when i cast mine eyes and see that brave vibration each way free; o how that glittering taketh me! r. herrick. .--iii. my love in her attire doth shew her wit, it doth so well become her; for every season she hath dressings fit, for winter, spring, and summer. no beauty she doth miss when all her robes are on but beauty's self she is when all her robes are gone. anon. . on a girdle. that which her slender waist confined shall now my joyful temples bind: no monarch but would give his crown his arms might do what this has done. it was my heaven's extremest sphere, the pale which held that lovely deer: my joy, my grief, my hope, my love did all within this circle move. a narrow compass! and yet there dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair: give me but what this ribband bound, take all the rest the sun goes round. e. waller. . to anthea who may command him any thing. bid me to live, and i will live thy protestant to be; or bid me love, and i will give a loving heart to thee. a heart as soft, a heart as kind, a heart as sound and free as in the whole world thou canst find, that heart i'll give to thee. bid that heart stay, and it will stay, to honour thy decree: or bid it languish quite away, and 't shall do so for thee. bid me to weep, and i will weep, while i have eyes to see: and having none, yet i will keep a heart to weep for thee. bid me despair, and i'll despair, under that cypress tree: or bid me die, and i will dare e'en death, to die for thee. thou art my life, my love, my heart, the very eyes of me, and hast command of every part, to live and die for thee. r. herrick. . love not me for comely grace, for my pleasing eye or face, nor for any outward part, no, nor for a constant heart,-- for these may fail, or turn to ill, so thou and i shall sever: keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, and love me still, but know not why-- so hast thou the same reason still to doat upon me ever! anon. . 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. but i am tied to very thee by every thought i have; thy face i only care to see, thy heart i only crave. all that in woman is adored 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. sir c. sedley. . to althea from prison. when love with unconfinéd wings hovers within my gates, and my divine althea brings to whisper at the grates; when i lie tangled in her hair and fetter'd to her eye, the birds that wanton in the air know no such liberty. when flowing cups run swiftly round with no allaying thames, our careless heads with roses crown'd, our hearts with loyal flames; when thirsty grief in wine we steep, when healths and draughts go free-- fishes that tipple in the deep know no such liberty. when, linnet-like confinéd, 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, enlargéd winds, that curl the flood, know no such liberty. stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage; minds innocent and quiet take that for an hermitage: if i have freedom in my love and in my soul am free, angels alone, that soar above, enjoy such liberty. colonel lovelace. . to lucasta, on going beyond the seas. if to be absent were to be away from thee; or that when i am gone you or i were alone; then, my lucasta, might i crave pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. though seas and land betwixt us both, our faith and troth, like separated souls, all time and space controls: above the highest sphere we meet unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet. so then we do anticipate our after-fate, and are alive i' the skies, if thus our lips and eyes can speak like spirits unconfined in heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. colonel lovelace. . encouragements to a lover. why so pale and wan, fond lover? prythee, why so pale? will, if looking well can't move her, looking ill prevail? prythee, why so pale? why so dull and mute, young sinner? prythee, why so mute? will, when speaking well can't win her, saying nothing do't? prythee, 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 d----l take her! sir j. suckling. . a supplication. awake, awake, my lyre! and tell thy silent master's humble tale in sounds that may prevail; sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: though so exalted she and i so lowly be tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. hark! how the strings awake: and, though the moving hand approach not near, themselves with awful fear a kind of numerous trembling make. now all thy forces try; now all thy charms apply; revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. weak lyre! thy virtue sure is useless here, since thou art only found to cure, but not to wound, and she to wound, but not to cure. too weak too wilt thou prove my passion to remove; physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. sleep, sleep again my lyre! for thou canst never tell my humble tale in sounds that will prevail, nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; all thy vain mirth lay by, bid thy strings silent lie, sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die. a. cowley. . the manly heart. shall i, wasting in despair, die because a woman's fair? or my cheeks make pale with care 'cause another's rosy are? be she fairer than the day, or the flowery meads in may-- if she be not so to me, what care i how fair she be? shall my foolish heart be pined 'cause i see a woman kind; or a well disposéd nature joinéd 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? shall a woman's virtues move me to perish for her love? or her merit's value 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 who 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? g. wither. . melancholy. hence, all you vain delights, as short as are the nights wherein you spend your folly there's naught in this life sweet if men were wise to see't, but only melancholy, o sweetest melancholy! welcome, folded arms and fixéd 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. j. fletcher. . to a lock of hair. thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright as in that well-remember'd night when first thy mystic braid was wove, and first my agnes whisper'd love. since then how often hast thou prest the torrid zone of this wild breast, whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell with the first sin that peopled hell; a breast whose blood's a troubled ocean, each throb the earthquake's wild commotion! o if such clime thou canst endure yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure, what conquest o'er each erring thought of that fierce realm had agnes wrought! i had not wander'd far and wide with such an angel for my guide; nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me if she had lived, and lived to love me. not then this world's wild joys had been to me one savage hunting scene, my sole delight the headlong race, and frantic hurry of the chase; to start, pursue, and bring to bay, rush in, drag down, and rend my prey, then--from the carcase turn away! mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, and soothed each wound which pride inflamed:-- yes, god and man might now approve me if thou hadst lived, and lived to love me! sir w. scott. . the forsaken bride. o waly waly, up the bank, and waly waly down the brae, and waly waly yon burn-side where i and my love wont to gae! i leant my back unto an aik, i thought it was a trusty tree; but first it bow'd, and syne it brak, sae my true love did lichtly me. o waly waly, but love be bonny a little time while it is new; but when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, and fades awa' like morning dew. o wherefore should i busk my head? or wherefore should i kame my hair? for my true love has me forsook, and says he'll never loe me mair. now arthur-seat sall be my bed; the sheets sall ne'er be prest by me: saint anton's well sall be my drink, since my true love has forsaken me. marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw and shake the green leaves aff the tree? o gentle death, when wilt thou come? for of my life i am wearíe. 'tis not the frost, that freezes fell, nor blawing snaw's inclemencie, 'tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, but my love's heart grown cauld to me. when we came in by glasgow town we were a comely sight to see; my love was clad in the black velvét, and i mysell in cramasie. but had i wist, before i kist, that love had been sae ill to win, i had lockt my heart in a case of gowd and pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. and o! if my young babe were born, and set upon the nurse's knee, and i mysell were dead and gane, and the green grass growing over me! anon. . fair helen. i wish i were where helen lies; night and day on me she cries; o that i were where helen lies on fair kirconnell lea. curst be the heart that thought the thought, and curst the hand that fired the shot, when in my arms burd helen dropt, and died to succour me! o think na but my heart was sair, when my love dropt down and spak nae mair! i laid her down wi' meikle care, on fair kirconnell lea. as i went down the water side, none but my foe to be my guide, none but my foe to be my guide, on fair kirconnell lea; i lighted down my sword to draw, i hackéd him in pieces sma', i hackéd him in pieces sma', for her sake that died for me. o helen fair, beyond compare! i'll make a garland of thy hair shall bind my heart for evermair until the day i die. o that i were where helen lies! night and day on me she cries; out of my bed she bids me rise, says, "haste, and come to me!" o helen fair! o helen chaste! if i were with thee, i were blest, where thou lies low and takes thy rest on fair kirconnell lea. i wish my grave were growing green, a winding-sheet drawn ower my een, and i in helen's arms lying, on fair kirconnell lea. i wish i were where helen lies; night and day on me she cries; and i am weary of the skies, since my love died for me. anon. . the twa corbies. as i was walking all alane i heard twa corbies making a mane; the tane unto the t'other say, "where sall we gang and dine to-day?" "--in behint yon auld fail dyke, i wot there lies a new-slain knight; and naebody kens that he lies there, but his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. "his hound is to the hunting gane, his hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, his lady's ta'en another mate, so we may mak our dinner sweet. "ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, and i'll pick out his bonny blue een: wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair we'll theek our nest when it grows bare. "mony a one for him makes mane, but nane sall ken where he is gane; o'er his white banes, when they are bare, the wind sall blaw for evermair." anon. . to blossoms. fair pledges of a fruitful tree, why do ye fall so fast? your date is not so past, but you may stay yet here awhile to blush and gently smile, and go at last. what, were ye born to be an hour or half's delight; and so to bid good-night? 'twas pity nature brought ye forth, merely to show your worth, and lose you quite. but you are lovely leaves, where we may read how soon things have their end, though ne'er so brave: and after they have shown their pride like you, awhile, they glide into the grave. r. herrick. . to daffodils. fair daffodils, we weep to see you haste away so soon as yet the early-rising sun has not attain'd his noon. stay, stay, until the hasting day has run but to the even-song; and, having pray'd together, we will go with you along. we have short time to stay, as you, we have as short a spring; as quick a growth to meet decay as you, or any thing. we die as your hours do, and dry away like to the summer's rain; or as the pearls of morning's dew ne'er to be found again. r. herrick. . thoughts in a garden. how vainly men themselves amaze to win the palm, the oak, or bays, and their incessant labours see crown'd from some single herb or tree, whose short and narrow-vergéd shade does prudently their toils upbraid; while all the flowers and trees do close to weave the garlands of repose. fair quiet, have i found thee here, and innocence thy sister dear? mistaken long, i sought you then in busy companies of men: your sacred plants, if here below, only among the plants will grow: society is all but rude to this delicious solitude. no white nor red was ever seen so amorous as this lovely green. fond lovers, cruel as their flame, cut in these trees their mistress' name: little, alas! they know or heed how far these beauties hers exceed! fair trees! where'er your barks i wound, no name shall but your own be found. when we have run our passions' heat, love hither makes his best retreat: the gods, who mortal beauty chase, still in a tree did end their race: apollo hunted daphne so only that she might laurel grow; and pan did after syrinx speed not as a nymph, but for a reed. what wondrous life in this i lead! ripe apples drop about my head; the luscious clusters of the vine upon my mouth do crush their wine; the nectarine and curious peach into my hands themselves do reach; stumbling on melons, as i pass, ensnared with flowers, i fall on grass. meanwhile the mind from pleasure less withdraws into its happiness; the mind, that ocean where each kind does straight its own resemblance find; yet it creates, transcending these, far other worlds, and other seas; annihilating all that's made to a green thought in a green shade. here at the fountain's sliding foot or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, casting the body's vest aside my soul into the boughs does glide; there, like a bird, it sits and sings, then whets and claps its silver wings, and, till prepared for longer flight, waves in its plumes the various light. such was that happy garden-state while man there walk'd without a mate: after a place so pure and sweet, what other help could yet be meet! but 'twas beyond a mortal's share to wander solitary there: two paradises are in one, to live in paradise alone. how well the skilful gardener drew of flowers and herbs this dial new! where, from above, the milder sun does through a fragrant zodiac run: and, as it works, th' industrious bee computes its time as well as we. how could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers! a. marvell. . l'allegro. hence, loathéd melancholy, of cerberus and blackest midnight born in stygian cave forlorn 'mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! find out some uncouth cell where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings and the night-raven sings; there, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks as ragged as thy locks, in dark cimmerian desert ever dwell. but come, thou goddess fair and free, in heaven yclept euphrosyne, and by men, heart-easing mirth, whom lovely venus at a birth with two sister graces more to ivy-crownéd bacchus bore: or whether (as some sager sing) the frolic wind that breathes the spring zephyr, with aurora playing, as he met her once a-maying-- there, on beds of violets blue and fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, so buxom, blithe, and debonair. haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee jest, and youthful jollity, quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, nods, and becks, and wreathéd 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:-- come, and trip it as you go on the light fantastic toe; and in thy right hand lead with thee the mountain-nymph, sweet liberty; and if i give thee honour due, mirth, admit me of thy crew, to live with her, and live with thee, in unreprovéd pleasures free; to hear the lark begin his flight and singing startle the dull night from his watch-tower in the skies, till the dappled dawn doth rise: then to come, in spite of sorrow, and at my window bid good-morrow, through the sweetbriar, or the vine, or the twisted eglantine: while the cock with lively din, scatters the rear of darkness thin, and to the stack, or the barn-door, stoutly struts his dames before: oft listening how the hounds and horn cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, from the side of some hoar hill, through the high wood echoing shrill: sometime walking, not unseen, by hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, right against the eastern gate where the great sun begins his state robed in flames and amber light, the clouds in thousand liveries dight; while the ploughman, near at hand, whistles o'er the furrow'd land, and the milkmaid singeth blithe, and the mower whets his scythe, and every shepherd tells his tale under the hawthorn in the dale. straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures whilst the landscape round it measures; russet lawns, and fallows gray, where the nibbling flocks do stray; mountains, on whose barren breast the labouring clouds do often rest; meadows trim with daisies pied; shallow brooks, and rivers wide; towers and battlements it sees bosom'd high in tufted trees, where perhaps some beauty lies, the cynosure of neighbouring eyes. hard by, a cottage chimney smokes from betwixt two aged oaks, where corydon and thyrsis, met are at their savoury dinner set of herbs, and other country messes, which the neat-handed phyllis dresses; and then in haste her bower she leaves with thestylis to bind the sheaves; or, if the earlier season lead, to the tann'd haycock in the mead. sometimes with secure delight the upland hamlets will invite, when the merry bells ring round, and the jocund rebecks sound to many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade; and young and old come forth to play on a sun-shine holy-day, till the live-long day-light fail: then to the spicy nut-brown ale, with stories told of many a feat, how faery mab the junkets eat; she was pinch'd and pull'd, she said; and he, by friar's lantern led, tells how the drudging goblin sweat to earn his cream-bowl duly set, when in one night, ere glimpse of morn, his shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn that ten day-labourers could not end; then lies him down the lubber fiend, and, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, basks at the fire his hairy strength; and crop-full out of doors he flings, ere the first cock his matin rings. thus done the tales, to bed they creep, by whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. tower'd cities please us then, and the busy hum of men, where throngs of knights and barons bold, in weeds of peace high triumphs hold, with store of ladies, whose bright eyes rain influence, and judge the prize of wit or arms, while both contend to win her grace whom all commend. there let hymen oft appear in saffron robe, with taper clear, and pomp, and feast, and revelry, with mask, and antique pageantry; such sights as youthful poets dream on summer eves by haunted stream. then to the well-trod stage anon, if jonson's learned sock be on, or sweetest shakspeare, fancy's child, warble his native wood-notes wild. and ever against eating cares, lap me in soft lydian airs married to immortal verse, such as the meeting soul may pierce in notes, with many a winding bout of linkéd sweetness long drawn out, with wanton heed and giddy cunning the melting voice through mazes running, untwisting all the chains that tie the hidden soul of harmony; that orpheus' self may heave his head from golden slumber, on a bed of heap'd elysian flowers, and hear such strains as would have won the ear of pluto, to have quite set free his half-regain'd eurydice. these delights if thou canst give, mirth, with thee i mean to live. j. milton. . il penseroso. hence, vain deluding joys, the brood of folly without father bred! how little you bestead or fill the fixéd mind with all your toys! dwell in some idle brain, and fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess as thick and numberless as the gay motes that people the sunbeams, or likest hovering dreams the fickle pensioners of morpheus' train. but hail, thou goddess sage and holy, hail, divinest melancholy! whose saintly visage is too bright to hit the sense of human sight, and therefore to our weaker view o'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue; black, but such as in esteem prince memnon's sister might beseem. or that starr'd ethiop queen that strove to set her beauty's praise above the sea-nymphs, and their powers offended. yet thou art higher far descended: thee bright-hair'd vesta, long of yore, to solitary saturn bore; his daughter she; in saturn's reign such mixture was not held a stain: oft in glimmering bowers and glades he met her, and in secret shades of woody ida's inmost grove, whilst yet there was no fear of jove. come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober, steadfast, and demure, all in a robe of darkest grain flowing with majestic train, and sable stole of cypres lawn over thy decent shoulders drawn: come, but keep thy wonted state, with even step, and musing gait, and looks commercing with the skies, thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: there, held in holy passion still, forget thyself to marble, till with a sad leaden downward cast thou fix them on the earth as fast: and join with thee calm peace, and quiet, spare fast, that oft with gods doth diet, and hears the muses in a ring aye round about jove's altar sing: and add to these retired leisure that in trim gardens takes his pleasure:-- but first, and chiefest, with thee bring him that yon soars on golden wing, guiding the fiery-wheeléd throne, the cherub contemplatión; and the mute silence hist along, 'less philomel will deign a song, in her sweetest saddest plight, smoothing the rugged brow of night, while cynthia checks her dragon yoke gently o'er the accustom'd oak. --sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, most musical, most melancholy! thee, chauntress, oft the woods among i woo, to hear thy even-song; and, missing thee, i walk unseen on the dry smooth-shaven green, to behold the wandering moon, riding near her highest noon, like one that had been led astray through the heaven's wide pathless way, and oft, as if her head she bow'd, stooping through a fleecy cloud. oft, on a plat of rising ground i hear the far-off curfeu sound, over some wide-water'd shore, swinging slow with sullen roar; or, if the air will not permit, some still removéd place will fit, where glowing embers through the room teach light to counterfeit a gloom; far from all resort of mirth, save the cricket on the hearth, or the bellman's drowsy charm to bless the doors from nightly harm. or let my lamp at midnight hour be seen in some high lonely tower, where i may oft out-watch the bear, with thrice-great hermes, or unsphere the spirit of plato, to unfold what worlds or what vast regions hold the immortal mind that hath forsook her mansion in this fleshy nook: and of those demons that are found in fire, air, flood, or under ground, whose power hath a true consent with planet, or with element. sometime let gorgeous tragedy in sceptr'd pall come sweeping by presenting thebes, or pelops' line, or the tale of troy divine; or what (though rare) of later age ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. but, o sad virgin, that thy power might raise musaeus from his bower, or bid the soul of orpheus sing such notes as, warbled to the string, drew iron tears down pluto's cheek and made hell grant what love did seek! or call up him that left half-told the story of cambuscan bold, of camball, and of algarsife, and who had canacé to wife that own'd the virtuous ring and glass; and of the wondrous horse of brass on which the tartar king did ride; and if aught else great bards beside in sage and solemn tunes have sung of tourneys, and of trophies hung, of forests, and enchantments drear, where more is meant than meets the ear. thus, night, oft see me in thy pale career, till civil-suited morn appear, not trick'd and frounced as she was wont with the attic boy to hunt, but kercheft in a comely cloud while rocking winds are piping loud, or usher'd with a shower still, when the gust hath blown his fill, ending on the rustling leaves with minute drops from off the eaves. and when the sun begins to fling his flaring beams, me, goddess, bring to archéd walks of twilight groves, and shadows brown, that sylvan loves, of pine, or monumental oak, where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke, was never heard the nymphs to daunt or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. there in close covert by some brook where no profaner eye may look, hide me from day's garish eye, while the bee with honey'd thigh, that at her flowery work doth sing, and the waters murmuring, with such consort as they keep entice the dewy-feather'd sleep. and let some strange mysterious dream wave at his wings in aery stream of lively portraiture display'd, softly on my eyelids laid: and, as i wake, sweet music breathe above, about, or underneath, sent by some spirit to mortals good, or the unseen genius of the wood. but let my due feet never fail to walk the studious cloister's pale, and love the high-embowéd roof, with antique pillars massy proof, and storied windows richly dight casting a dim religious light: there let the pealing organ blow to the full-voiced quire below in service high and anthems clear, as may with sweetness, through mine ear, dissolve me into ecstasies, and bring all heaven before mine eyes. and may at last my weary age find out the peaceful hermitage, the hairy gown and mossy cell, where i may sit and rightly spell of every star that heaven doth show, and every herb that sips the dew; till old experience do attain to something like prophetic strain. these pleasures, melancholy, give, and i with thee will choose to live. j. milton. . song of the emigrants in bermuda. where the remote bermudas ride in the ocean's bosom unespied, from a small boat that row'd along the listening woods received this song. "what should we do but sing his praise that led us through the watery maze where he the huge sea-monsters wracks, that lift the deep upon their backs, unto an isle so long unknown, and yet far kinder than our own? he lands us on a grassy stage, safe from the storms, and prelate's rage: he gave us this eternal spring which here enamels everything, and sends the fowls to us in care on daily visits through the air. he hangs in shades the orange bright like golden lamps in a green night, and does in the pomegranates close jewels more rich than ormus shows: he makes the figs our mouths to meet, and throws the melons at our feet; but apples plants of such a price, no tree could ever bear them twice. with cedars chosen by his hand from lebanon he stores the land; and makes the hollow seas that roar proclaim the ambergris on shore. he cast (of which we rather boast) the gospel's pearl upon our coast; and in these rocks for us did frame a temple where to sound his name. o let our voice his praise exalt till it arrive at heaven's vault, which then perhaps rebounding may echo beyond the mexique bay!" --thus sung they in the english boat a holy and a cheerful note: and all the way, to guide their chime, with falling oars they kept the time. a. marvell. . at a solemn music. blest pair of sirens, pledges of heaven's joy, sphere-born harmonious sisters, voice, and verse, wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce, and to our high-raised phantasy present that undisturbéd song of pure concent, ay sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne to him that sits thereon, with saintly shout and solemn jubilee; where the bright seraphim in burning row their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow; and the cherubic host in thousand quires touch their immortal harps of golden wires, with those just spirits that wear victorious palms hymns devout and holy psalms singing everlastingly: that we on earth, with undiscording voice may rightly answer that melodious noise; as once we did, till disproportion'd sin jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din broke the fair music that all creatures made to their great lord, whose love their motion sway'd in perfect diapason, whilst they stood in first obedience, and their state of good. o may we soon again renew that song, and keep in tune with heaven, till god ere long to his celestial consort us unite, to live with him, and sing in endless morn of light! j. milton. . alexander's feast, or, the power of music. 'twas at the royal feast for persia won by philip's warlike son-- aloft in awful state the godlike hero sate on his imperial throne; his valiant peers were placed around; their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (so should desert in arms be crown'd). the lovely thais by his side sate like a blooming eastern bride in flower of youth and beauty's pride:-- happy, happy, happy pair! none but the brave none but the brave none but the brave deserves the fair. timotheus placed on high amid the tuneful quire with flying fingers touch'd the lyre: the trembling notes ascend the sky and heavenly joys inspire. the song began from jove who left his blissful seats above-- such is the power of mighty love! a dragon's fiery form belied the god; sublime on radiant spires he rode when he to fair olympia prest, and while he sought her snowy breast; then round her slender waist he curl'd, and stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. --the listening crowd admire the lofty sound! a present deity! they shout around: a present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound! with ravish'd ears the monarch hears, assumes the god; affects to nod and seems to shake the spheres. the praise of bacchus then the sweet musician sung: of bacchus ever fair and ever young: the jolly god in triumph comes! sound the trumpets, beat the drums! flush'd with a purple grace he shows his honest face: now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! bacchus, ever fair and young, drinking joys did first ordain; bacchus' blessings are a treasure, drinking is the soldier's pleasure: rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure, sweet is pleasure after pain. soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; fought all his battles o'er again, and thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain! the master saw the madness rise, his glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; and while he heaven and earth defied changed his hand and check'd his pride. he chose a mournful muse soft pity to infuse: he sung darius great and good, by too severe a fate fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen from his high estate, and weltering in his blood; deserted, at his utmost need, by those his former bounty fed; on the bare earth exposed he lies with not a friend to close his eyes. --with downcast looks the joyless victor sate, revolving in his alter'd soul the various turns of chance below; and now and then a sigh he stole; and tears began to flow. the mighty master smiled to see that love was in the next degree; 'twas but a kindred-sound to move, for pity melts the mind to love. softly sweet, in lydian measures, soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. war, he sung, is toil and trouble, honour but an empty bubble, never ending, still beginning; fighting still, and still destroying; if the world be worth thy winning, think, o think, it worth enjoying: lovely thais sits beside thee, take the good the gods provide thee! --the many rend the skies with loud applause; so love was crown'd, but music won the cause. the prince, unable to conceal his pain, gazed on the fair who caused his care, and sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again: at length, with love and wine at once opprest the vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. now strike the golden lyre again: a louder yet, and yet a louder strain! break his bands of sleep asunder, and rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. hark, hark! the horrid sound has raised up his head: as awaked from the dead, and amazed he stares around. revenge, revenge, timotheus cries, see the furies arise! see the snakes that they rear how they hiss in their hair, and the sparkles that flash from their eyes! behold a ghastly band each a torch in his hand! those are grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain and unburied remain inglorious on the plain: give the vengeance due to the valiant crew! behold how they toss their torches on high, how they point to the persian abodes and glittering temples of their hostile gods. --the princes applaud with a furious joy: and the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; thais led the way, to light him to his prey, and like another helen, fired another troy! --thus, long ago, ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, while organs yet were mute, timotheus, to his breathing flute and sounding lyre could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. at last divine cecilia came, inventress of the vocal frame; the sweet enthusiast from her sacred store enlarged the former narrow bounds, and added length to solemn sounds, with nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. --let old timotheus yield the prize or both divide the crown; he raised a mortal to the skies; she drew an angel down! j. dryden. third book. summary. it is more difficult to characterise the english poetry of the eighteenth century than that of any other. for it was an age not only of spontaneous transition, but of bold experiment: it includes not only such divergences of thought as distinguished the "rape of the lock" from the "parish register," but such vast contemporaneous differences as lie between pope and collins, burns and cowper. yet we may clearly trace three leading moods or tendencies:--the aspects of courtly or educated life represented by pope and carried to exhaustion by his followers; the poetry of nature and of man, viewed through a cultivated, and at the same time an impassioned frame of mind by collins and gray:--lastly, the study of vivid and simple narrative, including natural description, begun by gay and thomson, pursued by burns and others in the north, and established in england by goldsmith, percy, crabbe, and cowper. great varieties in style accompanied these diversities in aim: poets could not always distinguish the manner suitable for subjects so far apart; and the union of the language of courtly and of common life, exhibited most conspicuously by burns, has given a tone to the poetry of that century which is better explained by reference to its historical origin than by naming it, in the common criticism of our day, artificial. there is again, a nobleness of thought, a courageous aim at high and, in a strict sense manly, excellence in many of the writers:--nor can that period be justly termed tame and wanting in originality, which produced poems such as pope's satires, gray's odes and elegy, the ballads of gay and carey, the songs of burns and cowper. in truth poetry at this as at all times was a more or less unconscious mirror of the genius of the age; and the brave and admirable spirit of enquiry which made the eighteenth century the turning-time in european civilisation is reflected faithfully in its verse. an intelligent reader will find the influence of newton as markedly in the poems of pope, as of elizabeth in the plays of shakespeare. on this great subject, however, these indications must here be sufficient. . ode on the pleasure arising from vicissitude. now the golden morn aloft waves her dew-bespangled wing, with vermeil cheek and whisper soft she woos the tardy spring: till april starts, and calls around the sleeping fragrance from the ground, and lightly o'er the living scene scatters his freshest, tenderest green. new-born flocks, in rustic dance, frisking ply their feeble feet; forgetful of their wintry trance the birds his presence greet: but chief, the sky-lark warbles high his trembling thrilling ecstasy; and lessening from the dazzled sight, melts into air and liquid light. yesterday the sullen year saw the snowy whirlwind fly; mute was the music of the air, the herd stood drooping by: their raptures now that wildly flow no yesterday nor morrow know; 'tis man alone that joy descries with forward and reverted eyes. smiles on past misfortune's brow soft reflection's hand can trace, and o'er the cheek of sorrow throw a melancholy grace; while hope prolongs our happier hour, or deepest shades, that dimly lour and blacken round our weary way, gilds with a gleam of distant day. still, where rosy pleasure leads, see a kindred grief pursue; behind the steps that misery treads approaching comfort view: the hues of bliss more brightly glow chastised by sabler tints of woe, and blended form, with artful strife, the strength and harmony of life. see the wretch that long has tost on the thorny bed of pain, at length repair his vigour lost and breathe and walk again: the meanest floweret of the vale, the simplest note that swells the gale, the common sun, the air, the skies, to him are opening paradise. t. gray. . solitude. happy the man, whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground. whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, whose flocks supply him with attire; whose trees in summer yield him shade in winter, fire. blest, who can unconcern'dly find hours, days, and years, slide soft away in health of body, peace of mind, quiet by day, sound sleep by night; study and ease together mix'd; sweet recreation, and innocence, which most does please with meditation. thus let me live, unseen, unknown; thus unlamented let me die; steal from the world, and not a stone tell where i lie. a. pope. . the blind boy. o say what is that thing call'd light, which i must ne'er enjoy; what are the blessings of the sight, o tell your poor blind boy! you talk of wondrous things you see, you say the sun shines bright; i feel him warm, but how can he or make it day or night? my day or night myself i make whene'er i sleep or play; and could i ever keep awake with me 'twere always day. with heavy sighs i often hear you mourn my hapless woe; but sure with patience i can bear a loss i ne'er can know. then let not what i cannot have my cheer of mind destroy: whilst thus i sing, i am a king, although a poor blind boy. c. cibber. . on a favourite cat, drowned in a tub of gold fishes. 'twas on a lofty vase's side where china's gayest art had dyed the azure flowers that blow, demurest of the tabby kind the pensive selima, reclined, gazed on the lake below. her conscious tail her joy declared: the fair round face, the snowy beard, the velvet of her paws, her coat that with the tortoise vies, her ears of jet, and emerald eyes-- she saw, and purr'd applause. still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide two angel forms were seen to glide, the genii of the stream: their scaly armour's tyrian hue through richest purple, to the view betray'd a golden gleam. the hapless nymph with wonder saw; a whisker first, and then a claw with many an ardent wish she stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize-- what female heart can gold despise? what cat's averse to fish? presumptuous maid! with looks intent again she stretch'd, again she bent, nor knew the gulf between-- malignant fate sat by and smiled-- the slippery verge her feet beguiled; she tumbled headlong in! eight times emerging from the flood, she mew'd to every watery god some speedy aid to send:-- no dolphin came, no nereid stirr'd, nor cruel tom nor susan heard-- a favourite has no friend! from hence, ye beauties! undeceived know one false step is ne'er retrieved, and be with caution bold: not all that tempts your wandering eyes and heedless hearts, is lawful prize, nor all that glisters, gold! t. gray. . to charlotte pulteney. timely blossom, infant fair, fondling of a happy pair, every morn and every night their solicitous delight, sleeping, waking, still at ease, pleasing, without skill to please little gossip, blithe and hale, tattling many a broken tale, singing many a tuneless song. lavish of a heedless tongue; simple maiden, void of art, babbling out the very heart, yet abandon'd to thy will, yet imagining no ill, yet too innocent to blush, like the linnet in the bush to the mother-linnet's note moduling her slender throat; chirping forth thy petty joys, wanton in the change of toys, like the linnet green, in may flitting to each bloomy spray; wearied then and glad of rest, like the linnet in the nest:-- this thy present happy lot this, in time will be forgot: other pleasures, other cares, ever-busy time prepares; and thou shalt in thy daughter see, this picture, once, resembled thee. a. philips. . rule britannia. when britain first at heaven's command arose from out the azure main, this was the charter of her land, and guardian angels sung the strain: rule brittania! brittania rules the waves! britons never shall 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. still more majestic shalt thou rise, more dreadful from each foreign stroke; as the loud blast that tears the skies serves but to root thy native oak. thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; all their attempts to bend thee down will but arouse thy generous flame, and work their woe and thy renown. to thee belongs the rural reign; thy cities shall with commerce shine; all thine shall be the subject main, and every shore it circles thine! 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! brittania rules the waves! britons never shall be slaves! j. thomson. . the bard. _pindaric ode._ "ruin seize thee, ruthless king! confusion on thy banners wait! tho' fann'd by conquest's crimson wing they mock the air with idle state. helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail to save thy secret soul from nightly fears, from cambria's curse, from cambria's tears!" --such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride of the first edward scatter'd wild dismay, as down the steep of snowdon's shaggy side he wound with toilsome march his long array:-- stout glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; "to arms!" cried mortimer, and couch'd quivering lance. on a rock, whose haughty brow frowns o'er old conway's foaming flood, robed in the sable garb of woe with haggard eyes the poet stood; (loose his beard and hoary hair stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) and with a master's hand and prophet's fire struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: "hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! o'er thee, o king! their hundred arms they wave, revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; vocal no more, since cambria's fatal day, to high-born hoel's harp, or soft llewellyn's lay. "cold is cadwallo's tongue that hush'd the stormy main; brave urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: mountains, ye mourn in vain modred, whose magic song made huge plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. on dreary arvon's shore they lie smear'd with gore and ghastly pale: far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; the famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. dear lost companions of my tuneful art, dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, ye died amidst your dying country's cries-- no more i weep; they do not sleep; on yonder cliffs, a griesly band, i see them sit; they linger yet, avengers of their native land: with me in dreadful harmony they join, and weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. "weave the warp and weave the woof the winding-sheet of edward's race: give ample room and verge enough the characters of hell to trace. mark the year and mark the night when severn shall re-echo with affright the shrieks of death thro' berkley's roof that ring, shrieks of an agonising king! she-wolf of france, with unrelenting fangs that tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, from thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs the scourge of heaven! what terrors round him wait! amazement in his van, with flight combined, and sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind. "mighty victor, mighty lord, low on his funeral couch he lies! no pitying heart, no eye, afford a tear to grace his obsequies. is the sable warrior fled? thy son is gone. he rests among the dead. the swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born? --gone to salute the rising morn. fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, while proudly riding o'er the azure realm in gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm: regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, that hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey. "fill high the sparkling bowl, the rich repast prepare; reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. close by the regal chair fell thirst and famine scowl a baleful smile upon their baffled guest. heard ye the din of battle bray, lance to lance, and horse to horse? long years of havock urge their destined course, and thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. ye towers of julius! london's lasting shame, with many a foul and midnight murder fed, revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, and spare the meek usurper's holy head! above, below, the rose of snow, twined with her blushing foe, we spread: the bristled boar in infant gore wallows beneath the thorny shade. now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom, stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. "edward, lo! to sudden fate (weave we the woof; the thread is spun;) half of thy heart we consecrate. (the web is wove; the work is done;) stay, o stay! nor thus forlorn leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: in yon bright track that fires the western skies they melt, they vanish from my eyes. but o! what solemn scenes on snowdon's height descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll? visions of glory, spare my aching sight, ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! no more our long-lost arthur we bewail:-- all hail, ye genuine kings! britannia's issue, hail! "girt with many a baron bold, sublime their starry fronts they rear; and gorgeous dames, and statesmen old in bearded majesty, appear. in the midst a form divine! her eye proclaims her of the briton-line: her lion-port, her awe-commanding face attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. what strings symphonious tremble in the air, what strains of vocal transport round her play? hear from the grave, great taliessin, hear; they breathe a soul to animate thy clay. bright rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings. "the verse adorn again, fierce war and faithful love, and truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. in buskin'd measures move pale grief, and pleasing pain, with horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. a voice as of the cherub-choir gales from blooming eden bear, and distant warblings lessen on my ear that lost in long futurity expire. fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? to-morrow he repairs the golden flood and warms the nations with redoubled ray. enough for me: with joy i see the different doom our fates assign: be thine despair and sceptred care; to triumph and to die are mine." he spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. t. gray. . ode written in mdccxlvi. 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 gray, to bless the turf that wraps their clay, and freedom shall awhile repair to dwell a weeping hermit, there! w. collins. . lament for culloden. the lovely lass o' inverness, nae joy nor pleasure can she see; for e'en and morn she cries, alas! and aye the saut tear blink's her ee: drumossie moor--drumossie day-- a waefu' day it was to me! for there i lost my father dear, my father dear, and brethren three. their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, their graves are growing green to see: and by them lies the dearest lad that ever blest a woman's ee! now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, a bluidy man i trow thou be; for mony a heart thou hast made sair that ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. r. burns. . lament for flodden. i've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day; but now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-- the flowers of the forest are a' wede away. at bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. in har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray; at fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-- the flowers of the forest are a' wede away. at e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; but ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-- the flowers of the forest are weded away. dool and wae for the order, sent out lads to the border! the english, for ance, by guile wan the day; the flowers of the forest, that fought aye the foremost, the prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. we'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; women and bairns are heartless and wae; sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- the flowers of the forest are a' wede away. j. elliott. . the braes of yarrow. thy braes were bonny, yarrow stream, when first on them i met my lover; thy braes how dreary, yarrow stream, when now thy waves his body cover! for ever now, o yarrow stream! thou art to me a stream of sorrow; for never on thy banks shall i behold my love, the flower of yarrow! he promised me a milk-white steed to bear me to his father's bowers; he promised me a little page to squire me to his father's towers; he promised me a wedding-ring,-- the wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;-- now he is wedded to his grave, alas, his watery grave, in yarrow! sweet were his words when last we met; my passion i as freely told him; clasp'd in his arms, i little thought that i should never more behold him! scarce was he gone, i saw his ghost; it vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow; thrice did the water-wraith ascend, and gave a doleful groan thro' yarrow. his mother from the window look'd with all the longing of a mother; his little sister weeping walk'd the green-wood path to meet her brother; they sought him east, they sought him west, they sought him all the forest thorough; they only saw the cloud of night, they only heard the roar of yarrow. no longer from thy window look-- thou hast no son, thou tender mother! no longer walk, thou lovely maid; alas, thou hast no more a brother! no longer seek him east or west and search no more the forest thorough; for, wandering in the night so dark, he fell a lifeless corpse in yarrow. the tear shall never leave my cheek, no other youth shall be my marrow-- i'll seek thy body in the stream, and then with thee i'll sleep in yarrow. --the tear did never leave her cheek, no other youth became her marrow; she found his body in the stream, and now with him she sleeps in yarrow. j. logan. . willie drowned in yarrow. down in yon garden sweet and gay where bonnie grows the lily, i heard a fair maid sighing say "my wish be wi' sweet willie! "willie's rare, and willie's fair, and willie's wondrous bonny; and willie hecht to marry me gin e'er he married ony. "o gentle wind, that bloweth south, from where my love repaireth, convey a kiss frae his dear mouth and tell me how he fareth! "o tell sweet willie to come doon and hear the mavis singing, and see the birds on ilka bush and leaves around them hinging. "the lav'rock there, wi' her white breast and gentle throat sae narrow; there's sport eneuch for gentlemen on leader haughs and yarrow. "o leader haughs are wide and braid and yarrow haughs are bonny; there willie hecht to marry me if e'er he married ony. "but willie's gone, whom i thought on, and does not hear me weeping; draws many a tear frae true love's e'e when other maids are sleeping. "yestreen i made my bed fu' braid, the night i'll mak' it narrow, for a' the live-lang winter night i lie twined o' my marrow. "o came ye by yon water-side? pou'd you the rose or lily? or came you by yon meadow green, or saw you my sweet willie?" she sought him up, she sought him down, she sought him braid and narrow; syne, in the cleaving of a craig, she found him drown'd in yarrow! anon. . loss of the _royal george_. 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. his sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen, when kempenfeld 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 kempenfeld is gone, his victories are o'er; and he and his eight hundred shall plough the wave no more. w. cowper. . black-eyed susan. all in the downs the fleet was moor'd, the streamers waving in the wind, when black-eyed susan came aboard; "o! where shall i my true-love find? tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true if my sweet william sails among the crew." william, who high upon the yard rock'd with the billow to and fro, soon as her well-known voice he heard he sigh'd, and cast his eyes below; the cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, and quick as lightning on the deck he stands. so the sweet lark, high poised in air, shuts close his pinions to his breast if chance his mate's shrill call he hear, and drops at once into her nest:-- the noblest captain in the british fleet might envy william's lip those kisses sweet "o susan, susan, lovely dear, my vows shall ever 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 landmen say who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: they'll tell thee, sailors, when away, in every port a mistress find: yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, for thou art present wheresoe'er i go. "if to fair india's coast we sail, thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, thy breath is afric's spicy gale, thy skin is ivory so white. thus every beauteous object that i view wakes in my soul some charm of lovely sue. "though battle call me from thy arms let not my pretty susan mourn; though cannons roar, yet safe from harms william shall to his dear return. love turns aside the balls that round me fly, lest precious tears should drop from susan's eye." the boatswain gave the dreadful word, the sails their swelling bosom spread; no longer must she stay aboard; they kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; "adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand. j. gay. . sally in our alley. of all the girls that are so smart there's none like pretty sally; she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. there is no lady in the land is half so sweet as sally; she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. her father he makes cabbage-nets, and through the streets does cry 'em; her mother she sells laces long to such as please to buy 'em; but sure such folks could ne'er beget so sweet a girl as sally! she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. when she is by, i leave my work, i love her so sincerely; my master comes like any turk, and bangs me most severely-- but let him bang his bellyful, i'll bear it all for sally; she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. of all the days that's in the week i dearly love but one day-- and that's the day that comes betwixt a saturday and monday; for then i'm drest all in my best to walk abroad with sally: she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. my master carries me to church, and often am i blamed because i leave him in the lurch as soon as text is named; i leave the church in sermon-time and slink away to sally; she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. when christmas comes about again, o then i shall have money; i'll hoard it up, and box it all, i'll give it to my honey: i would it were ten thousand pound, i'd give it all to sally; she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. my master and the neighbours all make game of me and sally, and, but for her, i'd better be a slave and row a galley; but when my seven long years are out o then i'll marry sally,-- o then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, but not in our alley! h. carey. . a farewell. go fetch to me a pint o' wine, and fill it in a silver tassie; that i may drink before i go a service to my bonnie lassie: the boat rocks at the pier of leith, fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, the ship rides by the berwick-law, and i maun leave my bonnie mary. the trumpets sound, the banners fly, the glittering spears are rankéd ready; the shouts o' war are heard afar, the battle closes thick and bloody; but it's not the roar o' sea or shore wad make me langer wish to tarry; nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-- it's leaving thee, my bonnie mary. r. burns. . if doughty deeds my lady please right soon i'll mount my steed; and strong his arm, and fast his seat that bears frae me the meed. i'll wear thy colours in my cap thy picture in my heart; and he that bends not to thine eye shall rue it to his smart! then tell me how to woo thee, love; o tell me how to woo thee! for thy dear sake, nae care i'll take tho' ne'er another trow me. if gay attire delight thine eye i'll dight me in array; i'll tend thy chamber door all night, and squire thee all the day. if sweetest sounds can win thine ear, these sounds i'll strive to catch; thy voice i'll steal to woo thysell, that voice that nane can match. but if fond love thy heart can gain, i never broke a vow; nae maiden lays her skaith to me, i never loved but you. for you alone i ride the ring, for you i wear the blue; for you alone i strive to sing, o tell me how to woo! then tell me how to woo thee, love; o tell me how to woo thee! for thy dear sake, nae care i'll take, tho' ne'er another trow me. graham of gartmore. . to a young lady. sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, apt emblem of a virtuous maid-- silent and chaste she steals along, far from the world's gay busy throng: with gentle yet prevailing force, intent upon her destined course; graceful and useful all she does, blessing and blest where'er she goes; pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, and heaven reflected in her face. w. cowper. . the sleeping beauty. sleep on, and dream of heaven awhile-- tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, thy rosy lips still wear a smile and move, and breathe delicious sighs! ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks and mantle o'er her neck of snow: ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks what most i wish--and fear to know! she starts, she trembles, and she weeps! her fair hands folded on her breast: --and now, how like a saint she sleeps! a seraph in the realms of rest! sleep on secure! above controul thy thoughts belong to heaven and thee: and may the secret of thy soul remain within its sanctuary! s. rogers. . for ever, fortune, wilt thou prove an unrelenting foe to love, and when we meet a mutual heart come in between, and bid us part? bid us sigh on from day to day, and wish and wish the soul away; till youth and genial years are flown, and all the life of life is gone? but busy, busy, still art thou, to bind the loveless joyless vow, the heart from pleasure to delude, to join the gentle to the rude. for once, o fortune, hear my prayer, and i absolve thy future care; all other blessings i resign, make but the dear amanda mine. j. thomson. . the merchant, to secure his treasure, conveys it in a borrow'd name: euphelia serves to grace my measure, but cloe is my real flame. my softest verse, my darling lyre upon euphelia's toilet lay-- when cloe noted her desire that i should sing, that i should play. my lyre i tune, my voice i raise, but with my numbers mix my sighs: and whilst i sing euphelia's praise, i fix my soul on cloe's eyes. fair cloe blush'd: euphelia frown'd: i sung, and gazed; i play'd, and trembled: and venus to the loves around remark'd how ill we all dissembled. m. prior. . 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. o. goldsmith. . ye banks and braes o' bonnie doon how can ye blume sae fair! how can ye chant, ye little birds, and i sae fu' o' care! thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird that sings upon the bough; thou minds me o' the happy days when my fause luve was true. thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird that sings beside thy mate; for sae i sat, and sae i sang, and wist na o' my fate. aft hae i roved by bonnie doon to see the woodbine twine, and ilka bird sang o' its love; and sae did i o' mine. wi' lightsome heart i pu'd a rose, frae aff its thorny tree; and my fause luver staw the rose, but left the thorn wi' me. r. burns. . the progress of poesy. _a pindaric ode._ awake, aeolian lyre, awake, and give to rapture all thy trembling strings. from helicon's harmonious springs a thousand rills their mazy progress take: the laughing flowers that round them blow drink life and fragrance as they flow. now the rich stream of music winds along deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, through verdant vales, and ceres' golden reign; now rolling down the steep amain headlong, impetuous, see it pour: the rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar. o sovereign of the willing soul, parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, enchanting shell! the sullen cares and frantic passions hear thy soft control. on thracia's hills the lord of war has curb'd the fury of his car and dropt his thirsty lance at thy command. perching on the sceptred hand of jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king with ruffled plumes, and flagging wing: quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie the terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. thee the voice, the dance, obey, temper'd to thy warbled lay. o'er idalia's velvet-green the rosy-crownéd loves are seen on cytherea's day, with antic sport, and blue-eyed pleasures, frisking light in frolic measures; now pursuing, now retreating, now in circling troops they meet: to brisk notes in cadence beating glance their many-twinkling feet. slow-melting strains their queen's approach declare: where'er she turns the graces homage pay: with arms sublime that float upon the air in gliding state she wins her easy way: o'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move the bloom of young desire and purple light of love. man's feeble race what ills await! labour, and penury, the racks of pain, disease, and sorrow's weeping train, and death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! the fond complaint, my song, disprove, and justify the laws of jove. say, has he given in vain the heavenly muse? night, and all her sickly dews, her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry he gives to range the dreary sky: till down the eastern cliffs afar hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. in climes beyond the solar road where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, the muse has broke the twilight gloom to cheer the shivering native's dull abode. and oft, beneath the odorous shade of chili's boundless forests laid, she deigns to hear the savage youth repeat in loose numbers wildly sweet their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. her track, where'er the goddess roves, glory pursue, and generous shame, th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame. woods, that wave o'er delphi's steep, isles, that crown th' aegean deep, fields that cool ilissus laves or where maeander's amber waves in lingering lab'rinths creep, how do your tuneful echoes languish, mute, but to the voice of anguish! where each old poetic mountain inspiration breathed around; every shade and hallow'd fountain murmur'd deep a solemn sound: till the sad nine, in greece's evil hour left their parnassus for the latian plains. alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power, and coward vice, that revels in her chains. when latium had her lofty spirit lost, they sought, o albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast. far from the sun and summer-gale in thy green lap was nature's darling laid, what time, where lucid avon stray'd, to him the mighty mother did unveil her awful face: the dauntless child stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. this pencil take (she said) whose colours clear richly paint the vernal year: thine, too, these golden keys, immortal boy! this can unlock the gates of joy; of horror that, and thrilling fears, or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. nor second he, that rode sublime upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy the secrets of the abyss to spy: he pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: the living throne, the sapphire-blaze where angels tremble while they gaze, he saw; but blasted with excess of light, closed his eyes in endless night. behold where dryden's less presumptuous car wide o'er the fields of glory bear two coursers of ethereal race with necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. hark! his hands the lyre explore! bright-eyed fancy, hovering o'er, scatters from her pictured urn thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. but ah! 'tis heard no more-- o! lyre divine, what daring spirit wakes thee now! tho' he inherit nor the pride, nor ample pinion that the theban eagle bear, sailing with supreme dominion thro' the azure deep of air: yet oft before his infant eyes would run such forms as glitter in the muse's ray with orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun: yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way beyond the limits of a vulgar fate: beneath the good how far--but far above the great. t. gray. . the passions. _an ode for music._ when music, heavenly maid, was young, while yet in early greece she sung, the passions oft, to hear her shell, throng'd around her magic cell exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, possest beyond the muse's painting; by turns they felt the glowing mind disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined: 'till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, from the supporting myrtles round they snatch'd her instruments of sound, and, as they oft had heard apart sweet lessons of her forceful art, each, for madness ruled the hour, would prove his own expressive power. first fear his hand, its skill to try, amid the chords bewilder'd laid, and back recoil'd, he knew not why, e'en at the sound himself had made. next anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, in lightnings own'd his secret stings; in one rude clash he struck the lyre and swept with hurried hand the strings. with woeful measures wan despair-- low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, a solemn strange and mingled air, 'twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. but thou, o hope, with eyes so fair, what was thy delighted measure? still it whisper'd promised pleasure and bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! still would her touch the strain prolong; and from the rocks, the woods, the vale she call'd on echo still through all the song; and, where her sweetest theme she chose, a soft responsive voice was heard at every close: and hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;-- and longer had she sung:--but with a frown revenge impatient rose: he threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; and with a withering look the war-denouncing trumpet took and blew a blast so loud and dread, were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! and ever and anon he beat the doubling drum with furious heat; and, though sometimes, each each dreary pause between, dejected pity at his side her soul-subduing voice applied, yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, while each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. thy numbers, jealousy, to nought were fix'd: sad proof of thy distressful state! of differing themes the veering song was mix'd; and now it courted love, now raving call'd on hate. with eyes up-raised, as one inspired, pale melancholy sat retired; and from her wild sequester'd seat, in notes by distance made more sweet, pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: and dashing soft from rocks around bubbling runnels join'd the sound; through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, round an holy calm diffusing, love of peace, and lonely musing, in hollow murmurs died away. but o! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone when cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, her bow across her shoulder flung, her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, the hunter's call to faun and dryad known! the oak-crown'd sisters and their chaste-eyed queen, satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen peeping from forth their alleys green: brown exercise rejoiced to hear; and sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. last came joy's ecstatic trial: he, with viny crown advancing, first to the lively pipe his hand addrest: but soon he saw the brisk awakening viol whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best: they would have thought who heard the strain they saw, in tempe's vale, her native maids amidst the festal-sounding shades to some unwearied minstrel dancing; while, as his flying fingers kiss'd the stings, love framed with mirth a gay fantastic round: loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; and he, amidst his frolic play, as if he would the charming air repay, shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. o music! sphere-descended maid, friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid! why, goddess, why, to us denied, lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? as in that loved athenian bower you learn'd an all-commanding power, thy mimic soul, o nymph endear'd! can well recall what then it heard. where is thy native simple heart devote to virtue, fancy, art? arise, as in that elder time, warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! thy wonders, in that god-like age, fill thy recording sister's page;-- 'tis said and i believe the tale, thy humblest reed could more prevail had more of strength, diviner rage, than all which charms this laggard age, e'en all at once together found cecilia's mingled world of sound:-- o bid our vain endeavours cease: revive the just designs of greece: return in all thy simple state! confirm the tales her sons relate! w. collins. . ode on the spring. lo! where the rosy-bosom'd hours, fair venus' train, appear, disclose the long-expecting flowers and wake the purple year! the attic warbler pours her throat responsive to the cuckoo's note, the untaught harmony of spring: while, whispering pleasure as they fly, cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky their gather'd fragrance fling. where'er the oak's thick branches stretch a broader, browner shade, where'er the rude and moss-grown beech o'er-canopies the glade, beside some water's rushy brink with me the muse shall sit, and think (at ease reclined in rustic state) how vain the ardour of the crowd, how low, how little, are the proud, how indigent the great! still is the toiling hand of care; the panting herds repose: yet hark, how thro' the peopled air the busy murmur glows! the insect youth are on the wing, eager to taste the honied spring and float amid the liquid noon: some lightly o'er the current skim, some show their gaily-gilded trim quick-glancing to the sun. to contemplation's sober eye such is the race of man: and they that creep, and they that fly, shall end where they began. alike the busy and the gay but flutter thro' life's little day, in fortune's varying colours drest: brush'd by the hand of rough mischance, or chill'd by age, their airy dance they leave, in dust to rest. methinks i hear in accents low, the sportive kind reply: poor moralist! and what art thou? a solitary fly! thy joys no glittering female meets, no hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, no painted plumage to display: on hasty wings thy youth is flown; thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-- we frolic while 'tis may. t. gray. . the poplar field. the poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade and the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; the winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, nor ouse on his bosom their image receives. twelve years have elapsed since i last took a view of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew: and now in the grass behold they are laid, and the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. the blackbird has fled to another retreat where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; and the scene where his melody charm'd me before resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. my fugitive years are all hasting away, and i must ere long lie lowly as they, with a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 'tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, to muse on the perishing pleasures of man; short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, i see, have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. w. cowper. . to a field-mouse. wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, o what a panic's in thy breastie! thou need na start awa sae hasty, wi' bickering brattle! i wad be laith to rin and chase thee wi' murd'ring pattle! i'm truly sorry man's dominion, has broken nature's social union, an' justifies that ill opinion which makes thee startle at me, thy poor, earth-born companion, an' fellow-mortal! i doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; what then? poor beastie, thou maun live! a daimen icker in a thrave 's a sma' request: i'll get a blessin wi' the lave, an' never miss't! thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! it's silly wa's the win's are strewin! an' naething, now, to big a new ane, o' foggage green! and bleak december's winds ensuin' baith snell and keen! thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, and weary winter comin' fast, and cozie here, beneath the blast, thou thought to dwell, till crash! the cruel coulter past out thro' thy cell. that wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, has cost thee mony a weary nibble! now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, but house or hald, to thole the winter's sleety dribble, an' cranreuch cauld! but, mousie, thou art no thy lane, in proving foresight may be vain: the best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley, and lea'e us nought but grief and pain, for promised joy. still thou art blest, compared wi' me! the present only toucheth thee: but, och! i backward cast my e'e. on prospects drear! an' forward, tho' i canna see, i guess and fear. r. burns. . a wish. mine be a cot beside the hill; a bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear; a willowy brook that turns a mill, with many a fall shall linger near. the swallow, oft, beneath my thatch shall twitter from her clay-built nest; oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, and share my meal, a welcome guest. around my ivied 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. s. rogers. . to evening. if aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song may hope, chaste eve, to soothe thy modest ear like thy own solemn springs, thy springs, and dying gales; o nymph reserved,--while now the bright-hair'd sun sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts with brede ethereal wove, o'erhang his wavy bed, now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat with short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, or where the beetle winds his small but sullen horn, as oft he rises midst the twilight path against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,-- now teach me, maid composed, to breathe some soften'd strain whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale, may not unseemly with its stillness suit; as musing slow i hail thy genial loved return. for when thy folding-star arising shows his paly circlet, at his warning lamp the fragrant hours, and elves who slept in buds the day, and many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge and sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still the pensive pleasures sweet, prepare thy shadowy car. then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, whose walls more awful nod by thy religious gleams. or if chill blustering winds or driving rain prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut that, from the mountain's side views wilds and swelling floods, and hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires; and hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all thy dewy fingers draw the gradual dusky veil. while spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, and bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest eve! while summer loves to sport beneath thy lingering light; while sallow autumn fills thy lap with leaves; or winter, yelling through the troublous air, affrights thy shrinking train, and rudely rends thy robes; so long, regardful of thy quiet rule, shall fancy, friendship, science, smiling peace, thy gentlest influence own, and love thy favourite name! w. collins. . elegy written in a country church-yard. the curfew tolls the knell of parting day, the lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, the ploughman homeward plods his weary way, and leaves the world to darkness and to me. now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, and all the air a solemn stillness holds, save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, and drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower the moping owl does to the moon complain of such as, wandering near her secret bower, molest her ancient solitary reign. beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, each in his narrow cell for ever laid, the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. the breezy call of incense-breathing morn, the swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, the cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, no more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. for them no more the blazing hearth shall burn or busy housewife ply her evening care: no children run to lisp their sire's return, or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; how jocund did they drive their team afield! how bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! let not ambition mock their useful toil, their homely joys, and destiny obscure; nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile the short and simple annals of the poor. the boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, and all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, await alike th' inevitable hour:-- the paths of glory lead but to the grave. nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault if memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, the pealing anthem swells the note of praise. can storied urn or animated bust back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? perhaps in this neglected spot is laid some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: but knowledge to their eyes her ample page rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; chill penury repress'd their noble rage, and froze the genial current of the soul. full many a gem of purest ray serene the dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air. some village-hampden, that with dauntless breast the little tyrant of his fields withstood, some mute inglorious milton here may rest, some cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. th' applause of listening senates to command, the threats of pain and ruin to despise, to scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, and read their history in a nation's eyes their lot forbad; nor circumscribed alone their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, and shut the gates of mercy on mankind; the struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, to quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, or heap the shrine of luxury and pride with incense kindled at the muse's flame. far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; along the cool sequester'd vale of life they kept the noiseless tenour of their way. yet e'en these bones from insult to protect some frail memorial still erected nigh, with uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, implores the passing tribute of a sigh. their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd muse, the place of fame and elegy supply: and many a holy text around she strews, that teach the rustic moralist to die. for who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, this pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? on some fond breast the parting soul relies, some pious drops the closing eye requires; e'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, e'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. for thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, dost in those lines their artless tale relate; if chance, by lonely contemplation led, some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,-- haply some hoary-headed swain may say, oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, brushing with hasty steps the dews away, to meet the sun upon the upland lawn; there, at the foot of yonder nodding beech that wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, his listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, and pore upon the brook that babbles by. hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. one morn i miss'd him on the custom'd hill, along the heath, and near his favourite tree; another came; nor yet beside the rill, nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; the next with dirges due in sad array, slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-- approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. the epitaph. here rests his head upon the lap of earth a youth, to fortune and to fame unknown; fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, and melancholy mark'd him for her own. large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; heaven did a recompense as largely send: he gave to misery all he had, a tear, he gain'd from heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend. no farther seek his merits to disclose, or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (there they alike in trembling hope repose), the bosom of his father and his god. t. gray. . mary morison. o mary, at thy window be, it is the wish'd, the trysted hour! those smiles and glances let me see that make the miser's treasure poor: how blythely wad i bide the stoure, a weary slave frae sun to sun, could i the rich reward secure, the lovely mary morison. yestreen when to the trembling string the dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', to thee my fancy took its wing,-- i sat, but neither heard nor saw: tho' this was fair, and that was braw, and yon the toast of a' the town, i sigh'd, and said amang them a', "ye are na mary morison." o mary, canst thou wreck his peace wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? or canst thou break that heart of his, whase only faut is loving thee? if love for love thou wilt na gie, at least be pity to me shown; a thought ungentle canna be the thought o' mary morison. r. burns. . bonnie lesley. o saw ye bonnie lesley as she gaed o'er the border? she's gane, like alexander, to spread her conquests farther. to see her is to love her, and love but her for ever; for nature made her what she is, and ne'er made sic anither! thou art a queen, fair lesley, thy subjects we, before thee; thou art divine, fair lesley, the hearts o' men adore thee. the deil he could na scaith thee, or aught that wad belang thee; he'd look into thy bonnie face, and say "i canna wrang thee!" the powers aboon will tent thee, misfortune sha' na steer thee; thou'rt like themselves sae lovely that ill they'll ne'er let near thee. return again, fair lesley, return to caledonie! that we may brag we hae a lass there's nane again sae bonnie. r. burns. . o my luve's like a red, red rose that's newly sprung in june: o my luve's like the melodie that's sweetly play'd in tune. as fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in luve am i: and i will luve thee still, my dear, till a' the seas gang dry: till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi' the sun; i will luve thee still, my dear, while the sands o' life shall run. and fare thee weel, my only luve! and fare thee weel a while! and i will come again, my luve tho' it were ten thousand mile. r. burns. . highland mary. ye banks and braes and streams around the castle o' montgomery, green be your woods, and fair your flowers, your waters never drumlie! there simmer first unfauld her robes, and there the langest tarry; for there i took the last fareweel o' my sweet highland mary. how sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, how rich the hawthorn's blossom, as underneath their fragrant shade i clasp'd her to my bosom! the golden hours on angel wings flew o'er me and my dearie; for dear to me as light and life was my sweet highland mary. wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace our parting was fu' tender; and pledging aft to meet again, we tore oursels asunder; but o! fell death's untimely frost, that nipt my flower sae early! now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, that wraps my highland mary! o pale, pale now, those rosy lips, i aft hae kiss'd sae fondly! and closed for aye the sparkling glance that dwelt on me sae kindly; and mouldering now in silent dust that heart that lo'ed me dearly! but still within my bosom's core shall live my highland mary. r. burns. . auld robin gray. when the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, and a' the warld to rest are gane, the waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, while my gudeman lies sound by me. young jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; but saving a croun he had naething else beside: to make the croun a pund, young jamie gaed to sea; and the croun and the pund were baith for me. he hadna been awa' a week but only twa, when my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa; my mother she fell sick, and my jamie at the sea-- and auld robin gray came a-courtin' me. my father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; i toil'd day and night, but their bread i couldna win; auld rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e said, jennie, for their sakes, o, marry me! my heart it said nay; i look'd for jamie back; but the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; his ship it was a wrack--why didna jamie dee? or why do i live to cry, wae's me? my father urgit sair: my mother didna speak; but she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break: they gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea; sae auld robin gray he was gudeman to me. i hadna been a wife a week but only four, when mournfu' as i sat on the stane at the door, i saw my jamie's wraith, for i couldna think it he-- till he said, i'm come hame to marry thee. o sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; we took but ae kiss, and i bad him gang away; i wish that i were dead, but i'm no like to dee; and why was i born to say, wae's me! i gang like a ghaist, and i carena to spin; i daurna think on jamie, for that wad be a sin; but i'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, for auld robin gray he is kind unto me. lady a. lindsay. . duncan gray. duncan gray cam here to woo, ha, ha, the wooing o't, on blythe yule night when we were fou, ha, ha, the wooing o't, maggie coost her head fu' high, look'd asklent and unco skeigh, gart poor duncan stand abeigh; ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan fleech'd and duncan pray'd; meg was deaf as ailsa craig; duncan sigh'd baith out and in, grat his een baith bleert and blin', spak o' lowpin' ower a linn! time and chance are but a tide, slighted love is sair to bide; shall i, like a fool, quoth he, for a haughty hizzie dee? she may gae to--france for me! how it comes let doctors tell, meg grew sick--as he grew heal; something in her bosom wrings, for relief a sigh she brings; and o, her een, they spak sic things! duncan was a lad o' grace; maggie's was a piteous case; duncan could na be her death, swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; now they're crouse and canty baith: ha, ha, the wooing o't! r. burns. . the sailor's wife. and are ye sure the news is true? and are ye sure he's weel? is this a time to think o' wark? ye jades, lay by your wheel; is this the time to spin a thread, when colin's at the door? reach down my cloak, i'll to the quay and see him come ashore. for there's nae luck about the house, there's nae luck at a'; there's little pleasure in the house when our gudeman's awa'. and gie to me my bigonet, my bishop's satin gown; for i maun tell the baillie's wife that colin's in the town. my turkey slippers maun gae on, my stockins pearly blue; it's a' to pleasure our gudeman, for he's baith leal and true. rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, put on the muckle pot; gie little kate her button gown and jock his sunday coat; and mak their shoon as black as slaes, their hose as white as snaw; it's a' to please my ain gudeman, for he's been long awa. there's twa fat hens upo' the coop been fed this month and mair; mak haste and thraw their necks about, that colin weel may fare; and spread the table neat and clean, gar ilka thing look braw, for wha can tell how colin fared when he was far awa? sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech. his breath like caller air; his very foot has music in't as he comes up the stair-- and will i see his face again? and will i hear him speak? i'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, in troth i'm like to greet! if colin's weel, and weel content, i hae nae mair to crave: and gin i live to keep him sae, i'm blest aboon the lave: and will i see his face again, and will i hear him speak? i'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, in troth i'm like to greet! for there's nae luck about the house, there's nae luck at a'; there's little pleasure in the house when our gudeman's awa. w. j. mickle. . jean. of a' the airts the wind can blaw i dearly like the west, for there the bonnie lassie lives, the lassie i lo'e best: there wild woods grow, and rivers row, and mony a hill between; but day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my jean. i see her in the dewy flowers, i see her sweet and fair: i hear her in the tunefu' birds, i hear her charm the air: there's not a bonnie flower that springs, by fountain, shaw, or green; there's not a bonnie bird that sings but minds me o' my jean. o blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft amang the leafy trees; wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale bring hame the laden bees; and bring the lassie back to me that's aye sae neat and clean; ae smile o' her wad banish care, sae charming is my jean. what sighs and vows amang the knowes hae pass'd atween us twa! how fond to meet, how wae to part that night she gaed awa! the powers aboon can only ken to whom the heart is seen, that nane can be sae dear to me as my sweet lovely jean! r. burns. . john anderson. john anderson my jo, john, when we were first acquent your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent; but now your brow is bald, john, your locks are like the snow; but blessings on your frosty pow, john anderson my jo. john anderson my jo, john, we clamb the hill thegither, and mony a canty day, john, we've had wi' ane anither: now we maun totter down, john, but hand in hand we'll go, and sleep thegither at the foot, john anderson my jo. r. burns. . the land o' the leal. i'm wearing awa', jean like snaw when its thaw, jean, i'm wearing awa' to the land o' the leal. there's nae sorrow there, jean, there's neither cauld nor care, jean, the day is aye fair in the land o' the leal. ye were aye leal and true, jean, your task's ended noo, jean, and i'll welcome you to the land o' the leal. our bonnie bairn's there, jean, she was baith guid and fair, jean; o we grudged her right sair to the land o' the leal! then dry that tearfu' e'e, jean, my soul langs to be free, jean, and angels wait on me to the land o' the leal. now fare ye weel, my ain jean this warld's care is vain, jean; we'll meet and aye be fain in the land o' the leal. lady nairn. . ode on a distant prospect of eton college. ye distant spires, ye antique towers that crown the wat'ry glade, where grateful science still adores her henry's holy shade; and ye, that from the stately brow of windsor's heights th' expanse below of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among wanders the hoary thames along his silver-winding way: ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade! ah fields beloved in vain! where once my careless childhood stray'd, a stranger yet to pain! i feel the gales that from ye blow a momentary bliss bestow, as waving fresh their gladsome wing, my weary soul they seem to soothe, and, redolent of joy and youth, to breathe a second spring. say, father thames, for thou hast seen full many a sprightly race disporting on thy margent green the paths of pleasure trace; who foremost now delight to cleave with pliant arm, thy glassy wave? the captive linnet which enthral? what idle progeny succeed to chase the rolling circle's speed or urge the flying ball? while some, on earnest business bent their murmuring labours ply 'gainst graver hours, that bring constraint to sweeten liberty: some bold adventurers disdain the limits of their little reign and unknown regions dare descry: still as they run they look behind, they hear a voice in every wind and snatch a fearful joy. gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, less pleasing when possest; the tear forgot as soon as shed, the sunshine of the breast: theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, wild wit, invention ever new, and lively cheer, of vigour born; the thoughtless day, the easy night, the spirits pure, the slumbers light that fly th' approach of morn. alas! regardless of their doom the little victims play! no sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond to-day: yet see how all around 'em wait the ministers of human fate and black misfortune's baleful train! ah shew them where in ambush stand to seize their prey, the murderous band! ah, tell them they are men! these shall the fury passions tear, the vultures of the mind, disdainful anger, pallid fear, and shame that skulks behind; or pining love shall waste their youth, or jealousy with rankling tooth that inly gnaws the secret heart, and envy wan, and faded care, grim-visaged comfortless despair, and sorrow's piercing dart. ambition this shall tempt to rise, then whirl the wretch from high to bitter scorn a sacrifice and grinning infamy. the stings of falsehood those shall try, and hard unkindness' alter'd eye, that mocks the tear it forced to flow; and keen remorse with blood defiled, and moody madness laughing wild amid severest woe. lo, in the vale of years beneath a griesly troop are seen, the painful family of death, more hideous than their queen: this racks the joints, this fires the veins, that every labouring sinew strains, those in the deeper vitals rage: lo, poverty, to fill the band, that numbs the soul with icy hand, and slow-consuming age. to each his sufferings: all are men, condemn'd alike to groan; the tender for another's pain, th' unfeeling for his own. yet ah! why should they know their fate, since sorrow never comes too late, and happiness too swiftly flies? thought would destroy their paradise! no more;--where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise. t. gray. . hymn to adversity. daughter of jove, relentless power, thou tamer of the human breast, whose iron scourge and torturing hour the bad affright, afflict the best! bound in thy adamantine chain the proud are taught to taste of pain, and purple tyrants vainly groan with pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. when first thy sire to send on earth virtue, his darling child, design'd, to thee he gave the heavenly birth and bade to form her infant mind. stern rugged nurse! thy rigid lore with patience many a year she bore: what sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, and from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe. scared at thy frown terrific, fly self-pleasing folly's idle brood, wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy, and leave us leisure to be good. light they disperse, and with them go the summer friend, the flattering foe; by vain prosperity received to her they vow their truth, and are again believed. and melancholy, silent maid, with leaden eye, that loves the ground, still on thy solemn steps attend: warm charity, the general friend, with justice, to herself severe, and pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! not in thy gorgon terrors clad, not circled with the vengeful band (as by the impious thou art seen) with thundering voice, and threatening mien, with screaming horror's funeral cry, despair, and fell disease, and ghastly poverty: thy form benign, o goddess, wear, thy milder influence impart, thy philosophic train be there to soften, not to wound my heart. the generous spark extinct revive, teach me to love and to forgive, exact my own defects to scan, what others are to feel, and know myself a man. t. gray. . the solitude of alexander selkirk. i am monarch of all i survey; my right there is none to dispute; from the centre all round to the sea i am lord of the fowl and the brute. o solitude! where are the charms that sages have seen in thy face? better dwell in the midst of alarms than reign in this horrible place. i am out of humanity's reach, i must finish my journey alone, never hear the sweet music of speech; i start at the sound of my own. the beasts that roam over the plain my form with indifference see; they are so unacquainted with man, their tameness is shocking to me. society, friendship, and love divinely bestow'd upon man, o had i the wings of a dove how soon would i taste you again! my sorrows i then might assuage in the ways of religion and truth, might learn from the wisdom of age, and be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. ye winds that have made me your sport, convey to this desolate shore some cordial endearing report of a land i shall visit no more: my friends, do they now and then send a wish or a thought after me? o tell me i yet have a friend, though a friend i am never to see. how fleet is a glance of the mind! compared with the speed of its flight, the tempest itself lags behind, and the swift-wingéd arrows of light. when i think of my own native land in a moment i seem to be there; but alas! recollection at hand soon hurries me back to despair. but the seafowl is gone to her nest, the beast is laid down in his lair; even here is a season of rest, and i to my cabin repair. there's mercy in every place, and mercy, encouraging thought! gives even affliction a grace and reconciles man to his lot. w. cowper. . to mary unwin. mary! i want a lyre with other strings, such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew, an eloquence scarce given to mortals, new and undebased by praise of meaner things, that ere through age or woe i shed my wings i may record thy worth with honour due, in verse as musical as thou art true and that immortalizes whom it sings:-- but thou hast little need. there is a book by seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, on which the eyes of god not rarely look, a chronicle of actions just and bright-- there all thy deeds, my faithful mary, shine; and since, thou own'st that praise, i spare thee mine. w. cowper. . to mary. the twentieth year is well nigh past since first our sky was overcast; ah would that this might be the last! my mary! thy spirits have a fainter flow, i see thee daily weaker grow-- 'twas my distress that brought thee low, my mary! thy needles, once a shining store, for my sake restless heretofore, now rust disused, and shine no more; my mary! for though thou gladly wouldst fulfil the same kind office for me still, thy sight now seconds not thy will, my mary! but well thou play'dst the housewife's part, and all thy threads with magic art have wound themselves about this heart, my mary! thy indistinct expressions seem like language utter'd in a dream; yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, my mary! thy silver locks, once auburn bright are still more lovely in my sight than golden beams of orient light, my mary! for could i view nor them nor thee, what sight worth seeing could i see? the sun would rise in vain for me, my mary! partakers of thy sad decline thy hands their little force resign; yet gently press'd, press gently mine, my mary! such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st that now at every step thou mov'st upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st, my mary! and still to love, though press'd with ill, in wintry age to feel no chill, with me is to be lovely still, my mary! but ah! by constant heed i know how oft the sadness that i show transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, my mary! and should my future lot be cast with much resemblance of the past thy worn-out heart will break at last-- my mary! w. cowper. . the dying man in his garden. why, damon, with the forward day dost thou thy little spot survey, from tree to tree, with doubtful cheer, pursue the progress of the year, what winds arise, what rains descend, when thou before that year shalt end? what do thy noontide walks avail, to clear the leaf, and pick the snail, then wantonly to death decree an insect usefuller than thee? thou and the worm are brother-kind, as low, as earthy, and as blind. vain wretch! canst thou expect to see the downy peach make court to thee? or that thy sense shall ever meet the bean-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet exhaling with an evening blast? thy evenings then will all be past! thy narrow pride, thy fancied green (for vanity's in little seen), all must be left when death appears, in spite of wishes, groans, and tears; nor one of all thy plants that grow but rosemary will with thee go. g. sewell. . to-morrow. in the downhill of life, when i find i'm declining, may my lot no less fortunate be than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining, and a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea; with an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, while i carol away idle sorrow, and blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn look forward with hope for to-morrow. with a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, as the sunshine or rain may prevail; and a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, with a barn for the use of the flail: a cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, and a purse when a friend wants to borrow; i'll envy no nabob his riches or fame, nor what honours await him to-morrow. from the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely secured by a neighbouring hill; and at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly by the sound of a murmuring rill: and while peace and plenty i find at my board, with a heart free from sickness and sorrow, with my friends may i share what to-day may afford, and let them spread the table to-morrow. and when i at last must throw off this frail covering which i've worn for three-score years and ten, on the brink of the grave i'll not seek to keep hovering, nor my thread wish to spin o'er again: but my face in the glass i'll serenely survey, and with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; as this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day may become everlasting to-morrow. -- collins. . life! i know not what thou art, but know that thou and i must part; and when, or how, or where we met i own to me's a secret yet. life! we've been long together through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'tis hard to part when friends are dear-- perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; --then steal away, give little warning, choose thine own time; say not good night,--but in some brighter clime bid me good morning. a l. barbauld. fourth book. summary. it proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in poetry, that the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard of excellence, render this book by far the longest, were with very few exceptions composed during the first thirty years the nineteenth century. exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely sudden appearance of individual genius: but none, in the editor's judgment, can be less adequate than that which assigns the splendid national achievements of our recent poetry, to an impulse from the frantic follies and criminal wars that at the time disgraced the least essentially civilised of our foreign neighbours. the first french revolution was rather, in his opinion, one result, and in itself by no means the most important, of that far wider and greater spirit which through enquiry and doubt, through pain and triumph, sweeps mankind round the circles of its gradual development: and it is to this that we must trace the literature of modern europe. but, without more detailed discussion on the motive causes of scott, wordsworth, campbell, keats, and shelley, we may observe that these poets, with others, carried to further perfection the later tendencies of the century preceding, in simplicity of narrative, reverence for human passion and character in every sphere, and impassioned love of nature:--that, whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art made since the restoration, they renewed the half-forgotten melody and depth of tone which marked the best elizabethan writers:--that, lastly, to what was thus inherited they added a richness in language and a variety in metre, a force and fire in narrative, a tenderness and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer passages of the soul and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger and wiser humanity,--hitherto hardly attained, and perhaps unattainable even by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. in a word, the nation which, after the greeks in their glory, has been the most gifted of all nations for poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength and prodigality of its nature. they interpreted the age to itself--hence the many phases of thought and style they present:--to sympathise with each, fervently and impartially, without fear and without fancifulness, is no doubtful step in the higher education of the soul. for, as with the affections and the conscience, purity in taste is absolutely proportionate to strength:--and when once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to delight in excellence, those who love most will be found to love most wisely. . on first looking into chapman's homer. much have i travell'd in the realms of gold and many goodly states and kingdoms seen; round many western islands have i been which bards in fealty to apollo hold. oft of one wide expanse had i been told that deep-brow'd homer ruled as his demesne: yet did i never breathe its pure serene till i heard chapman speak out loud and bold: --then felt i like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken; or like stout cortez, when with eagle eyes he stared at the pacific--and all his men look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- silent, upon a peak in darien. j. keats. . ode on the poets. bards of passion and of mirth ye have left your souls on earth! have ye souls in heaven too, doubled-lived in regions new? --yes, and those of heaven commune with the spheres of sun and moon; with the noise of fountains wonderous and the parle of voices thunderous; with the whisper of heaven's trees and one another, in soft ease seated on elysian lawns browsed by none but dian's fawns; underneath large blue-bells tented, where the daisies are rose-scented, and the rose herself has got perfume which on earth is not; where the nightingale doth sing not a senseless, trancéd thing, but divine melodious truth; philosophic numbers smooth; tales and golden histories of heaven and its mysteries. thus ye live on high, and then on the earth ye live again; and the souls ye left behind you teach us, here, the way to find you where your other souls are joying, never slumber'd, never cloying. here, your earth-born souls still speak to mortals, of their little week; of their sorrows and delights; of their passions and their spites; of their glory and their shame; what doth strengthen and what maim:-- thus ye teach us, every day, wisdom, though fled far away. bards of passion and of mirth ye have left your souls on earth! ye have souls in heaven too, double-lived in regions new! j. keats. . love. all thoughts, all passions, all delights, whatever stirs this mortal frame, all are but ministers of love, and feed his sacred flame. oft in my waking dreams do i live o'er again that happy hour, when midway on the mount i lay beside the ruin'd tower. the moonshine stealing o'er the scene had blended with the lights of eve; and she was there, my hope, my joy, my own dear genevieve! she lean'd against the arméd man, the statue of the arméd knight; she stood and listen'd to my lay, amid the lingering light. few sorrows hath she of her own my hope! my joy! my genevieve! she loves me best, whene'er i sing the songs that make her grieve. i play'd a soft and doleful air, i sang an old and moving story-- an old rude song, that suited well that ruin wild and hoary. she listen'd with a flitting blush, with downcast eyes and modest grace; for well she knew, i could not choose but gaze upon her face. i told her of the knight that wore upon his shield a burning brand; and that for ten long years he woo'd the lady of the land. i told her how he pined: and ah! the deep, the low, the pleading tone with which i sang another's love, interpreted my own. she listen'd with a flitting blush, with downcast eyes, and modest grace; and she forgave me, that i gazed too fondly on her face. but when i told the cruel scorn that crazed that bold and lovely knight, and that he cross'd the mountain-woods, nor rested day nor night; that sometimes from the savage den, and sometimes from the darksome shade, and sometimes starting up at once in green and sunny glade. there came and look'd him in the face an angel beautiful and bright; and that he knew it was a fiend, this miserable knight! and that unknowing what he did, he leap'd amid a murderous band, and saved from outrage worse than death the lady of the land; and how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; and how she tended him in vain; and ever strove to expiate the scorn that crazed his brain; and that she nursed him in a cave, and how his madness went away, when on the yellow forest-leaves a dying man he lay; --his dying words--but when i reach'd that tenderest strain of all the ditty, my faltering voice and pausing harp disturb'd her soul with pity! all impulses of soul and sense had thrill'd my guileless genevieve; the music and the doleful tale, the rich and balmy eve; and hopes, and fears that kindle hope, an undistinguishable throng, and gentle wishes long subdued, subdued and cherish'd long! she wept with pity and delight, she blush'd with love, and virgin shame; and like the murmur of a dream, i heard her breathe my name. her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside, as conscious of my look she stept-- then suddenly, with timorous eye she fled to me and wept. she half enclosed me with her arms, she press'd me with a meek embrace; and bending back her head, look'd up, and gazed upon my face. 'twas partly love, and partly fear, and partly 'twas a bashful art, that i might rather feel, than see. the swelling of her heart. i calm'd her fears, and she was calm, and told her love with virgin pride; and so i won my genevieve, my bright and beauteous bride. s. t. coleridge. . all for love. o talk not to me of a name great in story; the days of our youth are the days of our glory; and the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. what are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 'tis but as a dead flower with may-dew besprinkled: then away with all such from the head that is hoary-- what care i for the wreaths that can only give glory? o fame!--if i e'er took delight in thy praises, 'twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover she thought that i was not unworthy to love her. there chiefly i sought thee, there only i found thee; her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; when it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, i knew it was love, and i felt it was glory. lord byron. . the outlaw. o brignall banks are wild and fair, and greta woods are green, and you may gather garlands there would grace a summer-queen. and as i rode by dalton-hall beneath the turrets high, a maiden on the castle-wall was singing merrily: "o, brignall banks are fresh and fair, and greta woods are green; i'd rather rove with edmund there than reign our english queen." "if, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, to leave both tower and town, thou first must guess what life lead we that dwell by dale and down. and if thou canst that riddle read, as read full well you may, then to the greenwood shalt thou speed as blithe as queen of may." yet sung she "brignall banks are fair, and greta woods are green; i'd rather rove with edmund there than reign our english queen. "i read you by your bugle-horn and by your palfrey good, i read you for a ranger sworn to keep the king's greenwood." "a ranger, lady, winds his horn, and 'tis at peep of light; his blast is heard at merry morn, and mine at dead of night." yet sung she, "brignall banks are fair, and greta woods are gay; i would i were with edmund there to reign his queen of may! "with burnish'd brand and musketoon so gallantly you come, i read you for a bold dragoon, that lists the tuck of drum." "i list no more the tuck of drum, no more the trumpet hear; but when the beetle sounds his hum my comrades take the spear. and o! though brignall banks be fair, and greta woods be gay, yet mickle must the maiden dare, would reign my queen of may! "maiden! a nameless life i lead, a nameless death i'll die; the fiend whose lantern lights the mead were better mate than i! and when i'm with my comrades met beneath the greenwood bough, what once we were we all forget, nor think what we are now. _chorus._ yet brignall banks are fresh and fair, and greta woods are green, and you may gather flowers there would grace a summer-queen. sir w. scott. . there be none of beauty's daughters with a magic like thee; and like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me: when, as if its sound were causing the charméd ocean's pausing, the waves lie still and gleaming, and the lull'd winds seem dreaming and the midnight moon is weaving her bright chain o'er the deep, whose breast is gently heaving, as an infant's asleep: so the spirit bows before thee to listen and adore thee; with a full but soft emotion, like the swell of summer's ocean. lord byron. . lines to an indian air. i arise from dreams of thee in the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low and the stars are shining bright: i arise from dreams of thee, and a spirit in my feet hath led me--who knows how? to thy chamber-window, sweet! the wandering airs they faint on the dark, the silent stream-- the champak odours fail like sweet thoughts in a dream; the nightingale's complaint, it dies upon her heart, as i must on thine, oh, belovéd as thou art! oh lift me from the grass! i die! i faint, i fail! let thy love in kisses rain on my lips and eyelids pale. my cheek is cold and white, alas! my heart beats loud and fast; o! press it to thine own again where it will break at last. p.b. shelley. . she walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright meets in her aspect and her eyes, thus mellow'd to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. one shade the more, one ray the less, had half impair'd the nameless grace which waves in every raven tress or softly lightens o'er her face, where thoughts serenely sweet express how pure, how dear their dwelling-place. and on that cheek, and o'er that brow so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow but tell of days in goodness spent,-- a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent. lord byron. . she was a phantom of delight when first she gleam'd upon my sight; a lovely apparition, sent to be a moment's ornament; her eyes as stars of twilight fair; like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; but all things else about her drawn from may-time and the cheerful dawn; a dancing shape, an image gay, to haunt, to startle, and waylay. i saw her upon nearer view, a spirit, yet a woman too! her household motions light and free, and steps of virgin-liberty; a countenance in which did meet sweet records, promises as sweet; a creature not too bright or good for human nature's daily food, for transient sorrows, simple wiles, praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. and now i see with eye serene the very pulse of the machine; a being breathing thoughtful breath, a traveller between life and death: the reason firm, the temperate will, endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; a perfect woman, nobly plann'd, to warn, to comfort, and command; and yet a spirit still, and bright with something of an angel-light. w. wordsworth. . she is not fair to outward view as many maidens be; her loveliness i never knew until she smiled on me. o then i saw her eye was bright, a well of love, a spring of light. but now her looks are coy and cold, to mine they ne'er reply, and yet i cease not to behold the love-light in her eye: her very frowns are fairer far than smiles of other maidens are. h. coleridge. . i fear thy kisses, gentle maiden; thou needest not fear mine; my spirit is too deeply laden ever to burthen thine. i fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; thou needest not fear mine; innocent is the heart's devotion with which i worship thine. p.b. shelley. . the lost love. she dwelt among the untrodden ways beside the springs of dove; a maid whom there were none to praise, and very few to love. a violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye! --fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky. she lived unknown, and few could know when lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and o! the difference to me! w. wordsworth. . i travell'd among unknown men in lands beyond the sea; nor, england! did i know till then what love i bore to thee. 'tis past, that melancholy dream! nor will i quit thy shore a second time, for still i seem to love thee more and more. among thy mountains did i feel the joy of my desire; and she i cherish'd turn'd her wheel beside an english fire. thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd, the bowers where lucy play'd; and thine too is the last green field that lucy's eyes survey'd. w. wordsworth. . the education of nature. three years she grew in sun and shower; then nature said, "a lovelier flower on earth was never sown; this child i to myself will take; she shall be mine, and i will make a lady of my own. "myself will to my darling be both law and impulse: and with me the girl, in rock and plain, in earth and heaven, in glade and bower shall feel an overseeing power to kindle or restrain. "she shall be sportive as the fawn that wild with glee across the lawn or up the mountain springs; and her's shall be the breathing balm, and her's the silence and the calm of mute insensate things. "the floating clouds their state shall lend to her; for her the willow bend; nor shall she fail to see e'en in the motions of the storm grace that shall mould the maiden's form by silent sympathy. "the stars of midnight shall be dear to her; and she shall lean her ear in many a secret place where rivulets dance their wayward round, and beauty born of murmuring sound shall pass into her face. "and vital feelings of delight shall rear her form to stately height, her virgin bosom swell; such thoughts to lucy i will give while she and i together live here in this happy dell." thus nature spake--the work was done-- how soon my lucy's race was run! she died, and left to me this heath, this calm and quiet scene; the memory of what has been, and never more will be. w. wordsworth. . a slumber did my spirit seal; i had no human fears: she seem'd a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years. no motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; roll'd round in earth's diurnal course with rocks, and stones, and trees! w. wordsworth. . lord ullin's daughter. a chieftain to the highlands bound cries "boatman, do not tarry! and i'll give thee a silver pound to row us o'er the ferry!" "now who be ye, would cross lochgyle this dark and stormy water?" "o i'm the chief of ulva's isle, and this, lord ullin's daughter. "and fast before her father's men three days we've fled together, for should he find us in the glen, my blood would stain the heather. "his horsemen hard behind us ride-- should they our steps discover, then who will cheer my bonny bride when they have slain her lover?" out spoke the hardy highland wight "i'll go, my chief, i'm ready: it is not for your silver bright, but for your winsome lady:-- "and by my word! the bonny bird in danger not shall tarry; so though the waves are raging white i'll row you o'er the ferry." by this the storm grew loud apace, the water-wraith was shrieking; and in the scowl of heaven each face grew dark as they were speaking. but still as wilder blew the wind and as the night grew drearer, adown the glen rode arméd men, their trampling sounded nearer. "o haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "though tempests round us gather; i'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father." the boat has left a stormy land, a stormy sea before her,-- when o! too strong for human hand the tempest gather'd o'er her. and still they row'd amidst the roar of waters fast prevailing: lord ullin reach'd that fatal shore,-- his wrath was changed to wailing. for, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade his child he did discover:-- one lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, and one was round her lover. "come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "across this stormy water: and i'll forgive your highland chief, my daughter!--o my daughter!" 'twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, return or aid preventing: the waters wild went o'er his child, and he was left lamenting. t. campbell. . jock o' hazeldean. "why weep ye by the tide, ladie? why weep ye by the tide? i'll wed ye to my youngest son, and ye sall be his bride: and ye sall be his bride, ladie, sae comely to be seen"-- but aye she loot the tears doon fa' for jock o' hazeldean. "now let this wilfu' grief be done, and dry that cheek so pale; young frank is chief of errington and lord of langley-dale; his step is first in peaceful ha', his sword in battle keen"-- but aye she loot the tears down fa' for jock o' hazeldean. "a chain of gold ye shall not lack, nor braid to bind your hair, nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk nor palfrey fresh and fair; and you the foremost o' them a' shall ride our forest queen"-- but aye she loot the tears down fa' for jock o' hazeldean. the kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, the tapers glimmer'd fair; the priest and bridegroom wait the bride, and dame and knight are there: they sought her baith by bower and ha'; the ladie was not seen! she's o'er the border, and awa' wi' jock o' hazeldean. sir w. scott. . freedom and love. how delicious is the winning of a kiss at love's beginning, when two mutual hearts are sighing for the knot there's no untying! yet remember, 'midst your wooing, love has bliss, but love has ruing; other smiles may make you fickle, tears for other charms may trickle. love he comes, and love he tarries, just as fate or fancy carries; longest stays, when sorest chidden; laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden. bind the sea to slumber stilly, bind its odour to the lily, bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, then bind love to last for ever. love's a fire that needs renewal of fresh beauty for its fuel: love's wing moults when caged and captured, only free, he soars enraptured. can you keep the bee from ranging or the ringdove's neck from changing? no! nor fetter'd love from dying in the knot there's no untying. t. campbell. . love's philosophy. the fountains mingle with the river and the rivers with the ocean, the winds of heaven mix for ever with a sweet emotion; nothing in the world is single, all things by a law divine in one another's being mingle-- why not i with thine? see the mountains kiss high heaven and the waves clasp one another; no sister-flower would be forgiven if it disdain'd its brother: and the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea-- what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me? p.b. shelley. . echoes. how sweet the answer echo makes to music at night when, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, and far away o'er lawns and lakes goes answering light! yet love hath echoes truer far and far more sweet than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, of horn or lute or soft guitar the songs repeat. 'tis when the sigh,--in youth sincere and only then, the sigh that's breathed for one to hear-- is by that one, that only dear breathed back again. t. moore. . a serenade. ah! 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, and high and low the influence know-- but where is county guy? sir w. scott. . to the evening star. gem of the crimson-colour'd even, companion of retiring day, why at the closing gates of heaven, beloved star, dost thou delay? so fair thy pensile beauty burns when soft the tear of twilight flows; so due thy plighted love returns to chambers brighter than the rose; to peace, to pleasure, and to love so kind a star thou seem'st to be, sure some enamour'd orb above descends and burns to meet with thee. thine is the breathing, blushing hour when all unheavenly passions fly, chased by the soul-subduing power of love's delicious witchery. o! sacred to the fall of day queen of propitious stars, appear, and early rise, and long delay when caroline herself is here! shine on her chosen green resort whose trees the sunward summit crown, and wanton flowers, that well may court an angel's feet to tread them down:-- shine on her sweetly scented road thou star of evening's purple dome, that lead'st the nightingale abroad, and guid'st the pilgrim to his home. shine where my charmer's sweeter breath embalms the soft exhaling dew, where dying winds a sigh bequeath to kiss the cheek of rosy hue:-- where, winnow'd by the gentle air, her silken tresses darkly flow and fall upon her brow so fair, like shadows on the mountain snow. thus, ever thus, at day's decline in converse sweet to wander far-- o bring with thee my caroline, and thou shalt be my ruling star! t. campbell. . to the night. swiftly walk over the western wave, spirit of night! out of the misty eastern cave where all the long and lone daylight thou wovest dreams of joy and fear which make thee terrible and dear,-- swift be thy flight! wrap thy form in a mantle gray, star-inwrought! blind with thine hair the eyes of day, kiss her until she be wearied out, then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, touching all with thine opiate wand-- come, long-sought! when i arose and saw the dawn, i sigh'd for thee; when light rode high, and the dew was gone, and noon lay heavy on flower and tree, and the weary day turn'd to his rest, lingering like an unloved guest, i sigh'd for thee. thy brother death came, and cried, wouldst thou me? thy sweet child sleep, the filmy-eyed, murmur'd like a noon-tide bee shall i nestle near thy side? wouldst thou me?--and i replied no, not thee! death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon-- sleep will come when thou art fled; of neither would i ask the boon i ask of thee, belovéd night-- swift be thine approaching flight, come soon, soon! p.b. shelley. . to a distant friend. why art thou silent! is thy love a plant of such weak fibre that the treacherous air of absence withers what was once so fair? is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, bound to thy service with unceasing care-- the mind's least generous wish a mendicant for nought but what thy happiness could spare. speak!--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold a thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, be left more desolate, more dreary cold than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow 'mid its own bush of leafless eglantine-- speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know! w. wordsworth. . when we two parted in silence and tears, half broken-hearted to sever for years, pale grew thy 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 knew 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 thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. if i should meet thee after long years, how should i greet thee?-- with silence and tears. lord byron. . happy insensibility. in a drear-nighted december, too happy, happy tree thy branches ne'er remember their green felicity: the north cannot undo them with a sleety whistle through them, nor frozen thawings glue them from budding at the prime. in a drear-nighted december too happy, happy brook thy bubblings ne'er remember apollo's summer look; but with a sweet forgetting they stay their crystal fretting, never, never petting about the frozen time. ah! would 'twere so with many a gentle girl and boy! but were there ever any writhed not at passéd joy? to know the change and feel it, when there is none to heal it nor numbéd sense to steal it-- was never said in rhyme. j. keats. . where shall the lover rest whom the fates sever from his true maiden's breast parted for ever? where, through groves deep and high sounds the far billow, where early violets die under the willow. eleu loro soft shall be his pillow. there, through the summer day cool streams are laving: there, while the tempests sway, scarce are boughs waving; there thy rest shalt thou take, parted for ever, never again to wake never, o never! eleu loro never, o never! where shall the traitor rest, he, the deceiver, who would win maiden's breast, ruin, and leave her? in the lost battle, borne down by the flying, where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying; eleu loro there shall he be lying. her wing shall the eagle flap o'er the falsehearted; his warm blood the wolf shall lap ere life be parted: shame and dishonour sit by his grave ever; blessing shall hallow it never, o never! eleu loro never, o never! sir w. scott. . la belle dame sans merci. "o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? the sedge has wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing. "o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, so haggard and so woe-begone? the squirrel's granary is full, and the harvest's done. "i see a lily on thy brow with anguish moist and fever-dew, and on thy cheeks a fading rose fast withereth too." "i met a lady in the meads, full beautiful--a faery's child, her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild. "i made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; she look'd at me as she did love, and made sweet moan. "i set her on my pacing steed and nothing else saw all day long, for sidelong would she bend, and sing a faery's song. "she found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild and manna-dew, and sure in language strange she said, 'i love thee true.' "she took me to her elfin grot, and there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, and there i shut her wild wild eyes with kisses four. "and there she lulléd me asleep, and there i dream'd--ah! woe betide! the latest dream i ever dream'd on the cold hill's side. "i saw pale kings and princes too, pale warriors, death-pale were they all; they cried--'la belle dame sans merci hath thee in thrall!' "i saw their starved lips in the gloam with horrid warning gapéd wide, and i awoke and found me here, on the cold hill's side. "and this is why i sojourn here alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing." j. keats. . the rover. "a weary lot is thine, fair maid, a weary lot is thine! to pull the thorn thy brow to braid, and press the rue for wine. a lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, a feather of the blue, a doublet of the lincoln green-- no more of me you knew, my love! no more of me you knew. "the morn is merry june, i trow, the rose is budding fain; but she shall bloom in winter snow ere we two meet again." he turn'd his charger as he spake upon the river shore, he gave the bridle-reins a shake, said "adieu for evermore, my love! and adieu for evermore." sir w. scott. . the flight of love. when the lamp is shatter'd, the light in the dust lies dead-- when the cloud is scatter'd, the rainbow's glory is shed. when the lute is broken, sweet tones are remember'd not; when the lips have spoken, loved accents are soon forgot. as music and splendour survive not the lamp and the lute, the heart's echoes render no song when the spirit is mute-- no song but sad dirges, like the wind through a ruin'd cell, or the mournful surges that ring the dead seaman's knell. when hearts have once mingled, love first leaves the well-built nest; the weak one is singled to endure what it once possest. o love! who bewailest the frailty of all things here, why choose you the frailest for your cradle, your home, and your bier? its passions will rock thee as the storms rock the ravens on high; bright reason will mock thee like the sun from a wintry sky. from thy nest every rafter will rot, and thine eagle home leave thee naked to laughter, when leaves fall and cold winds come. p. b. shelley. . the maid of neidpath. o lovers' eyes are sharp to see, and lovers' ears in hearing; and love, in life's extremity can lend an hour of cheering. disease had been in mary's bower and slow decay from mourning, though now she sits on neidpath's tower to watch her love's returning. all sunk and dim her eyes so bright, her form decay'd by pining, till through her wasted hand, at night, you saw the taper shining. by fits a sultry hectic hue across her cheek was flying; by fits so ashy pale she grew her maidens thought her dying. yet keenest powers to see and hear seem'd in her frame residing; before the watch-dog prick'd his ear she heard her lover's riding; ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd she knew and waved to greet him, and o'er the battlement did bend as on the wing to meet him. he came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze as o'er some stranger glancing; her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, lost in his courser's prancing-- the castle-arch, whose hollow tone returns each whisper spoken, could scarcely catch the feeble moan which told her heart was broken. sir w. scott . the maid of neidpath. earl march look'd on his dying child, and smit with grief to view her-- the youth, he cried, whom i exiled shall be restored to woo her. she's at the window many an hour his coming to discover: and he look'd up to ellen's bower and she look'd on her lover-- but ah! so pale, he knew her not, though her smile on him was dwelling-- and am i then forgot--forgot? it broke the heart of ellen. in vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, her cheek is cold as ashes; nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes to lift their silken lashes. t. campbell . bright star! would i were steadfast as thou art-- not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, and watching, with eternal lids apart, like nature's patient sleepless eremite, the moving waters at their priestlike task of pure ablution round earth's human shores, or gazing on the new soft fallen mask of snow upon the mountains and the moors:-- no--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast to feel for ever its soft fall and swell, awake for ever in a sweet unrest; still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, and so live ever,--or else swoon to death. j. keats. . the terror of death. when i have fears that i may cease to be before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, before high-piléd books, in charact'ry, hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; when i behold, upon the night's starr'd face, huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, and think that i may never live to trace their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; and when i feel, fair creature of an hour! that i shall never look upon thee more, never have relish in the fairy power of unreflecting love--then on the shore of the wide world i stand alone, and think, till love and fame to nothingness do sink. j. keats. . desideria. surprized by joy--impatient as the wind-- i turn'd to share the transport--oh, with whom but thee--deep buried in the silent tomb, that spot which no vicissitude can find? love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind-- but how could i forget thee? through what power even for the least division of an hour have i been so beguiled as to be blind to my most grievous loss?--that thought's return was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore save one, one only, when i stood forlorn, knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; that neither present time, nor years unborn could to my sight that heavenly face restore. w. wordsworth. . at the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, i fly to the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; and i think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air to revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there and tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky! then i sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear when our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear; and as echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, i think, o my love! 'tis thy voice, from the kingdom of souls faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. t. moore. . elegy on thyrza. and thou art dead, as young and fair as aught of mortal birth; and forms so soft and charms so rare too soon return'd to earth! though earth received them in her bed, and o'er the spot the crowd may tread in carelessness or mirth, there is an eye which could not brook a moment on that grave to look. i will not ask where thou liest low nor gaze upon the spot; there flowers and weeds at will may grow so i behold them not: it is enough for me to prove that what i loved and long must love like common earth can rot; to me there needs no stone to tell 'tis nothing that i loved so well. yet did i love thee to the last, as fervently as thou who didst not change through all the past and canst not alter now. the love where death has set his seal nor age can chill, nor rival steal, nor falsehood disavow: and, what were worse, thou canst not see or wrong, or change, or fault in me. the better days of life were ours; the worst can be but mine: the sun that cheers, the storm that lours shall never more be thine. the silence of that dreamless sleep i envy now too much to weep; nor need i to repine that all those charms have pass'd away i might have watch'd through long decay. the flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd must fall the earliest prey; though by no hand untimely snatch'd, the leaves must drop away. and yet it were a greater grief to watch it withering, leaf by leaf, than see it pluck'd to-day; since earthly eye but ill can bear to trace the change from foul to fair. i know not if i could have borne to see thy beauties fade; the night that follow'd such a morn had worn a deeper shade: thy day without a cloud hath past, and thou wert lovely to the last, extinguish'd, not decay'd; as stars that shoot along the sky shine brightest as they fall from high. as once i wept if i could weep, my tears might well be shed to think i was not near, to keep one vigil o'er thy bed: to gaze, how fondly! on thy face, to fold thee in a faint embrace, uphold thy drooping head; and show that love, however vain, nor thou nor i can feel again. yet how much less it were to gain, though thou hast left me free, the loveliest things that still remain than thus remember thee! the all of thine that cannot die through dark and dread eternity returns again to me, and more thy buried love endears than aught except its living years. lord byron. . one word is too often profaned for me to profane it, one feeling too falsely disdain'd for thee to disdain it. one hope is too like despair for prudence to smother, and pity from thee more dear than that from another. i can give not what men call love; but wilt thou accept not the worship the heart lifts above and the heavens reject not: the desire of the moth for the star, of the night for the morrow, the devotion to something afar from the sphere of our sorrow? p.b. shelley. . gathering song of donald the black. pibroch of donuil dhu pibroch of donuil wake thy wild voice anew, summon clan conuil. come away, come away, hark to the summons! come in your war-array, gentles and commons. come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky; the war-pipe and pennon are at inverlochy. come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one, come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one. leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; leave the corpse uninterr'd, the bride at the altar; leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges: come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. come as the winds come, when forests are rended, come as the waves come, when navies are stranded: faster come, faster come, faster and faster, chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master. fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! wide waves the eagle plume blended with heather. cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set! pibroch of donuil dhu knell for the onset! sir w. scott. . a wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast and fills the white and rustling sail and bends the gallant mast; and bends the gallant mast, my boys, while like the eagle free away the good ship flies, and leaves old england on the lee. o for a soft and gentle wind! i heard a fair one cry; but give to me the snoring breeze and white waves heaving high; and white waves heaving high, my lads, the good ship tight and free-- the world of waters is our home, and merry men are we. there's tempest in yon hornéd moon, and lightning in yon cloud; but hark the music, mariners! the wind is piping loud; the wind is piping loud, my boys, the lightning flashes free-- while the hollow oak our palace is, our heritage the sea. a. cunningham. . ye mariners of england that guard our native seas! whose flag has braved, a thousand years the battle and the breeze! your glorious standard launch again to match another foe: and sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long and the stormy winds do blow. the spirits of your fathers shall start from every wave-- for the deck it was their field of fame, and ocean was their grave: where blake and mighty nelson fell your manly hearts shall glow, as ye sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long and the stormy winds do blow. britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain waves, her home is on the deep. with thunders from her native oak she quells the floods below-- as they roar on the shore, when the stormy winds do blow; when the battle rages loud and long and the stormy winds do blow. the meteor flag of england shall yet terrific burn; till danger's troubled night depart and the star of peace return. then, then, ye ocean-warriors! our song and feast shall flow to the fame of your name, when the storm has ceased to blow; when the fiery fight is heard no more, and the storm has ceased to blow. t. campbell. . battle of the baltic. of nelson and the north sing the glorious day's renown, when to battle fierce came forth all the might of denmark's crown, and her arms along the deep proudly shone; by each gun the lighted brand in a bold determined hand, and the prince of all the land led them on. like leviathans afloat lay their bulwarks on the brine; while the sign of battle flew on the lofty british line: it was ten of april morn by the chime: as they drifted on their path there was silence deep as death; and the boldest held his breath for a time. but the might of england flush'd to anticipate the scene; and her van the fleeter rush'd o'er the deadly space between. "hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gun from its adamantine lips spread a death-shade round the ships, like the hurricane eclipse of the sun. again! again! again! and the havoc did not slack, till a feeble cheer the dane to our cheering sent us back;-- their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- then ceased--and all is wail, as they strike the shatter'd sail, or in conflagration pale light the gloom. out spoke the victor then as he hail'd them o'er the wave, "ye are brothers! ye are men! and we conquer but to save:-- so peace instead of death let us bring: but yield, proud foe, thy fleet with the crews, at england's feet, and make submission meet to our king." then denmark blest our chief that he gave her wounds repose; and the sounds of joy and grief from her people wildly rose, as death withdrew his shades from the day: while the sun look'd smiling bright o'er a wide and woeful sight, where the fires of funeral light died away. now joy, old england, raise! for the tidings of thy might, by the festal cities' blaze, whilst the wine-cup shines in light; and yet amidst that joy and uproar, let us think of them that sleep full many a fathom deep by thy wild and stormy steep, elsinore! brave hearts! to britain's pride once so faithful and so true, on the deck of fame that died with the gallant good riou: soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! while the billow mournful rolls and the mermaid's song condoles singing glory to the souls of the brave! t. campbell. . ode to duty stern daughter of the voice of god! o duty! if that name thou love who art a light to guide, a rod to check the erring, and reprove; thou who art victory and law when empty terrors overawe; from vain temptations dost set free, and calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! there are who ask not if thine eye be on them; who, in love and truth where no misgiving is, rely upon the genial sense of youth: glad hearts! without reproach or blot, who do thy work, and know it not: oh! if through confidence misplaced they fail, thy saving arms, dread power! around them cast. serene will be our days and bright and happy will our nature be when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security. and they a blissful course may hold ev'n now who, not unwisely bold, live in the spirit of this creed; yet find that other strength, according to their need. i, loving freedom, and untried; no sport of every random gust, yet being to myself a guide, too blindly have reposed my trust: and oft, when in my heart was heard thy timely mandate, i deferr'd the task, in smoother walks to stray; but thee i now would serve more strictly, if i may. through no disturbance of my soul or strong compunction in me wrought, i supplicate for thy controul, but in the quietness of thought: me this uncharter'd freedom tires; i feel the weight of chance desires; my hopes no more must change their name; i long for a repose which ever is the same. stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear the godhead's most benignant grace; nor know we anything so fair as is the smile upon thy face: flowers laugh before thee on their beds, and fragrance in thy footing treads; thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; and the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. to humbler functions, awful power! i call thee: i myself commend unto thy guidance from this hour; o let my weakness have an end! give unto me, made lowly wise, the spirit of self-sacrifice; the confidence of reason give; and in the light of truth thy bondman let me live. w. wordsworth. . on the castle of chillon. eternal spirit of the chainless mind! brightest in dungeons, liberty, thou art-- for there thy habitation is the heart-- the heart which love of thee alone can bind; and when thy sons to fetters are consign'd, to fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, their country conquers with their martyrdom and freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. chillon! thy prison is a holy place and thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod until his very steps have left a trace worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, by bonnivard! may none those marks efface! for they appeal from tyranny to god. lord byron. . england and switzerland. . two voices are there; one is of the sea, one of the mountains; each a mighty voice: in both from age to age thou didst rejoice, they were thy chosen music, liberty! there came a tyrant, and with holy glee thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven: thou from thy alpine holds at length are driven where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. --of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; then cleave, o cleave to that which still is left-- for, high-soul'd maid, what sorrow would it be that mountain floods should thunder as before, and ocean bellow from his rocky shore, and neither awful voice be heard by thee! w. wordsworth. . on the extinction of the venetian republic. once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee and was the safeguard of the west; the worth of venice did not fall below her birth, venice, the eldest child of liberty. she was a maiden city, bright and free; no guile seduced, no force could violate; and when she took unto herself a mate, she must espouse the everlasting sea. and what if she had seen those glories fade, those titles vanish, and that strength decay,-- yet shall some tribute of regret be paid when her long life hath reach'd its final day: men are we, and must grieve when even the shade of that which once was great has pass'd away. w. wordsworth. . london, mdcccii. o friend! i know not which way i must look for comfort, being, as i am, opprest to think that now our life is only drest for show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook, or groom!--we must run glittering like a brook in the open sunshine, or we are unblest; the wealthiest man among us is the best: no grandeur now in nature or in book delights us. rapine, avarice, expense, this is idolatry; and these we adore: plain living and high thinking are no more: the homely beauty of the good old cause is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, and pure religion breathing household laws. w. wordsworth. . the same. milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: england hath need of thee: she is a fen of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, have forfeited their ancient english dower of inward happiness. we are selfish men o! raise us up, return to us again; and give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; so didst thou travel on life's common way in cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart the lowliest duties on herself did lay. w. wordsworth. . when i have borne in memory what has tamed great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart when men change swords for ledgers, and desert the student's bower for gold,--some fears unnamed i had, my country!--am i to be blamed? now, when i think of thee, and what thou art, verily, in the bottom of my heart of those unfilial fears i am ashamed. for dearly must we prize thee; we who find in thee a bulwark of the cause of men; and i by my affection was beguiled: what wonder if a poet now and then, among the many movements of his mind, felt for thee as a lover or a child! w. wordsworth. . hohenlinden. on linden, when the sun was low, all bloodless lay the untrodden snow; and dark as winter was the flow of iser, rolling rapidly. but linden saw another sight, when the drum beat at dead of night commanding fires of death to light the darkness of her scenery. by torch and trumpet fast array'd each horseman drew his battle-blade, and furious every charger neigh'd to join the dreadful revelry. then shook the hills with thunder riven; then rush'd the steed, to battle driven; and louder than the bolts of heaven far flash'd the red artillery. but redder yet that light shall glow on linden's hills of stainéd snow; and bloodier yet the torrent flow of iser, rolling rapidly. 'tis morn; but scarce yon level sun can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, where furious frank and fiery hun shout in their sulphurous canopy. the combat deepens. on, ye brave who rush to glory, or the grave! wave, munich all thy banners wave, and charge with all thy chivalry! few, few shall part, where many meet! the snow shall be their winding-sheet, and every turf beneath their feet shall be a soldier's sepulchre. t. campbell. . after blenheim. it was a summer evening, old kaspar's work was done, and he before his cottage door was sitting in the sun; and by him sported on the green his little grandchild wilhelmine. she saw her brother peterkin roll something large and round which he beside the rivulet in playing there had found he came to ask what he had found that was so large and smooth and round. old kaspar took it from the boy who stood expectant by; and then the old man shook his head, and with a natural sigh "'tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "who fell in the great victory. "i find then in the garden, for there's many here about; and often when i go to plough the ploughshare turns them out. for many thousand men," said he, "were slain in that great victory." "now tell us what 'twas all about," young peterkin he cries; and little wilhelmine looks up with wonder-waiting eyes; "now tell us all about the war, and what they fought each other for." "it was the english," kaspar cried, "who put the french to rout; but what they fought each other for i could not well make out. but every body said," quoth he, "that 'twas a famous victory. "my father lived at blenheim then, yon little stream hard by; they burnt his dwelling to the ground, and he was forced to fly: so with his wife and child he fled, nor had he where to rest his head. "with fire and sword the country round was wasted far and wide, and many a childing mother then and newborn baby died: but things like that, you know, must be at every famous victory. "they say it was a shocking sight after the field was won; for many thousand bodies here lay rotting in the sun: but things like that, you know, must be after a famous victory. "great praise the duke of marlbro' won and our good prince eugene"; "why 'twas a very wicked thing!" said little wilhelmine; "nay--nay--my little girl," quoth he, "it was a famous victory. and every body praised the duke who this great fight did win." "but what good came of it at last?" quoth little peterkin:-- "why that i cannot tell," said he, "but 'twas a famous victory." r. southey. . pro patria mori. when he who adores thee has left but the name of his fault and his sorrows behind, o! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame of a life that for thee was resign'd! yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, thy tears shall efface their decree; for, heaven can witness, though guilty to them, i have been but too faithful to thee. with thee were the dreams of my earliest love; every thought of my reason was thine; in my last humble prayer to the spirit above thy name shall be mingled with mine! o! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live the days of thy glory to see; but the next dearest blessing that heaven can give is the pride of thus dying for thee. t. moore. . the burial of sir john moore at corunna. not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corpse to the rampart we hurried; not a soldier discharged his farewell shot o'er the grave where our hero we buried. we buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning; by the struggling moonbeam's misty light and the lantern dimly burning. no useless coffin enclosed his breast, not in sheet or in shroud we wound him: but he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him. few and short were the prayers we said and we spoke not a word of sorrow, but we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow. we thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed and smooth'd down his lonely pillow, that the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, and we far away on the billow! lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, and o'er his cold ashes upbraid him-- but little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on in the grave where a briton has laid him. but half of our heavy task was done when the clock struck the hour for retiring; and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory; we carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, but we left him alone with his glory. c. wolfe. . simon lee the old huntsman. in the sweet shire of cardigan, not far from pleasant ivor hall, an old man dwells, a little man, i've heard he once was tall. full five-and-thirty years he lived a running huntsman merry; and still the centre of his cheek is red as a ripe cherry. no man like him the horn could sound, and hill and valley rang with glee, when echo bandied round and round the halloo of simon lee. in those proud days he little cared for husbandry or tillage; to blither tasks did simon rouse the sleepers of the village. he all the country could outrun, could leave both man and horse behind; and often, ere the chase was done, he reel'd and was stone-blind. and still there's something in the world at which his heart rejoices; for when the chiming hounds are out, he dearly loves their voices. but o the heavy change!--bereft of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see old simon to the world is left in liveried poverty: his master's dead, and no one now dwells in the hall of ivor; men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; he is the sole survivor. and he is lean and he is sick, his body dwindled and awry rests upon ankles swoln and thick; his legs are thin and dry. he has no son, he has no child; his wife, an aged woman, lives with him, near the waterfall, upon the village common. beside their moss-grown hut of clay, not twenty paces from the door, a scrap of land they have, but they are poorest of the poor. this scrap of land he from the heath enclosed when he was stronger; but what avails the land to them which he can till no longer? oft, working by her husband's side, ruth does what simon cannot do; for she, with scanty cause for pride, is stouter of the two. and, though you with your utmost skill from labour could not wean them, 'tis little, very little, all that they can do between them. few months of life has he in store as he to you will tell, for still, the more he works, the more do his weak ankles swell. my gentle reader, i perceive how patiently you've waited, and now i fear that you expect some tale will be related. o reader! had you in your mind such stores as silent thought can bring, o gentle reader! you would find a tale in everything. what more i have to say is short, and you must kindly take it; it is no tale; but, should you think, perhaps a tale you'll make it. one summer-day i chanced to see this old man doing all he could to unearth the root of an old tree, a stump of rotten wood. the mattock totter'd in his hand so vain was his endeavour that at the root of the old tree he might have work'd for ever. "you're overtask'd, good simon lee, give me your tool," to him i said; and at the word right gladly he received my proffer'd aid. i struck, and with a single blow the tangled root i sever'd, at which the poor old man so long and vainly had endeavour'd. the tears into his eyes were brought, and thanks and praises seem'd to run so fast out of his heart, i thought they never would have done. --i've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds with coldness still returning; alas! the gratitude of men has oftener left me mourning. w. wordsworth. . the old familiar faces. i have had playmates, i have had companions in my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. i have been laughing, i have been carousing, drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. i loved a love once, fairest among women: closed are her doors on me, i must not see her-- all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. i have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: like an ingrate, i left my friend abruptly; left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. ghost-like i paced round the haunts of my childhood, earth seem'd a desert i was bound to traverse, seeking to find the old familiar faces. friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? so might we talk of the old familiar faces, how some they have died, and some they have left me, and some are taken from me; all are departed; all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. c. lamb. . the journey onwards. as slow our ship her foamy track against the wind was cleaving, her trembling pennant still look'd back to that dear isle 'twas leaving. so loth we part from all we love, from all the links that bind us; so turn our hearts, as on we rove, to those we've left behind us! when, round the bowl, of vanish'd years we talk with joyous seeming-- with smiles that might as well be tears, so faint, so sad their beaming; while memory brings us back again each early tie that twined us, oh, sweet's the cup that circles then to those we've left behind us! and when in other climes, we meet some isle or vale enchanting, where all looks flowery wild and sweet, and nought but love is wanting; we think how great had been our bliss if heaven had but assign'd us to live and die in scenes like this, with some we've left behind us! as travellers oft look back at eve when eastward darkly going, to gaze upon that light they leave still faint behind them glowing,-- so, when the close of pleasure's day to gloom hath near consign'd us, we turn to catch our fading ray of joy that's left behind us. t. moore. . youth and age. there's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away when the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast, but the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: the magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain the shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again. then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; it cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; that heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, and though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, all green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. o could i feel as i have felt, or be what i have been, or weep as i could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,-- as springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, so midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me! lord byron. . a lesson. there is a flower, the lesser celandine, that shrinks like many more from cold and rain, and the first moment that the sun may shine, bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again! when hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, oft have i seen it muffled up from harm in close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. but lately, one rough day, this flower i past, and recognised it, though an alter'd form, now standing forth an offering to the blast, and buffeted at will by rain and storm. i stopp'd and said with inly-mutter'd voice, "it doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold; this neither is its courage nor its choice, but its necessity in being old. "the sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; it cannot help itself in its decay; stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue." and, in my spleen, i smiled that it was gray. to be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth, a miser's pensioner--behold our lot! o man! that from thy fair and shining youth age might but take the things youth needed not! w. wordsworth. . past and present. i remember, i remember the house where i was born, the little window where the sun came peeping in at morn; he never came a wink too soon nor brought too long a day; but now, i often wish the night had borne my breath away. i remember, i remember the roses, red and white, the violets, and the lily-cups-- those flowers made of light! the lilacs where the robin built, and where my brother set the laburnum on his birthday,-- the tree is living yet! i remember, i remember where i was used to swing, and thought the air must rush as fresh to swallows on the wing; my spirit flew in feathers then that is so heavy now, and summer pools could hardly cool the fever on my brow. i remember, i remember the fir trees dark and high; i used to think their slender tops were close against the sky: it was a childish ignorance, but now 'tis little joy to know i'm farther off from heaven than when i was a boy. t. hood. . the light of other days. oft, in the stilly night, ere slumber's chain has bound me, fond memory brings the light of other days around me: the smiles, the tears of boyhood's years, the words of love then spoken; the eyes that shone, now dimm'd and gone, the cheerful hearts now broken! thus in the stilly night, ere slumber's chain has bound me, sad memory brings the light of other days around me. when i remember all the friends, so link'd together, i've seen around me fall like leaves in wintry weather, i feel like one who treads alone some banquet-hall deserted, whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, and all but he departed! thus in the stilly night, ere slumber's chain has bound me, sad memory brings the light of other days around me. t. moore. . invocation. rarely, rarely, comest thou, spirit of delight! wherefore hast thou left me now many a day and night? many a weary night and day 'tis since thou art fled away. how shall ever one like me win thee back again? with the joyous and the free thou wilt scoff at pain. spirit false! thou hast forgot all but those who need thee not. as a lizard with the shade of a trembling leaf, thou with sorrow art dismay'd; even the sighs of grief reproach thee, that thou art not near, and reproach thou wilt not hear. let me set my mournful ditty to a merry measure;-- thou wilt never come for pity, thou wilt come for pleasure;-- pity then will cut away those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. i love all that thou lovest, spirit of delight! the fresh earth in new leaves drest and the starry night; autumn evening, and the morn when the golden mists are born. i love snow, and all the forms of the radiant frost; i love waves, and winds, and storms, everything almost which is nature's, and may be untainted by man's misery. i love tranquil solitude, and such society as is quiet, wise, and good; between thee and me what diff'rence? but thou dost possess the things i seek, not love them less. i love love--though he has wings, and like light can flee, but above all other things, spirit, i love thee-- thou art love and life! o come! make once more my heart thy home! p.b. shelley. . stanzas written in dejection near naples. the sun is warm, the sky is clear, the waves are dancing fast and bright, blue isles and snowy mountains wear the purple noon's transparent light: the breath of the moist air is light around its unexpanded buds; like many a voice of one delight-- the winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'-- the city's voice itself is soft like solitude's. i see the deep's untrampled floor with green and purple sea-weeds strown; i see the waves upon the shore like light dissolved in star-showers thrown; i sit upon the sands alone; the lightning of the noon-tide ocean is flashing round me, and a tone arises from its measured motion-- how sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. alas! i have nor hope nor health, nor peace within nor calm around, nor that content, surpassing wealth, the sage in meditation found, and walked with inward glory crown'd-- nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; others i see whom these surround-- smiling they live, and call life pleasure; to me that cup has been dealt in another measure. yet now despair itself is mild even as the winds and waters are; i could lie down like a tired child, and weep away the life of care which i have borne, and yet must bear, till death like sleep might steal on me, and i might feel in the warm air my cheek grow cold, and hear the sea breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. p.b. shelley. . the scholar. my days among the dead are past; around me i behold, where'er these casual eyes are cast, the mighty minds of old: my never-failing friends are they, with whom i converse day by day. with them i take delight in weal and seek relief in woe; and while i understand and feel how much to them i owe, my cheeks have often been bedew'd with tears of thoughtful gratitude. my thoughts are with the dead; with them i live in long-past years, their virtues love, their faults condemn, partake their hopes and fears, and from their lessons seek and find instruction with an humble mind. my hopes are with the dead; anon my place with them will be, and i with them shall travel on through all futurity; yet leaving here a name, i trust, that will not perish in the dust. r. southey. . the mermaid tavern. souls of poets dead and gone what elysium have ye known, happy field or mossy cavern, choicer than the mermaid tavern? have ye tippled drink more fine than mine host's canary wine? or are fruits of paradise sweeter than those dainty pies of venison? o generous food! drest as though bold robin hood would, with his maid marian, sup and browse from horn and can. i have heard that on a day mine host's signboard flew away nobody knew whither, till an astrologer's old quill to a sheepskin gave the story-- said he saw you in your glory underneath a new-old sign sipping beverage divine, and pledging with contented smack the mermaid in the zodiac! souls of poets dead and gone what elysium have ye known-- happy field or mossy cavern-- choicer than the mermaid tavern? j. keats. . the pride of youth. proud maisie is in the wood, walking so early; sweet robin sits on the bush, singing so rarely. "tell me, thou bonny bird, when shall i marry me?" --"when six braw gentlemen kirkward shall carry ye." "who makes the bridal bed, birdie, say truly?" --"the gray-headed sexton that delves the grave duly. "the glowworm o'er grave and stone shall light thee steady; the owl from the steeple sing welcome, proud lady!" sir w. scott. . the bridge of sighs. one more unfortunate weary of breath rashly importunate, gone to her death! take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fashion'd so slenderly young, and so fair! look at her garments clinging like cerements; whilst the wave constantly drips from her clothing; take her up instantly, loving, not loathing. touch her not scornfully; think of her mournfully, gently and humanly; not of the stains of her-- all that remains of her now is pure womanly. make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny rash and undutiful: past all dishonour, death has left on her only the beautiful. still, for all slips of hers, one of eve's family-- wipe those poor lips of hers oozing so clammily. loop up her tresses escaped from the comb, her fair auburn tresses; whilst wonderment guesses where was her home? who was her father? who was her mother? had she a sister? had she a brother? or was there a dearer one still, and a nearer one yet, than all other? alas! for the rarity of christian charity under the sun! o! it was pitiful! near a whole city full, home she had none. sisterly, brotherly, fatherly, motherly feelings had changed: love, by harsh evidence, thrown from its eminence; even god's providence seeming estranged. where the lamps quiver so far in the river, with many a light from window and casement, from garret to basement, she stood, with amazement, houseless by night. the bleak wind of march made her tremble and shiver; but not the dark arch, or the black flowing river: mad from life's history, glad to death's mystery, swift to be hurl'd-- any where, any where out of the world! in she plunged boldly, no matter how coldly the rough river ran, over the brink of it,-- picture it, think of it, dissolute man! lave in it, drink of it, then, if you can! take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fashion'd so slenderly, young, and so fair! ere her limbs frigidly stiffen too rigidly, decently, kindly, smooth and compose them; and her eyes, close them, staring so blindly! dreadfully staring thro' muddy impurity, as when with the daring last look of despairing fix'd on futurity. perishing gloomily, spurr'd by contumely, cold inhumanity, burning insanity, into her rest. --cross her hands humbly as if praying dumbly, over her breast! owning her weakness, her evil behaviour, and leaving, with meekness, her sins to her saviour! t. hood. . elegy. o snatch'd away in beauty's bloom! on thee shall press no ponderous tomb; but on thy turf shall roses rear their leaves, the earliest of the year, and the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: and oft by yon blue gushing stream shall sorrow lean her drooping head, and feed deep thought with many a dream, and lingering pause and lightly tread; fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! away! we know that tears are vain, that death nor heeds nor hears distress: will this unteach us to complain? or make one mourner weep the less? and thou, who tell'st me to forget, thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. lord byron. . hester. when maidens such as hester die their place ye may not well supply, though ye among a thousand try with vain endeavour. a month or more hath she been dead, yet cannot i by force be led to think upon the wormy bed and her together. a springy motion in her gait, a rising step, did indicate of pride and joy no common rate, that flush'd her spirit: i know not by what name beside i shall it call: if 'twas not pride, it was a joy to that allied, she did inherit. her parents held the quaker rule which doth the human feeling cool; but she was train'd in nature's school; nature had blest her. a waking eye, a prying mind; a heart that stirs, is hard to bind; a hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind; ye could not hester. my sprightly neighbour! gone before to that unknown and silent shore, shall we not meet, as heretofore some summer morning-- when from thy cheerful eyes a ray hath struck a bliss upon the day, a bliss that would not go away, a sweet fore-warning? c. lamb. . coronach. he is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest. the fount reappearing from the raindrops shall borrow, but to us comes no cheering, to duncan no morrow! the hand of the reaper take the ears that are hoary, but the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory. the autumn winds rushing waft the leaves that are serest, but our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest. fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber, red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber! like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and for ever! sir w. scott. . the death bed. we watch'd her breathing thro' the night, her breathing soft and low, as in her breast the wave of life kept heaving to and fro. but when the morn came dim and sad and chill with early showers, her quiet eyelids closed--she had another morn than ours. t. hood. . rosabelle. o listen, listen, ladies gay! no haughty feat of arms i tell; soft is the note, and sad the lay that mourns the lovely rosabelle. "moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, and, gentle lady, deign to stay! rest thee in castle ravensheuch, nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. "the blackening wave is edged with white; to inch and rock the sea-mews fly; the fishers have heard the water-sprite, whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh. "last night the gifted seer did view a wet shroud swathed round lady gay; then stay thee, fair, in ravensheuch; why cross the gloomy firth to-day? "'tis not because lord lindesay's heir to-night at roslin leads the ball, but that my lady-mother there sits lonely in her castle-hall. "'tis not because the ring they ride, and lindesay at the ring rides well, but that my sire the wine will chide if 'tis not fill'd by rosabelle." --o'er roslin all that dreary night a wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'twas broader than the watch-fire's light, and redder than the bright moonbeam. it glared on roslin's castled rock, it ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'twas seen from dryden's grove of oak, and seen from cavern'd hawthornden. seem'd all on fire that chapel proud where roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, each baron, for a sabled shroud, sheathed in his iron panoply. seem'd all on fire within, around, deep sacristy and altar's pale; shone every pillar foliage-bound, and glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-- so still they blaze, when fate is nigh the lordly line of high saint clair. there are twenty of roslin's baron's bold lie buried within that proud chapelle; each one the holy vault doth hold, but the sea holds lovely rosabelle! and each saint clair was buried there with candle, with book, and with knell; but the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung the dirge of lovely rosabelle. sir w. scott. . on an infant dying as soon as born. i saw where in the shroud did lurk a curious frame of nature's work; a flow'ret crushéd in the bud, a nameless piece of babyhood was in her cradle-coffin lying; extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: so soon to exchange the imprisoning womb for darker closets of the tomb! she did but ope an eye, and put a clear beam forth, then straight up shut for the long dark: ne'er more to see through glasses of mortality. riddle of destiny, who can show what thy short visit meant, or know what thy errand here below? shall we say, that nature blind check'd her hand, and changed her mind just when she had exactly wrought a finish'd pattern without fault? could she flag, or could she tire, or lack'd she the promethean fire (with her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) that should thy little limbs have quicken'd? limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure life of health, and days mature: woman's self in miniature! limbs so fair, they might supply (themselves now but cold imagery) the sculptor to make beauty by. or did the stern-eyed fate descry that babe or mother, one must die; so in mercy left the stock and cut the branch; to save the shock of young years widow'd, and the pain when single state comes back again to the lone man who, reft of wife, thenceforward drags a maiméd life? the economy of heaven is dark, and wisest clerks have miss'd the mark why human buds, like this, should fall, more brief than fly ephemeral that has his day; while shrivell'd crones stiffen with age to stocks and stones; and crabbéd use the conscience sears in sinners of an hundred years. --mother's prattle, mother's kiss, baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss: rites, which custom does impose, silver bells, and baby clothes; coral redder than those lips which pale death did late eclipse; music framed for infants' glee, whistle never tuned for thee; though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, loving hearts were they which gave them. let not one be missing; nurse, see them laid upon the hearse of infant slain by doom perverse. why should kings and nobles have pictured trophies to their grave, and we, churls, to thee deny thy pretty toys with thee to lie-- a more harmless vanity? c. lamb. . the affliction of margaret. where art thou, my beloved son, where art thou, worse to me than dead! oh find me, prosperous or undone! or if the grave be now thy bed, why am i ignorant of the same that i may rest; and neither blame nor sorrow may attend thy name? seven years, alas! to have received no tidings of an only child-- to have despair'd, have hoped, believed, and be for evermore beguiled,-- sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! i catch at them, and then i miss; was ever darkness like to this? he was among the prime in worth, an object beauteous to behold; well born, well bred; i sent him forth ingenuous, innocent, and bold: if things ensued that wanted grace, as hath been said, they were not base; and never blush was on my face. ah! little doth the young-one dream, when full of play and childish cares, what power is in his wildest scream, heard by his mother unawares! he knows it not, he cannot guess: years to a mother bring distress; but do not make her love the less. neglect me! no, i suffer'd long from that ill thought; and being blind said, "pride shall help me in my wrong: kind mother have i been, as kind as ever breathed": and that is true; i've wet my path with tears like dew, weeping for him when no one knew. my son, if thou be humbled, poor, hopeless of honour and of gain, o! do not dread thy mother's door, think not of me with grief and pain: i now can see with better eyes; and worldly grandeur i despise and fortune with her gifts and lies. alas! the fowls of heaven have wings and blasts of heaven will aid their flight; they mount--how short a voyage brings the wanderers back to their delight! chains tie us down by land and sea; and wishes, vain as mine, may be all that is left to comfort thee. perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan maim'd, mangled by inhuman men; or thou upon a desert thrown inheritest the lion's den; or hast been summoned to the deep, thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep an incommunicable sleep. i look for ghosts: but none will force their way to me; 'tis falsely said that there was ever intercourse between the living and the dead; for surely then i should have sight of him i wait for day and night with love and longings infinite. my apprehensions come in crowds; i dread the rustling of the grass; the very shadows of the clouds have power to shake me as they pass; i question things, and do not find one that will answer to my mind; and all the world appears unkind. beyond participation lie my troubles, and beyond relief: if any chance to heave a sigh they pity me, and not my grief. then come to me, my son, or send some tidings that my woes may end! i have no other earthly friend. w. wordsworth. . hunting song. waken, 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 mountains gray, springlets in the dawn are streaming, diamonds on the brake are gleaming, and foresters have busy been to track the buck in thicket green; now we come to chant our lay "waken, lords and ladies gay." waken, lords and ladies gay, to the greenwood 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." louder, louder chant the lay waken, lords and ladies gay! tell them youth and mirth and glee run 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! sir w. scott. . to the skylark. ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, those quivering wings composed, that music still! to the last point of vision, and beyond, mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain --'twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond-- thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing all independent of the leafy spring. leave to the nightingale her shady wood; a privacy of glorious light is thine; whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood of harmony, with instinct more divine; type of the wise, who soar, but never roam-- true to the kindred points of heaven and home! w. wordsworth. . to a skylark. hail to thee, blithe spirit! bird thou never wert, that from heaven, or near it pourest thy full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art. higher still and higher from the earth thou springest, like a cloud of fire; the blue deep thou wingest, and singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. in the golden lightning of the sunken sun o'er which clouds are brightening, thou dost float and run, like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. the pale purple even melts around thy flight; like a star of heaven in the broad daylight thou art unseen, but yet i hear thy shrill delight: keen as are the arrows of that silver sphere, whose intense lamp narrows in the white dawn clear until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. all the earth and air with thy voice is loud, as, when night is bare, from one lonely cloud the moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. what thou art we know not; what is most like thee? from rainbow clouds there flow not drops so bright to see as from thy presence showers a rain of melody. like a poet hidden in the light of thought, singing hymns unbidden till the world is wrought to sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: like a high-born maiden in a palace tower, soothing her love-laden soul in secret hour with music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: like a glow-worm golden in a dell of dew, scattering unbeholden its aerial hue among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: like a rose embower'd in its own green leaves, by warm winds deflower'd, till the scent it gives makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-wingéd thieves. sound of vernal showers on the twinkling grass, rain-awaken'd flowers, all that ever was joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. teach us, sprite or bird, what sweet thoughts are thine: i have never heard praise of love or wine that panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. chorus hymeneal or triumphal chaunt match'd with thine, would be all but an empty vaunt-- a thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. what objects are the fountains of thy happy strain? what fields, or waves, or mountains? what shapes of sky or plain? what love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? with thy clear keen joyance languor cannot be: shadow of annoyance never came near thee: thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. waking or asleep thou of death must deem things more true and deep than we mortals dream, or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? we look before and after, and pine for what is not: our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught; our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. yet if we could scorn hate, and pride, and fear; if we were things born not to shed a tear, i know not how thy joy we ever should come near. better than all measures of delightful sound, better than all treasures that in books are found, thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know, such harmonious madness from my lips would flow the world should listen then, as i am listening now! p.b. shelley. . the green linnet. beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed their snow white blossoms on my head, with brightest sunshine round me spread of spring's unclouded weather, in this sequester'd nook how sweet to sit upon my orchard-seat! and birds and flowers once more to greet, my last year's friends together. one have i mark'd, the happiest guest in all this covert of the blest: hail to thee, far above the rest in joy of voice and pinion! thou, linnet! in thy green array, presiding spirit here to-day dost lead the revels of the may, and this is thy dominion. while birds, and butterflies, and flowers make all one band of paramours, thou, ranging up and down the bowers art sole in thy employment; a life, a presence like the air, scattering thy gladness without care, too blest with any one to pair; thyself thy own enjoyment. amid yon tuft of hazel trees, that twinkle to the gusty breeze, behold him perch'd in ecstasies, yet seeming still to hover; there, where the flutter of his wings upon his back and body flings shadows and sunny glimmerings, that cover him all over. my dazzled sight he oft deceives-- a brother of the dancing leaves; then flits, and from the cottage-eaves pours forth his song in gushes, as if by that exulting strain he mock'd and treated with disdain the voiceless form he chose to feign while fluttering in the bushes. w. wordsworth. . to the cuckoo. o blithe new-comer! i have heard, i hear thee and rejoice: o cuckoo! shall i call thee bird, or but a wandering voice? while i am lying on the grass thy twofold shout i hear; from hill to hill it seems to pass, at once far off and near. though babbling only to the vale of sunshine and of flowers, thou bringest unto me a tale of visionary hours. thrice welcome, darling of the spring! even yet thou art to me no bird, but an invisible thing, a voice, a mystery; the same whom in my school-boy days i listen'd to; that cry which made me look a thousand ways in bush, and tree, and sky. to seek thee did i often rove through woods and on the green; and thou wert still a hope, a love; still long'd for, never seen! and i can listen to thee yet; can lie upon the plain and listen, till i do beget that golden time again. o blesséd bird! the earth we pace again appears to be an unsubstantial, fairy place; that is fit home for thee! w. wordsworth. . ode to a nightingale. my heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock i had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate to the drains one minute past, and lethe-wards had sunk: 'tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness,-- that thou, light-wingéd dryad of the trees, in some melodious plot of beechen green, and shadows numberless, singest of summer in full-throated ease. o for a draught of vintage, that hath been cool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd earth, tasting of flora and the country-green, dance, and provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! o for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the blushful hippocrene, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim and purple-stainéd mouth; that i might drink, and leave the world unseen, and with thee fade away into the forest dim: fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget what thou among the leaves hast never known, the weariness, the fever, and the fret here, where men sit and hear each other groan; where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; where but to think is to be full of sorrow and leaden-eyed despairs; where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. away! away! for i will fly to thee, not charioted by bacchus and his pards, but on the viewless wings of poesy, though the dull brain perplexes and retards: already with thee! tender is the night, and haply the queen-moon is on her throne, cluster'd around by all her starry fays; but here there is no light save what from heaven is with the breezes blown through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. i cannot see what flowers are at my feet, nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, but, in embalméd darkness, guess each sweet wherewith the seasonable month endows the grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; white hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; and mid-may's eldest child, the coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. darkling i listen; and for many a time i have been half in love with easeful death, call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme, to take into the air my quiet breath; now more than ever seems it rich to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain, while thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad in such an ecstasy! still wouldst thou sing, and i have ears in vain-- to thy high requiem become a sod. thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! no hungry generations tread thee down; the voice i hear this passing night was heard in ancient days by emperor and clown: perhaps the self-same song that found a path through the sad heart of ruth, when, sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien corn; the same that oft-times hath charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. forlorn! the very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee to my sole self! adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well as she is famed to do, deceiving elf. adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades past the near meadows, over the still stream, up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep in the next valley-glades: was it a vision, or a waking dream? fled is that music:--do i wake or sleep? j. keats. . upon westminster bridge. _sept._ , . earth has not anything to show more fair: dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty: this city now doth like a garment wear the beauty of the morning; silent, bare, ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie open unto the fields, and to the sky; all bright and glittering in the smokeless air. never did sun more beautifully steep in his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; ne'er saw i, never felt, a calm so deep! the river glideth at his own sweet will: dear god! the very houses seem asleep; and all that mighty heart is lying still! w. wordsworth. . ozymandias of egypt. i met a traveller from an antique land who said: two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. near them on the sand half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command tell that its sculptor well those passions read which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, the hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed; and on the pedestal these words appear: "my name is ozymandias, king of kings: look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" nothing beside remains. round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and level sands stretch far away. p.b. shelley. . composed at neidpath castle, the property of lord queensberry, . degenerate douglas! o the unworthy lord! whom mere despite of heart could so far please and love of havoc (for with such disease fame taxes him) that he could send forth word to level with the dust a noble horde, a brotherhood of venerable trees, leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these beggar'd and outraged!--many hearts deplored the fate of those old trees; and oft with pain the traveller at this day will stop and gaze on wrongs, which nature scarcely seems to heed: for shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, and the pure mountains, and the gentle tweed, and the green silent pastures, yet remain. w. wordsworth. . admonition to a traveller. yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! --the lovely cottage in the guardian nook hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook, its own small pasture, almost its own sky! but covet not the abode--o do not sigh as many do, repining while they look; intruders who would tear from nature's book this precious leaf with harsh impiety: --think what the home would be if it were thine, even thine, though few thy wants!--roof, window, door, the very flowers are sacred to the poor, the roses to the porch which they entwine: yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day on which it should be touch'd would melt away! w. wordsworth. . to the highland girl of inversneyde. sweet highland girl, a very shower of beauty is thy earthly dower! twice seven consenting years have shed their utmost bounty on thy head: and these grey rocks, this household lawn, these trees--a veil just half withdrawn, this fall of water that doth make a murmur near the silent lake, this little bay, a quiet road that holds in shelter thy abode; in truth together ye do seem like something fashion'd in a dream; such forms as from their covert peep when earthly cares are laid asleep! but, o fair creature! in the light of common day, so heavenly bright, i bless thee, vision as thou art, i bless thee with a human heart; god shield thee to thy latest years! i neither know thee nor thy peers: and yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. with earnest feeling i shall pray for thee when i am far away; for never saw i mien or face in which more plainly i could trace benignity and home-bred sense ripening in perfect innocence. here scatter'd like a random seed, remote from men, thou dost not need the embarrass'd look of shy distress, and maidenly shamefacedness: thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear the freedom of a mountaineer: a face with gladness overspread, soft smiles, by human kindness bred; and seemliness complete, that sways thy courtesies, about thee plays; with no restraint, but such as springs from quick and eager visitings of thoughts that lie beyond the reach of thy few words of english speech: a bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife that gives thy gestures grace and life! so have i, not unmoved in mind, seen birds of tempest-loving kind, thus beating up against the wind. what hand but would a garland cull for thee who art so beautiful? o happy pleasure! here to dwell beside thee in some heathy dell; adopt your homely ways and dress, a shepherd, thou a shepherdess! but i could frame a wish for thee more like a grave reality: thou art to me but as a wave of the wild sea: and i would have some claim upon thee, if i could, though but of common neighbourhood. what joy to hear thee, and to see! thy elder brother i would be, thy father, anything to thee. now thanks to heaven! that of its grace hath led me to this lonely place. joy have i had; and going hence i bear away my recompense. in spots like these it is we prize our memory, feel that she hath eyes: then why should i be loth to stir? i feel this place was made for her; to give new pleasure like the past, continued long as life shall last. nor am i loth, though pleased at heart, sweet highland girl! from thee to part; for i, methinks, till i grow old as fair before me shall behold as i do now, the cabin small, the lake, the bay, the waterfall; and thee, the spirit of them all! w. wordsworth. . the reaper. behold her, single in the field, yon solitary highland lass! reaping and singing by herself; stop here, or gently pass! alone she cuts and binds the grain, and sings a melancholy strain; o listen! for the vale profound is overflowing with the sound. no nightingale did ever chaunt more welcome notes to weary bands of travellers in some shady haunt, among arabian sands: no sweeter voice was ever heard in spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, breaking the silence of the seas among the farthest hebrides. will no one tell me what she sings? perhaps the plaintive numbers flow for old, unhappy, far-off things, and battles long ago: or is it some more humble lay, familiar matter of to-day? some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, that has been, and may be again? whate'er the theme, the maiden sang as if her song could have no ending; i saw her singing at her work, and o'er the sickle bending; i listen'd till i had my fill; and, as i mounted up the hill, the music in my heart i bore long after it was heard no more. w. wordsworth. . the reverie of poor susan. at the corner of wood street, when daylight appears hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: poor susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard in the silence of morning the song of the bird. 'tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? she sees a mountain ascending, a vision of trees; bright volumes of vapour through lothbury glide, and a river flows on through the vale of cheapside. green pastures she views in the midst of the dale down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail; and a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, the one only dwelling on earth that she loves. she looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade the mist and the river, the hill and the shade; the stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, and the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes! w. wordsworth. . to a lady, with a guitar. ariel to miranda:--take this slave of music, for the sake of him who is the slave of thee; and teach it all the harmony in which thou canst, and only thou, make the delighted spirit glow, till joy denies itself again and, too intense, is turn'd to pain; for by permission and command of thine own prince ferdinand, poor ariel sends this silent token of more than ever can be spoken; your guardian spirit, ariel, who from life to life, must still pursue your happiness, for thus alone can ariel ever find his own; from prospero's enchanted cell, as the mighty verses tell, to the throne of naples he lit you o'er the trackless sea, flitting on, your prow before, like a living meteor. when you die, the silent moon, in her interlunar swoon is not sadder in her cell than deserted ariel; when you live again on earth, like an unseen star of birth ariel guides you o'er the sea of life from your nativity:-- many changes have been run since ferdinand and you begun your course of love, and ariel still has track'd your steps and served your will. now in humbler, happier lot, this is all remember'd not; and now, alas! the poor sprite is imprison'd for some fault of his in a body like a grave-- from you he only dares to crave for his service and his sorrow a smile to-day, a song to-morrow. the artist who this viol wrought to echo all harmonious thought, fell'd a tree, while on the steep the woods were in their winter sleep, rock'd in that repose divine on the wind-swept apennine; and dreaming, some of autumn past, and some of spring approaching fast, and some of april buds and showers, and some of songs in july bowers, and all of love; and so this tree,-- o that such our death may be!-- died in sleep, and felt no pain, to live in happier form again: from which, beneath heaven's fairest star, the artist wrought this loved guitar; and taught it justly to reply to all who question skilfully in language gentle as thine own; whispering in enamour'd tone sweet oracles of woods and dells, and summer winds in sylvan cells; --for it had learnt all harmonies of the plains and of the skies, of the forests and the mountains, and the many-voicéd fountains; the clearest echoes of the hills, the softest notes of falling rills, the melodies of birds and bees, the murmuring of summer seas, and pattering rain, and breathing dew, and airs of evening; and it knew that seldom-heard mysterious sound which, driven on its diurnal round, as it floats through boundless day, our world enkindles on its way: --all this it knows, but will not tell to those who cannot question well the spirit that inhabits it; it talks according to the wit of its companions; and no more is heard than has been felt before by those who tempt it to betray these secrets of an elder day: but, sweetly as its answers will flatter hands of perfect skill, it keeps its highest holiest tone for one beloved friend alone. p.b. shelley. . the daffodils. i wander'd lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills, when all at once i saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils, beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze. continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the milky way, they stretch'd in never-ending line along the margin of a bay: ten thousand saw i at a glance tossing their heads in sprightly dance. the waves beside them danced; but they out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-- a poet could not but be gay in such a jocund company! i gazed--and gazed--but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought; for oft, when on my couch i lie in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude; and then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils. w. wordsworth. . to the daisy. with little here to do or see of things that in the great world be, sweet daisy! oft i talk to thee for thou art worthy, thou unassuming commonplace of nature, with that homely face, and yet with something of a grace, which love makes for thee! oft on the dappled turf at ease i sit and play with similes, loose types of things through all degrees, thoughts of thy raising; and many a fond and idle name i give to thee, for praise or blame, as is the humour of the game, while i am gazing. a nun demure, of lowly port; or sprightly maiden, of love's court, in thy simplicity the sport of all temptations; a queen in crown of rubies drest; a starveling in a scanty vest; are all, as seem to suit thee best, thy appellations. a little cyclops, with one eye staring to threaten and defy, that thought comes next--and instantly the freak is over, the shape will vanish, and behold! a silver shield with boss of gold that spreads itself, some fairy bold in fight to cover. i see thee glittering from afar-- and then thou art a pretty star, not quite so fair as many are in heaven above thee! yet like a star, with glittering crest, self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;-- may peace come never to his nest, who shall reprove thee! sweet flower! for by that name at last when all my reveries are past i call thee and to that cleave fast, sweet silent creature! that breath'st with me in sun and air, do thou, as thou art wont, repair my heart with gladness, and a share of thy meek nature! w. wordsworth. . ode to autumn. season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; conspiring with him how to load and bless with fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; to bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; to swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells with a sweet kernel; to set budding more and still more, later flowers for the bees, until they think warm days will never cease; for summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find thee sitting careless on a granary floor, thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers; and sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep steady thy laden head across a brook; or by a cider-press, with patient look, thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. where are the songs of spring? ay, where are they? think not of them,--thou hast thy music too, while barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day and touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn among the river sallows, borne aloft or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; and full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft the redbreast whistles from a garden croft; and gathering swallows twitter in the skies. j. keats. . ode to winter. _germany_, _december_, . when first the fiery mantled sun his heavenly race began to run, round the earth and ocean blue his children four the seasons flew:-- first, in green apparel dancing, the young spring smiled with angel-grace; rosy summer next advancing, rush'd into her sire's embrace-- her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep for ever nearest to his smiles, on calpe's olive-shaded steep or india's citron-cover'd isles. more remote and buxom-brown, the queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; a rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, a ripe sheaf bound her zone. but howling winter fled afar to hills that prop the polar star; and loves on deer-borne car to ride with barren darkness at his side round the shore where loud lofoden whirls to death the roaring whale, round the hall where runic odin howls his war-song to the gale-- save when adown the ravaged globe he travels on his native storm, deflowering nature's grassy robe and trampling on her faded form; till light's returning lord assume the shaft that drives him to his northern fields, of power to pierce his raven plume and crystal-cover'd shield. o sire of storms! whose savage ear the lapland drum delights to hear, when frenzy with her bloodshot eye implores thy dreadful deity-- archangel! power of desolation! fast descending as thou art, say, hath mortal invocation spells to touch thy stony heart: then, sullen winter! hear my prayer, and gently rule the ruin'd year; nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare nor freeze the wretch's falling tear: to shuddering want's unmantled bed thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, and gently on the orphan head of innocence descend. but chiefly spare, o king of clouds! the sailor on his airy shrouds, when wrecks and beacons strew the deep and spectres walk along the deep. milder yet thy snowy breezes pour on yonder tented shores, where the rhine's broad billow freezes, or the dark-brown danube roars. o winds of winter! list ye there to many a deep and dying groan? or start, ye demons of the midnight air, at shrieks and thunders louder than your own? alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath may spare the victim fallen low; but man will ask no truce to death, no bounds to human woe. t. campbell. . yarrow unvisited. . from stirling castle we had seen the mazy forth unravell'd, had trod the banks of clyde and tay, and with the tweed had travell'd; and when we came to clovenford, then said my "winsome marrow." "whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, and see the braes of yarrow." "let yarrow folk, frae selkirk town, who have been buying, selling, go back to yarrow, 'tis their own, each maiden to her dwelling! on yarrow's banks let herons feed, hares couch, and rabbits burrow, but we will downward with the tweed, nor turn aside to yarrow. "there's galla water, leader haughs, both lying right before us; and dryburgh, where with chiming tweed the lintwhites sing in chorus; there's pleasant tiviotdale, a land made blythe with plough and harrow: why throw away a needful day to go in search of yarrow? "what's yarrow but a river bare that glides the dark hills under? there are a thousand such elsewhere as worthy of your wonder." --strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn; my true-love sighed for sorrow, and look'd me in the face, to think i thus could speak of yarrow! "o green," said i, "are yarrow's holms, and sweet is yarrow flowing! fair hangs the apple frae the rock, but we will leave it growing. o'er hilly path, and open strath, we'll wander scotland thorough; but, though so near, we will not turn into the dale of yarrow. "let beeves and home-bred kine partake the sweets of burn-mill meadow; the swan on still saint mary's lake float double, swan and shadow! we will not see them; will not go to-day, nor yet to-morrow; enough if in our hearts we know there's such a place as yarrow. "be yarrow stream unseen, unknown; it must, or we shall rue it: we have a vision of our own; ah! why should we undo it? the treasured dreams of times long past, we'll keep them, winsome marrow! for when we're there, although 'tis fair, 'twill be another yarrow. "if care with freezing years should come and wandering seem but folly,-- should we be loth to stir from home, and yet be melancholy; should life be dull, and spirits low, 'twill soothe us in our sorrow that earth has something yet to show, the bonny holms of yarrow!" w. wordsworth. . yarrow visited. _september_, . and is this--yarrow?--this is the stream of which my fancy cherish'd so faithfully, a waking dream, an image that hath perish'd? o that some minstrel's harp were near to utter notes of gladness and chase this silence from the air, that fills my heart with sadness! yet why?--a silvery current flows with uncontroll'd meanderings; nor have these eyes by greener hills been soothed, in all my wanderings. and, through her depths, saint mary's lake is visibly delighted; for not a feature of those hills is in the mirror slighted. a blue sky bends o'er yarrow vale, save where that pearly whiteness is round the rising sun diffused, a tender hazy brightness; mild dawn of promise! that excludes all profitless dejection; though not unwilling here to admit a pensive recollection. where was it that the famous flower of yarrow vale lay bleeding? his bed perchance was yon smooth mound on which the herd is feeding: and haply from this crystal pool, now peaceful as the morning, the water-wraith ascended thrice, and gave his doleful warning. delicious is the lay that sings the haunts of happy lovers, the path that leads them to the grove, the leafy grove that covers: and pity sanctifies the verse that paints, by strength of sorrow, the unconquerable strength of love; bear witness, rueful yarrow! but thou that didst appear so fair to fond imagination dost rival in the light of day her delicate creation: meek loveliness is round thee spread, a softness still and holy: the grace of forest charms decay'd, and pastoral melancholy. that region left, the vale unfolds rich groves of lofty stature, with yarrow winding through the pomp of cultivated nature; and rising from those lofty groves behold a ruin hoary, the shatter'd front of newark's towers, renown'd in border story. fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, for sportive youth to stray in, for manhood to enjoy his strength, and age to wear away in! yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, a covert for protection of studious ease and generous cares, and every chaste affection! how sweet on this autumnal day the wild-wood fruits to gather, and on my true-love's forehead plant a crest of blooming heather! and what if i enwreathed my own? 'twere no offence to reason; the sober hills thus deck their brows to meet the wintry season. i see--but not by sight alone loved yarrow, have i won thee; a ray of fancy still survives-- her sunshine plays upon thee! thy ever-youthful waters keep a course of lively pleasure; and gladsome notes my lips can breathe accordant to the measure. the vapours linger round the heights, they melt, and soon must vanish; one hour is theirs, nor more is mine-- sad thought! which i would banish, but that i know, where'er i go, thy genuine image, yarrow! will dwell with me, to heighten joy and cheer my mind in sorrow. w. wordsworth. . the invitation. best and brightest, come away, fairer far than this fair day, which, like thee, to those in sorrow comes to bid a sweet good-morrow to the rough year just awake in its cradle on the brake. the brightest hour of unborn spring through the winter wandering, found, it seems, the halcyon morn to hoar february born; bending from heaven, in azure mirth, it kiss'd the forehead of the earth, and smiled upon the silent sea, and bade the frozen streams be free, and waked to music all their fountains, and breathed upon the frozen mountains, and like a prophetess of may strew'd flowers upon the barren way, making the wintry world appear like one on whom thou smilest, dear. away, away, from men and towns, to the wild wood and the downs-- to the silent wilderness where the soul need not repress its music, lest it should not find an echo in another's mind, while the touch of nature's art harmonises heart to heart. radiant sister of the day awake! arise! and come away! to the wild woods and the plains, and the pools where winter rains image all their roof of leaves, where the pine its garland weaves of sapless green, and ivy dun, round stems that never kiss the sun, where the lawns and pastures be and the sandhills of the sea, where the melting hoar-frost wets the daisy-star that never sets, and wind-flowers and violets which yet join not scent to hue crown the pale year weak and new; when the night is left behind in the deep east, dim and blind, and the blue noon is over us, and the multitudinous billows murmur at our feet, where the earth and ocean meet, and all things seem only one in the universal sun. p.b. shelley. . the recollection. now the last day of many days all beautiful and bright as thou, the loveliest and the last, is dead, rise, memory, and write its praise! up, do thy wonted work! come, trace the epitaph of glory fled, for now the earth has changed its face, a frown is on the heaven's brow. we wander'd to the pine forest that skirts the ocean's foam; the lightest wind was in its nest, the tempest in its home. the whispering waves were half asleep, the clouds were gone to play, and on the bosom of the deep the smile of heaven lay; it seem'd as if the hour were one sent from beyond the skies which scatter'd from above the sun a light of paradise! we paused amid the pines that stood the giants of the waste, tortured by storms to shapes as rude as serpents interlaced,-- and soothed by every azure breath that under heaven is blown to harmonies and hues beneath, as tender as its own: now all the tree-tops lay asleep like green waves on the sea, as still as in the silent deep the ocean-woods may be. how calm it was!--the silence there by such a chain was bound, that even the busy woodpecker made stiller by her sound the inviolable quietness; the breath of peace we drew with its soft motion made not less the calm that round us grew. there seem'd from the remotest seat of the wide mountain waste to the soft flower beneath our feet a magic circle traced a spirit interfused around, a thrilling silent life; to momentary peace it bound our mortal nature's strife;-- and still i felt the centre of the magic circle there was one fair form that fill'd with love the lifeless atmosphere. we paused beside the pools that lie under the forest bough; each seemed as 'twere a little sky gulf'd in a world below; a firmament of purple light which in the dark earth lay, more boundless than the depth of night and purer than the day-- in which the lovely forests grew as in the upper air, more perfect both in shape and hue than any spreading there. there lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, and through the dark green wood the white sun twinkling like the dawn out of a speckled cloud. sweet views which in our world above can never well be seen were imaged by the water's love of that fair forest green: and all was interfused beneath with an elysian glow, an atmosphere without a breath, a softer day below. like one beloved the scene had lent to the dark water's breast its very leaf and lineament with more than truth exprest; until an envious wind crept by, like an unwelcome thought which from the mind's too faithful eye blots one dear image out. --though thou art ever fair and kind, the forests ever green, less oft is peace in shelley's mind, than calm in waters seen! p.b. shelley. . by the sea. it is a beauteous evening, calm and free; the holy time is quiet as a nun breathless with adoration; the broad sun is sinking down in its tranquillity; the gentleness of heaven is on the sea: listen! the mighty being is awake, and doth with his eternal motion make a sound like thunder--everlastingly. dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, if thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought thy nature is not therefore less divine: thou liest in abraham's bosom all the year; and worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine, god being with thee when we know it not. w. wordsworth. . to the evening star. star that bringest home the bee, and sett'st the weary labourer free! if any star shed peace, 'tis thou that send'st it from above, appearing when heaven's breath and brow are sweet as hers we love. come to the luxuriant skies, whilst the landscape's odours rise, whilst far-off lowing herds are heard and songs when toil is done, from cottages whose smoke unstirr'd curls yellow in the sun. star of love's soft interviews, parted lovers on thee muse; their remembrancer in heaven of thrilling vows thou art, too delicious to be riven by absence from the heart. t. campbell. . datur hora quieti. the sun upon the lake is low, the wild birds hush their song, the hills have evening's deepest glow, yet leonard tarries long. now all whom varied toil and care from home and love divide, in the calm sunset may repair each to the loved one's side. the noble dame on turret high, who waits her gallant knight, looks to the western beam to spy the flash of armour bright. the village maid, with hand on brow the level ray to shade, upon the footpath watches now for colin's darkening plaid. now to their mates the wild swans row, by day they swam apart, and to the thicket wanders slow the hind beside the hart. the woodlark at his partner's side twitters his closing song-- all meet whom day and care divide, but leonard tarries long! sir w. scott. . to the moon. art thou pale for weariness of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth,-- and ever-changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth its constancy? p.b. shelley. . a widow bird sate mourning for her love upon a wintry bough; the frozen wind crept on above, the freezing stream below. there was no leaf upon the forest bare, no flower upon the ground, and little motion in the air except the mill-wheel's sound. p.b. shelley. . to sleep. a flock of sheep that leisurely pass by one after one; the sound of rain, and bees murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;-- i've thought of all by turns, and still i lie sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, and the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. even thus last night, and two nights more i lay, and could not win thee, sleep! by any stealth: so do not let me wear to-night away: without thee what is all the morning's wealth? come, blesséd barrier between day and day, dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! w. wordsworth. . the soldiers dream. our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, and the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; and thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, the weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. when reposing that night on my pallet of straw by the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, at the dead of the night a sweet vision i saw; and thrice ere the morning i dreamt it again. methought from the battle-field's dreadful array far, far, i had roam'd on a desolate track: 'twas autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way to the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. i flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft in life's morning march, when my bosom was young; i heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, and knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly i swore from my home and my weeping friends never to part; my little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, and my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. "stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!"-- and fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;-- but sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, and the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. t. campbell. . a dream of the unknown. i dream'd that, as i wander'd by the way bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, and gentle odours led my steps astray, mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring along a shelving bank of turf, which lay under a copse, and hardly dared to fling its green arms round the bosom of the stream, but kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream. there grew pied wind-flowers and violets, daisies, those pearl'd arcturi of the earth, the constellated flower that never sets; faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth the sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, when the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. and in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd may, and cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; and wild roses, and ivy serpentine, with its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; and flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold, fairer than any waken'd eyes behold. and nearer to the rivers trembling edge there grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, and starry river-buds among the sedge, and floating water-lilies, broad and bright, which lit the oak that overhung the hedge with moonlight beams of their own watery light; and bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green as soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. methought that of these visionary flowers i made a nosegay, bound in such a way that the same hues, which in their natural bowers were mingled or opposed, the like array kept these imprison'd children of the hours within my hand;--and then, elate and gay, i hasten'd to the spot whence i had come that i might there present it--o! to whom? p.b. shelley. . the inner vision. most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes to pace the ground, if path there be or none, while a fair region round the traveller lies which he forbears again to look upon; pleased rather with some soft ideal scene the work of fancy, or some happy tone of meditation, slipping in between the beauty coming and the beauty gone. --if thought and love desert us, from that day let us break off all commerce with the muse: with thought and love companions of our way-- whate'er the senses take or may refuse,-- the mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews of inspiration on the humblest lay. w. wordsworth. . the realm of fancy. ever let the fancy roam! pleasure never is at home: at a touch sweet pleasure melteth, like to bubbles when rain pelteth; then let wingéd fancy wander through the thought still spread beyond her: open wide the mind's cage-door, she'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. o sweet fancy! let her loose; summer's joys are spoilt by use, and the enjoying of the spring fades as does its blossoming: autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too blushing through the mist and dew cloys with tasting: what do then? sit thee by the ingle, when the sear faggot blazes bright, spirit of a winter's night; when the soundless earth is muffled, and the cakéd snow is shuffled from the ploughboy's heavy shoon; when the night doth meet the noon in dark conspiracy to banish even from her sky. --sit thee there, and send abroad with a mind self-overawed fancy, high-commission'd:--send her! she has vassals to attend her; she will bring, in spite of frost, beauties that the earth hath lost; she will bring thee, all together, all delights of summer weather; all the buds and bells of may, from dewy sward or thorny spray; all the heapéd autumn's wealth, with a still, mysterious stealth: she will mix these pleasures up like three fit wines in a cup, and thou shalt quaff it;--thou shalt hear distant harvest-carols clear; rustle of the reapéd corn; sweet birds antheming the morn: and in the same moment--hark! 'tis the early april lark, or the rooks, with busy caw, foraging for sticks and straw. thou shalt, at one glance, behold the daisy and the marigold; white-plumed lilies, and the first hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; shaded hyacinth, alway sapphire queen of the mid-may; and every leaf, and every flower pearléd with the self-same shower. thou shalt see the field-mouse peep meagre from its celléd sleep; and the snake all winter-thin cast on sunny bank its skin; freckled nest eggs thou shalt see hatching in the hawthorn-tree, when the hen-bird's wing doth rest quiet on her mossy nest; then the hurry and alarm when the bee-hive casts its swarm; acorns ripe down-pattering while the autumn breezes sing. o sweet fancy! let her loose; everything is spoilt by use: where's the cheek that doth not fade, too much gazed at? where's the maid whose lip mature is ever new? where's the eye, however blue, doth not weary? where's the face one would meet in every place? where's the voice, however soft, one would hear so very oft? at a touch sweet pleasure melteth like to bubbles when rain pelteth. let then wingéd fancy find thee a mistress to thy mind: dulcet-eyed as ceres' daughter, ere the god of torment taught her how to frown and how to chide; with a waist and with a side white as hebe's, when her zone slipt its golden clasp, and down fell her kirtle to her feet, while she held the goblet sweet, and jove grew languid.--break the mesh of the fancy's silken leash; quickly break her prison-string, and such joys as these she'll bring: --let the wingéd fancy roam! pleasure never is at home. j. keats. . hymn to the spirit of nature. life of life! thy lips enkindle with their love the breath between them; and thy smiles before they dwindle make the cold air fire; then screen them in those locks, where whoso gazes faints, entangled in their mazes. child of light! thy limbs are burning through the veil which seems to hide them, as the radiant lines of morning through thin clouds, ere they divide them; and this atmosphere divinest shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. fair are others; none beholds thee; but thy voice sounds low and tender like the fairest, for it folds thee from the sight, that liquid splendour; and all feel, yet see thee never,-- as i feel now, lost for ever! lamp of earth! where'er thou movest its dim shapes are clad with brightness, and the souls of whom thou lovest walk upon the winds with lightness till they fail, as i am failing, dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing! p. b. shelley. . written in early spring. i heard a thousand blended notes while in a grove i sat reclined, in that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind. to her fair works did nature link the human soul that through me ran; and much it grieved my heart to think what man has made of man. through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, the periwinkle trail'd its wreaths; and 'tis my faith that every flower enjoys the air it breathes. the birds around me hopp'd and play'd, their thoughts i cannot measure-- but the least motion which they made it seem'd a thrill of pleasure. the budding twigs spread out their fan to catch the breezy air; and i must think, do all i can, that there was pleasure there. if this belief from heaven be sent, if such be nature's holy plan, have i not reason to lament what man has made of man? w. wordsworth. . ruth: or the influences of nature. when ruth was left half desolate, her father took another mate; and ruth, not seven years old, a slighted child, at her own will went wandering over dale and hill, in thoughtless freedom bold. and she had made a pipe of straw, and music from that pipe could draw like sounds of winds and floods; had built a bower upon the green, as if she from her birth had been an infant of the woods. beneath her father's roof, alone she seem'd to live; her thoughts her own; herself her own delight: pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay, she pass'd her time; and in this way grew up to woman's height. there came a youth from georgia's shore-- a military casque he wore with splendid feathers drest; he brought them from the cherokees; the feathers nodded in the breeze and made a gallant crest. from indian blood you deem him sprung: but no! he spake the english tongue and bore a soldier's name; and, when america was free from battle and from jeopardy, he 'cross the ocean came. with hues of genius on his cheek, in finest tones the youth could speak: --while he was yet a boy the moon, the glory of the sun, and streams that murmur as they run had been his dearest joy. he was a lovely youth! i guess the panther in the wilderness was not so fair as he; and when he chose to sport and play, no dolphin ever was so gay upon the tropic sea. among the indians he had fought, and with him many tales he brought of pleasure and of fear; such tales as, told to any maid by such a youth, in the green shade, were perilous to hear. he told of girls, a happy rout! who quit their fold with dance and shout, their pleasant indian town, to gather strawberries all day long; returning with a choral song when daylight is gone down. he spake of plants that hourly change their blossoms, through a boundless range of intermingling hues; with budding, fading, faded flowers, they stand the wonder of the bowers from morn to evening dews, he told of the magnolia, spread high as a cloud, high over head! the cypress and her spire; --of flowers that with one scarlet gleam cover a hundred leagues, and seem to set the hills on fire. the youth of green savannahs spake, and many an endless, endless lake, with all its fairy crowds of islands, that together lie as quietly as spots of sky among the evening clouds. and then he said, "how sweet it were a fisher or a hunter there, in sunshine or in shade to wander with an easy mind, and build a household fire, and find a home in every glade! "what days and what bright years! ah me! our life were life indeed, with thee so pass'd in quiet bliss; and all the while," said he, "to know that we were in a world of woe, on such an earth as this!" and then he sometimes interwove fond thoughts about a father's love, "for there," said he, "are spun around the heart such tender ties, that our own children to our eyes are dearer than the sun. "sweet ruth! and could you go with me my helpmate in the woods to be, our shed at night to rear; or run, my own adopted bride, a sylvan huntress at my side, and drive the flying deer! "beloved ruth!"--no more he said. the wakeful ruth at midnight shed a solitary tear: she thought again--and did agree with him to sail across the sea, and drive the flying deer. "and now, as fitting is and right, we in the church our faith will plight, a husband and a wife." even so they did; and i may say that to sweet ruth that happy day was more than human life. through dream and vision did she sink, delighted all the while to think that, on those lonesome floods, and green savannahs, she should share his board with lawful joy, and bear his name in the wild woods. but, as you have before been told, this stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, and with his dancing crest so beautiful, through savage lands had roam'd about, with vagrant bands of indians in the west. the wind, the tempest roaring high, the tumult of a tropic sky might well be dangerous food for him, a youth to whom was given so much of earth--so much of heaven, and such impetuous blood. whatever in those climes he found irregular in sight or sound did to his mind impart a kindred impulse, seem'd allied to his own powers, and justified the workings of his heart. nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, the beauteous forms of nature wrought,-- fair trees and gorgeous flowers; the breezes their own languor lent; the stars had feelings, which they sent into those favour'd bowers. yet, in his worst pursuits, i ween that sometimes there did intervene pure hopes of high intent: for passions link'd to forms so fair and stately, needs must have their share of noble sentiment. but ill he lived, much evil saw, with men to whom no better law nor better life was known; deliberately and undeceived, those wild men's vices he received, and gave them back his own. his genius and his moral frame were thus impair'd, and he became the slave of low desires: a man who without self-control would seek what the degraded soul unworthily admires. and yet he with no feign'd delight had woo'd the maiden, day and night had loved her, night and morn: what could he less than love a maid whose heart with so much nature play'd-- so kind and so forlorn? sometimes most earnestly he said, "o ruth! i have been worse than dead; false thoughts, thoughts bold and vain encompass'd me on every side when i, in confidence and pride, had cross'd the atlantic main. "before me shone a glorious world fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd to music suddenly: i look'd upon those hills and plains, and seem'd as if let loose from chains to live at liberty! "no more of this--for now, by thee, dear ruth! more happily set free with nobler zeal i burn; my soul from darkness is released like the whole sky when to the east the morning doth return." full soon that better mind was gone; no hope, no wish remain'd, not one,-- they stirr'd him now no more; new objects did new pleasure give, and once again he wish'd to live as lawless as before. meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, they for the voyage were prepared, and went to the sea-shore, but, when they thither came, the youth deserted his poor bride, and ruth could never find him more. god help thee, ruth!--such pains she had that she in half a year was mad and in a prison housed; and there, exulting in her wrongs, among the music of her songs she fearfully caroused. yet sometimes milder hours she knew, nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, nor pastimes of the may; --they all were with her in her cell; and a clear brook with cheerful knell did o'er the pebbles play. when ruth three seasons thus had lain, there came a respite to her pain; she from her prison fled; but of the vagrant none took thought; and where it liked her best she sought her shelter and her bread. among the fields she breathed again: the master-current of her brain ran permanent and free; and, coming to the banks of tone, there did she rest; and dwell alone under the greenwood tree. the engines of her pain, the tools that shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, and airs that gently stir the vernal leaves--she loved them still, nor ever tax'd them with the ill which had been done to her. a barn her winter bed supplies; but, till the warmth of summer skies and summer days is gone, (and all do in this tale agree) she sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, and other home hath none. an innocent life, yet far astray! and ruth will, long before her day, be broken down and old: sore aches she needs must have! but less of mind, than body's wretchedness, from damp, and rain, and cold. if she is prest by want of food she from her dwelling in the wood repairs to a road-side; and there she begs at one steep place where up and down with easy pace the horsemen-travellers ride. that oaten pipe of hers is mute or thrown away; but with a flute her loneliness she cheers; this flute, made of a hemlock stalk, at evening in his homeward walk the quantock woodman hears. i, too, have pass'd her on the hills setting her little water-mills by spouts and fountains wild-- such small machinery as she turn'd ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd, a young and happy child! farewell! and when thy days are told, ill-fated ruth! in hallow'd mould thy corpse shall buried be; for thee a funeral bell shall ring, and all the congregation sing a christian psalm for thee. w. wordsworth. . written in the euganean hills, north italy. many a green isle needs must be in the deep wide sea of misery, or the mariner, worn and wan, never thus could voyage on day and night, and night and day, drifting on his dreary way, with the solid darkness black closing round his vessel's track; whilst above, the sunless sky big with clouds, hangs heavily, and behind the tempest fleet hurries on with lightning feet, riving sail, and cord, and plank, till the ship has almost drank death from the o'er-brimming deep; and sinks down, down, like that sleep when the dreamer seems to be weltering through eternity; and the dim low line before of a dark and distant shore still recedes, as ever still longing with divided will, but no power to seek or shun, he is ever drifted on o'er the unreposing wave, to the haven of the grave. ah, many flowering islands lie in the waters of wide agony: to such a one this morn was led my bark, by soft winds piloted. --'mid the mountains euganean i stood listening to the paean with which the legion'd rooks did hail the sun's uprise majestical: gathering round with wings all hoar, through the dewy mist they soar like gray shades, till the eastern heaven bursts, and then,--as clouds of even fleck'd with fire and azure, lie in the unfathomable sky,-- so their plumes of purple grain starr'd with drops of golden rain gleam above the sunlight woods, as in silent multitudes on the morning's fitful gale through the broken mist they sail; and the vapours cloven and gleaming follow down the dark steep streaming, till all is bright, and clear, and still round the solitary hill. beneath is spread like a green sea the waveless plain of lombardy, bounded by the vaporous air, islanded by cities fair; underneath day's azure eyes, ocean's nursling, venice lies,-- a peopled labyrinth of walls, amphitrite's destined halls, which her hoary sire now paves with his blue and beaming waves. lo! the sun upsprings behind, broad, red, radiant, half-reclined on the level quivering line of the waters crystalline; and before that chasm of light, as within a furnace bright, column, tower, and dome, and spire, shine like obelisks of fire, pointing with inconstant motion from the altar of dark ocean to the sapphire-tinted skies; as the flames of sacrifice from the marble shrines did rise as to pierce the dome of gold where apollo spoke of old. sun-girt city! thou hast been ocean's child, and then his queen; now is come a darker day, and thou soon must be his prey, if the power that raised thee here hallow so thy watery bier. a less drear ruin then than now with thy conquest-branded brow stooping to the slave of slaves from thy throne among the waves, wilt thou be,--when the sea-mew flies, as once before it flew, o'er thine isles depopulate, and all is in its ancient state, save where many a palace-gate with green sea-flowers overgrown like a rock of ocean's own, topples o'er the abandon'd sea as the tides change sullenly. the fisher on his watery way wandering at the close of day, will spread his sail and seize his oar till he pass the gloomy shore, lest thy dead should, from their sleep bursting o'er the starlight deep, lead a rapid masque of death o'er the waters of his path. noon descends around me now: 'tis the noon of autumn's glow, when a soft and purple mist like a vaporous amethyst, or an air-dissolvéd star mingling light and fragrance, far from the curved horizon's bound to the point of heaven's profound, fills the overflowing sky: and the plains that silent lie underneath; the leaves unsodden where the infant frost has trodden with his morning-wingéd feet whose bright print is gleaming yet; and the red and golden vines piercing with their trellised lines the rough, dark-skirted wilderness; the dun and bladed grass no less, pointing from this hoary tower in the windless air; the flower glimmering at my feet; the line of the olive-sandall'd apennine in the south dimly islanded; and the alps, whose snows are spread high between the clouds and sun; and of living things each one; and my spirit, which so long darken'd this swift stream of song,-- interpenetrated lie by the glory of the sky; be it love, light, harmony, odour, or the soul of all which from heaven like dew doth fall, or the mind which feeds this verse peopling the lone universe. noon descends, and after noon autumn's evening meets me soon, leading the infantine moon and that one star, which to her almost seems to minister half the crimson light she brings from the sunset's radiant springs: and the soft dreams of the morn (which like wingéd winds had borne to that silent isle, which lies 'mid remember'd agonies, the frail bark of this lone being), pass, to other sufferers fleeing, and its ancient pilot, pain, sits beside the helm again. other flowering isles must be in the sea of life and agony: other spirits float and flee o'er that gulf: ev'n now, perhaps, on some rock the wild wave wraps, with folding wings they waiting sit for my bark, to pilot it to some calm and blooming cove, where for me, and those i love, may a windless bower be built, far from passion, pain, and guilt, in a dell 'mid lawny hills which the wild sea-murmur fills, and soft sunshine, and the sound of old forests echoing round, and the light and smell divine of all flowers that breathe and shine. --we may live so happy there, that the spirits of the air, envying us, may even entice to our healing paradise the polluting multitude; but their rage would be subdued by that clime divine and calm, and the winds whose wings rain balm on the uplifted soul, and leaves under which the bright sea heaves; while each breathless interval in their whisperings musical the inspired soul supplies with its own deep melodies; and the love which heals all strife circling, like the breath of life, all things in that sweet abode with its own mild brotherhood. they, not it, would change; and soon every sprite beneath the moon would repent its envy vain, and the earth grow young again! p.b. shelley. . ode to the west wind. o wild west wind, thou breath of autumn's being, thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, pestilence-stricken multitudes: o thou who chariotest to their dark wintry bed the wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low, each like a corpse within its grave, until thine azure sister of the spring shall blow her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) with living hues and odours plain and hill: wild spirit, which art moving everywhere; destroyer and preserver; hear, o hear! thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, angels of rain and lightning; there are spread on the blue surface of thine airy surge, like the bright hair uplifted from the head of some fierce maenad, ev'n from the dim verge of the horizon to the zenith's height-- the locks of the approaching storm. thou dirge of the dying year, to which this closing night will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, vaulted with all thy congregated might of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: o hear! thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams the blue mediterranean, where he lay lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, beside a pumice isle in baiae's bay, and saw in sleep old palaces and towers quivering within the wave's intenser day, all overgrown with azure moss and flowers so sweet, the sense faints picturing them! thou for whose path the atlantic's level powers cleave themselves into chasms, while far below the sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear the sapless foliage of the ocean, know thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear and tremble and despoil themselves: o hear! if i were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; if i were a swift cloud to fly with thee; a wave to pant beneath thy power, and share the impulse of thy strength, only less free than thou, o uncontrollable! if even i were as in my boyhood, and could be the comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, as then, when to outstrip the skyey speed scarce seem'd a vision, i would ne'er have striven as thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. o lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! i fall upon the thorns of life! i bleed! a heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd one too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: what if my leaves are falling like its own! the tumult of thy mighty harmonies will take from both a deep autumnal tone, sweet though in sadness. be thou, spirit fierce, my spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! drive my dead thoughts over the universe like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth! and, by the incantation of this verse, scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! be through my lips to unawaken'd earth the trumpet of a prophecy! o, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind? p.b. shelley. . nature and the poet. _suggested by a picture of peele castle in a storm, painted by sir george beaumont._ i was thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile! four summer weeks i dwelt in sight of thee: i saw thee every day; and all the while thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. so pure the sky, so quiet was the air! so like, so very like, was day to day! whene'er i look'd, thy image still was there; it trembled, but it never pass'd away. how perfect was the calm! it seem'd no sleep, no mood, which season takes away, or brings: i could have fancied that the mighty deep was even the gentlest of all gentle things. ah! then if mine had been the painter's hand to express what then i saw; and add the gleam, the light that never was on sea or land, the consecration, and the poet's dream,-- i would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, amid a world how different from this! beside a sea that could not cease to smile; on tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. a picture had it been of lasting ease, elysian quiet, without toil or strife; no motion but the moving tide, a breeze, or merely silent nature's breathing life. such, in the fond illusion of my heart, such picture would i at that time have made; and seen the soul of truth in every part, a steadfast peace that might not be betray'd. so once it would have been,--'tis so no more i have submitted to a new control: a power is gone, which nothing can restore; a deep distress hath humanised my soul. not for a moment could i now behold a smiling sea, and be what i have been: the feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; this, which i know, i speak with mind serene. then, beaumont, friend! who would have been the friend if he had lived, of him whom i deplore, this work of thine i blame not, but commend; this sea in anger, and that dismal shore. o 'tis a passionate work!--yet wise and well, well chosen is the spirit that is here; that hulk which labours in the deadly swell, this rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! and this huge castle, standing here sublime, i love to see the look with which it braves, --cased in the unfeeling armour of old time-- the lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, housed in a dream, at distance from the kind! such happiness, wherever it be known, is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. but welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, and frequent sights of what is to be borne! such sights, or worse, as are before me here: not without hope we suffer and we mourn. w. wordsworth. . the poet's dream. on a poet's lips i slept dreaming like a love-adept in the sound his breathing kept; nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, but feeds on the aerial kisses of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses. he will watch from dawn to gloom the lake-reflected sun illume the yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, nor heed nor see, what things they be-- but from these create he can forms more real than living man, nurslings of immortality! p.b. shelley. . the world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; little we see in nature that is ours; we have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! this sea that bares her bosom to the moon, the winds that will be howling at all hours and are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, for this, for everything, we are out of tune; it moves us not.--great god! i'd rather be a pagan suckled in a creed outworn,-- so might i, standing on this pleasant lea, have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; have sight of proteus rising from the sea; or hear old triton blow his wreathed horn. w. wordsworth. . within king's college chapel, cambridge. tax not the royal saint with vain expense, with ill-match'd aims the architect who plann'd (albeit labouring for a scanty band of white-robed scholars only) this immense and glorious work of fine intelligence! --give all thou canst; high heaven rejects the lore of nicely-calculated less or more:-- so deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense these lofty pillars, spread that branching roof self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells where light and shade repose, where music dwells lingering and wandering on as loth to die-- like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof that they were born for immortality. w. wordsworth. . youth and age. verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, where hope clung feeding, like a bee-- both were mine! life went a-maying with nature, hope, and poesy, when i was young! when i was young?--ah, woeful when! ah! for the change 'twixt now and then! this breathing house not built with hands, this body that does me grievous wrong, o'er aery cliffs and glittering sands how lightly then it flash'd along: like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, on winding lakes and rivers wide, that ask no aid of sail or oar, that fear no spite of wind or tide! nought cared this body for wind or weather when youth and i lived in't together. flowers are lovely; love is flower-like; friendship is a sheltering tree; o! the joys, that came down shower-like, of friendship, love, and liberty, ere i was old! ere i was old? ah woeful ere, which tells me, youth's no longer here! o youth! for years so many and sweet 'tis known that thou and i were one, i'll think it but a fond conceit-- it cannot be, that thou art gone! thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-- and thou wert aye a masker bold! what strange disguise hast now put on to make believe that thou art gone? i see these locks in silvery slips, this drooping gait, this alter'd size: but springtide blossoms on thy lips, and tears take sunshine from thine eyes! life is but thought: so think i will that youth and i are housemates still. dew-drops are the gems of morning, but the tears of mournful eve! where no hope is, life's a warning that only serves to make us grieve when we are old: --that only serves to make us grieve with oft and tedious taking-leave, like some poor nigh-related guest that may not rudely be dismist, yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while, and tells the jest without a smile. s. t. coleridge. . the two april mornings. we walk'd along, while bright and red uprose the morning sun; and matthew stopp'd, he looked, and said, "the will of god be done!" a village schoolmaster was he, with hair of glittering gray; as blithe a man as you could see on a spring holiday. and on that morning, through the grass, and by the steaming rills we travel'd merrily, to pass a day among the hills. "our work," said i, "was well begun; then, from thy breast what thought, beneath so beautiful a sun, so sad a sigh has brought?" a second time did matthew stop; and fixing still his eye upon the eastern mountain-top, to me he made reply: "yon cloud with that long purple cleft brings fresh into my mind a day like this, which i have left full thirty years behind. "and just above yon slope of corn such colours, and no other, were in the sky, that april morn of this the very brother. "with rod and line i sued the sport which that sweet season gave, and, to the church-yard come, stopp'd short beside my daughter's grave. "nine summers had she scarcely seen, the pride of all the vale; and then she sang:--she would have been a very nightingale. "six feet in earth my emma lay; and yet i loved her more-- for so it seem'd,--than till that day i e'er had loved before. "and, turning from her grave, i met, beside the church-yard yew, a blooming girl, whose hair was wet with points of morning dew. "a basket on her head she bare; her brow was smooth and white: to see a child so very fair, it was a pure delight! "no fountain from its rocky cave e'er tripped with foot so free; she seem'd as happy as a wave that dances on the sea. "there came from me a sigh of pain which i could ill confine; i looked at her, and looked again and did not wish her mine!" --matthew is in his grave, yet now, methinks i see him stand as at that moment, with a bough of wilding in his hand. w. wordsworth. . the fountain. _a conversation._ we talk'd with open heart, and tongue affectionate and true, a pair of friends, though i was young, and matthew seventy-two. we lay beneath a spreading oak, beside a mossy seat; and from the turf a fountain broke and gurgled at our feet. "now, matthew!" said i "let us match this water's pleasant tune with some old border song, or catch that suits a summer's noon. "or of the church-clock and the chimes sing here beneath the shade that half-mad thing of witty rhymes which you last april made!" in silence matthew lay, and eyed the spring beneath the tree; and thus the dear old man replied, the gray-hair'd man of glee: "no check, no stay, this streamlet fears, how merrily it goes! 'twill murmur on a thousand years and flow as now it flows. "and here, on this delightful day i cannot choose but think how oft, a vigorous man, i lay beside this fountain's brink. "my eyes are dim with childish tears, my heart is idly stirr'd, for the same sound is in my ears which in those days i heard. "thus fares it still in our decay: and yet the wiser mind mourns less for what age takes away, than what it leaves behind. "the blackbird amid leafy trees-- the lark above the hill, let loose their carols when they please, are quiet when they will. "with nature never do they wage a foolish strife; they see a happy youth, and their old age is beautiful and free: "but we are press'd by heavy laws; and often, glad no more, we wear a face of joy, because we have been glad of yore. "if there be one who need bemoan his kindred laid in earth, the household hearts that were his own,-- it is the man of mirth. "my days, my friend, are almost gone, my life has been approved, and many love me; but by none am i enough beloved." "now both himself and me he wrongs, the man who thus complains! i live and sing my idle songs upon these happy plains: "and matthew, for thy children dead i'll be a son to thee!" at this he grasp'd my hand and said, "alas! that cannot be." we rose up from the fountain-side; and down the smooth descent of the green sheep-track did we glide and through the wood we went; and, ere we came to leonard's rock, he sang those witty rhymes about the crazy old church-clock, and the bewilder'd chimes. w. wordsworth. . the river of life. the more we live, more brief appear our life's succeeding stages: a day to childhood seems a year, and years like passing ages. the gladsome current of our youth ere passion yet disorders, steals lingering like a river smooth along its grassy borders. but as the careworn cheek grows wan, and sorrow's shafts fly thicker, ye stars, that measure life to man, why seem your courses quicker? when joys have lost their bloom and breath and life itself is vapid, why, as we reach the falls of death, feel we its tide more rapid? it may be strange--yet who would change time's course to lower speeding, when one by one our friends have gone and left our bosoms bleeding? heaven gives our years of fading strength indemnifying fleetness; and those of youth, a seeming length, proportion'd to their sweetness. t. campbell. . the human seasons. four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the mind of man: he has his lusty spring, when fancy clear takes in all beauty with an easy span: he has his summer, when luxuriously spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves to ruminate, and by such dreaming high is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves his soul has in its autumn, when his wings he furleth close; contented so to look on mists in idleness--to let fair things pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:-- he has his winter too of pale misfeature, or else he would forego his mortal nature. j. keats. . a lament. o world! o life! o time! on whose last steps i climb, trembling at that where i had stood before; when will return the glory of your prime? no more--o never more! out of the day and night a joy has taken flight: fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar move my faint heart with grief, but with delight no more--o never more! p.b. shelley. . my heart leaps up when i behold a rainbow in the sky: so was it when my life began, so is it now i am a man; so be it when i shall grow old or let me die! the child is father of the man: i could wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety. w. wordsworth. . ode on intimations of immortality from recollections of early childhood. there was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, the earth, and every common sight to me did seem apparell'd in celestial light, the glory and the freshness of a dream. it is not now as it hath been of yore;-- turn wheresoe'er i may, by night or day, the things which i have seen i now can see no more! the rainbow comes and goes, and lovely is the rose; the moon doth with delight look round her when the heavens are bare; waters on a starry night are beautiful and fair; the sunshine is a glorious birth; but yet i know, where'er i go, that there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, and while the young lambs bound as to the tabor's sound, to me alone there came a thought of grief: a timely utterance gave that thought relief, and i again am strong. the cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,-- no more shall grief of mine the season wrong: i hear the echoes through the mountains throng, the winds come to me from the fields of sleep, and all the earth is gay; land and sea give themselves up to jollity, and with the heart of may doth every beast keep holiday;-- thou child of joy, shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy! ye blesséd creatures, i have heard the call ye to each other make; i see the heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; my heart is at your festival, my head hath its coronal, the fulness of your bliss, i feel--i feel it all. o evil day! if i were sullen while earth herself is adorning this sweet may morning, and the children are pulling on every side in a thousand valleys far and wide fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, and the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:-- i hear, i hear, with joy i hear! --but there's a tree, of many, one, a single field which i have look'd upon, both of them speak of something that is gone: the pansy at my feet doth the same tale repeat: whither is fled the visionary gleam? where is it now, the glory and the dream? our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; the soul that rises with us, our life's star, hath had elsewhere its setting and cometh from afar; not in entire forgetfulness and not in utter nakedness but trailing clouds of glory do we come from god, who is our home: heaven lies about us in our infancy! shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy, but he beholds the light, and whence it flows, he sees it in his joy, the youth, who daily farther from the east must travel, still is nature's priest, and by the vision splendid is on his way attended; at length the man perceives it die away, and fade into the light of common day. earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, and, even with something of a mother's mind, and no unworthy aim, the homely nurse doth all she can to make her foster-child, her inmate, man, forget the glories he hath known and that imperial palace whence he came. behold the child among his new-born blisses, a six years' darling of a pigmy size! see, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, with light upon him from his father's eyes! see, at his feet, some little plan or chart, some fragment from his dream of human life, shaped by himself with newly-learnéd art; a wedding or a festival, a mourning or a funeral; and this hath now his heart, and unto this he frames his song: then will he fit his tongue to dialogues of business, love, or strife; but it will not be long ere this be thrown aside, and with new joy and pride the little actor cons another part; filling from time to time his "humorous stage" with all the persons, down to palsied age, that life brings with her in her equipage; as if his whole vocation were endless imitation. thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie thy soul's immensity; thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, that, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-- mighty prophet! seer blest! on whom those truths do rest which we are toiling all our lives to find; in darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; thou, over whom thy immortality broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, a presence which is not to be put by; thou little child, yet glorious in the might of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke the years to bring the inevitable yoke, thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, and custom lie upon thee with a weight heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! o joy! that in our embers is something that doth live, that nature yet remembers what was so fugitive! the thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benediction: not indeed for that which is most worthy to be blest, delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood, whether busy or at rest, with new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: --not for these i raise the song of thanks and praise; but for those obstinate questionings of sense and outward things, fallings from us, vanishings, blank misgivings of a creature moving about in worlds not realised, high instincts, before which our mortal nature did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: but for those first affections, those shadowy recollections, which, be they what they may, are yet the fountain-light of all our day, are yet a master-light of all our seeing; uphold us--cherish--and have power to make our noisy years seem moments in the being of the eternal silence: truths that wake, to perish never; which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour nor man nor boy nor all that is at enmity with joy, can utterly abolish or destroy! hence, in a season of calm weather though inland far we be, our souls have sight of that immortal sea which brought us hither; can in a moment travel thither-- and see the children sport upon the shore, and hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! and let the young lambs bound as to the tabor's sound! we, in thought, will join your throng ye that pipe and ye that play, ye that through your hearts to-day feel the gladness of the may! what though the radiance which was once so bright be now for ever taken from my sight, though nothing can bring back the hour of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind, in the primal sympathy which having been must ever be, in the soothing thoughts that spring out of human suffering, in the faith that looks through death, in years that bring the philosophic mind. and o, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, forebode not any severing of our loves! yet in my heart of hearts i feel your might; i only have relinquish'd one delight to live beneath your more habitual sway; i love the brooks which down their channels fret even more than when i tripp'd lightly as they; the innocent brightness of a new-born day is lovely yet; the clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; another race hath been, and other palms are won. thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. w. wordsworth. . music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory-- odours, when sweet violets sicken, live within the sense they quicken. rose leaves, when the rose is dead, are heap'd for the beloved's bed; and so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, love itself shall slumber on. p.b. shelley. palgrave's notes. poem . _rouse memnon's mother_: awaken the dawn from the dark earth and the clouds where she is resting. aurora in the old mythology is mother of memnon (the east), and wife of tithonus (the appearances of earth and sky during the last hours of night). she leaves him every morning in renewed youth, to prepare the way for phoebus (the sun), whilst tithonus remains in perpetual old age and grayness. _by peneus' streams_: phoebus loved the nymph daphne whom he met by the river peneus in the vale of tempe. this legend expressed the attachment of the laurel (daphne) to the sun, under whose heat the tree both fades and flourishes. it has been thought worth while to explain these allusions, because they illustrate the character of the grecian mythology, which arose in the personification of natural phenomena, and was totally free from those debasing and ludicrous ideas with which, through roman and later misunderstanding or perversion, it has been associated. _amphion's lyre_: he was said to have built the walls of thebes to the sound of his music. _night like a drunkard reels_: compare romeo and juliet, act ii. scene : "the gray-eyed morn smiles," etc.--it should be added that three lines, which appeared hopelessly misprinted, have been omitted in this poem. poem . _time's chest_: in which he is figuratively supposed to lay up past treasures. so in troilus, act iii. scene , "time hath a wallet at his back," etc. poem . a fine example of the high-wrought and conventional elizabethan pastoralism, which it would be ludicrous to criticise on the ground of the unshepherdlike or unreal character of some images suggested. stanza was probably inserted by izaak walton. poem . this poem, with and , is taken from davison's "rhapsody," first published in . one stanza has been here omitted, in accordance with the principle noticed in the preface. similar omissions occur in , , , , , , , . the more serious abbreviation by which it has been attempted to bring crashaw's "wishes" and shelley's "euganean hills" within the limits of lyrical unity, is commended with much diffidence to the judgment of readers acquainted with the original pieces. _presence_ in line is here conjecturally printed for _present_. a very few similar corrections of (it is presumed) misprints have been made:--as _thy_ for _my_, , line : _men_ for _me_, , line : _viol_ for _idol_, , line , and _one_ for _our_, line : _locks_ for _looks_, , line : _dome_ for _doom_, , line :--with two or three more less important. poem . this charming little poem, truly "old and plain, and dallying with the innocence of love" like that spoken of in twelfth night, is taken with , , , , and , from the most characteristic collection of elizabeth's reign, "england's helicon," first published in . poem . readers who have visited italy will be reminded of more than one picture by this gorgeous vision of beauty, equally sublime and pure in its paradisaical naturalness. lodge wrote it on a voyage to "the islands of terceras and the canaries"; and he seems to have caught, in those southern seas, no small portion of the qualities which marked the almost contemporary art of venice,--the glory and the glow of veronese, or titian, or tintoret, when he most resembles titian, and all but surpasses him. _the clear_: is the crystalline or outermost heaven of the old cosmography. for _resembling_ other copies give _refining_: the correct reading is perhaps _revealing_. _for a fair there's fairer none_: if you desire a beauty, there is none more beautiful than rosaline. poem . _that fair thou owest_: that beauty thou ownest. poem . _the star whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken_: apparently, whose stellar influence is uncalculated, although his angular altitude from the plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon used by astrologers has been determined. poem . _keel_: skim. poem . _expense_: waste. poem . _nativity once in the main of light_: when a star has risen and entered on the full stream of light;--another of the astrological phrases no longer familiar. _crooked eclipses_: as coming athwart the sun's apparent course. wordsworth, thinking probably of the "venus" and the "lucrece," said finely of shakespeare "shakespeare _could_ not have written an epic; he would have died of plethora of thought." this prodigality of nature is exemplified equally in his sonnets. the copious selection here given (which from the wealth of the material, required greater consideration than any other portion of the editor's task) contains many that will not be fully felt and understood without some earnestness of thought on the reader's part. but he is not likely to regret the labour. poem . _upon misprision growing_: either, granted in error, or, on the growth of contempt. poem . with the tone of this sonnet compare hamlet's "give me that man that is not passion's slave," etc. shakespeare's writings show the deepest sensitiveness to passion:--hence the attraction he felt in the contrasting effects of apathy. poem . _grame_: sorrow. it was long before english poetry returned to the charming simplicity of this and a few other poems by wyat. poem . pandion in the ancient fable was father to philomela. poem . _ramage_: confused noise. poem . _censures_: judges. poem . by its style this beautiful example of old simplicity and feeling may be referred to the early years of elizabeth. _late forgot_: lately. poem . _haggards_: the least tameable hawks. poem . _cypres_ or cyprus,--used by the old writers for _crape_: whether from the french _crespe_ or from the island whence it was imported. its accidental similarity in spelling to _cypress_ has, here and in milton's penseroso, probably confused readers. poems , . "i never saw anything like this funeral dirge," says charles lamb, "except the ditty which reminds ferdinand of his drowned father in the tempest. as that is of the water, watery; so this is of the earth, earthy. both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to resolve itself into the element which it contemplates." poem . _crystal_: fairness. poem . this "spousal verse" was written in honour of the ladies elizabeth and katherine somerset. although beautiful, it is inferior to the "epithalamion" on spenser's own marriage,--omitted with great reluctance as not in harmony with modern manners. _feateously_: elegantly. _shend_: put out. _a noble peer_: robert devereux, second lord essex, then at the height of his brief triumph after taking cadiz: hence the allusion following to the pillars of hercules, placed near gades by ancient legend. _eliza_: elizabeth; _twins of jove_: the stars castor and pollux; _baldric_: belt, the zodiac. poem . a fine example of a peculiar class of poetry;--that written by thoughtful men who practised this art but little. wotton's, , is another. jeremy taylor, bishop berkeley, dr. johnson, lord macaulay, have left similar specimens. poem . _whist_: hushed; _pan_: used here for the lord of all; _lars and lemures_: household gods and spirits of relations dead; _flamens_: roman priests; _that twice-batter'd god_: dagon. _osiris_, the egyptian god of agriculture (here, perhaps by confusion with apis, figured as a bull), was torn to pieces by typho and embalmed after death in a sacred chest. this myth, reproduced in syria and greece in the legends of thammuz, adonis, and perhaps absyrtus, represents the annual death of the sun or the year under the influences of the winter darkness. horus, the son of osiris, as the new year, in his turn overcomes typho.--it suited the genius of milton's time to regard this primaeval poetry and philosophy of the seasons, which has a further reference to the contest of good and evil in creation, as a malignant idolatry. shelley's chorus in _hellas_, "worlds on worlds," treats the subject in a larger and sweeter spirit. _unshower'd grass_: as watered by the nile only. poem . _the late massacre_: the vaudois persecution, carried on in by the duke of savoy. this "collect in verse," as it has been justly named, is the most mighty sonnet in any language known to the editor. readers should observe that, unlike our sonnets of the sixteenth century, it is constructed , on the original italian or provençal model,--unquestionably far superior to the imperfect form employed by shakespeare and drummond. poem . cromwell returned from ireland in . hence the prophecies, not strictly fulfilled, of his deference to the parliament, in stanzas - . this ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in our language, and more in milton's style than has been reached by any other poet, is occasionally obscure from imitation of the condensed latin syntax. the meaning of st. is "rivalry or hostility are the same to a lofty spirit, and limitation more hateful than opposition." the allusion in st. is to the old physical doctrines of the non-existence of a vacuum and the impenetrability of matter:--in st. to the omen traditionally connected with the foundation of the capitol at rome. the ancient belief that certain years in life complete natural periods and are hence peculiarly exposed to death, is introduced in stanza by the word _climacteric_. poem . _lycidas_. the person lamented is milton's college friend edward king, drowned in whilst crossing from chester to ireland. strict pastoral poetry was first written or perfected by the dorian greeks settled in sicily: but the conventional use of it, exhibited more magnificently in _lycidas_ than in any other pastoral, is apparently of roman origin. milton, employing the noble freedom of a great artist, has here united ancient mythology, with what may be called the modern mythology of camus and saint peter,--to direct christian images.--the metrical structure of this glorious poem is partly derived from italian models. _sisters of the sacred well_: the muses, said to frequent the fountain helicon on mount parnassus. _mona_: anglesea, called by the welsh inis dowil or the dark island, from its dense forests. _deva_: the dee: a river which probably derived its magical character from celtic traditions: it was long the boundary of briton and saxon.--these places are introduced, as being near the scene of the shipwreck. _orpheus_ was torn to pieces by thracian women; _amaryllis_ and _neaera_ names used here for the love idols of poets: as _damoetas_ previously for a shepherd. _the blind fury_: atropos, fabled to cut the thread of life. _arethuse_ and _mincius_: sicilian and italian waters here alluded to as synonymous with the pastoral poetry of theocritus and virgil. _oat_: pipe, used here like collins' _oaten stop_, no. , for _song_. _hippotades_: aeolus, god of the winds. _panope_ a nereid. the names of local deities in the hellenic mythology express generally some feature in the natural landscape, which the greeks studied and analysed with their usual unequalled insight and feeling. panope represents the boundlessness of the ocean-horizon when seen from a height, as compared with a limited horizon of the land in hilly countries such as greece or asia minor. _camus_: the cam; put for king's university. _the sanguine flower_: the hyacinth of the ancients; probably our iris. _the pilot_: saint peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the church on earth, to foretell "the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their heighth" under laud's primacy. _the wolf_: popery. _alpheus_: a stream in southern greece, supposed to flow underseas to meet the arethuse. _swart star_: the dogstar, called swarthy because its heliacal rising in ancient times occurred soon after mid-summer. _moist vows_: either tearful prayers, or prayers for one at sea. _bellerus_: a giant, apparently created here by milton to personify bellerium, the ancient title of the land's end. _the great vision_:--the story was that the archangel michael had appeared on the rock by marazion in mount's bay which bears his name. milton calls on him to turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to pity lycidas, if his body has drifted into the troubled waters of the land's end. finisterre being the land due south of marazion, two places in that district (then by our trade with corunna probably less unfamiliar to english ears), are named,--_namancos_ now mujio in galicia, _bayona_ north of the minho, or, perhaps a fortified rock (one of the _cies_ islands) not unlike st. michael's mount, at the entrance of vigo bay. _ore_: rays of golden light. _doric lay_: sicilian, pastoral. poem . _the assault_: was an attack on london expected in , when the troops of charles i. reached brentford. "written on his door" was in the original title of this sonnet. milton was then living in aldersgate street. _emathian conqueror_: when thebes was destroyed (b.c. ) and the citizens massacred by thousands, alexander ordered the house of pindar to be spared. he was as incapable of appreciating the poet as lewis xiv. of appreciating racine: but even the narrow and barbarian mind of alexander could understand the advantage of a showy act of homage to poetry. _the repeated air \of sad electra's poet_: amongst plutarch's vague stories, he says that when the spartan confederacy in b.c. took athens, a proposal to demolish it was rejected through the effect produced on the commanders by hearing part of a chorus from the electra of euripides sung at a feast. there is however no apparent congruity between the lines quoted ( , ed. dindorf) and the result ascribed to them. poem . this high-toned and lovely madrigal is quite in the style, and worthy of, the "pure simonides." poem . vaughan's beautiful though quaint verses should be compared with wordsworth's great ode, no. . poem . _favonius_: the spring wind. poem . _themis_: the goddess of justice. skinner was grandson by his mother to sir e. coke;--hence, as pointed out by mr. keightley, milton's allusion to the _bench_. _what the swede intends, and what the french_: sweden was then at war with poland, and france with the spanish netherlands. poem . _sydneian showers_: either in allusion to the conversations in the "arcadia," or to sidney himself as a model of "gentleness" in spirit and demeanour. poem . _elizabeth of bohemia_: daughter to james i., and ancestor to sophia of hanover. these lines are a fine specimen of gallant and courtly compliment. poem . lady m. ley was daughter to sir j. ley, afterwards earl of marlborough, who died march, - , coincidently with the dissolution of the third parliament of charles's reign. hence milton poetically compares his death to that of the orator isocrates of athens, after philip's victory in b.c. poems , . these are quite a painter's poems. poem . _from prison_: to which his active support of charles i. twice brought the high-spirited writer. poem . inserted in book ii. as written in the character of a soldier of fortune in the seventeenth century. poem . _waly waly_: an exclamation of sorrow, the root and the pronunciation of which are preserved in the word _caterwaul_. _brae_: hillside; _burn_: brook; _busk_: adorn. _saint anton's well_: at the foot of arthur's seat by edinburgh. _cramasie_: crimson. poem . _burd_: maiden. poem . _corbies_: crows; _fail_: turf; _hause_: neck; _theek_: thatch. if not in their origin, in their present form this and the two preceding poems appear due to the seventeenth century, and have therefore been placed in book ii. poem . the remark quoted in the note to no. applies equally to these truly wonderful verses, which, like "lycidas," may be regarded as a test of any reader's insight into the most poetical aspects of poetry. the general differences between them are vast: but in imaginative intensity marvell and shelley are closely related. this poem is printed as a translation in marvell's works: but the original latin is obviously his own. the most striking verses in it, here quoted as the book is rare, answer more or less to stanzas and : alma quies, teneo te! et te, germana quietis, simplicitas! vos ergo diu per templa, per urbes quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra: sed vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe celarunt plantae virides, et concolor umbra. poems & . _l'allegro_ and _il penseroso_. it is a striking proof of milton's astonishing power, that these, the earliest pure descriptive lyrics in our language, should still remain the best in a style which so many great poets have since attempted. the bright and the thoughtful aspects of nature are their subjects: but each is preceded by a mythological introduction in a mixed classical and italian manner. the meaning of the first is that gaiety is the child of nature; of the second, that pensiveness is the daughter of sorrow and genius. : perverse ingenuity has conjectured that for _cerberus_ we should read _erebus_, who in the mythology is brother at once and husband of night. but the issue of this union is not sadness, but day and aether:--completing the circle of primary creation, as the parents are both children of chaos, the first-begotten of all things. (hesiod.) _the mountain nymph_: compare wordsworth's sonnet, no. . _the clouds in thousand liveries dight_: is in _apposition_ to the preceding, by a grammatical license not uncommon with milton. _tells his tale_: counts his flock; _cynosure_: the pole star; _corydon, thyrsis_, etc.: shepherd names from the old idylls; _jonson's learned sock_: the gaiety of our age would find little pleasure in his elaborate comedies; _lydian airs_: a light and festive style of ancient music. : _bestead_: avail. _starr'd ethiop queen_: cassiopeia, the legendary queen of ethiopia, and thence translated amongst the constellations. _cynthia_: the moon: her chariot is drawn by dragons in ancient representations. _hermes_: called trismegistus, a mystical writer of the neo-platonist school; _thebes_, etc.: subjects of athenian tragedy; _buskin'd_: tragic; _musaeus_: a poet in mythology. _him that left half told_: chaucer, in his incomplete "squire's tale." _great bards_: ariosto, tasso, and spenser, are here intended. _frounced_: curled; _the attic boy_: cephalus. poem . emigrants supposed to be driven towards america by the government of charles i. _but apples_, etc.: a fine example of marvell's imaginative hyperbole. poem . _concent_: harmony. poem . _the bard_.: this ode is founded on a fable that edward i., after conquering wales, put the native poets to death. after lamenting his comrades (st. , ) the bard prophesies the fate of edward ii. and the conquests of edward iii. ( ); his death and that of the black prince ( ): of richard ii, with the wars of york and lancaster, the murder of henry vi. (the _meek usurper_), and of edward v. and his brother ( ). he turns to the glory and prosperity following the accession of the tudors ( ), through elizabeth's reign ( ): and concludes with a vision of the poetry of shakespeare and milton. _glo'ster_: gilbert de clare, son-in-law to edward; _mortimer_: one of the lords marchers of wales. _arvon_: the shores of carnarvonshire opposite anglesey. _she-wolf_: isabel of france, adulterous queen of edward ii.; _towers of julius_: the tower of london, built in part, according to tradition, by julius caesar. _bristled boar_: the badge of richard iii. _half of thy heart_: queen eleanor died soon after the conquest of wales. _arthur_: henry vii. named his eldest son thus, in deference to british feeling and legend. poem . the highlanders called the battle of culloden, drumossie. poem . _lilting_: singing blithely; _loaning_: broad lane; _bughts_: pens; _scorning_: rallying; _dowie_: dreary; _daffin'_ and _gabbin'_: joking and chatting; _leglin_: milkpail; _shearing_: reaping; _bandsters_: sheaf-binders; _lyart_: grizzled; _runkled_: wrinkled; _fleeching_: coaxing; _gloaming_: twilight; _bogle_: ghost; _dool_: sorrow. poem . the editor has found no authoritative text of this poem, in his judgment superior to any other of its class in melody and pathos. part is probably not later than the seventeenth century: in other stanzas a more modern hand, much resembling scott's, is traceable. logan's poem ( ) exhibits a knowledge rather of the old legend than of the old verses. _hecht_: promised, the obsolete _hight_; _mavis_: thrush; _ilka_: every; _lav'rock_: lark; _haughs_: valley-meadows; _twined_: parted from; _marrow_: mate; _syne_ then. poem . the _royal george_, of guns, whilst undergoing a partial careening in portsmouth harbour, was overset about a.m. aug. , . the total loss was believed to be near souls. poem . a little masterpiece in a very difficult style: catullus himself could hardly have bettered it. in grace, tenderness, simplicity, and humour it is worthy of the ancients; and even more so, from the completeness and unity of the picture presented. poem . perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs of the poetic nature has left less satisfactory poetry than thomson. yet he touched little which he did not beautify: and this song, with "rule britannia" and a few others, must make us regret that he did not more seriously apply himself to lyrical writing. poem . _aeolian lyre_: the greeks ascribed the origin of their lyrical poetry to the colonies of aeolis in asia minor. _thracia's hills_ supposed a favourite resort of mars. _feather'd king_ the eagle of jupiter, admirably described by pindar in a passage here imitated by gray. _idalia_: in cyprus, where _cytherea_ (venus) was especially worshipped. _hyperion_: the sun. st. - allude to the poets of the islands and mainland of greece, to those of rome and of england. _theban eagle_: pindar. poem . _chaste-eyed queen_: diana. poem . _attic warbler_: the nightingale. poem . _sleekit_: sleek; _bickering brattle_: flittering flight; _laith_: loth; _pattle_: ploughstaff; _whyles_: at times; _a daimen icker_: a corn-ear now and then; _thrave_: shock; _lave_: rest; _foggage_: aftergrass; _snell_: biting; _but hald_: without dwelling-place; _thole_: bear; _cranreuch_: hoarfrost; _thy lane_: alone; _a-gley_: off the right line, awry. poem . perhaps the noblest stanzas in our language. poem . _stoure_: dust-storm; _braw_: smart. poem . _scaith_: hurt; _tent_: guard; _steer_: molest. poem . _drumlie_: muddy; _birk_: birch. poem . _greet_: cry; _daurna_: dare not.--there can hardly exist a poem more truly tragic in the highest sense than this: nor, except sappho, has any poetess known to the editor equalled it in excellence. poem . _fou_: merry with drink; _coost_: carried; _unco skeigh_: very proud; _gart_: forced; _abeigh_: aside; _ailsa craig_: a rock in the firth of clyde; _grat his een bleert_: cried till his eyes were bleared; _lowpin_: leaping; _linn_: waterfall; _sair_: sore; _smoor'd_: smothered; _crouse and canty_: blythe and gay. poem . burns justly named this "one of the most beautiful songs in the scots or any other language." one verse, interpolated by beattie, is here omitted:--it contains two good lines, but is quite out of harmony with the original poem. _bigonet_: little cap, probably altered from _beguinette_; _thraw_: twist; _caller_: fresh. poem . _airts_: quarters; _row_: roll; _shaw_: small wood in a hollow, spinney; _knowes_: knolls. poem . _jo_: sweetheart; _brent_: smooth; _pow_: head. poem . _leal_: faithful; _fain_: happy. poem . henry vi. founded eton. poem . the editor knows no sonnet more remarkable than this, which, with , records cowper's gratitude to the lady whose affectionate care for many years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to a life radically wretched. petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal grace and a more perfect finish; shakespeare's more passion; milton's stand supreme in stateliness, wordsworth's in depth and delicacy. but cowper's unites with an exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the ancients would have called irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness peculiar to his loving and ingenuous nature. there is much mannerism, much that is unimportant or of now exhausted interest in his poems: but where he is great, it is with that elementary greatness which rests on the most universal human feelings. cowper is our highest master in simple pathos. poem . _fancied green_: cherished garden. poem . nothing except his surname appears recoverable with regard to the author of this truly noble poem: it should be noted as exhibiting a rare excellence,--the climax of simple sublimity. it is a lesson of high instructiveness to examine the essential qualities which give first-rate poetical rank to lyrics such as "to-morrow" or "sally in our alley," when compared with poems written (if the phrase may be allowed) in keys so different as the subtle sweetness of shelley, the grandeur of gray and milton, or the delightful pastoralism of the elizabethan verse. intelligent readers will gain hence a clear understanding of the vast imaginative, range of poetry;--through what wide oscillations the mind and the taste of a nation may pass;--how many are the roads which truth and nature open to excellence. poem . _stout cortez_: history requires here balbóa: (a.t.) it may be noticed, that to find in chapman's homer the "pure serene" of the original, the reader must bring with him the imagination of the youthful poet;--he must be "a greek himself," as shelley finely said of keats. poem . the most tender and true of byron's smaller poems. poem . this poem, with , exemplifies the peculiar skill with which scott employs proper names: nor is there a surer sign of high poetical genius. poem . the editor in this and in other instances has risked the addition (or the change) of a title, that the aim of the verses following may be grasped more clearly and immediately. poem . _nature's eremite_: refers to the fable of the wandering jew.--this beautiful sonnet was the last word of a poet deserving the title "marvellous boy" in a much higher sense than chatterton. if the fulfilment may ever safely be prophesied from the promise, england appears to have lost in keats one whose gifts in poetry have rarely been surpassed. shakespeare, milton, and wordsworth, had their lives been closed at twenty-five, would (so far as we know) have left poems of less excellence and hope than the youth who, from the petty school and the london surgery, passed at once to a place with them of "high collateral glory." poem . it is impossible not to regret that moore has written so little in this sweet and genuinely national style. poem . a masterly example of byron's command of strong thought and close reasoning in verse:--as the next is equally characteristic of shelley's wayward intensity, and of the dramatic power, the vital identification of the poet with other times and characters, in which scott is second only to shakespeare. poem . bonnivard, a genevese, was imprisoned by the duke of savoy in chillon on the lake of geneva for his courageous defence of his country against the tyranny with which piedmont threatened it during the first half of the seventeenth century. this noble sonnet is worthy to stand near milton's on the vaudois massacre. poem . switzerland was usurped by the french under napoleon in : venice in ( ). poem . this battle was fought dec. , , between the austrians under archduke john and the french under moreau, in a forest near munich. _hohen linden_ means _high limetrees_. poem . after the capture of madrid by napoleon, sir j. moore retreated before soult and ney to corunna, and was killed whilst covering the embarcation of his troops. his tomb, built by ney, bears this inscription--"john moore, leader of the english armies, slain in battle, ." poem . the mermaid was the club-house of shakespeare, ben jonson, and other choice spirits of that age. poem . _maisie_: mary. scott has given us nothing more complete and lovely than this little song, which unites simplicity and dramatic power to a wild-wood music of the rarest quality. no moral is drawn, far less any conscious analysis of feeling attempted:--the pathetic meaning is left to be suggested by the mere presentiment of the situation. inexperienced critics have often named this, which may be called the homeric manner, superficial, from its apparent simple facility: but first-rate excellence in it (as shown here, in , , and ) is in truth one of the least common triumphs of poetry.--this style should be compared with what is not less perfect in its way, the searching out of inner feeling, the expression of hidden meanings, the revelation of the heart of nature and of the soul within the soul,--the analytical method, in short,--most completely represented by wordsworth and by shelley. poem . _correi_: covert on a hillside; _cumber_: trouble. poem . two intermediate stanzas have been here omitted. they are very ingenious, but, of all poetical qualities, ingenuity is least in accordance with pathos. poem . this poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined with an exquisiteness of expression, which place it in the highest rank amongst the many masterpieces of its illustrious author. poem . _interlunar swoon_: interval of the moon's invisibility. poem . _calpe_: gibraltar; _lofoden_: the maelstrom whirlpool off the n.-w. coast of norway. poem . this lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by hamilton on the subject better treated in and . poem . _arcturi_: seemingly used for _northern stars_. _and wild roses_, etc. our language has no line modulated with more subtle sweetness. a good poet _might_ have written _and roses wild_:--yet this slight change would disenchant the verse of its peculiar beauty. poem . _ceres' daughter_: proserpine; _god of torment_: pluto. poem . this impassioned address expresses shelley's most rapt imaginations, and is the direct modern representative of the feeling which led the greeks to the worship of nature. poem . the leading idea of this beautiful description of a day's landscape in italy is expressed with an obscurity not unfrequent with its author. it appears to be,--on the voyage of life are many moments of pleasure, given by the sight of nature, who has power to heal even the worldliness and the uncharity of man. _amphitrite_ was daughter to ocean. _sun-girt city_: it is difficult not to believe that the correct reading is _seagirt_. many of shelley's poems appear to have been printed in england during his residence abroad: others were printed from his manuscripts after his death. hence probably the text of no english poet after contains so many errors. see the note on no. . poem . _maenad_: a frenzied nymph, attendant on dionysus in the greek mythology. _the sea-blooms_, etc.: plants under water sympathise with the seasons of the laud, and hence with the winds which affect them. poem . written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of wordsworth's brother john. this poem should be compared with shelley's following it. each is the most complete expression of the innermost spirit of his art given by these great poets:--of that idea which, as in the case of the true painter (to quote the words of reynolds), "subsists only in the mind: the sight never beheld it, nor has the hand expressed it; it is an idea residing in the breast of the artist, which he is always labouring to impart, and which he dies at last without imparting." poem . proteus represented the everlasting changes united with ever-recurrent sameness, of the sea. poem . _the royal saint_: henry vi. index of writers. with dates of birth and death. alexander, william ( - ) bacon, francis ( - ) barbauld, anna laetitia ( - ) barnefield, richard ( th century) beaumont, francis ( - ) burns, robert ( - ) , , , , , , , , , , byron, george gordon noel ( - ) , , , ; , , campbell, thomas ( - ) , , , , , , , , , , carew, thomas ( - ) carey, henry (-- - ) cibber, colley ( - ) coleridge, hartley ( - ) coleridge, samuel taylor ( - ) , collins, william ( - ) , , collins, --- ( th century) constable, henry ( -?- ?) cowley, abraham ( - ) cowper, william ( - ) , , , , , crashaw, richard ( ?- ) cunningham, allan ( - ) daniel, samuel ( - ) dekker, thomas (-- - ?) drayton, michael ( - ) drummond, william ( - ) , , , , , , dryden, john ( - ) , elliott, jane ( th century) fletcher, john ( - ) gay, john ( - ) goldsmith, oliver ( - ) graham, --- ( - ) gray, thomas ( - ) , , , , , , , herbert, george ( - ) herrick, robert ( - ?) , , , , , , heywood, thomas (-- - ?) hood, thomas ( - ) , , jonson, ben ( - ) , , keats, john ( - ) , , , , , , , , , lamb, charles ( - ) , , lindsay, anne ( - ) lodge, thomas ( - ) logan, john ( - ) lovelace, richard ( - ) , , lylye, john ( - ) marlowe, christopher ( - ) marvell, andrew ( - ) , , mickle, william julius ( - ) milton, john ( - ) , , , , , , , , , , moore, thomas ( - ) , , , , nairn, carolina ( - ) nash, thomas ( - ?) philips, ambrose ( - ) pope, alexander ( - ) prior, matthew ( - ) rogers, samuel ( - ) , scott, walter ( - ) , , , , , , , , , , , , sedley, charles ( - ) , sewell, george (-- - ) shakespeare, william ( - ) , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , shelley, percy bysshe ( - ) , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , shirley, james ( - ) , sidney, philip ( - ) southey, robert ( - ) , spenser, edmund ( - / ) suckling, john ( / - ) sylvester, joshua ( - ) thomson, james ( - ) , vaughan, henry ( - ) vere, edward ( - ) waller, edmund ( - ) , webster, john (-- - ?) wither, george ( - ) wolfe, charles ( - ) wordsworth, william ( - ) , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , wotton, henry ( - ) , wyat, thomas ( - ) , unknown: , , , , , , , , , , , index of first lines. absence, hear thou my protestation a chieftain to the highlands bound a flock of sheep that leisurely pass by ah, chloris! could i now but sit ah! county guy, the hour is nigh all in the downs the fleet was moor'd all thoughts, all passions, all delights and are ye sure the news is true? and is this yarrow?--this the stream and thou art dead, as young and fair and wilt thou leave me thus? ariel to miranda:--take art thou pale for weariness art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? as it fell upon a day as i was walking all alane a slumber did my spirit seal as slow our ship her foamy track a sweet disorder in the dress at the corner of wood street, when daylight appears at the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, i fly avenge, o lord! thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones awake, aeolian lyre, awake awake, awake, my lyre! a weary lot is thine, fair maid a wet sheet and a flowing sea a widow bird sate mourning for her love bards of passion and of mirth beauty sat bathing by a spring behold her, single in the field being your slave, what should i do but tend beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed best and brightest, come away bid me to live, and i will live blest pair of sirens, pledges of heaven's joy blow, blow, thou winter wind bright star! would i were steadfast as thou art call for the robin-redbreast and the wren calm was the day, and through the trembling air captain, or colonel, or knight in arms care-charmer sleep, son of the sable night come away, come away, death come live with me and be my love crabbed age and youth cupid and my campaspe play'd cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench daughter of jove, relentless power daughter to that good earl, once president degenerate douglas! o the unworthy lord! diaphenia like the daffadowndilly doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move? down in yon garden sweet and gay drink to me only with thine eyes duncan gray cam here to woo earl march look'd on his dying child earth has not anything to show more fair eternal spirit of the chainless mind! ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! ever let the fancy roam fair daffodils, we weep to see fair pledges of a fruitful tree farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing fear no more the heat o' the sun for ever, fortune, wilt thou prove forget not yet the tried intent four seasons fill the measure of the year from harmony, from heavenly harmony from stirling castle we had seen full fathom five thy father lies gather ye rose-buds while ye may gem of the crimson-colour'd even go fetch to me a pint o' wine go, lovely rose! hail to thee, blithe spirit! happy the man, whose wish and care happy those early days, when i he is gone on the mountain he that loves a rosy cheek hence, all you vain delights hence, loathéd melancholy hence, vain deluding joys how delicious is the winning how happy is he born and taught how like a winter hath my absence been how sleep the brave, who sink to rest how sweet the answer echo makes how vainly men themselves amaze i am monarch of all i survey i arise from dreams of thee i dream'd that as i wander'd by the way if aught of oaten stop or pastoral song if doughty deeds my lady please i fear thy kisses, gentle maiden if thou survive my well-contented day if to be absent were to be if women could be fair, and yet not fond i have had playmates, i have had companions i heard a thousand blended notes i met a traveller from an antique land i'm wearing awa', jean in a drear-nighted december in the downhill of life, when i find i'm declining in the sweet shire of cardigan i remember, i remember i saw where in the shroud did lurk it is a beauteous evening, calm and free it is not beauty i demand it is not growing like a tree i travell'd among unknown men it was a lover and his lass it was a summer evening i've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking i wander'd lonely as a cloud i was thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile! i wish i were where helen lies john anderson, my jo, john lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son let me not to the marriage of true minds life! i know not what thou art life of life! thy lips enkindle like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore like to the clear in highest sphere love not me for comely grace lo! where the rosy-bosom'd hours many a green isle needs must be mary! i want a lyre with other strings milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour mine be a cot beside the hill mortality, behold and fear most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes much have i travell'd in the realms of gold music, when soft voices die my days among the dead are past my heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my heart leaps up when i behold my love in her attire doth show her wit my lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow my thoughts hold mortal strife my true-love hath my heart, and i have his no longer mourn for me when i am dead not a drum was heard, not a funeral note not, celia, that i juster am now the golden morn aloft now the last day of many days o blithe new-comer! i have heard o brignall banks are wild and fair of all the girls that are so smart of a' the airts the wind can blaw of nelson and the north o friend! i know not which way i must look of this fair volume which we world do name oft in the stilly night o if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm oh, lovers' eyes are sharp to see oh, snatch'd away in beauty's bloom! o listen, listen, ladies gay! o mary, at thy window be o me! what eyes hath love put in my head o mistress mine, where are you roaming? o my luve's like a red, red rose on a day, alack the day! on a poet's lips i slept once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee one more unfortunate one word is too often profaned o never say that i was false of heart on linden, when the sun was low o saw ye bonnie lesley o say what is that thing call'd light o talk not to me of a name great in story our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd over the mountains o waly waly up the bank o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms o wild west wind, thou breath of autumn's being o world! o life! o time! pack, clouds, away, and welcome day phoebus, arise! pibroch of donuil dhu poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth proud maisie is in the wood queen and huntress, chaste and fair rarely, rarely, comest thou ruin seize thee, ruthless king! season of mists and mellow fruitfulness shall i compare thee to a summer's day? shall i, wasting in despair she dwelt among the untrodden ways she is not fair to outward view she walks in beauty, like the night she was a phantom of delight since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea since there's no help, come let us kiss and part sleep on, and dream of heaven awhile souls of poets dead and gone spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king star that bringest home the bee stern daughter of the voice of god! surprised by joy--impatient as the wind sweet, be not proud of those two eyes sweet highland girl, a very shower sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade swiftly walk over the western wave take, o take those lips away tax not the royal saint with vain expense tell me not, sweet, i am unkind tell me where is fancy bred that time of year thou may'st in me behold that which her slender waist confined the curfew tolls the knell of parting day the forward youth that would appear the fountains mingle with the river the glories of our blood and state the last and greatest herald of heaven's king the lovely lass o' inverness the merchant, to secure his treasure the more we live, more brief appear the poplars are fell'd! farewell to the shade the sun is warm, the sky is clear the sun upon the lake is low the twentieth year is well-nigh past the world is too much with us; late and soon the world's a bubble, and the life of man there be none of beauty's daughters there is a flower, the lesser celandine there is a garden in her face there's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away there was a time when meadow, grove, and stream they that have power to hurt, and will do none this is the month, and this the happy morn this life, which seems so fair three years she grew in sun and shower thy braes were bonnie, yarrow stream thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright timely blossom, infant fair tired with all these, for restful death i cry toll for the brave to me, fair friend, you never can be old 'twas at the royal feast for persia won 'twas on a lofty vase's side two voices are there, one is of the sea under the greenwood tree verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying victorious men of earth, no more waken, lords and ladies gay wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie were i as base as is the lowly plain we talk'd with open heart, and tongue we walk'd along, while bright and red we watch'd her breathing thro' the night whenas in silks my julia goes when britain first at heaven's command when first the fiery-mantled sun when god at first made man when he who adores thee has left but the name when icicles hang by the wall when i consider how my light is spent when i have borne in memory what has tamed when i have fears that i may cease to be when i have seen by time's fell hand defaced when in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes when in the chronicle of wasted time when lovely woman stoops to folly when love with unconfined wings when maidens such as hester die when music, heavenly maid, was young when ruth was left half desolate when the lamp is shatter'd when the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame when to the sessions of sweet silent thought when we two parted where art thou, my beloved son where shall the lover rest where the remote bermudas ride while that the sun with his beams hot whoe'er she be why art thou silent? is thy love a plant why, damon, with the forward day why so pale and wan, fond lover? why weep ye by the tide, ladie? with little here to do or see ye banks and braes and streams around ye banks and braes o' bonnie doon ye distant spires, ye antique towers ye mariners of england yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! yet once more, o ye laurels, and once more you meaner beauties of the night corrections to collins edition: poem --"w. couper" to "w. cowper" poem --"like a green see" to "like a green sea" poem --"woful ere" to "woeful ere" palgrave's notes--poem : "mythe" to "myth" palgrave's notes--poem : "parliamant" to "parliament" palgrave's notes--poem : "acolian lyre" to "aeolian lyre" palgrave's notes--poem : "were cytheria" to "where cytheria" palgrave's notes--poem : "geeek" to "greek" a bundle of ballads edited by henry morley contents. introduction chevy chase chevy chase (the later version) the nut-brown maid adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie binnorie king cophetua and the beggar maid take thy old cloak about thee willow, willow, willow the little wee man the spanish lady's love edward, edward robin hood king edward iv. and the tanner of tamworth sir patrick spens edom o' gordon the children in the wood the beggar's daughter of bethnal green the bailiff's daughter of islington barbara allen's cruelty sweet william's ghost the braes o' yarrow kemp owyne o'er the water to charlie admiral hosier's ghost jemmy dawson william and margaret elfinland wood casabianca auld robin gray glossary introduction by the editor. recitation with dramatic energy by men whose business it was to travel from one great house to another and delight the people by the way, was usual among us from the first. the scop invented and the glee-man recited heroic legends and other tales to our anglo-saxon forefathers. these were followed by the minstrels and other tellers of tales written for the people. they frequented fairs and merrymakings, spreading the knowledge not only of tales in prose or ballad form, but of appeals also to public sympathy from social reformers. as late as the year , allan cunningham, in publishing a collection of "traditional tales of the english and scottish peasantry," spoke from his own recollection of itinerant story-tellers who were welcomed in the houses of the peasantry and earned a living by their craft. the earliest story-telling was in recitative. when the old alliteration passed on into rhyme, and the crowd or rustic fiddle took the place of the old "gleebeam" for accentuation of the measure and the meaning of the song, we come to the ballad-singer as philip sidney knew him. sidney said, in his "defence of poesy," that he never heard the old song of percy and douglas, that he found not his heart moved more than with a trumpet; and yet, he said, "it is sung but by some blind crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style; which being so evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what would it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of pindar?" many an old ballad, instinct with natural feeling, has been more or less corrupted, by bad ear or memory, among the people upon whose lips it has lived. it is to be considered, however, that the old broader pronunciation of some letters developed some syllables and the swiftness of speech slurred over others, which will account for many an apparent halt in the music of what was actually, on the lips of the ballad-singer, a good metrical line. "chevy chase" is, most likely, a corruption of the french word chevauchee, which meant a dash over the border for destruction and plunder within the english pale. chevauchee was the french equivalent to the scottish border raid. close relations between france and scotland arose out of their common interest in checking movements towards their conquest by the kings of england, and many french words were used with a homely turn in scottish common speech. even that national source of joy, "great chieftain of the pudding-race," the haggis, has its name from the french hachis. at the end of the old ballad of "chevy chase," which reads the corrupted word into a new sense, as the hunting on the cheviot hills, there is an identifying of the hunting of the cheviot with the battle of otterburn:-- "old men that knowen the ground well enough call it the battle of otterburn. at otterburn began this spurn upon a monenday; there was the doughty douglas slain, the percy never went away." the battle of otterburn was fought on the th of august . the scots were to muster at jedburgh for a raid into england. the earl of northumberland and his sons, learning the strength of the scottish gathering, resolved not to oppose it, but to make a counter raid into scotland. the scots heard of this and divided their force. the main body, under archibald douglas and others, rode for carlisle. a detachment of three or four hundred men-at-arms and two thousand combatants, partly archers, rode for newcastle and durham, with james earl of douglas for one of their leaders. these were already pillaging and burning in durham when the earl of northumberland first heard of them, and sent against them his sons henry and ralph percy. in a hand-to-hand fight between douglas and henry percy, douglas took percy's pennon. at otterburn the scots overcame the english but douglas fell, struck by three spears at once, and henry was captured in fight by lord montgomery. there was a scots ballad on the battle of otterburn quoted in in a book--"the complaynt of scotland"--that also referred to the hunttis of chevet. the older version of "chevy chase" is in an ashmole ms. in the bodleian, from which it was first printed in by thomas hearne in his edition of william of newbury's history. its author turns the tables on the scots with the suggestion of the comparative wealth of england and scotland in men of the stamp of douglas and percy. the later version, which was once known more widely, is probably not older than the time of james i., and is the version praised by addison in nos. and of "the spectator." "the nut-brown maid," in which we can hardly doubt that a woman pleads for women, was first printed in in richard arnold's chronicle. nut-brown was the old word for brunette. there was an old saying that "a nut-brown girl is neat and blithe by nature." "adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie" was first printed by copland about . a fragment has been found of an earlier impression. laneham, in , in his kenilworth letter, included "adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie" among the light reading of captain cox. in the books of the stationers' company (for the printing and editing of which we are deeply indebted to professor arber), there is an entry between july and july , "to john kynge to prynte this boke called adam bell etc. and for his lycense he giveth to the howse." on the th of january - "adam bell" is included in a list of forty or more copyrights transferred from sampson awdeley to john charlewood; "a hundred merry tales" and gower's "confessio amantis" being among the other transfers. on the th of august the company of stationers "alowed vnto edward white for his copies these fyve ballades so that they be tollerable:" four only are named, one being "a ballad of william clowdisley, never printed before." drayton wrote in the "shepheard's garland" in :-- "come sit we down under this hawthorn tree, the morrow's light shall lend us day enough-- and tell a tale of gawain or sir guy, of robin hood, or of good clem of the clough." ben jonson, in his "alchemist," acted in , also indicates the current popularity of this tale, when face, the housekeeper, brings dapper, the lawyer's clerk, to subtle, and recommends him with-- "'slight, i bring you no cheating clim o' the clough or claribel." "binnorie," or "the two sisters," is a ballad on an old theme popular in scandinavia as well as in this country. there have been many versions of it. dr. rimbault published it from a broadside dated . the version here given is sir walter scott's, from his "minstrelsy of the scottish border," with a few touches from other versions given in professor francis james child's noble edition of "the english and scottish popular ballads," which, when complete, will be the chief storehouse of our ballad lore. "king cophetua and the beggar maid" is referred to by shakespeare in "love's labour's lost," act iv. sc i; in "romeo and juliet," act ii. sc. i; and in "ii. henry iv.," act iii. sc. . it was first printed in in richard johnson's "crown garland of goulden roses gathered out of england's royall garden. being the lives and strange fortunes of many great personages of this land, set forth in many pleasant new songs and sonnets never before imprinted." "take thy old cloak about thee," was published in by allan ramsay in his "tea-table miscellany," and was probably a sixteenth century piece retouched by him. iago sings the last stanza but one--"king stephen was a worthy peer," etc.--in "othello," act ii. sc. . in "othello," act iv. sc. , there is also reference to the old ballad of "willow, willow, willow." "the little wee man" is a wee ballad that is found in many forms with a little variation. it improves what was best in the opening of a longer piece which introduced popular prophecies, and is to be found in cotton ms. julius a. v. it was printed by thomas wright in his edition of langtoft's chronicle (ii. ). "the spanish lady's love" was printed by thomas deloney in "the garland of goodwill," published in the latter half of the sixteenth century. the hero of this ballad was probably one of essex's companions in the cadiz expedition, and various attempts have been made to identify him, especially with a sir john bolle of thorpe hall, lincolnshire. "edward, edward," is from percy's "reliques." percy had it from lord hailes. "robin hood" is the "lytell geste of robyn hood," printed in london by wynken de worde, and again in edinburgh by chepman and myllar in , in the first year of the establishment of a printing-press in scotland. "king edward iv. and the tanner of tamworth" is a ballad of a kind once popular; there were "king alfred and the neatherd," "king henry and the miller," "king james i. and the tinker," "king henry vii. and the cobbler," with a dozen more. "the tanner of tamworth" in another, perhaps older, form, as "the king and the barker," was printed by joseph ritson in his "ancient popular poetry." "sir patrick spens" was first published by percy in his "reliques of ancient english poetry" ( ). it was given by sir walter scott in his "minstrelsy of the border," and with more detail by peter buchan in his "ancient ballads of the north." buchan took it from an old blind ballad-singer who had recited it for fifty years, and learnt it in youth from another very old man. the ballad is upon an event in scottish history of the thirteenth century, touching marriage of a margaret, daughter of the king of scotland, to haningo, son of the king of norway. the perils of a winter sea-passage in ships of the olden time were recognised by an act of the reign of james iii. of scotland, prohibiting all navigation "frae the feast of st. simon's day and jude unto the feast of the purification of our lady, called candlemas." "edom o' gordon" was first printed at glasgow by robert and andrew foulis in . percy ascribed its preservation to sir david dalrymple, who gave it from the memory of a lady. the incident was transferred to the border from the north of scotland. edom o' gordon was sir adam gordon of auchindown, lieutenant-depute for queen mary in the north in . he sent captain ker with soldiers against the castle of towie, which was set on fire, and the lady of towie, with twenty-six other persons, "was cruelly brint to the death." other forms of the ballad ascribe the deed, with incidents of greater cruelty, to captain carr, the lord of estertowne. "the children in the wood" was entered in the books of the stationers' company on the th of october to thomas millington as, "for his copie vnder th[e h]andes of bothe the wardens a ballad intituled, the norfolk gent his will and testament and how he commytted the keepinge of his children to his owne brother whoe delte moste wickedly with them and howe god plagued him for it." it was printed as a black-letter ballad in . addison wrote a paper on it in "the spectator" (no. ), praising it as "one of the darling songs of the common people." "the blind beggar of bednall green" is in many collections, and was known in elizabeth's time, another elizabethan ballad having been set to the tune of it. "this very house," wrote samuel pepys in june of sir william rider's house at bethnal green, "was built by the blind beggar of bednall green, so much talked of and sung in ballads; but they say it was only some outhouses of it." the angels that abounded in the beggar's stores were gold coins, so named from the figure on one side of the archangel michael overcoming the dragon. this coin was first struck in , and it was used until the time of charles the first. "the bailiff's daughter of islington," or "true love requited," is a ballad in pepys's collection, now in the bodleian. the islington of the ballad is supposed to be an islington in norfolk. "barbara allen's cruelty" was referred to by pepys in his diary, january , - as "the little scotch song of barbary allen." it was first printed by allan ramsay (in ) in his "tea-table miscellany." in the same work allan ramsay was also the first printer of "sweet william's ghost." fragments of "the braes o' yarrow" are in old collections. the ballad has been given by scott in his "minstrelsy of the border," and another version is in peter buchan's "ancient ballads of the north." "kemp owyne" is here given from buchan's "ballads of the north of scotland." here also professor f. j. child has pointed to many icelandic, danish, and german analogies. allied to "kemp owyne" is the modern ballad of "the laidley worm of spindleston heughs," written before by the rev. mr. lamb of norham; but the "laily worm and the machrel of the sea" is an older cousin to "kemp owyne." "o'er the water to charlie" is given by buchan as the original form of this one of the many songs made when prince charles edward made his attempt in - . the songs worked scraps of lively old tunes, with some old words of ballad, into declaration of goodwill to the pretender. "admiral hosier's ghost" was written by richard glover in to rouse national feeling. vice-admiral vernon with only six men-of-war had taken the town of portobello, and levelled its fortifications. the place has so dangerous a climate that it is now almost deserted. admiral hosier in had been, in the same port, with twenty ships, restrained from attack, while he and his men were dying of fever. he was to blockade the spanish ports in the west indies and capture any spanish galleons that came out. he left porto bello for carthagena, where he cruised about while his men were being swept away by disease. his ships were made powerless through death of his best officers and men. he himself at last died, it was said, of a broken heart. dyer's ballad pointed the contrast as a reproach to the government for half-hearted support of the war, and was meant for suggestion of the success that would reward vigorous action. "jemmy dawson" was a ballad written by william shenstone on a young officer of manchester volunteers who was hanged, drawn, and quartered in on kennington common for having served the pretender. he was engaged to a young lady, who came to the execution, and when it was over fell back dead in her coach. "william and margaret," by david mallet, published in , is another example of the tendency to the revival of the ballad in the eighteenth century. "elfinland wood," by the scottish poet william motherwell, who died in , aged thirty-seven, is a modern imitation of the ancient scottish ballad. mrs. hemans, who wrote "casabianca," died also in . but the last ballad in this bundle, lady anne barnard's "auld robin gray," was written in , and owes its place to a desire that this volume, which begins with the best of the old ballads, should end with the best of the new. lady anne, eldest daughter of the fifth earl of balcarres, married sir andrew barnard, librarian to george iii., and survived her husband eighteen years. while the authorship of the piece remained a secret there were some who attributed it to rizzio, the favourite of mary queen of scots. lady anne barnard acknowledged the authorship to walter scott in , and told how she came to write it to an old air of which she was passionately fond, "bridegroom grat when the sun gaed down." when she had heaped many troubles on her heroine, and called to a little sister to suggest another, the suggestion came promptly, "steal the cow, sister anne." and the cow was stolen. h. m. chevy chase the percy out of northumberland, and avow to god made he that he would hunt in the mountains of cheviot within days three, in the maugre of doughty douglas and all that ever with him be, the fattest harts in all cheviot he said he would kill and carry them away. "by my faith," said the doughty douglas again, "i will let that hunting if that i may!" then the percy out of bamborough came, with him a mighty mean-y; with fifteen hundred archers, bold of blood and bone, they were chosen out of shires three. this began on a monday, at morn, in cheviot, the hillis so hie, the child may rue that is unborn, it was the more pitie. the drivers thorough the wood-es went for to raise the deer; bowmen bickered upon the bent with their broad arrows clear, then the wild thorough the wood-es went on every sid-e shear; greyhounds thorough the grov-es glent for to kill their deer. this began in cheviot, the hills abone, early on a monnynday; by that it drew to the hour of noon a hundred fat harts dead there lay. they blew a mort upon the bent; they sembled on sidis shear, to the quarry then the percy went, to see the brittling of the deer. he said, "it was the douglas' promise this day to meet me here; but i wist he would fail, verament"--a great oath the percy sware. at the last a squire of northumberland looked, at his hand full nigh he was ware of the doughty douglas coming, with him a mighty mean-y, both with spear, bill, and brand, it was a mighty sight to see. hardier men both of heart nor hand were not in christiant-e. they were twenty hundred spearmen good without any fail; they were borne along by the water of tweed, i'th' bounds of tividale. "leave off the brittling of the deer," he said, "and to your bows look ye take good heed, for never sith ye were of your mothers born had ye never so mickle need." the doughty douglas on a steed he rode all his men beforn, his armour glittered as did a glede, a bolder barn was never born. "tell me whose men ye are," he says, "or whose men that ye be; who gave you leave to hunt in this cheviot chase in the spite of mine and of me?" the first man that ever him an answer made, it was the good lord perc- y, "we will not tell thee whose men we are," he says, "nor whose men that we be; but we will hunt here in this chase in the spite of thine and of thee. the fattest harts in all cheviot we have killed, and cast to carry them away." "by my troth," said the doughty douglas again, "therefore the tone of us shall die this day." then said the doughty douglas unto the lord perc-y, "to kill all these guiltless men, alas! it were great pit-y. but, percy, thou art a lord of land, i am an earl called within my countr-y. let all our men upon a parti stand, and do the battle of thee and of me." "now christ's curse on his crown," said the lord percy, "whosoever thereto says nay! by my troth, doughty douglas," he says, "thou shalt never see that day! neither in england, scotland, nor france, nor for no man of a woman born, but and fortune be my chance, i dare meet him, one man for one." then bespake a squire of northumberland, richard witherington was his name, "it shall never be told in south england," he says, "to king harry the fourth, for shame. i wot you ben great lord-es two, i am a poor squire of land; i will never see my captain fight on a field, and stand myself and look on; but while i may my weapon wield i will fight both heart and hand." that day, that day, that dreadful day: the first fytte here i find, an you will hear any more of the hunting of the cheviot, yet is there more behind. second fytte. the english men had their bows ybent, their hearts were good enow; the first of arrows that they shot off, sevenscore spearmen they slowe. yet bides the earl douglas upon the bent, a captain good enow, and that was seene verament, for he wrought them both wo and wough. the douglas parted his host in three like a chief chieftain of pride, with suar spears of mighty tree they come in on every side, through our english archery gave many a wound full wide; many a doughty they gard to die, which gain-ed them no pride. the englishmen let their bows be, and pulled out brands that were bright; it was a heavy sight to see bright swords on basnets light. thorough rich mail and manople many stern they struck down straight, many a freke that was full free there under foot did light. at last the douglas and the percy met, like to captains of might and of main; they swapt together till they both swat, with swords that were of fine milan. these worthy frekis for to fight thereto they were full fain, till the blood out of their basnets sprent as ever did hail or rain. "yield thee, percy," said the douglas, "and in faith i shall thee bring where thou shalt have an earl's wagis of jamy our scottish king. thou shalt have thy ransom free, i hight thee here this thing, for the manfullest man yet art thou that ever i conquered in field fighting." "nay," said the lord percy, "i told it thee beforn, that i would never yielded be to no man of a woman born." with that there came an arrow hastily forth of a mighty wone; it hath stricken the earl douglas in at the breastbone. through liver and lung-es both the sharp arrow is gone, that never after in all his life-days he spake mo word-es but one, that was, "fight ye, my merry men, whilis ye may, for my life-days ben gone!" the percy lean-ed on his brand and saw the douglas dee; he took the dead man by the hand, and said, "wo is me for thee! to have saved thy life i would have parted with my lands for years three, for a better man of heart nor of hand was not in all the north countree." of all that see, a scottish knight, was called sir hugh the montgomer- y, he saw the douglas to the death was dight, he spended a spear a trusty tree, he rode upon a coursiere through a hundred archer-y, he never stinted nor never blane till he came to the good lord perc-y. he set upon the lord percy a dint that was full sore; with a suar spear of a mighty tree clean thorough the body he the percy bore on the tother side that a man might see a large cloth yard and more. two better captains were not in christiant-e than that day slain were there. an archer of northumberland saw slain was the lord perc-y, he bare a bent bow in his hand was made of trusty tree, an arrow that a cloth yard was long to the hard steel hal-ed he, a dint that was both sad and sore he sat on sir hugh the montgomer-y. the dint it was both sad and sore that he on montgomery set, the swan-feathers that his arrow bare, with his heart-blood they were wet. there was never a freke one foot would flee, but still in stour did stand, hewing on each other while they might dree with many a baleful brand. this battle began in cheviot an hour before the noon, and when evensong bell was rang the battle was not half done. they took on either hand by the light of the moon, many had no strength for to stand in cheviot the hillis aboon. of fifteen hundred archers of england went away but seventy and three, of twenty hundred spearmen of scotland but even five and fift-y; but all were slain cheviot within, they had no strength to stand on hy: the child may rue that is unborn, it was the more pity. there was slain with the lord percy sir john of agerstone, sir roger the hinde hartley, sir william the bold herone, sir george the worthy lumley, a knight of great renown, sir ralph the rich rugby, with dints were beaten down; for witherington my heart was wo, that ever he slain should be, for when both his leggis were hewen in two, yet he kneeled and fought on his knee. there was slain with the doughty douglas sir hugh the montgomer-y; sir davy lewdale, that worthy was, his sister's son was he; sir charles of murray in that place that never a foot would flee; sir hugh maxwell, a lord he was, with the douglas did he dee. so on the morrow they made them biers of birch and hazel so gay; many widows with weeping tears came to fetch their makis away. tivydale may carp of care, northumberland may make great moan, for two such captains as slain were there on the march parti shall never be none. word is comen to edinborough to jamy the scottish king, that doughty douglas, lieutenant of the marches, he lay slain cheviot within. his hand-es did he weal and wring; he said, "alas! and woe is me: such another captain scotland within," he said, "yea faith should never be." word is comen to lovely london, to the fourth harry our king, that lord perc-y, lieutenant of the marches, he lay slain cheviot within. "god have mercy on his soul," said king harry, "good lord, if thy will it be, i have a hundred captains in england," he said, "as good as ever was he; but percy, an i brook my life, thy death well quite shall be." as our noble king made his avow, like a noble prince of renown, for the death of the lord perc-y he did the battle of homildoun, where six and thirty scottish knights on a day were beaten down; glendale glittered on their armour bright, over castle, tower, and town. this was the hunting of the cheviot; that tear began this spurn; old men that knowen the ground well enough call it the battle of otterburn. at otterburn began this spurn upon a monenday; there was the doughty douglas slain, the percy never went away. there was never a time on the march part-es sen the douglas and the percy met, but it is marvel an the red blood run not as the rain does in the stret. jesu christ our balis bete, and to the bliss us bring! thus was the hunting of the cheviot. god send us all good ending! chevy chase (the later version.) god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safeties all! a woeful hunting once there did in chevy chase befall. to drive the deer with hound and horn earl piercy took the way; the child may rue that is unborn the hunting of that day! the stout earl of northumberland, a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods three summers' days to take, the chiefest harts in chevy chase to kill and bear away; these tidings to earl douglas came in scotland where he lay, who sent earl piercy present word he would prevent his sport. the english earl, not fearing that, did to the woods resort, with fifteen hundred bowmen bold, all chosen men of might, who knew full well in time of need to aim their shafts aright. the gallant greyhounds swiftly ran to chase the fallow deer; on monday they began to hunt ere daylight did appear; and long before high noon they had a hundred fat bucks slain. then having dined, the drivers went to rouse the deer again. the bowmen mustered on the hills, well able to endure; their backsides all with special care that day were guarded sure. the hounds ran swiftly through the woods the nimble deer to take, that with their cries the hills and dales an echo shrill did make. lord piercy to the quarry went to view the tender deer; quoth he, "earl douglas promised once this day to meet me here; "but if i thought he would not come, no longer would i stay." with that a brave young gentleman thus to the earl did say, "lo, yonder doth earl douglas come, his men in armour bright, full twenty hundred scottish spears all marching in our sight, "all men of pleasant tividale fast by the river tweed." "o cease your sports!" earl piercy said, "and take your bows with speed, "and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance! for there was never champion yet in scotland nor in france "that ever did on horseback come, but if my hap it were, i durst encounter man for man, with him to break a spear." earl douglas on his milk-white steed, most like a baron bold, rode foremost of his company, whose armour shone like gold: "show me," said he, "whose men you be that hunt so boldly here; that without my consent do chase and kill my fallow deer." the first man that did answer make was noble piercy, he, who said, "we list not to declare, nor show whose men we be; "yet we will spend our dearest blood thy chiefest harts to slay." then douglas swore a solemn oath, and thus in rage did say, "ere thus i will outbrav-ed be, one of us two shall die! i know thee well! an earl thou art, lord piercy! so am i. "but trust me, piercy, pity it were, and great offence, to kill any of these our guiltless men for they have done no ill; "let thou and i the battle try, and set our men aside." "accurst be he," earl piercy said, "by whom it is denied." then stepped a gallant squire forth,-- witherington was his name,-- who said, "i would not have it told to henry our king, for shame, "that e'er my captain fought on foot, and i stand looking on: you be two earls," quoth witherington, "and i a squire alone. "i'll do the best that do i may, while i have power to stand! while i have power to wield my sword, i'll fight with heart and hand!" our english archers bent their bows-- their hearts were good and true,-- at the first flight of arrows sent, full fourscore scots they slew. to drive the deer with hound and horn, douglas bade on the bent; two captains moved with mickle might, their spears to shivers went. they closed full fast on every side, no slackness there was found, but many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o christ! it was great grief to see how each man chose his spear, and how the blood out of their breasts did gush like water clear! at last these two stout earls did meet like captains of great might; like lions wood they laid on load, they made a cruel fight. they fought, until they both did sweat, with swords of tempered steel, till blood adown their cheeks like rain they trickling down did feel. "o yield thee, piercy!" douglas said, "and in faith i will thee bring where thou shalt high advanc-ed be by james our scottish king; "thy ransom i will freely give, and this report of thee, thou art the most courageous knight that ever i did see." "no, douglas!" quoth earl piercy then, "thy proffer i do scorn; i will not yield to any scot that ever yet was born!" with that there came an arrow keen out of an english bow, which struck earl douglas to the heart a deep and deadly blow; who never said more words than these, "fight on; my merry men all! for why? my life is at an end, lord piercy sees my fall." then leaving life, earl piercy took the dead man by the hand; who said, "earl douglas! for thy life would i had lost my land! "o christ! my very heart doth bleed for sorrow for thy sake! for sure, a more redoubted knight mischance could never take!" a knight amongst the scots there was, which saw earl douglas die, who straight in heart did vow revenge upon the lord pierc-y; sir hugh montgomery he was called, who, with a spear full bright, well mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight, and past the english archers all without all dread or fear, and through earl piercy's body then he thrust his hateful spear. with such a vehement force and might his body he did gore, the staff ran through the other side a large cloth yard and more. so thus did both those nobles die, whose courage none could stain. an english archer then perceived the noble earl was slain; he had a good bow in his hand made of a trusty tree; an arrow of a cloth yard long to the hard head hal-ed he, against sir hugh montgomery his shaft full right he set; the grey goose-wing that was thereon, in his heart's blood was wet. this fight from break of day did last till setting of the sun; for when they rung the evening bell, the battle scarce was done. with stout earl piercy there was slain sir john of egerton, sir robert harcliffe and sir william, sir james that bold bar-on; and with sir george and sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph raby there was slain, whose prowess did surmount. for witherington needs must i wail as one in doleful dumps, for when his legs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumps. and with earl douglas there was slain sir hugh montgomery, and sir charles morrel that from the field one foot would never fly; sir roger hever of harcliffe too,-- his sister's son was he,-- sir david lambwell, well esteemed, but saved he could not be; and the lord maxwell in like case with douglas he did die; of twenty hundred scottish spears, scarce fifty-five did fly. of fifteen hundred englishmen went home but fifty-three; the rest in chevy chase were slain, under the greenwood tree. next day did many widows come their husbands to bewail; they washed their wounds in brinish tears, but all would not prevail. their bodies, bathed in purple blood, they bore with them away; they kissed them dead a thousand times ere they were clad in clay. this news was brought to edinburgh, where scotland's king did reign, that brave earl douglas suddenly was with an arrow slain. "o heavy news!" king james did say, "scotland may witness be i have not any captain more of such account as he!" like tidings to king henry came within as short a space, that piercy of northumberland was slain in chevy chase. "now god be with him!" said our king, "sith 'twill no better be, i trust i have within my realm five hundred as good as he! "yet shall not scots nor scotland say but i will vengeance take, and be reveng-ed on them all for brave earl piercy's sake." this vow the king did well perform after on humble down; in one day fifty knights were slain, with lords of great renown, and of the rest of small account, did many hundreds die: thus ended the hunting in chevy chase made by the earl piercy. god save our king, and bless this land with plenty, joy, and peace, and grant henceforth that foul debate twixt noble men may cease! the nut-brown maid be it right or wrong, these men among on women do complain; affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain to love them wele; for never a dele they love a man again: for let a man do what he can, their favour to attain, yet, if a new to them pursue, their first true lover than laboureth for naught; and from her thought he is a banished man. i say not nay, but that all day it is both writ and said that woman's faith is, as who saith, all utterly decayed; but nevertheless, right good witn-ess in this case might be laid. that they love true, and contin-ue, record the nut-brown maid: which from her love, when her to prove he came to make his moan, would not depart; for in her heart she loved but him alone. then between us let us discuss what was all the manere between them two: we will also tell all the pain in fere that she was in. now i begin, so that ye me answere: wher-efore, ye, that present be i pray you give an ear. i am the knight. i come by night, as secret as i can; saying, "alas! thus standeth the case, i am a banished man." and i your will for to fulfil in this will not refuse; trusting to shew, in word-es few, that men have an ill use (to their own shame) women to blame, and causeless them accuse: therefore to you i answer now, all women to excuse,-- "mine own heart dear, with you what cheer? i pray you, tell anone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "it standeth so: a deed is do whereof much harm shall grow; my destiny is for to die a shameful death, i trow; or else to flee. the one must be. none other way i know, but to withdraw as an out-law, and take me to my bow. wherefore, adieu, my own heart true! none other rede i can: for i must to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "o lord, what is this world-es bliss, that changeth as the moon! my summer's day in lusty may is darked before the noon. i hear you say, farewell: nay, nay! we de-part not so soon. why say ye so? whither will ye go? alas! what have ye done? all my welf-are to sorrow and care should change, if ye were gone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "i can believe, it shall you grieve, and somewhat you distrain; but, afterward, your pain-es hard within a day or twain shall soon aslake; and ye shall take com-fort to you again. why should ye nought? for, to make thought, your labour were in vain. and thus i do; and pray you, lo, as heartily as i can: for i must to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "now, sith that ye have shewed to me the secret of your mind, i shall be plain to you again, like as ye shall me find. sith it is so, that ye will go, i will not leave behind. shall never be said, the nut-brown maid was to her love unkind: make you read-y, for so am i, although it were anone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "yet i you re-de, take good heed when men will think and say: of young, of old, it shall be told, that ye be gone away your wanton will for to fulfil, in green wood you to play; and that ye might from your delight no longer make delay. rather than ye should thus for me be called an ill wom-an, yet would i to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "though it be sung of old and young, that i should be to blame, theirs be the charge that speak so large in hurting of my name: for i will prove, that faithful love it is devoid of shame in your distress and heaviness to part with you the same: and sure all tho that do not so, true lovers are they none: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "i counsel you, remember how it is no maiden's law nothing to doubt, but to run out to wood with an out-law; for ye must there in your hand bear a bow to bear and draw; and, as a thief, thus must ye live, ever in dread and awe; by which to you great harm might grow: yet had i liever than that i had to the green wood go alone, a banished man." she. "i think not nay, but as ye say, it is no maiden's lore; but love may make me for your sake, as ye have said before, to come on foot, to hunt and shoot to get us meat and store; for so that i your company may have, i ask no more; from which to part, it maketh mine heart as cold as any stone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "for an out-law, this is the law, that men him take and bind; without pit-ie, hang-ed to be, and waver with the wind. if i had nede (as god forbede!) what rescues could ye find? forsooth, i trow, you and your bow should draw for fear behind. and no mervayle: for little avail were in your counsel than: wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man." she "full well know ye, that women be full feeble for to fight; no womanhede it is indeed to be bold as a knight; yet, in such fear if that ye were among enemies day and night, i would withstand, with bow in hand, to grieve them as i might, and you to save; as women have from death many a one: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "yet take good hede; for ever i drede that ye could not sustain the thorny ways, the deep vall-eys, the snow, the frost, the rain, the cold, the heat: for dry or wet, we must lodge on the plain; and, us above, none other roof but a brake bush or twain: which soon should grieve you, i believe: and ye would gladly than that i had to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "sith i have here been partynere with you of joy and bliss, i must al-so part of your woe endure, as reason is: yet am i sure of one pleas-ure; and, shortly, it is this: that, where ye be, me seemeth, perde, i could not fare amiss. without more speech, i you beseech that we were soon agone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "if ye go thyder, ye must consider, when ye have lust to dine, there shall no meat be for to gete, nor drink, beer, ale, ne wine. ne sheet-es clean, to lie between, ymade of thread and twine; none other house, but leaves and boughs, to cover your head and mine; lo mine heart sweet, this ill di-ete should make you pale and wan: wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man." she. "among the wild deer, such an archere, as men say that ye be, ne may not fail of good vitayle, where is so great plent-y: and water clear of the rivere shall be full sweet to me; with which in hele i shall right wele endure, as ye shall see; and, ere we go, a bed or two i can provide anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "lo yet, before, ye must do more, if ye will go with me: as cut your hair up by your ear, your kirtle by the knee, with bow in hand, for to withstand your enemies, if need be: and this same night, before daylight, to woodward will i flee. an ye will all this fulfil, do it shortly as ye can: else will i to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "i shall as now do more for you than 'longeth to womanhede; to short my hair, a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need. o my sweet mother! before all other for you have i most drede! but now, adieu! i must ensue, where fortune doth me lead. all this make ye. now let us flee; the day comes fast upon: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, and i shall tell you why,-- your appetite is to be light of love, i well espy: for, right as ye have said to me, in like wise hardily ye would answere whosoever it were, in way of company, it is said of old, soon hot, soon cold; and so is a wom-an: wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man." she. "if ye take heed, it is no need such words to say by me; for oft ye prayed, and long assayed, or i you loved, pard-e; and though that i of ancestry a baron's daughter be, yet have you proved how i you loved. a squire of low degree; and ever shall, whatso befall; to die therefore anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "a baron's child to be beguiled! it were a curs-ed dede; to be fel-aw with an out-law almighty god forbede! yet better were, the poor squyere alone to forest yede, than ye shall say another day, that by my wicked dede ye were betrayed: wherefore, good maid, the best rede that i can, is, that i to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "whatsoever befall, i never shall of this thing you upbraid: but if ye go, and leave me so, then have ye me betrayed. remember you wele, how that ye dele, for if ye, as ye said, be so unkind to leave behind your love, the nut-brown maid, trust me tru-ly, that i shall die soon after ye be gone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "if that ye went, ye should repent; for in the forest now i have purveyed me of a maid, whom i love more than you; another fairer than ever ye were, i dare it well avow; and of you both, each should be wroth with other, as i trow: it were mine ease to live in peace; so will i, if i can: wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man." she. "though in the wood i understood ye had a paramour, all this may nought remove my thought, but that i will be your: and she shall find me soft and kind, and courteis every hour; glad to fulfil all that she will command me, to my power: for had ye, lo! an hundred mo, yet would i be that one: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "mine own dear love, i see the proof that ye be kind and true; of maid, and wife, in all my life, the best that ever i knew. be merry and glad; be no more sad; the case is chang-ed new; for it were ruth that for your truth you should have cause to rue. be not dismayed, whatsoever i said to you, when i began: i will not to the green wood go; i am no banished man." she. "these tidings be more glad to me, than to be made a queen, if i were sure they should endure: but it is often seen, when men will break promise they speak the wordis on the spleen. ye shape some wile me to beguile, and steal from me, i ween: then were the case worse than it was and i more wo-begone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "ye shall not nede further to drede: i will not dispar-age you (god defend!), sith you descend of so great a lin-age. now understand: to westmoreland, which is my heritage, i will you bring; and with a ring by way of marri-age i will you take, and lady make, as shortly as i can: thus have ye won an earl-es son and not a banished man." here may ye see, that women be in love, meek, kind, and stable; let never man reprove them than, or call them vari-able; but, rather, pray god that we may to them be comfort-able, which sometime proveth such as he loveth, if they be charit-able. for sith men would that women should be meek to them each one; much more ought they to god obey, and serve but him alone. adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie. the first fytte. merry it was in green for-est, among the leav-es green, where that men walk both east and west with bows and arrows keen, to raise the deer out of their den, such sights as hath oft been seen; as by three yeomen of the north countrey: by them is as i mean. the one of them hight adam bell, the other clym of the clough, the third was william of cloudeslie, an archer good enough. they were outlawed for venison, these three yeomen every one; they swore them brethren upon a day, to ingle wood for to gone. now lith and listen, gentlemen, and that of mirths love to hear: two of them were single men, the third had a wedded fere. william was the wedded man, much more then was his care; he said to his brethren upon a day, to carlisle he would fare, for to speak with fair alice his wife, and with his children three. "by my troth," said adam bell, "not by the counsel of me: for if ye go to carlisle, brother, and from this wild wood wend, if the justice may you take, your life were at an end."-- "if that i come not to-morrow, brother, by prime to you again, trust not else but that i am take, or else that i am slain."-- he took his leave of his brethren two, and to carlisle he is gone. there he knocked at his own wind-ow shortly and anon. "where be you, fair alice, my wife? and my children three? lightly let in thine husb-and, william of cloudeslie."-- "alas," then saide fair al-ice, and sigh-ed wondrous sore, "this place hath been beset for you, this half-e year and more." "now am i here," said cloudeslie, "i would that i in were;-- now fetch us meat and drink enough, and let us make good cheer." she fetched him meat and drink plent-y, like a true wedded wife, and pleas-ed him with that she had, whom she loved as her life. there lay an old wife in that place, a little beside the fire, which william had found of charity mor-e than seven year; up she rose, and walked full still, evil mote she speed therefore: for she had not set no foot on ground in seven year before. she went unto the justice hall, as fast as she could hie: "this night is come unto this town william of cloudeslie." thereof the justice was full fain, and so was the sheriff also; "thou shalt not travel hither, dame, for nought, thy meed thou shalt have, ere thou go." they gave to her a right good gown, of scarlet it was, as i heard sain; she took the gift and home she went, and couched her down again. they raised the town of merry carlisle, in all the haste that they can, and came throng-ing to william's house, as fast as they might gan. there they beset that good yeo-man, round about on every side; william heard great noise of folks, that hitherward hied. alice opened a shot wind-ow, and look-ed all about she was ware of the justice and the sheriff both, with a full great rout. "alas, treason!" cried alice, "ever woe may thou be!-- go into my chamber, my husband," she said, "sweet william of cloudeslie." he took his sword and his buckl-er, his bow and his children three, and went into his strongest chamber, where he thought surest to be. fair al-ice followed him as a lover true, with a poleaxe in her hand: "he shall be dead that here cometh in this door, while i may stand." cloudeslie bent a well-good bow, that was of trusty tree, he smote the justice on the breast, that his arrow burst in three. "god's curse on his heart!" said william, "this day thy coat did on, if it had been no better than mine, it had gone near thy bone!" "yield thee, cloudeslie," said the justice, "and thy bow and thy arrows thee fro!" "god's curse on his heart," said fair al-ice, "that my husband counselleth so!" "set fire on the house," said the sheriff, "sith it will no better be, and burn we therein william," he said, "his wife and his children three!" they fired the house in many a place, the fire flew up on high; "alas," then cried fair al-ice, "i see we shall here die!" william opened his back wind-ow, that was in his chamber on high, and with shet-es let his wif-e down, and his children three. "have here my treasure," said willi-am, "my wife and my children three; for christ-es love do them no harm, but wreak you all on me." william shot so wondrous well, till his arrows were all gone, and the fire so fast upon him fell, that his bowstring burnt in two. the sparkles burnt, and fell upon, good william of cloudeslie! but then was he a woeful man, and said, "this is a coward's death to me. "liever i had," said willi-am, "with my sword in the rout to run, than here among mine enemies' wood, thus cruelly to burn." he took his sword and his buckler then, and among them all he ran, where the people were most in press, he smote down many a man. there might no man abide his stroke, so fiercely on them he ran; then they threw windows and doors on him, and so took that good yeom-an. there they bound him hand and foot, and in a deep dungeon him cast: "now, cloudeslie," said the high just-ice, "thou shalt be hanged in haste!" "one vow shall i make," said the sheriff, "a pair of new gallows shall i for thee make, and all the gates of carlisle shall be shut, there shall no man come in thereat. then shall not help clym of the clough nor yet adam bell, though they came with a thousand mo, nor all the devils in hell." early in the morning the justice uprose, to the gates fast gan he gone, and commanded to shut close lightly every one; then went he to the market-place, as fast as he could hie, a pair of new gallows there he set up, beside the pillor-y. a little boy stood them among, and asked what meant that gallows tree; they said-e, "to hang a good yeoman, called william of cloudeslie." that little boy was the town swineherd, and kept fair alice' swine, full oft he had seen william in the wood, and given him there to dine. he went out at a crevice in the wall, and lightly to the wood did gone; there met he with these wight yeomen, shortly and anon. "alas!" then said that little boy, "ye tarry here all too long! cloudeslie is taken and damned to death, and ready for to hong." "alas!" then said good adam bell, "that ever we see this day! he might here with us have dwelled, so oft as we did him pray. he might have tarried in green for-est, under the shadows sheen, and have kept both him and us at rest, out of all trouble and teen." adam bent a right good bow, a great hart soon had he slain: "take that, child," he said, "to thy dinner, and bring me mine arrow again." "now go we hence," said these wight yeomen, "tarry we no longer here; we shall him borrow, by god's grace, though we abye it full dear." to carlisle went these good yeom-en on a merry morning of may. here is a fytte of cloudeslie, and another is for to say. the second fytte. and when they came to merry carlisle, all in a morning tide, they found the gates shut them until, round about on every side. "alas," then said good adam bell, "that ever we were made men! these gates be shut so wonderly well, that we may not come here in." then spake him clym of the clough: "with a wile we will us in bring; let us say we be messengers, straight comen from our king." adam said: "i have a letter written well, now let us wisely werk; we will say we have the king-e's seal, i hold the porter no clerk." then adam bell beat on the gate, with strok-es great and strong; the porter heard such noise thereat, and to the gate he throng. "who is there now," said the porter, "that maketh all this knocking?" "we be two messengers," said clym of the clough, "be comen straight from our king." "we have a letter," said adam bell, "to the justice we must it bring; let us in our message to do, that we were again to our king." "here cometh no man in," said the porter, "by him that died on a tree, till that a false thief be hanged, called william of cloudeslie!" then spake the good yeoman clym of the clough, and swore by mary free, "if that we stand-e long without, like a thief hanged shalt thou be. lo here we have the king-es seal; what, lourdain, art thou wood?" the porter weened it had been so, and lightly did off his hood. "welcome be my lord's seal," said he, "for that shall ye come in." he opened the gate right shortelie, an evil open-ing for him. "now are we in," said adam bell, "thereof we are full fain, but christ he knoweth, that harrowed hell, how we shall come out again." "had we the keys," said clym of the clough, "right well then should we speed; then might we come out well enough when we see time and need." they called the porter to a couns-el, and wrung his neck in two, and cast him in a deep dunge-on, and took the keys him fro. "now am i porter," said adam bell; "see, brother, the keys have we here; the worst port-er to merry carlisle they have had this hundred year: and now will we our bow-es bend, into the town will we go, for to deliver our dear broth-er, that lieth in care and woe." they bent their good yew bow-es, and looked their strings were round, the market-place of merry carlisle they beset in that stound; and as they look-ed them beside, a pair of new gallows there they see, and the justice with a quest of squires, that judged william hang-ed to be. and cloudeslie lay ready there in a cart, fast bound both foot and hand, and a strong rope about his neck, all ready for to be hanged. the justice called to him a lad, cloudeslie's clothes should he have to take the measure of that yeom-an, thereafter to make his grave. "i have seen as great marvel," said cloudeslie, "as between this and prime; he that maketh this grave for me, himself may lie therein."-- "thou speakest proudly," said the justice; "i shall hang thee with my hand." full well that heard his brethren two, there still as they did stand. then cloudeslie cast his eyen aside, and saw his two brethren at a corner of the market-place, ready the justice to slain. "i see good comfort," said cloudeslie, "yet hope i well to fare; if i might have my hands at will, right little would i care." then spake good adam bell to clym of the clough so free, "brother, see ye mark the justice well; lo, yonder ye may him see; and at the sheriff shoot i will strongly with arrow keen." a better shot in merry carlisle this seven year was not seen. they loosed their arrows both at once, of no man had they drede; the one hit the justice, the other the sheriff, that both their sides gan bleed. all men voided, that them stood nigh, when the justice fell to the ground, and the sheriff fell nigh him by, either had his death's wound. all the citizens fast gan flee, they durst no longer abide; then lightly they loos-ed cloudeslie, where he with ropes lay tied. william stert to an officer of the town, his axe out of his hand he wrong, on each-e side he smote them down, him thought he tarried too long. william said to his brethren two: "together let us live and dee; if e'er you have need, as i have now, the same shall ye find by me." they shot so well in that tide, for their strings were of silk full sure, that they kept the streets on every side, that battle did long endure. they fought together as brethren true, like hardy men and bold; many a man to the ground they threw, and many an heart made cold. but when their arrows were all gone, men pressed to them full fast; they drew their sword-es then anon, and their bow-es from them cast. they went lightly on their way, with swords and bucklers round; by that it was the middes of the day, they had made many a wound. there was many a neat-horn in carlisle blown, and the bells back-ward did ring; many a woman said "alas!" and many their hands did wring. the mayor of carlisle forth come was, and with him a full great rout; these three yeomen dread him full sore, for their lives stood in doubt. the mayor came armed a full great pace, with a poleaxe in his hand; many a strong man with him was, there in that stour to stand. the mayor smote cloudeslie with his bill, his buckler he burst in two; full many a yeoman with great ill, "alas! treason!" they cried for woe. "keep we the gat-es fast," they bade, "that these traitors thereout not go!" but all for nought was that they wrought, for so fast they down were laid, till they all three that so manfully fought, were gotten without at a braid. "have here your keys," said adam bell, "mine office i here forsake; if you do by my coun-sel, a new port-er do ye make." he threw the keys there at their heads, and bade them evil to thrive, and all that letteth any good yeo-man to come and comfort his wife. thus be these good yeomen gone to the wood, as light as leaf on linde; they laugh and be merry in their mood, their en'mies were far behind. when they came to inglewood, under their trysting tree, there they found bow-es full good, and arrows great plent-y. "so help me god," said adam bell, and clym of the clough so free, "i would we were now in merry carlisle, before that fair meynie!" they sit them down and make good cheer, and eat and drink full well.-- here is a fytte of these wight yeomen, and another i shall you tell. the third fytte. as they sat in inglewood under their trysting tree, they thought they heard a woman weep, but her they might not see. sore there sigh-ed fair al-ice, and said, "alas that e'er i see this day! for now is my dear husband slain: alas, and well away! "might i have spoken with his dear brethren, with either of them twain, to show-e them what him befell, my heart were out of pain." cloudeslie walked a little beside, and looked under the greenwood linde; he was ware of his wife and his children three, full woe in heart and mind. "welcome, wife," then said willi-am, "under this trysting tree! i had weened yesterday, by sweet saint john, thou should me never have see." "now well is me," she said, "that ye be here! my heart is out of woe."-- "dame," he said, "be merry and glad, and thank my brethren two." "hereof to speak," said adam bell, "iwis it is no boot; the meat that we must sup withal it runneth yet fast on foot." then went they down into the launde, these noble archers all three; each of them slew a hart of grease, the best that they could see. "have here the best, al-ice, my wife," said william of cloudeslie, "because ye so boldly stood me by when i was slain full nie." and then they went to their supp-er with such meat as they had, and thanked god of their fort-une; they were both merry and glad. and when that they had supp-ed well, certain withouten lease, cloudeslie said: "we will to our king, to get us a charter of peace; al-ice shall be at our sojourning, in a nunnery here beside, and my two sons shall with her go, and there they shall abide. "mine eldest son shall go with me, for him have i no care, and he shall bring you word again how that we do fare." thus be these yeomen to london gone, as fast as they may hie, till they came to the king's pal-ace, where they would needs be. and when they came to the king-es court, unto the palace gate, of no man would they ask no leave, but boldly went in thereat. they press-ed prestly into the hall, of no man had they dread; the porter came after, and did them call, and with them gan to chide. the usher said: "yeomen, what would ye have? i pray you tell to me; you might thus make officers shent, good sirs, of whence be ye?" "sir, we be outlaws of the for-est, certain without any lease, and hither we be come to our king, to get us a charter of peace."-- and when they came before the king, as it was the law of the land, they kneel-ed down without lett-ing, and each held up his hand. they said: "lord, we beseech thee here, that ye will grant us grace: for we have slain your fat fallow deer in many a sundry place."-- "what be your names?" then said our king, "anon that you tell me." they said: "adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie."-- "be ye those thieves," then said our king, "that men have told of to me? here to god i make avowe ye shall be hanged all three! "ye shall be dead without merc-y, as i am king of this land." he commanded his officers every one fast on them to lay hand. there they took these good yeomen; and arrested them all three. "so may i thrive," said adam bell, "this game liketh not me. "but, good lord, we beseech you now, that ye will grant us grace, insomuch as we be to you comen; or else that we may fro you pace with such weapons as we have here, till we be out of your place; and if we live this hundred year, of you we will ask no grace."-- "ye speak proudly," said the king; "ye shall be hanged all three." "that were great pity," then said the queen, "if any grace might be. my lord, when i came first into this land, to be your wedded wife, ye said the first boon that i would ask, ye would grant it me belife. "and i asked never none till now: therefore, good lord, grant it me." "now ask it, madam," said the king, "and granted shall it be."-- "then, good my lord, i you beseech, these yeomen grant ye me."-- "madam, ye might have asked a boon, that should have been worth them all three: "ye might have ask-ed towers and towns, parks and for-ests plent-y."-- "none so pleasant to my pay," she said, "nor none so lief to me."-- "madam, sith it is your desire, your asking granted shall be; but i had liever have given you good market town-es three." the queen she was a glad wom-an, and said: "lord, gramerc-y, i dare well undertake for them that true men shall they be. but, good lord, speak some merry word, that comfort they may see."-- "i grant you grace," then said our king; "wash, fellows, and to meat go ye." they had not sitten but a while, certain, without leas-ing, there came two messengers out of the north, with letters to our king. and when they came before the king, they kneeled down upon their knee, and said: "lord, your officers greet you well of carlisle in the north countree."-- "how fareth my justice?" said the king, "and my sheriff also?"-- "sir, they be slain, without leas-ing, and many an officer mo."-- "who hath them slain?" then said the king, "anon thou tell-e me."-- "adam bell, and clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie."-- "alas, for ruth!" then said our king, "my heart is wondrous sore; i had liever than a thousand pound i had known of this before; for i have y-granted them grace, and that forthinketh me: but had i known all this before, they had been hanged all three."-- the king he opened the letter anon, himself he read it tho, and found how these three outlaws had slain three hundred men and mo; first the justice and the sheriff, and the mayor of carlisle town, of all the const-ables and catchipolls alive were left but one; the bailiffs and the bedels both, and the serjeants of the law, and forty fosters of the fee, these outlaws have they slaw; and broken his parks, and slain his deer, over all they chose the best, so perilous outlaws as they were, walked not by east nor west. when the king this letter had read, in his heart he sigh-ed sore: "take up the table," anon he bade: "for i may eat no more." the king called his best archers to the butts with him to go; "i will see these fellows shoot," he said, "that in the north have wrought this woe." the king-es bowmen busk them blive, and the queen's archers also, so did these three wight yeomen; with them they thought to go. there twice or thrice they shot about, for to assay their hand; there was no shot these yeomen shot, that any prick might them stand. then spake william of cloudeslie: "by him that for me died, i hold him never no good archer, that shooteth at butts so wide."-- "whereat, then?" said our king, "i pray thee tell to me."-- "at such a butt, sir," he said, "as men use in my countree."-- william went into the field, and his two brothers with him, there they set up two hazel rods, twenty score paces between. "i hold him an archer," said cloudeslie, "that yonder wand cleaveth in two."-- "here is none such," said the king, "for no man that can so do." "i shall assay, sir," said cloudeslie, "ere that i farther go." cloudeslie with a bearing arrow clave the wand in two. "thou art the best archer," said the king, "forsooth that ever i see."-- "and yet for your love," said william, "i will do more mastrie. "i have a son is seven year old; he is to me full dear; i will tie him to a stake, all shall see him that be here, and lay an apple upon his head, and go six score paces him fro, and i myself with a broad arrow shall cleave the apple in two."-- "now haste thee, then," said the king, "by him that died on a tree, but if thou do not as thou hast said, hang-ed shalt thou be. an thou touch his head or gown, in sight that men may see, by all the saints that be in heaven, i shall you hang all three."-- "that i have promised," said william, "that i will never forsake;" and there even, before the king, in the earth he drove a stake, and bound thereto his eldest son, and bade him stand still thereat, and turn-ed the child's face him fro, because he should not start. an apple upon his head he set, and then his bow he bent, six score paces they were out met, and thither cloudeslie went; there he drew out a fair broad arrow; his bow was great and long; he set that arrow in his bow, that was both stiff and strong. he prayed the people that was there, that they would still stand: for he that shooteth for such a wag-er hath need of a steady hand. much people prayed for cloudeslie, that his life saved might be; and when he made him ready to shoot, there was many a weeping ee. thus cloudeslie cleft the apple in two, as many a man might see. "now god forbid," then said the king, "that ever thou shoot at me! i give thee eighteen pence a day, and my bow shalt thou bear, and over all the north countree i make thee chief rid-er."-- "and i give thee seventeen pence a day," said the queen, "by god and by my fay, come fetch thy payment when thou wilt, no man shall say thee nay. william, i make thee a gentleman of clothing and of fee, and thy two brethren yeomen of my chamber: for they are seemly to see; "your son, for he is tender of age, of my wine-cellar shall he be, and when he cometh to man's estate, better preferred shall he be. and, william, bring me your wife," said the queen, "me longeth her sore to see; she shall be my chief gentlewoman, to govern my nursery." the yeomen thanked them full courteously, and said: "to some bishop we'll wend, of all the sins that we have done to be assoiled at his hand." so forth be gone these good yeomen, as fast as they might hie; and after came and dwelt with the king, and died good men all three. thus ended the lives of these good yeomen, god send them eternal bliss; and all that with a hand-bow shooteth, that of heaven they may never miss! binnorie. there were two sisters sat in a bour; binnorie, o binnorie! there came a knight to be their wooer by the bonny mill-dams of binnorie. he courted the eldest with glove and ring, but he lo'ed the youngest aboon a' thing. he courted the eldest with brooch and knife, but he lo'ed the youngest aboon his life. the eldest she was vex-ed sair, and sore envi-ed her sister fair. upon a morning fair and clear she cried upon her sister dear: "o, sister, come to yon river strand, and see our father's ships come to land." she's ta'en her by the lily hand, and led her down to the river strand. and as they walk-ed by the linn, the eldest dang the youngest in. "o, sister, sister, reach your hand, and ye'll be heir to a' my land!"-- "foul fa' the hand that i wad take to twin me o' my warld's make!"-- "o, sister, reach me but your glove, and sweet william shall be your love!"-- "sink on, nor hope for hand or glove, and sweet william shall be my love: "your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair garr'd me gang maiden evermair." she clasped her hands about a broom root, but her cruel sister she loosed them out. sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she swam, until she came to the miller's dam. the miller's daughter was baking bread, she went for water as she had need. "o father, father, draw your dam! there's either a maid or a milk-white swan!" the miller hasted and drew his dam, and there he found a drowned wom-an. you couldna see her yellow hair for gowd and pearls that were sae rare; you couldna see her middle sma', her gowden girdle was sae bra'. a famous harper passing by, the sweet pale face he chanced to spy; and when he looked that ladye on, he sighed and made a heavy moan. he made a harp of her breast-bone, whose sounds would melt a heart of stone; he's ta'en three locks of her yellow hair, and wi' them strung his harp sae fair. he brought it to her father's hall, and there was the court assembled all. he laid this harp upon a stone, and straight it began to play alone: "oh, yonder sits my father, the king, and yonder sits my mother, the queen, and yonder stands my brother, hugh, and yonder my william, sweet and true." but the last tune that the harp played then binnorie! o binnorie! was, "wae to my sister, false ellen, by the bonny mill-dams of binnorie!" king cophetua and the beggar-maid. i read that once in africa a princely wight did reign, who had to name cophetua, as poets they did feign: from nature's laws he did decline, for sure he was not of my mind, he car-ed not for women-kind, but did them all disdain. but mark what happened on a day: as he out of his window lay, he saw a beggar all in gray, the which did cause his pain. the blinded boy, that shoots so trim, from heaven down did hie; he drew a dart and shot at him, in place where he did lie: which soon did pierce him to the quick, and when he felt the arrow prick, which in his tender heart did stick, he looked as he would die. "what sudden chance is this," quoth he, "that i to love must subject be, which never thereto would agree, but still did it defy?" then from the window he did come, and laid him on his bed, a thousand heaps of care did run within his troubled head: for now he means to crave her love, and now he seeks which way to prove how he his fancy might remove, and not this beggar wed. but cupid had him so in snare, that this poor beggar must prepare a salve to cure him of his care, or else he would be dead. and, as he musing thus did lie, he thought for to devise how he might have her company, that so did 'maze his eyes. "in thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life; for surely thou shalt be my wife, or else this hand with bloody knife the gods shall sure suffice!" then from his bed he soon arose, and to his palace gate he goes; full little then this beggar knows when she the king espies. "the gods preserve your majesty!" the beggars all gan cry: "vouchsafe to give your charity our children's food to buy!" the king to them his purse did cast, and they to part it made great haste; this silly woman was the last that after them did hie. the king he called her back again, and unto her he gave his chain; and said, "with us thou shalt remain till such time as we die: "for thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, and honoured for my queen; with thee i mean to lead my life, as shortly shall be seen: our wedding shall appointed be, and every thing in its degree; come on," quoth he, "and follow me, thou shalt go shift thee clean. what is thy name, fair maid?" quoth he. "zenelophon, o king," quoth she: with that she made a low courts-ey, a trim one as i ween. thus hand in hand along they walk unto the king's pal-ace: the king with courteous comely talk this beggar doth embrace: the beggar blusheth scarlet red, and straight again as pale as lead, but not a word at all she said, she was in such amaze. at last she spake with trembling voice and said, "o king, i do rejoice that you will take me for your choice, and my degree's so base." and when the wedding day was come, the king commanded straight the noblemen both all and some upon the queen to wait. and she behaved herself that day, as if she had never walked the way; she had forgot her gown of gray, which she did wear of late. the proverb old is come to pass, the priest, when he begins his mass, forgets that ever clerk he was; he knoweth not his estate. here you may read, cophetua, though long time fancy-fed, compell-ed by the blinded boy the beggar for to wed: he that did lovers' looks disdain, to do the same was glad and fain, or else he would himself have slain, in story as we read. disdain no whit, o lady dear, but pity now thy servant here, lest that it hap to thee this year, as to that king it did. and thus they led a quiet life during their princely reign; and in a tomb were buried both, as writers showeth plain. the lords they took it grievously, the ladies took it heavily, the commons cri-ed piteously, their death to them was pain. their fame did sound so passingly, that it did pierce the starry sky, and throughout all the world did fly to every prince's realm. take thy old cloak about thee. this winter's weather it waxeth cold, and frost doth freeze on every hill, and boreas blows his blasts so bold, that all our cattle are like to spill; bell my wife, who loves no strife, she said unto me quietly, "rise up, and save cow crumbock's life; man, put thine old cloak about thee." he. "o bell, why dost thou flyte and scorn? thou ken'st my cloak is very thin: it is so bare and overworn a crick he thereon cannot renn: then i'll no longer borrow nor lend, for once i'll new apparelled be, to-morrow i'll to town and spend, for i'll have a new cloak about me." she. "cow crumbock is a very good cow, she ha' been always true to the pail, she's helped us to butter and cheese, i trow, and other things she will not fail: i wad be loth to see her pine, good husband, counsel take of me, it is not for us to go so fine; man, take thine old cloak about thee." he. "my cloak it was a very good cloak, it hath been always true to the wear, but now it is not worth a groat; i have had it four and forty year: sometime it was of cloth in grain, 'tis now but a sigh-clout, as you may see, it will neither hold out wind nor rain; and i'll have a new cloak about me." she. "it is four and forty years ago since the one of us the other did ken, and we have had betwixt us two of children either nine or ten; we have brought them up to women and men; in the fear of god i trow they be; and why wilt thou thyself misken? man, take thine old cloak about thee." he. "o bell my wife, why dost thou flout? now is now, and then was then: seek now all the world throughout, thou ken'st not clowns from gentlemen. they are clad in black, green, yellow, or gray, so far above their own degree: once in my life i'll do as they, for i'll have a new cloak about me." she. "king stephen was a worthy peer, his breeches cost him but a crown, he held them sixpence all too dear; therefore he called the tailor lown. he was a wight of high renown, and thou's but of a low degree: it's pride that puts this country down; man, take thine old cloak about thee." he. bell my wife she loves not strife, yet she will lead me if she can; and oft, to live a quiet life, i am forced to yield, though i'm good-man; it's not for a man with a woman to threap, unless he first gave o'er the plea: as we began we now will leave, and i'll take mine old cloak about me. willow, willow, willow. a poor soul sat sighing under a sycamore tree; "o willow, willow, willow!" with his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee: "o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and." he sighed in his singing, and after each groan, "come willow, willow, willow! i am dead to all pleasure, my true-love is gone; o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "my love she is turned; untrue she doth prove: o willow, willow, willow! she renders me nothing but hate for my love. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "o pity me," cried he, "ye lovers, each one; o willow, willow, willow! her heart's hard as marble; she rues not my moan. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and." the cold streams ran by him, his eyes wept apace; "o willow, willow, willow!" the salt tears fell from him, which drown-ed his face: "o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and." the mute birds sat by him, made tame by his moans: "o willow, willow, willow!" the salt tears fell from him, which softened the stones. "o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "let nobody blame me, her scorns i do prove; o willow, willow, willow! she was born to be fair; i, to die for her love. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "o that beauty should harbour a heart that's so hard! sing willow, willow, willow! my true love rejecting without all regard. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "let love no more boast him in palace or bower; o willow, willow, willow! for women are trothless, and fleet in an hour. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "but what helps complaining? in vain i complain: o willow, willow, willow! i must patiently suffer her scorn and disdain. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "come, all you forsaken, and sit down by me, o willow, willow, willow! he that plains of his false love, mine's falser than she. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "the willow wreath wear i, since my love did fleet; o willow, willow, willow! a garland for lovers forsaken most meet. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and." part the second. "low laid by my sorrow, begot by disdain; o willow, willow, willow! against her too cruel, still still i complain, o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and! "o love too injurious, to wound my poor heart! o willow, willow, willow! to suffer the triumph, and joy in my smart: o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "o willow, willow, willow! the willow garl-and, o willow, willow, willow! a sign of her falseness before me doth stand: o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "as here it doth bid to despair and to die, o willow, willow, willow! so hang it, friends, o'er me in grave where i lie: o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "in grave where i rest me, hang this to the view, o willow, willow, willow! of all that do know her, to blaze her untrue. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "with these words engraven, as epitaph meet, o willow, willow, willow! 'here lies one drank poison for potion most sweet,' o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "though she thus unkindly hath scorn-ed my love, o willow, willow, willow! and carelessly smiles at the sorrows i prove; o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "i cannot against her unkindly exclaim, o willow, willow, willow! 'cause once well i loved her, and honoured her name: o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "the name of her sounded so sweet in mine ear, o willow, willow, willow! it raised my heart lightly, the name of my dear; o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "as then 'twas my comfort, it now is my grief; o willow, willow, willow! it now brings me anguish; then brought me relief. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "farewell, fair false-hearted: plaints end with my breath! o willow, willow, willow! thou dost loathe me, i love thee, though cause of my death. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and." the little wee man. as i gaed out to tak the air between midmar and bonny craigha', there i met a little wee man, the less o' him i never saw. his legs were but a finger lang, and thick and nimble was his knee; between his brows there was a span, between his shoulders ell-es three. he lifted a stane sax feet in height, he lifted it up till his right knee, and fifty yards and mair i'm sure, i wite he made the stane to flee. "o, little wee man, but ye hae power! and o, where may your dwelling be?"-- "i dwell beneath yon bonny bower. o, will ye gae wi' me and see?"-- sae on we lap, and awa' we rade till we come to yon little ha', the kipples were o' the gude red gowd, the roof was o' the proseyla. there were pipers playing in every neuk, and ladies dancing, jimp and sma'; and aye the owre-turn o' their tune was, "our wee wee man has been long awa!" out gat the lights, on cam the mist ladies nor mannie mair could see, i turned about, and ga'e a look just at the foot o' benachie. the spanish lady's love. after the taking of cadiz. will you hear a spanish lady, how she wooed an englishman? garments gay and rich as may be decked with jewels she had on. of a comely countenance and grace was she, and by birth and parentage of high degree. as his prisoner there he kept her, in his hands her life did lie; cupid's bands did tie them faster by the liking of an eye. in his courteous company was all her joy, to favour him in anything she was not coy. but at last there came commandment for to set the ladies free, with their jewels still adorn-ed, none to do them injury. then said this lady mild, "full woe is me; o let me still sustain this kind captivity! "gallant captain, show some pity to a lady in distress; leave me not within this city, for to die in heaviness: thou hast set this present day my body free, but my heart in prison still remains with thee." "how should'st thou, fair lady, love me, whom thou know'st thy country's foe? thy fair words make me suspect thee: serpents lie where flowers grow."-- "all the harm i wish to thee, most courteous knight: god grant the same upon my head may fully light. "blessed be the time and season, that ye came on spanish ground; if our foes ye may be term-ed, gentle foes we have you found: with our city ye have won our hearts each one; then to your country bear away that is your own."-- "rest you still, most gallant lady; rest you still, and weep no more; of fair lovers there is plenty, spain doth yield a wondrous store."-- "spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, but englishmen through all the world are counted kind. "leave me not unto a spaniard, you alone enjoy my heart; i am lovely, young, and tender, love is likewise my desert: still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; the wife of every englishman is counted blest."-- "it would be a shame, fair lady, for to bear a woman hence; english soldiers never carry any such without offence."-- "i'll quickly change myself, if it be so, and like a page i'll follow thee, where'er thou go."-- "i have neither gold nor silver to maintain thee in this case, and to travel is great charges, as you know in every place."-- "my chains and jewels every one shall be thy own, and eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown." "on the seas are many dangers; many storms do there arise, which will be to ladies dreadful, and force tears from watery eyes."-- "well in troth i shall endure extremity, for i could find in heart to lose my life for thee."-- "courteous lady, leave this fancy; here comes all that breeds the strife. i in england have already a sweet woman to my wife: i will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in spain." "o how happy is that woman, that enjoys so true a friend! many happy days god send her! of my suit i make an end: on my knees i pardon crave for my offence, which did from love and true affection first commence. "commend me to thy lovely lady. bear to her this chain of gold, and these bracelets for a token; grieving that i was so bold: all my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, for they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me. "i will spend my days in prayer; love and all her laws defy; in a nunnery will i shroud me far from any compan-y: but ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, to pray for thee and for thy love i will not miss. "thus farewell, most gallant captain! farewell, too, my heart's content! count not spanish ladies wanton, though to thee my love was bent: joy and true prosperity go still with thee!" "the like fall ever to thy share, most fair lad-ie!" edward, edward. "why does your brand sae drop wi' bluid, edward, edward? why does your brand sae drop wi' bluid, and why sae sad gang ye, o?"-- "o, i ha'e kill-ed my hawk sae guid, mither, mither! o, i ha'e kill-ed my hawk sae guid, and i had nae mair but he, o."-- "your hawkis bluid was never sae reid, edward, edward: your hawkis bluid was never sae reid, my dear son, i tell thee, o."-- "o, i ha'e kill-ed my reid-roan steed, mither, mither! o, i ha'e kill-ed my reid-roan steed that erst was so fair and free, o."-- "your steed was auld, and ye ha'e got mair, edward, edward: your steed was auld, and ye ha'e got mair, some other dule ye dree, o."-- "o, i ha'e kill-ed my father dear, mither, mither! o, i ha'e kill-ed my father dear, alas, and wae is me, o!"-- "and whatten pen-ance will ye dree for that, edward, edward? and whatten pen-ance will ye dree for that? my dear son, now tell me, o!"-- "i'll set my feet in yonder boat, mither, mither i'll set my feet in yonder boat, and i'll fare over the sea, o."-- "and what'll ye do wi' your towers and your ha', edward, edward? and what'll ye do wi' your towers and your ha', that were so fair to see, o?"-- "i'll let them stand till they down fa', mither, mither: i'll let them stand till they down fa', for here never mair maun i be, o!"-- "and what'll ye leave to your bairns and your wife, edward, edward? and what'll ye leave to your bairns and your wife, when ye gang over the sea, o?"-- "the warldis room, let them beg through life, mither, mither: the warldis room, let them beg through life, for they never mair will i see, o!" "and what'll ye leave to your ain mother dear, edward, edward? and what'll ye leave to your ain mother dear? my dear son, now tell me, o."-- "the curse of hell fra me sall ye bear, mither, mither! the curse of hell fra me sall ye bear,-- sic counsels ye gave to me, o." robin hood. lithe and listen, gentlemen, that be of freeborn blood; i shall you tell of a good yeom-an, his name was robin hood. robin was a proud outlaw, whil-es he walked on ground, so curteyse an outlawe as he was one was never none yfound. robin stood in barnysdale, and leaned him to a tree, and by h-im stood little john, a good yeom-an was he; and also did good scath-elock, and much the miller's son; there was no inch of his bod-y, but it was worth a groom. then bespake him little john all unto robin hood, "master, if ye would dine betime, it would do you much good." then bespak-e good rob-in, "to dine i have no lust, till i have some bold bar-on, or some unketh gest, that may pay for the best; or some knight or some squy-ere that dwelleth here by west." a good mann-er then had robin in land where that he were, every day ere he would dine three masses would he hear: the one in the worship of the father, the other of the holy ghost, the third was of our dear lady, that he loved of all other most. robin loved our dear lad-y, for dout of deadly sin; would he never do company harm that any woman was in. "master," then said little john, "an we our board shall spread, tell us whither we shall gon, and what life we shall lead; where we shall take, where we shall leave, where we shall bide behind, where we shall rob, where we shall reve, where we shall beat and bind." "thereof no force," then said rob-in, "we shall do well enow; but look ye do no housbonde harm that tilleth with his plow; no more ye shall no good yeoman, that walk'th by green wood shaw, ne no knight, ne no squy-er, that would be a good fel-aw. these bishops, and these archbishops, ye shall them beat and bind; the high sheriff of nottingham, him hold in your mind." "this word shall be holde," said little john, "and this lesson shall we lere; it is ferr-e days, god send us a geste, that we were at our dinere!" "take thy good bow in thy hand," said robin, "let much wend-e with thee, and so shall william scath-elock, and no man abide with me: and walk up to the sa-yl-es, and so to watling street, and wait after some unketh gest, up-chance ye mowe them meet. be he earl or any bar-on, abb-ot or any knight, bring him to lodge to me, his dinner shall be dight." they went unto the sa-yl-es, these yeomen all three, they look-ed east, they look-ed west, they might-e no man see. but as they looked in barnisdale, by a dern-e street, then came th-ere a knight rid-ing, full soon they gan him meet. all drear-y was his semblaunce, and little was his pride, his one foot in the stirrup stood, that other waved beside. his hood hanging over his eyen two, he rode in simple array; a sorrier man than he was one rode never in summer's day. little john was full curt-eyse, and set him on his knee: "welcome be ye, gentle knight, welc-ome are ye to me, welcome be thou to green wood, hende knight and free; my master hath abiden you fast-ing, sir, all these hour-es three." "who is your master?" said the knight. john said, "robin hood." "he is a good yeoman," said the knight, "of him i have heard much good. i grant," he said, "with you to wend, my brethren all in-fere; my purpose was to have dined to-day at blyth or doncastere." forth then went this gentle knight, with a careful cheer, the tears out of his eyen ran, and fell down by his lere. they brought him unto the lodge door, when robin gan him see, full curteysly he did off his hood, and set him on his knee. "welc-ome, sir knight," then said rob-in, "welc-ome thou art to me; i have abiden you fasting, sir, all these hour-es three." then answered the gentle knight, with word-es fair and free, "god thee sav-e, good rob-in, and all thy fair meyn-e." they washed together and wip-ed both, and set to their dinere; bread and wine they had enough, and numbles of the deer; swans and pheasants they had full good, and fowls of the rivere; there fail-ed never so little a bird, that ever was bred on brere. "do gladly, sir knight," said rob-in. "gram-ercy, sir," said he, "such a dinner had i not of all these week-es three; if i come again, rob-in, here b-y this countr-e, as good a dinner i shall thee make, as thou hast made to me." "gramerc-y, knight," said rob-in, "my dinner when i have; i was never so greedy, by dere-worthy god, my dinner for to crave. but pay ere ye wend," said rob-in, "me thinketh it is good right; it was never the manner, by dere-worthy god, a yeoman to pay for a knight." "i have nought in my coffers," said the knight, "that i may proffer for shame." "little john, go look," said robin, "ne let not for no blame. tell me truth," then said rob-in, "so god have part of thee." "i have no more but ten shillings," said the knight, "so god have part of me!" "if thou have no more," said rob-in, "i will not one penn-y; and if thou have need of any more, more shall i lend thee. go now forth, little john, the truth tell thou me, if there be no more but ten shillings no penny of that i see." little john spread down his mantle full fair upon the ground, and there he found in the knight's coff-er but even half a pound. little john let it lie full still, and went to his master full low. "what tiding-e, john?" said rob-in. "sir, the knight is true enow." "fill of the best wine," said rob-in, "the knight shall begin; much wonder thinketh me thy clothing is so thin. tell me one word," said rob-in, "and counsel shall it be; i trow thou were made a knight of force, or else of yeomanry; or else thou hast been a sorry housband and lived in stroke and strife; an okerer, or lechour," said rob-in, "with wrong hast thou led thy life." "i am none of them," said the knight, "by him that mad-e me; an hundred winter here before, mine aunsetters knights have be. but oft it hath befal, rob-in, a man hath be disgrate; but god that sitteth in heaven above may amend his state. within two or three year, robin," he said, "my neighbours well it kend, four hundred pound of good mon-ey full well then might i spend. now have i no good," said the knight, "but my children and my wife; god hath shapen such an end, till he it may amend." "in what manner," said rob-in, "hast thou lore thy rich-esse?" "for my great folly," he said, "and for my kind-enesse. i had a son, for sooth, rob-in, that should have been my heir, when he was twenty winter old, in field would joust full fair; he slew a knight of lancashire, and a squyer bold; for to save him in his right my goods beth set and sold; my lands beth set to wed, rob-in, until a certain day, to a rich abbot here beside, of saint mar-y abbay." "what is the summ-e?" said rob-in, "truth then tell thou me." "sir," he said, "four hundred pound, the abb-ot told it to me." "now, an thou lose thy land," said robin, "what shall fall of thee?" "hastily i will me busk," said the knight, "over the salt-e sea, and see where christ was quick and dead, on the mount of calvar-y. fare well, friend, and have good day, it may no better be"-- tears fell out of his eyen two, he would have gone his way-- "fare well, friends, and have good day, i ne have more to pay." "where be thy friends?" said rob-in. "sir, never one will me know; while i was rich enow at home great boast then would they blow, and now they run away from me, as beast-es on a row; they take no more heed of me than they me never saw." for ruth-e then wept little john, scathelocke and much also. "fill of the best wine," said rob-in, "for here is a simple cheer. hast thou any friends," said robin, "thy borowes that will be?" "i have none," then said the knight, "but him that died on a tree." "do way thy jap-es!" said rob-in, "thereof will i right none; weenest thou i will have god to borowe? peter, paul, or john? nay, by him that me made, and shope both sun and moon, find a better borowe," said robin, "or money gettest thou none." "i have none other," said the knight, "the sooth for to say, but if it be our dear lad-y, she failed me ne'er ere this day." "by dere-worthy god," then said rob-in, "to seek all england thorowe, yet found i never to my pay, a much better borowe. come now forth, little john, and go to my treasur-y, and bring me fo-ur hundred pound, and look that it well told be." forth then went little john, and scathelock went before, he told out fo-ur hundred pound, by eighteen-e score. "is this well told?" said little much. john said, "what grieveth thee? it is alms to help a gentle knight that is fall in povert-y. master," then said little john, "his clothing is full thin, ye must give the knight a liver-ay, to wrap his bod-y therein. for ye have scarl-et and green, mast-er, and many a rich array, there is no merch-ant in merry engl-and so rich, i dare well say." "take him three yards of every colo-ur, and look that well mete it be." little john took none other meas-ure but his bow-e tree, and of every handfull that he met he leapt ouer foot-es three. "what devilkyns draper," said little much, "thinkest thou to be?" scathelock stood full still and lough, and said, "by god allmight, john may give him the better meas-ure, for it cost him but light." "master," then said little john, all unto robin hood, "ye must give that knight an horse, to lead home all this good." "take him a gray cours-er," said robin, "and a saddle new; he is our lady's messengere, god lend that he be true!" "and a good palfr-ey," said little much, "to maintain him in his right." "and a pair of boots," said scath-elock, "for he is a gentle knight." "what shalt thou give him, little john?" said robin. "sir, a paire of gilt spurs clene, to pray for all this company: god bringe him out of tene!" "when shall my day be," said the knight, "sir, an your will be?" "this day twelve month," said rob-in, "under this green wood tree. it were great sham-e," said rob-in, "a knight alone to ride, without squy-er, yeoman or page, to walk-e by his side. i shall thee lend little johan my man, for he shall be thy knave; in a yeoman's stead he may thee stand if thou great need have." the seconde fytte. now is the knight went on his way, this game he thought full good, when he looked on barnisdale, he bless-ed robin hood; and when he thought on barnisdale on scathelock, much, and john, he blessed them for the best compan-y that ever he in come. then spake that gentle knight, to little john gan he say, "to-morrow i must to york town, to saint mar-y abbay; and to the abbot of that place four hundred pound i must pay: and but i be there upon this night my land is lost for aye." the abbot said to his conv-ent, there he stood on ground, "this day twelve month came there a knight and borrowed four hundred pound upon all his land free, but he come this ilk-e day disherited shall he be." "it is full early," said the prior, "the day is not yet far gone, i had liever to pay an hundred pound, and lay it down anone. the knight is far beyond the sea, in england is his right, and suffereth hung-er and cold and many a sorry night: it were great pity," said the prior, "so to have his lond; an ye be so light of your consci-ence, ye do to him much is wrong." "thou art ever in my beard," said the abb-ot, "by god and saint rich-ard!" with that came in a fat-headed monk, the high cellarer; "he is dead or hang-ed," said the monk, "by him that bought me dear, and we shall have to spend in this place four hundred pound by year." the abbot and the high cellarer, stert-e forth full bold. the high justice of englond the abb-ot there did hold; the high just-ice and many mo had take into their hond wholly all the knight-es debt, to put that knight to wrong. they deemed the knight wonder sore, the abb-ot and his meyn-e: "but he come this ilk-e day disherited shall he be." "he will not come yet," said the just-ice, "i dare well undertake." but in sorrow-e tim-e for them all the knight came to the gate. then bespake that gentle knight unto his meyn-e, "now put on your simple weeds that ye brought from the sea." and cam-e to the gates anone, the porter was ready himself, and welcom-ed them every one. "welc-ome, sir knyght," said the port-er, "my lord to meat is he, and so is many a gentle man, for the love of thee." the porter swore a full great oath, "by him that mad-e me, here be the best cores-ed horse that ever yet saw i me. lead them into the stable," he said, "that eas-ed might they be." "they shall not come therein," said the knight, "by him that died on a tree." lord-es were to meat iset in that abb-ot-es hall, the knight went forth and kneel-ed down, and salved them great and small. "do gladly, sir abb-ot," said the knight, "i am come to hold my day." the first word the abbot spake, "hast th-ou brought m-y pay?" "not one penny," said the knight, "by him that mak-ed me." "thou art a shrewd debtor!" said the abb-ot; "sir justice, drink to me! what dost thou here," said the abb-ot, "but thou hadst brought thy pay?" "for-e god," then said the knight, "to pray of a longer day." "thy day is broke," said the justice, "land gettest thou none." "now, good sir justice, be my friend, and fend me of my fone." "i am hold with the abbot," said the justice, "both with cloth and fee." "now, good sir sheriff, be my friend." "nay, for-e god," said he. "now, good sir abbot, be my friend, for thy curteys-e, and hold my land-es in thy hand till i have made thee gree; and i will be thy true serv-ant, and truly serv-e thee, till ye have fo-ur hundred pound of money good and free." the abbot sware a full great oath, "by him that died on a tree, get the land where thou may, for thou gettest none of me." "by dere-worthy god," then said the knight, "that all this world wrought, but i have my land again, full dear it shall be bought; god, that was of a maiden borne, lene us well to speed! for it is good to assay a friend ere that a man have need." the abb-ot loathl-y on him gan look, and villainousl-y gan call; "out," he said, "thou fals-e knight! speed thee out of my hall!" "thou liest," then said the gentle knight, "abbot in thy hall; fals-e knight was i nev-er, by him that made us all." up then stood that gentle knight, to the abb-ot said he, "to suffer a knight to kneel so long, thou canst no courtes-y. in joust-es and in tournem-ent full far then have i be, and put myself as far in press as any that e'er i see." "what will ye give more?" said the just-ice, "and the knight shall make a release; and ell-es dare i safely swear ye hold never your land in peace." "an hundred pound," said the abb-ot. the justice said, "give him two." "na-y, by god," said the knight, "yet get ye it not so: though ye would give a thousand more, yet were thou never the nere; shall there never be mine heir, abb-ot, just-ice, ne frere." he stert him to a board anon, to a table round, and there he shook out of a bag even fo-ur hundred pound. "have here thy gold, sir abb-ot," said the knight, "which that thou lentest me; haddest thou been curteys at my com-ing, rewarded shouldst thou have be." the abb-ot sat still, and ate no more. for all his royal cheer, he cast his hood on his should-er, and fast began to stare. "take me my gold again," said the abb-ot, "sir just-ice, that i took thee." "not a penny," said the just-ice, "by him that died on a tree." "sir abbot, and ye men of law, now have i held my day, now shall i have my land again, for aught that you can say." the knight stert out of the door, away was all his care, and on he put his good cloth-ing, the other he left there. he went him forth full merry sing-ing, as men have told in tale, his lady met him at the gate, at home in uterysdale. "welc-ome, my lord," said his lady; "sir, lost is all your good?" "be merry, dam-e," said the knight, "and pray for robin hood, that ever his soul-e be in bliss, he holp me out of my tene; ne had not be his kind-enesse, beggars had we been. the abb-ot and i accorded ben, he is served of his pay, the good yeoman lent it me, as i came by the way." this knight then dwell-ed fair at home, the sooth for to say, till he had got four hundred pound, all ready for to pay. he p-urveyed him an hundred bows, the string-es well ydight, an hundred sheaf of arrows good, the heads burn-ished full bright, and every arrow an ell-e long, with peacock well ydight, i-nock-ed all with white silv-er, it was a seemly sight. he p-urveyed him an hundred men, well harneysed in that stead, and h-imself in that sam-e set, and clothed in white and red. he bare a launsgay in his hand, and a man led his male, and ridden with a light song, unto barnisdale. as he went at a bridge there was a wresteling, and there tarried was he, and there was all the best yeom-en of all the west countree. a full fair game there was upset, a white bull up i-pight; a great cours-er with saddle and bridle, with gold burn-ished full bright; a pair of gloves, a red gold ring, a pipe of wine, in good fay: what man beareth him best, i-wis, the prize shall bear away. there was a yeoman in that place, and best worth-y was he. and for he was ferre and fremd bestad, i-slain he should have be. the knight had ruth of this yeom-an, in place where that he stood, he said that yeoman should have no harm, for love of robin hood. the knight press-ed into the place, an hundred followed him free, with bow-es bent, and arrows sharp, for to shend that company. they shouldered all, and made him room, to wete what he would say, he took the yeoman by the hand, and gave him all the play; he gave him five mark for his wine, there it lay on the mould, and bade it should be set abroach, drink-e who so would. thus long tarried this gentle knight, till that play was done, so long abode rob-in fasting, three hours after the none. the thyrde fytte. lithe and listen, gentle men, all that now be here, of little john, that was the knight's man, good mirth ye shall hear. it was upon a merry day, that young men would go shete, little john fet his bow anon, and said he would them meet. three times little john shot about, and always cleft the wand, the proud sher-iff of nottingham by the marks gan stand. the sheriff swore a full great oath, "by him that died on a tree, this man is the best arch-er that ever yet saw i me. sa-y me now, wight young man, what is now thy name? in what country were thou born, and where is thy wonning wan?" "in hold-ernesse i was bore, i-wis all of my dame, men call me reynold greenleaf, whan i am at hame." "say me, reynold greenleaf, wilt thou dwell with me? and every year i will thee give twent-y mark to thy fee." "i have a master," said little john, "a curteys knight is he, ma-y ye get leave of him, the better may it be." the sher-iff gat little john twelve months of the knight, theref-ore he gave him right anon a good horse and a wight. now is little john the sheriff's man, he give us well to speed, but alw-ay thought little john to quite him well his meed. "now so god me help," said little john, "and by my true lewt-e, i sh-all be the worst serv-ant to him that ever yet had he!" it befell upon a wednesday, the sheriff a-hunting was gone, and little john lay in his bed, and was forgot at home. therefore he was fast-ing till it was past the none. "good sir steward, i pray thee, give me to dine," said little john; "it is too long for greenleaf, fast-ing so long to be; therefore i pray thee, stew-ard, my dinner give thou me!" "shalt thou never eat ne drink," said the stew-ard, "till my lord be come to town." "i make mine avow," said little john, "i had liever to crack thy crown!" the butler was full uncurteys, there he stood on floor, he stert to the buttery, and shut fast the door. little john gave the butler such a stroke his back yede nigh in two, though he lived an hundred winter, the worse he should-e go. he spurned the door with his foot, it went up well and fine, and there he made a large liveray both of ale and wine. "sith ye will not dine," said little john, "i shall give you to drink, and though ye live an hundred winter, on little john ye shall think!" little john ate, and little john drank, the whil-e that he would. the sheriff had in his kitchen a cook, a stout man and a bold. "i make mine avow to god," said the cook, "thou art a shrewd-e hind, in an household to dwell, for to ask thus to dine." and there he lent little john, good strok-es three. "i make mine avow," said little john, "these strok-es liketh well me. thou art a bold man and an hardy, and so thinketh me; and ere i pass from this place, assayed better shalt thou be." little john drew a good sword, the cook took another in hand; they thought nothing for to flee, but stiffly for to stand. there they fought sor-e together, two mile way and more, might neither other harm don, the mountenance of an hour. "i make mine avow," said little john, "and by my true lewt-e, thou art one of the best swordmen that ever yet saw i me. couldest thou shoot as well in a bow, to green wood thou shouldest with me, and two times in the year thy clothing i-changed should-e be; and every year of robin hood twent-y mark to thy fee." "put up thy sword," said the cook, "and fellows will we be." then he fet to little john the numbles of a doe, good bread and full good wine, they ate and drank thereto. and when they had drunken well, their troths together they plight, that they would be with rob-in that ilke same day at night. they hied them to the treasure-house, as fast as they might gone, the locks that were of good steel they brake them every one; they took away the silver vessel, and all that they might get, pi-eces, mas-ars, and spoons, would they none forget; also they took the good pence, three hundred pound and three; and did them straight to robin hood, under the green wood tree. "god thee save, my dear mast-er, and christ thee save and see." and then said rob-in to little john, "welcome might thou be; and also be that fair yeom-an thou bringest there with thee. what tiding-es from nottingham? little john, tell thou me." "well thee greeteth the proud sher-iff, and sendeth thee here by me, his cook and his silv-er vessel, and three hundred pound and three." "i make mine avow to god," said robin, "and to the trinit-y, it was never by his good will, this good is come to me." little john him there bethought, on a shrewed wile, five mile in the for-est he ran, him happ-ed at his will; then be met the proud sher-iff, hunt-ing with hound and horn, little john coud his curteysye, and kneel-ed him beforn: "god thee save, my dear mast-er, and christ thee save and see." "raynold greenleaf," said the sher-iff, "where hast thou now be?" "i have be in this for-est, a fair sight can i see, it was one of the fairest sights that ever yet saw i me; yonder i see a right fair hart, his colour is of green, seven score of deer upon an herd, be with him all bedene; his tynde are so sharp, mast-er, of sixty and well mo, that i durst not shoot for drede lest they wold me slo." "i make mine avow to god," said the sheriff, "that sight would i fain see." "busk you thitherward, my dear mast-er, anon, and wend with me." the sheriff rode, and little john of foot he was full smart, and when they came afore robin: "lo, here is the master hart!" still stood the proud sher-iff, a sorry man was he: "wo worth thee, raynold greenleaf! thou hast now betray-ed me." "i make mine avow," said little john, "mast-er, ye be to blame, i was misserved of my dinere, when i was with you at hame." soon he was to supper set, and served with silver white; and when the sher-iff see his vess-el, for sorrow he might not eat. "make good cheer," said robin hood, "sher-iff, for charit-y, and for the love of little john; thy life is granted to thee." when they had supp-ed well, the day was all agone, robin commanded little john to draw off his hosen and his shone, his kirtle and his coat a pye, that was furr-ed well fine, and take him a green mant-ell, to lap his body therein. robin commanded his wight young men, under the green wood tree, they shall lie in that same sort, that the sheriff might them see. all night lay that proud sher-iff in his breche and in his sherte, no wonder it was, in green wood, though his sides do smerte. "make glad cheer," said robin hood, "sher-iff, for charit-e, for this is our ord-er i-wis, under the green wood tree." "this is harder order," said the sheriff, "than any anker or frere; for all the gold in merry engl-and i would not long dwell here." "all these twelve months," said rob-in, "thou shalt dwell with me; i shall thee teach, thou proud sher-iff, an outlaw for to be." "ere i here another night lie," said the sheriff, "robin, now i pray thee, smite off my head rather to-morn, and i forgive it thee. let me go," then said the sher-iff, "for saint charit-e, and i will be thy best friend that ever yet had thee." "thou shalt swear me an oath," said robin, "on my bright brand, thou shalt never awayte me scathe, by water ne by land; and if thou find any of my men, by night or by day, upon thine oath thou shalt swear, to help them that thou may." now hath the sheriff i-swore his oath, and home he gan to gone, he was as full of green wood as ever was heap of stone. the fourth fytte. the sheriff dwelled in nottingham, he was fain that he was gone, and robin and his merry men went to wood anone. "go we to dinner," said little john. robin hood said, "nay; for i dread our lady be wroth with me, for she sent me not my pay." "have no doubt, master," said little john, "yet is not the sun at rest, for i dare say, and safely sware, the knight is true and trust." "take thy bow in thy hand," said robin, "let much wende with thee, and so shall william scathelock, and no man abide with me, and walk up into the sa-yl-es, and to watling street, and wait after such unketh gest, up-chance ye may them meet. whether he be messeng-er, or a man that mirth-es can, or if he be a poor man, of my good he shall have some." forth then stert little john, half in tray and teen, and girded him with a full good sword, under a mantle of green. they went up to the sa-yl-es, these yeomen all three; they look-ed east, they look-ed west, they might no man see. but as he looked in barnisdale, by the high way, then were they ware of two black monks, each on a good palfray. then bespak-e little john, to much he gan say, "i dare lay my life to wed, that these monks have brought our pay. make glad cheer," said little john, "and frese our bows of yew, and look your hearts be sicker and sad, your strings trust-y and true. the monk hath fifty-two men, and seven som-ers full strong, there rideth no bishop in this land so royally, i understond. brethren," said little john, "here are no more but we three; but we bring them to dinn-er, our master dare we not see. bend your bows," said little john, "make all yon press to stand! the foremost monk, his life and his death is clos-ed in my hand! abide, churl monk," said little john, "no farther that thou gone; if thou dost, by dere-worthy god, thy death is in my hond. and evil thrift on thy head," said little john, "right under thy hat's bond, for thou hast made our master wroth, he is fast-ing so long." "who is your master?" said the monk. little john said, "robin hood." "he is a strong thief," said the monk, "of him heard i never good." "thou liest!" then said little john, "and that shall rew-e thee; he is a yeoman of the for-est, to dine hath bod-e thee." much was ready with a bolt, redly and anon, he set the monk tofore the breast, to the ground that he can gon. of fifty-two wight young men, there abode not one, save a little page, and a groom to lead the somers with little john. they brought the monk to the lodge door, whether he were loth or lief, for to speak with robin hood, maugr-e in their teeth. robin did adown his hood, the monk when that he see; the monk was not so courteyous, his hood then let he be. "he is a churl, master, by dere-worthy god," then said little john. "thereof no force," said rob-in, "for courtesy can he none. how man-y men," said rob-in, "had this monk, john?" "fifty and two when that we met, but many of them be gone." "let blow a horn," said robin, "that fellowship may us know." seven score of wight yeomen, came pricking on a row, and everich of them a good mant-ell, of scarlet and of ray, all they came to good rob-in, to wite what he would say. they made the monk to wash and wipe, and sit at his dinere, robin hood and little john they served them both infere. "do gladly, monk," said robin. "gram-ercy, sir," said he. "where is your abbey, whan ye are at home, and who is your avow-e?" "saint mary abbey," said the monk, "though i be simple here." "in what offic-e?" said rob-in. "sir, the high cellarer." "ye be the more welcome," said rob-in, "so ever mote i thee. fill of the best wine," said rob-in, "this monk shall drink to me. but i have great marvel," said rob-in, "of all this long-e day, i dread our lady be wroth with me, she sent me not my pay." "have no doubt, master," said little john, "ye have no need i say, this monk it hath brought, i dare well swear, for he is of her abbay." "and she was a borow," said robin, "between a knight and me, of a little money that i him lent, under the green wood tree; and if thou hast that silver i-brought, i pray thee let me see, and i shall help thee eftsoons, if thou have need of me." the monk swore a full great oath, with a sorry cheer, "of the borowhood thou speakest to me, heard i never ere!" "i make mine avow to god," said robin, "monk, thou art to blame, for god is hold a righteous man, and so is his dame. thou toldest with thine own tongue, thou may not say nay, how that thou art her serv-ant and servest her every day, and thou art made her messenger, my money for to pay, therefore i con thee more thank, thou art come at thy day. what is in your coffers?" said robin, "true then tell thou me." "sir," he said, "twenty mark, all so mote i thee." "if there be no more," said robin, "i will not one penny; if thou hast mister of any more, sir, more i shall lend to thee; and if i find more," said robin, "i-wis thou shalt it forgone; for of thy spending silver, monk, thereof will i right none. go now forth, little john, and the truth tell thou me; if there be no more but twenty mark, no penny of that i see." little john spread his mantle down, as he had done before, and he told out of the monk-es mail, eight hundred pound and more. little john let it lie full still, and went to his master in haste; "sir," he said, "the monk is true enow, our lady hath doubled your cost." "i make mine avow to god," said robin, "monk, what told i thee? our lady is the truest woman, that ever yet found i me. by dere-worthy god," said robin, "to seek all england thorowe, yet found i never to my pay a much better borowe. fill of the best wine, do him drink," said robin; "and greet well thy lady hend, and if she have need of robin hood, a friend she shall him find; and if she needeth any more silv-er, come thou again to me, and, by this token she hath me sent, she shall have such three!" the monk was going to london ward, there to hold great mote, the knight that rode so high on horse, to bring him under foot. "whither be ye away?" said robin. "sir, to manors in this lond, to reckon with our rev-es, that have done much wrong." "come now forth, little john, and hearken to my tale, a better yeoman i know none, to search a monk-es mail. how much is in yonder other courser?" said robin, "the sooth must we see." "by our lady," then said the monk, "that were no courtes-y to bid a man to dinner, and sith him beat and bind." "it is our old manner," said rob-in, "to leave but little behind." the monk took the horse with spur, no longer would he abide. "ask to drink," then said rob-in, "ere that ye further ride." "nay, fore god," then said the monk, "me reweth i came so near, for better cheap i might have dined, in blyth or in doncastere." "greet well your abbot," said rob-in, "and your prior, i you pray, and bid him send me such a monk to dinner every day!" now let we that monk be still, and speak we of that knight, yet he came to hold his day while that it was light. he did him straight to barnisdale, under the green wood tree, and he found there robin hood, and all his merry meyn-e. the knight light downe of his good palfr-ey, rob-in when he gan see. so courteysly he did adown his hood, and set him on his knee. "god thee save, good robin hood, and all this company." "welcome be thou, gentle knight, and right welc-ome to me." then bespake him robin hood, to that knight so free, "what need driveth thee to green wood? i pray thee, sir knight, tell me. and welcome be thou, gentle knight, why hast thou be so long?" "for the abbot and the high justice would have had my lond." "hast thou thy land again?" said robin, "truth then tell thou me." "yea, fore god," said the knight, "and that thank i god and thee. but take not a grief," said the knight, "that i have been so long; i came by a wresteling, and there i did help a poor yeom-an, with wrong was put behind." "nay, fore god," said rob-in, "sir knight, that thank i thee; what man that helpeth a good yeom-an, his friend then will i be." "have here four hundred pound," then said the knight, "the which ye lent to me; and here is also twenty mark for your courtes-y." "nay, fore god," then said robin, "thou brook it well for aye, for our lady, by her cellarer, hath sent to me my pay; and if i took it twice, a shame it were to me: but truly, gentle knight, welc-ome art thou to me." when rob-in had told his tale, he laughed and had good cheer. "by my troth," then said the knight, "your money is ready here." "brook it well," said rob-in, "thou gentle knight so free; and welcome be thou, gentle knight, under my trystell tree. but what shall these bows do?" said robin, "and these arrows i-feathered free?" "it is," then said the knight, "a poor pres-ent to thee." "come now forth, little john, and go to my treasur-y, and bring me there four hundred pound, the monk over-told it to me. have here four hundred pound, thou gentle knight and true, and buy horse and harness good, and gild thy spurs all new: and if thou fail an-y spend-ing, come to robin hood, and by my troth thou shalt none fail the whiles i have any good. and brook well thy four hundred pound, which i lent to thee, and make thyself no more so bare, by the counsel of me." thus then holp him good rob-in, the knight of all his care. god, that sitteth in heaven high, grant us well to fare. the fifth fytte. now hath the knight his leave i-take, and went him on his way; robin hood and his merry men dwelled still full many a day. lithe and listen, gentle men, and hearken what i shall say, how the proud sheriff of nottingham did cry a full fair play; that all the best archers of the north should come upon a day, and they that shoot all of the best the game shall bear away. 'he that shooteth all of the best furthest fair and law, at a pair of fynly butts, under the green wood shaw, a right good arrow he shall have, the shaft of silver white, the head and the feathers of rich red gold, in england is none like.' this then heard good rob-in, under his trystell tree: "make you ready, ye wight young men, that shooting will i see. busk you, my merr-y young men, ye shall go with me; and i will wete the sheriff's faith, true an if he be." when they had their bows i-bent, their tackles feathered free, seven score of wight young men stood by robin's knee. when they came to nottingham, the butts were fair and long, many was the bold arch-er that shooted with bow-es strong. "there shall but six shoot with me, the other shall keep my head, and stand with good bow-es bent that i be not deceived." the fourth outlaw his bow gan bend, and that was robin hood, and that beheld the proud sher-iff, all by the butt he stood. thri-es robin shot about, and alway he cleft the wand, and so did good gilbert, with the whit-e hand. little john and good scathelock were archers good and free; little much and good reynold, the worst would they not be. when they had shot about, these archers fair and good, evermore was the best, for sooth, robin hood. him was delivered the good arr-ow, for best worthy was he; he took the gift so courteysly to green wood wold-e he. they cri-ed out on robin hood, and great horns gan they blow. "wo worth thee! treason!" said rob-in, "full evil thou art to know! and woe be thou, thou proud sher-iff, thus gladding thy guest, otherwise thou behot-e me in yonder wild for-est; but had i thee in green wood, under my trystell tree, thou shouldest leave me a better wed than thy true lewt-e." full many a bow there was bent, and arrows let they glide, many a kirtle there was rent, and hurt man-y a side. the outlaw-es shot was so strong, that no man might them drive, and the proud sherif-es men they fled away full blive. robin saw the busshement to-broke, in green wood he would have be, many an arrow there was shot among that company. little john was hurt full sore, with an arrow in his knee, that he might neither go nor ride: it was full great pit-e. "master," then said little john, "if ever thou lovest me, and for that ilk-e lord-es love, that died upon a tree, and for the meeds of my serv-ice, that i have serv-ed thee, let nev-er the proud sher-iff aliv-e now find me; but take out thy brown sword, and smite all off my head, and give me wound-es dead and wide, that i after eat no bread." "i wold-e not that," said rob-in, "john, that thou wer-e slawe, for all the gold in merry england, though it lay now on a rawe." "god forbid," said little much, "that died on a tree, that thou shouldest, little john, part our company!" up he took him on his back, and bare him well a mile, many a time he laid him down, and shot another while. then was there a fair cast-ell, a little within the wood, double-ditched it was about, and wall-ed, by the rood; and there dwelled that gentle knight, sir richard at the lee, that rob-in had lent his good, under the green wood tree. in he took good rob-in, and all his compan-y: "welcome be thou, robin hood, welc-ome art thou me; and much thank thee of thy comf-ort, and of thy courtesy, and of thy great kind-eness, under the green wood tree; i love no man in all this world so much as i do thee; for all the proud sheriff of nottingham, right here shalt thou be. shut the gates, and draw the bridge, and let no man come in; and arm you well, and make you read-y, and to the wall ye win. for one thing, rob-in, i thee behote, i swear by saint quin-tin, these twelve days thou wonest with me, to sup, eat, and dine." boards were laid, and cloth-es spread, readily and anon; robin hood and his merry men to meat gan they gon. the sixth fytte. lithe and listen, gentle men, and hearken unto your song; how the proud sheriff of nottingham, and men of arm-es strong, full fast came to the high sher-iff, the country up to rout, and they beset the knight's cast-ell, the wall-es all about. the proud sher-iff loud-e gan cry, and said, "thou traitor knight, thou keepest here the king's enemy, against the laws and right!" "sir, i will avow that i have done, the deeds that here be dight, upon all the land-es that i have, as i am a true knight. wend-e forth, sirs, on your way, and doth no more to me, till ye wite our king-es will what he will say to thee." the sheriff thus had his answ-er, without an-y leas-ing, forth he yode to london town, all for to tell our king. there he told him of that knight, and eke of robin hood, and also of the bold arch-ers, that noble were and good. "he would avow that he had done, to maintain the outlaws strong; he would be lord, and set you at nought, in all the north lond." "i will be at nottingham," said the king, "within this fortnight, and take i will robin hood, and so i will that knight. go home, thou proud sher-iff, and do as i bid thee, and ordain good arch-ers enow, of all the wide countree." the sheriff had his leave i-take, and went him on his way; and robin hood to green wood upon a certain day; and little john was whole of the arrow, that shot was in his knee, and did him straight to robin hood, under the green wood tree. robin hood walked in the for-est, under the leav-es green, the proud sher-iff of nottingham, therefore he had great teen. the sheriff there failed of robin hood, he might not have his prey, then he awaited that gentle knight, both by night and by day. ever he awaited that gentle knight, sir richard at the lee. as he went on hawking by the river side, and let his hawk-es flee, took he there this gentle knight, with men of arm-es strong, and led him home to nottingham ward, i-bound both foot and hond. the sheriff swore a full great oath, by him that died on a tree, he had liever than an hundred pound, that robin hood had he. then the lad-y, the knight-es wife, a fair lad-y and free, she set her on a good palfr-ey, to green wood anon rode she. when she came to the for-est, under the green wood tree, found-e she there robin hood, and all his fair meyn-e. "god thee save, good robin hood, and all thy compan-y; for our deare ladyes love, a boon grant thou to me. let thou never my wedded lord shamefully slain to be; he is fast i-bounde to nottingham ward, for the love of thee." anon then said good rob-in, to that lad-ye free, "what man hath your lord i-take?" "the proud sheriff," then said she. "forsooth as i thee say; he is not yet three mil-es pass-ed on your way." up then stert-e good rob-in, as a man that had be wode: "busk you, my merr-y young men, for him that died on a rode; and he that this sorrow forsaketh, by him that died on a tree, shall he never in green wood be, nor longer dwell with me." soon there were good bows i-bent, more than seven score, hedge ne ditch spar-ed they none, that was them before. "i make mine avow," said robin, "the knight would i fain see, and if i ma-y him take, iquit then shall he be." and when they came to nottingham, they walk-ed in the street, and with the proud sheriff, i-wis, soon-e gan they meet. "abide, thou proud sher-iff," he said, "abide and speak with me, of some tidings of our king, i would fain hear of thee. this seven year, by dere-worthy god, ne yede i so fast on foot, i make mine avow, thou proud sheriff, is not for thy good." robin bent a good bow-e, an arrow he drew at his will, he hit so the proud sher-iff, on the ground he lay full still; and ere he might up arise, on his feet to stand, he smote off the sheriff's head, with his bright brand. "lie thou there, thou proud sher-iff, evil mote thou thrive; there might no man to thee trust, the whiles thou were alive." his men drew out their bright swords that were so sharp and keen, and laid on the sher-iff's men, and drived them down bidene. robin stert to that knight, and cut atwo his band, and took him in his hand a bow, and bade him by him stand. "leav-e thy horse thee behind, and learn for to ren; thou shalt with me to green wood, through mire, moss, and fen; thou shalt with me to green wood, without an-y leas-ing, till that i have get us grace, of edward our comely king." the seventh fytte. the king came to nottingham, with knights in great array, for to take that gentle knight, and robin hood, if he may. he asked men of that countr-e, after robin hood, and after that gentle knight, that was so bold and stout. when they had told him the case, our king understood their tale, and seised in his hand the knight-es landes all, all the pass of lancashire, he went both far and near, till he came to plompton park, he failed many of his deer. where our king was wont to see herd-es many one he could unneth find one deer, that bare an-y good horn. the king was wonder wroth withal, and swore by the trinit-e, "i would i had robin hood, with eyen i might him see; and he that would smite off the knight-es head. and bring it to me, he shall have the knight-es lands, sir rychard at the lee; i give it him with my chart-er, and seal it with my hand, to have and hold for ever-more, in all merr-y engl-and." then bespake a fair old knight, that was true in his fay, "ah, my lieg-e lord the king, one word i shall you say: there is no man in this countr-y may have the knight-es lands, while robin hood may ride or gon, and bear a bow in his hands, that he ne shall lose his head, that is the best ball in his hood: give it no man, my lord the king, that ye will any good!" half a year dwelled our comely king, in nottingham, and well more, could he not hear of robin hood, in what country that he were; but alw-ay went good rob-in by halk and eke by hill, and alway slew the king-es deer, and welt them at his will. then bespake a proud forstere, that stood by our king's knee, "if ye will see good rob-in, ye must do after me. take five of the best knyght-es that be in your lede, and walk down by your abb-ey, and get you monk-es weed. and i will be your led-es man, and led-e you the way, and ere ye come to nottingham, mine head then dare i lay, that ye shall meet with good rob-in, alive if that he be, ere ye come to nottingham, with eyen ye shall him see." full hastily our king was dight, so were his knight-es five, each of them in monk-es weed, and hasted them thither blithe. our king was great above his cowl, a broad hat on his crown, right as he were abbot-like, they rode up into the town. stiff boots our king had on, forsooth as i you say, he rode sing-ing to green wood, the convent was clothed in gray, his mail horse, and his great som-ers, followed our king behind, till they came to green-e wood, a mile under the lind: there they met with good rob-in, standing on the way, and so did many a bold arch-er, for sooth as i you say. robin took the king-es horse, hastily in that stead, and said, "sir abbot, by your leave, a while ye must abide; we be yeom-en of this for-est, under the green wood tree, we live by our king-es deer, other shift have not we; and ye have churches and rent-es both, and gold full great plent-y; give us some of your spend-ing, for saint charity." than bespake our comely king, anon then said he, "i brought no more to green-e wood, but forty pound with me. i have lain at nottingham, this fortnight with our king, and spent i have full much good, on many a great lording; and i have but forty pound, no more then have i me; but if i had an hundred pound, i would give it to thee." robin took the forty pound, and departed it in two part-ye, halfendell he gave his merry men, and bade them merr-y to be. full courteously rob-in gan say, "sir, have this for your spend-ing, we shall meet another day." "gramerc-y," then said our king, "but well thee greeteth edw-ard our king, and sent to thee his seal, and biddeth thee come to nottingham, both to meat and meal." he took out the broad tarpe, and soon he let him see; robin coud his courtesy, and set him on his knee: "i love no man in all the world so well as i do my king, welcome is my lord-es seal; and, monk, for thy tid-ing, sir abbot, for thy tiding-es, to-day thou shalt dine with me, for the love of my king, under my trystell tree." forth he led our comely king, full fair by the hand, many a deer there was slain, and full fast dightand. robin took a full great horn, and loud he gan blow; seven score of wight young men, came ready on a row, all they kneel-ed on their knee, full fair before rob-in. the king said himself unto, and swore by saint austin, "here is a wonder seemly sight, me thinketh, by goddes pine; his men are more at his bidd-ing, than my men be at mine!" full hastily was their dinner i-dight, and thereto gan they gon, they served our king with all their might, both robin and little john. anon before our king was set the fatt-e venison, the good white bread, the good red wine, and thereto the fine ale brown. "mak-e good cheer," said rob-in, "abb-ot, for charit-y; and for this ilk-e tiding-e, bless-ed mote thou be. now shalt thou see what life we lead, or thou henn-es wend, then thou may inform our king, when ye together lend." up they stert all in haste, their bows were smartly bent, our king was never so sore agast, he weened to have be shent. two yard-es there were up set, thereto gan they gang; but fifty pace, our king said, the mark-es were too long. on every side a rose garl-and, they shot under the line. "whoso faileth of the rose garland," said robin, "his tackle he shall tine, and yield it to his master, be it never so fine,-- for no man will i spare, so drinke i ale or wine,-- and bear a buffet on his head i-wys right all bare." and all that fell in robin's lot, he smote them wonder sair. twi-es robin shot about, and ever he cleaved the wand, and so did good gilb-ert, with the lily white hand; little john and good scath-elock, for nothing would they spare, when they failed of the garl-and, robin smote them fall sair. at the last shot that robin shot, for all his friends fair, yet he failed of the garl-and, three fingers and mair. then bespak-e good gilb-ert, and thus he gan say, "master," he said, "your tackle is lost, stand forth and take your pay." "if it be so," said rob-in, "that may no better be: sir abbot, i deliver thee mine arrow, i pray thee, sir, serve thou me." "it falleth not for mine order," said our king; "robin, by thy leave, for to smite no good yeom-an, for doubt i should him grieve." "smite on boldly!" said rob-in, "i give thee larg-e leave." anon our king, with that word, he fold up his sleeve, and such a buffet he gave rob-in, to ground he yede full near. "i make mine avow to god," said robin, "thou art a stalworthy frere; there is pith in thine arm," said rob-in, "i trow thou canst well shoot!" thus our king and robin hood together then they met. robin beheld our comely king wistly in the face, so did sir richard at the lee, and kneeled down in that place; and so did all the wild outl-aws, when they see them kneel. "my lord the king of engl-and, now i know you well. merc-y," then robin said to our king, "under your trystal tree, of thy goodness and thy grace, for my men and me! yes, fore god," said robin, "and also god me save; i ask merc-y, my lord the king, and for my men i crave." "yes, fore god," then said our king, "thy petition i grant thee, with that thou leave the green wood, and all thy compan-y; and come home, sir, to my court, and there dwell with me." "i make mine avow," said rob-in, "and right so shall it be; i will come to your court, your service for to see, and bring with me of my men seven score and three. but me like well your serv-ice, i come again full soon, and shoot at the donn-e deer, as i am wont to doon." the eighth fytte. "hast thou any green cloth," said our king, "that thou wilt sell now to me?" "yea, fore god," said robin. "thirty yards and three." "robin," said our king, "now pray i thee, to sell me some of that cloth, to me and my meyn-e." "yes, fore god," then said rob-in, "or else i were a fool; another day ye will me clothe, i trow, against the yule." the king cast off his cot-e then, a green garment he did on, and every knight had so, i-wis, they cloth-ed them full soon. when they were clothed in lincoln green, they cast away their gray. now we shall to nottingham, all thus our king gan say. their bows they bent and forth they went, shooting all in-fere, toward the town of nottingham, outlaws as they were. our king and robin rode together, for sooth as i you say, and they shot pluck-buffet, as they went by the way; and many a buffet our king wan, of robin hood that day: and nothing spar-ed good rob-in our king in his pay. "so god me help-e," said our king, "thy name is nought to lere, i should not get a shot of thee, though i shot all this year." all the people of nottingham they stood and beheld, they saw nothing but mantles of green, they covered all the feld; then every man to other gan say, "i dread our king be slone; come robin hood to the town, i-wis, on live he leaveth not one." full hastily they began to flee, both yeomen and knaves, and old wives that might evil go, they hopp-ed on their staves. the king be lough full fast, and commanded them again; when they see our comely king, i-wis they were full fain. they ate and drank, and made them glad, and sang with not-es hie. then bespake our comely king to sir richard at the lee: he gave him there his land again, a good man he bade him be. robin thanked our comely king, and set him on his knee. had robin dwelled in the king's court but twelv-e months and three, that he had spent an hundred pound, and all his menn-es fee, in every place where robin came, ever more he laid down, both for knights and squires, to get him great renown. by then the year was all agone, he had no man but twain, little john and good scathlocke, with him all for to gane. robin saw yong-e men to shoot, full fair upon a day, "alas!" then said good rob-in, "my wealth is went away. sometime i was an archer good, a stiff and eke a strong, i was committed the best arch-er that was in merry englond. alas!" then said good rob-in, "alas and well away! if i dwell longer with the king, sorrow will me slay!" forth then went robin hood, till he came to our king: "my lord the king of englond, grant me mine ask-ing. i made a chapel in barnysdale, that seemly is to see, it is of mary magdalene, and thereto would i be; i might never in this seven-night, no time to sleep ne wink, neither all these seven days, neither eat ne drink. me longeth sore to barnysdale, i may not be therefro, barefoot and woolward i have hight thither for to go." "if it be so," then said our king, "it may no better be; seven-night i give thee leave, no longer, to dwell fro me." "gram-ercy, lord," then said rob-in, and set him on his knee; he took his leave full courteously, to green wood then went he. when he came to green-e wood, in a merr-y morning, there he heard the not-es small of bird-es merry sing-ing. "it is ferre gone," said rob-in, "that i was last here, me list a little for to shoot at the dunne deer." robin slew a full great hart, his horn then gan he blow, that all the outlaws of that for-est, that horn could they know, and gathered them together, in a little throw, seven score of wight young men, came ready on a row; and fair did off their hoods, and set them on their knee: "welcome," they said, "our mast-er, under this green wood tree!" robin dwelled in green wood, twenty year and two, for all dread of edward our king, again would he not go. yet he was beguiled, i-wis, through a wicked wom-an, the prioress of kirklees, that nigh was of his kin, for the love of a knight, sir roger of doncaster, that was her own special, full evil mote they thee, they took together their couns-el, robin hood for to sle, and how they might best do that deed, his banis for to be. then bespak-e good rob-in, in place whereas he stood, "to-morrow i must to kirklees, craftily to be letten blood." sir roger of doncaster, by the prioress he lay, and there they betrayed good robin hood, through their fals-e play. christ have mercy on his soul, that di-ed on the rood! for he was a good outlaw, and did poor men much good. king edward iv. and the tanner of tamworth. in summer time, when leaves grow green, and blossoms bedeck the tree, king edward would a hunting ride, some pastime for to see. with hawk and hound he made him boun, with horn, and eke with bow; to drayton basset he took his way, with all his lords arow. and he had ridden o'er dale and down by eight of clock in the day, when he was ware of a bold tann-er, come riding along the way. a fair russet coat the tanner had on, fast buttoned under his chin, and under him a good cow-hide, and a mare of four shill-ing. "now stand you still, my good lords all under the green wood spray; and i will wend to yonder fell-ow, to weet what he will say."-- "god speed, god speed thee," said our king.-- "thou art welcome, sir," said he.-- "the readiest way to drayton basset i pray thee to show to me."-- "to drayton basset wouldst thou go, fro the place where thou dost stand? the next pair of gallows thou comest unto turn in upon thy right hand."-- "that is an unready way," said our king, "thou doest but jest, i see; now show me out the nearest way, and i pray thee wend with me."-- "away with a vengeance!" quoth the tanner: "i hold thee out of thy wit: all day have i ridden on brock my mare, and i am fasting yet."-- "go with me down to drayton basset, no dainties we will spare; all day shalt thou eat and drink of the best, and i will pay thy fare."-- "gram-ercy for nothing," the tanner replied, "thou payest no fare of mine: i trow i've more nobles in my purse, than thou hast pence in thine."-- "god give thee joy of them," said the king, "and send them well to prief."-- the tanner would fain have been away, for he weened he had been a thief. "what art thou," he said, "thou fine fell-ow? of thee i am in great fear, for the clothes thou wearest upon thy back might beseem a lord to wear."-- "i never stole them," quoth our king, "i tell you, sir, by the rood."-- "then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, and standest in midst of thy good."-- "what tidings hear you," said the king. "as you ride far and near?"-- "i hear no tidings, sir, by the mass, but that cow-hides are dear."-- "cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? i marvel what they be!"-- "what, art thou a fool?" the tanner replied; "i carry one under me."-- "what craftsman art thou?" said the king, "i pray thee tell me trow."-- "i am a barker, sir, by my trade. now tell me what art thou?"-- "i am a poor courtier, sir," quoth he, "that am forth of service worn; and fain i would thy 'prentice be, thy cunning for to learn."-- "marry, heaven forfend," the tanner replied, "that thou my 'prentice were! thou'dst spend more good than i should win, by forty shilling a year."-- "yet one thing would i," said our king, "if thou wilt not seem strange: though my horse be better than thy mare, yet with thee i fain would change."-- "why, if with me thou fain wilt change, as change full well may we, by the faith of my body, thou proud fell-ow i will have some boot of thee."-- "that were against reason," said the king, "i swear, so mote i thee: my horse is better than thy mare, and that thou well may'st see."-- "yea, sir, but brock is gentle and mild, and softly she will fare; thy horse is unruly and wild, i-wis; aye skipping here and there."-- "what boot wilt thou have?" our king replied; "now tell me in this stound."-- "no pence, nor halfpence, by my fay, but a noble in gold so round."-- "here's twenty groats of white mon-ey, sith thou wilt have it of me."-- "i would have sworn now," quoth the tanner, "thou hadst not had one penni-e. "but since we two have made a change, a change we must abide; although thou hast gotten brock my mare, thou gettest not my cow-hide."-- "i will not have it," said the king, "i swear, so mote i thee; thy foul cow-hide i would not bear, if thou wouldst give it to me." the tanner he took his good cow-hide that of the cow was hilt; and threw it upon the king's sad-elle, that was so fairly gilt. "now help me up, thou fine fell-ow, 'tis time that i were gone: when i come home to gyllian my wife, she'll say i am a gentilmon." when the tanner he was in the king's sad-elle, and his foot in the stirrup was; he marvelled greatly in his mind, whether it were gold or brass. but when his steed saw the cow's tail wag, and eke the black cow-horn; he stamped, and stared, and away he ran, as the devil had him borne. the tanner he pulled, the tanner he sweat, and held by the pummel fast: at length the tanner came tumbling down; his neck he had well-nigh brast. "take thy horse again with a vengeance!" he said, "with me he shall not bide!"-- "my horse would have borne thee well enough, but he knew not of thy cow-hide. "yet if again thou fain wouldst change, as change full well may we, by the faith of my body, thou jolly tann-er, i will have some boot of thee."-- "what boot wilt thou have?" the tanner replied, "now tell me in this stound."-- "no pence nor halfpence, sir, by my fay, but i will have twenty pound."-- "here's twenty groats out of my purse; and twenty i have of thine: and i have one more, which we will spend together at the wine." the king set a bugle horn to his mouth, and blew both loud and shrill: and soon came lords, and soon came knights, fast riding over the hill. "now, out alas!" the tanner he cried, "that ever i saw this day! thou art a strong thief, yon come thy fell-ows will bear my cow-hide away!"-- "they are no thieves," the king replied, "i swear, so mote i thee: but they are the lords of the north countr-y, here come to hunt with me." and soon before our king they came, and knelt down on the ground: then might the tanner have been away, he had liever than twenty pound. "a collar, a collar, here!" said the king, "a collar!" he loud gan cry; then would he liever than twenty pound, he had not been so nigh. "a collar, a collar," the tanner he said, "i trow it will breed sorrow; after a collar cometh a halter, i trow i'll be hanged to-morrow."-- "be not afraid, tanner," said our king; "i tell thee, so mote i thee, lo here i make thee the best esquire that is in the north countrie. "for plumpton park i will give thee, with tenements fair beside: 'tis worth three hundred marks by the year, to maintain thy good cow-hide."-- "gram-ercy, my liege," the tanner replied "for the favour thou hast me shown; if ever thou comest to merry tam-worth, neat's leather shall clout thy shoon." sir patrick spens. the king sits in dumferling toune, drinking the blude-reid wine: "o whare will i get a skeely skipper to sail this new ship of mine?" up and spak an eldern knicht, sat at the king's right knee: "sir patrick spens is the best sail-or that ever sailed the sea." our king has written a braid letter, and sealed it with his hand; and sent it to sir patrick spens, was walking on the sand. "to noroway, to noroway, to noroway o'er the faem; the king's daughter of noroway, 'tis thou maun bring her hame." the first word that sir patrick read, a loud laugh laughed he: the neist word that sir patrick read, the tear blinded his ee. "o wha is this has done this deed, and tauld the king o' me; to send us out this time o' the year, to sail upon the sea? "be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, our ship must sail the faem, the king's daughter of noroway, 'tis we must fetch her hame." they hoysed their sails on monenday morn, wi' a' the speed they may; they hae landed in noroway, upon a wodensday. they hadna been a week, a week, in noroway, but twae, when that the lords o' noroway began aloud to say,-- "ye scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, and a' our queenis fee."-- "ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, fu' loud i hear ye lie; "for i brought as much white monie as gane my men and me, and i brought a half-fou of gude red goud, out o'er the sea wi' me. "make ready, make ready, my merry men a', our gude ship sails the morn!"-- "now, ever alack, my master dear, i fear a deadly storm! "i saw the new moon, late yestreen, wi' the auld moon in her arm; and if we gang to sea, master, i fear we'll come to harm." they hadna sailed a league, a league, a league but barely three, when the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, and gurly grew the sea. the ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, it was sic a deadly storm; and the waves cam o'er the broken ship, till a' her sides were torn. "o where will i get a gude sail-or to take my helm in hand, till i get up to the tall topmast to see if i can spy land?"-- "o here am i, a sailor gude, to take the helm in hand, till you go up to the tall topmast, but i fear you'll ne'er spy land." he hadna gane a step, a step, a step but barely ane, when a bolt flew out of our goodly ship, and the salt sea it came in. "gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, another o' the twine, and wap them into our ship's side, and let nae the sea come in." they fetched a web o' the silken claith, another o' the twine, and they wapped them round that gude ship's side, but still the sea cam in. o laith, laith, were our gude scots lords to wet their cork-heeled shoon! but lang or a' the play was played they wat their hats aboon. and mony was the feather bed that flattered on the faem; and mony was the gude lord's son that never mair cam hame. the ladies wrang their fingers white, the maidens tore their hair, a' for the sake of their true loves; for them they'll see nae mair. o lang, lang, may the ladies sit, wi' their fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand! and lang, lang, may the maidens sit, wi' their gold combs in their hair, awaiting for their ain dear loves! for them they'll see nae mair. o forty miles off aberdeen 'tis fifty fathoms deep, and there lies gude sir patrick spens, wi' the scots lords at his feet. edom o' gordon. it fell about the martinmas, when the wind blew shrill and cauld, said edom o' gordon to his men, "we maun draw till a hauld. "and what a hauld sall we draw till, my merry men and me? we wull gae to the house o' the rode, to see that fair lad-ie." the ladie stude on her castle wa', beheld baith dale and down: there she was ware of a host of men come riding towards the toun. "o see ye nat, my merry men a'? o see ye nat what i see? methinks i see a host of men: i marvel wha they be!" she weened it had been her luvely lord, as he came riding hame; it was the traitor edom o' gordon, wha recked nae sin nor shame. she had nae sooner buskit hersel, and putten on her goun, but edom o' gordon and his men were round about the toun. they had nae sooner supper set, nae sooner said the grace, but edom o' gordon and his men were light about the place. the lady ran up to her tower head, sae fast as she could hie, to see if by her fair speech-es she could wi' him agree. but whan he see this lady saif, and her gat-es all locked fast, he fell into a rage of wrath, and his look was all aghast. "come down to me, ye lady gay, come down, come down to me! this night sall ye lig within mine arms to-morrow my bride sall be."-- "i winna come down, ye false gord-on, i winna come down to thee; i winna forsake my ain dear lord, that is sae far frae me."-- "give o'er your house, ye lady fair, give o'er your house to me, or i sall bren yoursel therein, bot and your babies three."-- "i winna give o'er, ye false gord-on to nae sic traitor as ye; and if ye bren my ain dear babes, my lord sall make you dree. "but reach my pistol, glaud, my man, and charge ye weel my gun: for, but an i pierce that bluidy butcher my babes we been undone." she stude upon her castle wa', and let twa bullets flee: she missed that bluidy butcher's heart and only rased his knee. "set fire to the house!" quo' false gord-on, all wood wi' dule and ire: "false lady, ye sall rue this deed, as ye bren in the fire!"-- "wae worth, wae worth ye, jock my man, i paid ye weel your fee: why pu' ye out the ground-wa' stane, lets in the reek to me? "and e'en wae worth ye, jock my man, i paid ye weel your hire; why pu' ye out the ground-wa' stane, to me lets in the fire?"-- "ye paid me weel my hire, lady; ye paid me weel my fee; but now i'm edom o' gordon's man, maun either do or dee." o then bespake her little son, sate on the nurse's knee: says, "mither dear, gi'e o'er this house, for the reek it smithers me."-- "i wad gi'e a' my gowd, my child, sae wad i a' my fee, for ane blast o' the western wind to blaw the reek frae thee." o then bespake her dochter dear, she was baith jimp and sma', "o row me in a pair o' sheets, and tow me o'er the wa'." they rowd her in a pair o' sheets, and towd her o'er the wa': but on the point of gordon's spear she gat a deadly fa'. o bonnie bonnie was her mouth, and cherry were her cheeks, and clear clear was her yellow hair, whereon the reid bluid dreeps. then wi' his spear he turned her o'er,-- o gin her face was wan! he said, "ye are the first that e'er i wished alive again." he turned her o'er and o'er again,-- o gin her skin was white! "i might ha' spared that bonnie face to hae been some man's delite. "busk and boun, my merry men a', for ill dooms i do guess; i canna luik in that bonnie face, as it lies on the grass."-- "tham luiks to freits, my master dear, then freits will follow thame: let it neir be said brave edom o' gordon was daunted by a dame!"-- but when the ladie see the fire come flaming o'er her head, she wept and kissed her children twain, said, "bairns, we been but dead!" the gordon then his bugle blew, and said, "awa', awa'; this house o' the rodes is a' in flame, i hauld it time to ga'." o then bespied her ain dear lord, as he came o'er the lee; he spied his castle all in blaze sae far as he could see. then sair, o sair his mind misgave, and all his heart was wae; "put on! put on! my wighty men, so fast as ye can gae! "put on! put on! my wighty men, sae fast as ye can dree; for he that is hindmost of the thrang sall neir get guid o' me!" then some they rade, and some they rin, fou fast out-o'er the bent, but ere the foremost could get up, baith ladie and babes were brent. he wrang his hands, he rent his hair, and wept in teenefu' muid: "o traitors! for this cruel deed ye sall weep tears o' bluid!" and after the gordon he is gane, so fast as he might dree; and soon i' the gordon's foul heart's bluid he's wroken his dear ladie. the children in the wood. now ponder well, you parents dear, these words which i shall write; a doleful story you shall hear, in time brought forth to light. a gentleman of good account in norfolk dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate. sore sick he was, and like to die, no help his life could save; his wife by him as sick did lie, and both possessed one grave. no love between these two was lost, each was to other kind; in love they lived, in love they died, and left two babes behind: the one a fine and pretty boy, not passing three years old; the other a girl more young than he, and framed in beauty's mould. the father left his little son, as plainly doth appear, when he to perfect age should come, three hundred pounds a year. and to his little daughter jane five hundred pounds in gold, to be paid down on marriage-day, which might not be controlled: but if the children chance to die, ere they to age should come, their uncle should possess their wealth; for so the will did run. "now, brother," said the dying man, "look to my children dear; be good unto my boy and girl, no friends else have they here: to god and you i recommend my children dear this day; but little while be sure we have within this world to stay. "you must be father and mother both, and uncle all in one; god knows what will become of them, when i am dead and gone." with that bespake their mother dear, "o brother kind," quoth she, "you are the man must bring our babes to wealth or misery: "and if you keep them carefully, then god will you reward; but if you otherwise should deal, god will your deeds regard." with lips as cold as any stone, they kissed their children small: "god bless you both, my children dear!" with that the tears did fall. these speeches then their brother spake to this sick couple there,-- "the keeping of your little ones, sweet sister, do not fear: god never prosper me nor mine, nor aught else that i have, if i do wrong your children dear, when you are laid in grave!" the parents being dead and gone, the children home he takes, and brings them straight unto his house, where much of them he makes. he had not kept these pretty babes a twelvemonth and a day, but, for their wealth, he did devise to make them both away. he bargained with two ruffians strong, which were of furious mood, that they should take these children young, and slay them in a wood. he told his wife an artful tale, he would the children send to be brought up in fair lond-on, with one that was his friend. away then went those pretty babes, rejoicing at that tide, rejoicing with a merry mind, they should on cock-horse ride. they prate and prattle pleasantly, as they rode on the way, to those that should their butchers be, and work their lives' decay: so that the pretty speech they had, made murder's heart relent; and they that undertook the deed, full sore did now repent. yet one of them more hard of heart, did vow to do his charge, because the wretch that hir-ed him had paid him very large. the other won't agree thereto, so here they fall to strife; with one another they did fight, about the children's life: and he that was of mildest mood, did slay the other there, within an unfrequented wood; the babes did quake for fear! he took the children by the hand, tears standing in their eye, and bade them straightway follow him, and look they did not cry: and two long miles he led them on, while they for food complain: "stay here," quoth he, "i'll bring you bread, when i come back again." these pretty babes, with hand in hand, went wandering up and down; but never more could see the man approaching from the town: their pretty lips with black-berries, were all besmeared and dyed; and when they saw the darksome night, they sat them down and cried. thus wandered these poor innocents, till death did end their grief; in one another's arms they died, as wanting due relief: no burial this pretty pair of any man receives, till robin-red-breast piously did cover them with leaves. and now the heavy wrath of god upon their uncle fell; yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, his conscience felt an hell: his barns were fired, his goods consumed, his lands were barren made, his cattle died within the field, and nothing with him staid. and in a voyage to portugal two of his sons did die; and to conclude, himself was brought to want and miser-y: he pawned and mortgaged all his land ere seven years came about; and now at length this wicked act did by this means come out: the fellow that did take in hand these children for to kill, was for a robbery judged to die; such was god's blessed will; who did confess the very truth, as here hath been displayed: their uncle having died in gaol, where he for debt was laid. you that executors be made, and overse-ers eke of children that be fatherless and infants mild and meek; take you example by this thing, and yield to each his right, lest god with such like misery your wicked minds requite. the beggar's daughter of bethnal green. part the first. it was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, he had a fair daughter of beauty most bright; and many a gallant brave suitor had she, for none was so comely as pretty bessee. and though she was truly of favour most fair, yet seeing she was but a poor beggar's heir, of ancient housekeepers despis-ed was she, whose sons came as suitors to pretty bessee. wherefore in great sorrow fair bessy did say, "good father, and mother, let me go away to seek out my fortune, whatever it be." this suit then they granted to pretty bessee. then bessy, that was of a beauty so bright, all clad in grey russet, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted she; who sigh-ed and sobb-ed for pretty bessee. she went till she came into stratford-le-bow; then knew she not whither, nor which way to go: with tears she lamented her hard destin-ie, so sad and so heavy was pretty bessee. she kept on her journey until it was day, and went unto rumford along the highway; where at the queen's arms entertain-ed was she: so fair and well-favoured was pretty bessee. she had not been there a month to an end, but master and mistress and all was her friend: and every brave gallant, that once did her see, was straightway enamoured of pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daily her love was extolled; her beauty was blaz-ed in every degree, so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy; she showed herself courteous, and modestly coy, and at her command-ement still would they be; so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. four suitors at once unto her did go; they crav-ed her favour, but still she said no; i would not wish gentles to marry with me; yet ever they honour-ed pretty bessee. the first of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguised in the night: the second a gentleman of good degree, who woo-ed and su-ed for pretty bessee: a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, he was the third suitor, and proper withal: her master's own son the fourth man must be, who swore he would die for pretty bessee. "and, if thou wilt marry with me," quoth the knight, "i'll make thee a lady with joy and delight; my heart's so inthrall-ed by thy beaut-ie, that soon i shall die for pretty bessee." the gentleman said, "come, marry with me, as fine as a lady my bessy shall be: my life is distress-ed: o hear me," quoth he; "and grant me thy love, my pretty bessee." "let me be thy husband," the merchant could say, "thou shalt live in london both gallant and gay; my ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee." then bessy she sigh-ed, and thus she did say, "my father and mother i mean to obey; first get their good will, and be faithful to me, and you shall enjoy your pretty bessee." to every one this answer she made, wherefore unto her they joyfully said,-- "this thing to fulfil we all do agree: but where dwells thy father, my pretty bessee?" "my father," she said, "is soon to be seen: the seely blind beggar of bethnal green, that daily sits begging for charit-ie, he is the good father of pretty bessee." "his marks and his tokens are known very well; he always is led with a dog and a bell: a seely old man, god knoweth, is he, yet he is the father of pretty bessee." "nay then," quoth the merchant, "thou art not for me:" "nor," quoth the innholder, "my wife thou shalt be:" "i loathe," said the gentle, "a beggar's degree, and therefore adieu, my pretty bessee!" "why then," quoth the knight, "hap better or worse, i weigh not true love by the weight of the purse, and beauty is beauty in every degree; then welcome unto me, my pretty bessee: "with thee to thy father forthwith i will go." "nay soft," quoth his kinsmen, "it must not be so; a poor beggar's daughter no lady shall be; then take thy adieu of pretty bessee." but soon after this, by the break of the day, the knight had from rumford stole bessy away. the young men of rumford, as thick as might be, rode after to fetch again pretty bessee. as swift as the wind to ride they were seen, until they came near unto bethnal green; and as the knight lighted most courteouslie, they all fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescue came speedily over the plain, or else the young knight for his love had been slain. this fray being ended, then straightway he see his kinsmen come railing at pretty bessee. then spake the blind beggar, "although i be poor, yet rail not against my child at my own door: though she be not deck-ed in velvet and pearl, yet will i drop angels with you for my girl. "and then, if my gold may better her birth, and equal the gold that you lay on the earth, then neither rail nor grudge you to see the blind beggar's daughter a lady to be. "but first you shall promise, and have it well known, the gold that you drop shall all be your own." with that they repli-ed, "contented be we." "then here's," quoth the beggar, "for pretty bessee!" and with that an angel he cast on the ground, and dropp-ed in angels full three thousand pound; and oftentimes it was prov-ed most plain, for the gentlemen's one the beggar dropped twain: so that the place, wherein they did sit, with gold it was cover-ed every whit. the gentlemen then having dropt all their store, said, "now, beggar, hold; for we have no more. "thou hast fulfill-ed thy promise aright." "then marry," quoth he, "my girl to this knight; and here," added he, "i will now throw you down a hundred pounds more to buy her a gown." the gentlemen all, that this treasure had seen, admir-ed the beggar of bethnal green: and all those, that were her suitors before, their flesh for very anger they tore. thus the fair bess was matched to the knight, and then made a lady in others' despite: a fairer lady there never was seen than the blind beggar's daughter of bethnal green. but of their sumptuous marriage and feast, what brave lords and knights thither were prest, the second fitt shall set forth to your sight with marvellous pleasure, and wish-ed delight. the second fytte. of a blind beggar's daughter most bright, that late was betroth-ed unto a young knight; all the discourse thereof you did see; but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. within a gorgeous palace most brave, adorn-ed with all the cost they could have, this wedding was kept most sumptuousl-ie, and all for the credit of pretty bessee. all kind of dainties, and delicates sweet were bought for the banquet, as it was most meet; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. this marriage through england was spread by report, so that a great number thereto did resort of nobles and gentles in every degree; and all for the fame of pretty bessee. to church then went this gallant young knight, his bride followed after, an angel most bright, with gay troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen as went with sweet bessy of bethnal green. this marriage being sol-emniz-ed then, with music performed by the skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sate down at that tide, each one admiring the beautiful bride. now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talk and to reason a number begun; they talked of the blind beggar's daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spake the nobles, "much marvel have we, this jolly blind beggar we cannot here see." "my lords," quoth the bride, "my father's so base, he is loth with his presence these states to disgrace." "the praise of a woman in question to bring before her own face, were a flattering thing; but we think thy father's baseness," quoth they, "might by thy beauty be clean put away." they had no sooner these pleasant words spoke, but in comes the beggar clad in a silk cloak; a fair velvet cap and a feather had he, and now a musician forsooth he would be. he had a dainty lute under his arm, he touch-ed the strings, which made such a charm, says, "please you to hear any music of me, i'll sing you a song of pretty bessee." with that his lute he twang-ed straightway, and thereon began most sweetly to play; and after that lessons were played two or three, he strained out this song most delicatel-ie. "a poor beggar's daughter did dwell on a green, who for her fairness might well be a queen: a blithe bonny lass, and a dainty was she, and many one call-ed her pretty bessee. "her father he had no goods, nor no land, but begged for a penny all day with his hand; and yet to her marriage he gave thousands three, and still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee. "and if any one here her birth do disdain, her father is ready, with might and with main, to prove she is come of a noble degree, therefore never flout at pretty bessee." with that the lords and the company round with hearty laughter were ready to swound. at last said the lords, "full well we may see, the bride and the beggar's beholden to thee." on this the bride all blushing did rise, the pearly drops standing within her fair eyes. "o pardon my father, grave nobles," quoth she, "that through blind affection thus doteth on me." "if this be thy father," the nobles did say, "well may he be proud of this happy day; yet by his countenance well may we see, his birth and his fortune did never agree: "and therefore, blind man, we bid thee bewray, (and look that the truth thou to us do say) thy birth and thy parentage, what it may be; for the love that thou bearest to pretty bessee." "then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, one song more to sing, and then i have done; and if that it may not win good report, then do not give me a groat for my sport. "sir simon de montfort my subject shall be; once chief of all the great barons was he, yet fortune so cruel this lord did abase, now lost and forgotten are he and his race. "when the barons in arms did king henry oppose, sir simon de montfort their leader they chose; a leader of courage undaunted was he, and oft-times he made their bold enemies flee. "at length in the battle on evesham plain, the barons were routed, and montfort was slain; most fatal that battle did prove unto thee, though thou wast not born then, my pretty bessee! "along with the nobles, that fell at that tide, his eldest son henry, who fought by his side, was felled by a blow he received in the fight: a blow that deprived him for ever of sight. "among the dead bodies all lifeless he lay, till evening drew on of the following day. when by a young lady discovered was he; and this was thy mother, my pretty bessee! "a baron's fair daughter stept forth in the night to search for her father, who fell in the fight, and seeing young montfort, where gasping he lay, was mov-ed with pity, and brought him away. "in secret she nursed him, and swag-ed his pain, while he through the realm was believed to be slain: at length his fair bride she consented to be, and made him glad father of pretty bessee. "and now, lest our foes our lives should betray, we cloth-ed ourselves in beggar's array; her jewels she sold, and hither came we: all our comfort and care was our pretty bessee. "and here have we liv-ed in fortune's despite, though poor, yet contented with humble delight: full forty winters thus have i been a silly blind beggar of bethnal green. "and here noble lord-es, is ended the song of one that once to your own rank did belong: and thus have you learn-ed a secret from me, that ne'er had been known but for pretty bessee." now when the fair company every one, had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown, they all were amaz-ed, as well they might be, both at the blind beggar, and pretty bessee. with that the fair bride they all did embrace, saying, "sure thou art come of an honourable race, thy father likewise is of noble degree, and thou art well worthy a lady to be." thus was the feast ended with joy and delight, a bridegroom most happy then was the young knight, in joy and felicity long liv-ed he, all with his fair lady, the pretty bessee. the bailiff's daughter of islington. there was a youth, and a well-beloved youth, and he was a squire's son: he loved the bailiffs daughter dear, that lived in islington. yet she was coy, and would not believe that he did love her so; no, nor at any time would she any countenance to him show. but when his friends did understand his fond and foolish mind, they sent him up to fair lond-on an apprentice for to bind. and when he had been seven long years, and never his love could see: "many a tear have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of me." then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and play, all but the bailiff's daughter dear; she secretly stole away. she pull-ed off her gown of green, and put on ragged attire, and to fair london she would go her true love to inquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and dry, she sat her down upon a green bank, and her true love came riding by. she started up, with a colour so red, catching hold of his bridle-rein; "one penny, one penny, kind sir," she said, "will ease me of much pain."-- "before i give you one penny, sweetheart, pray tell me where you were born."-- "at islington, kind sir," said she, "where i have had many a scorn."-- "i pr'ythee, sweetheart, then tell to me, o tell me, whether you know the bailiffs daughter of islington."-- "she is dead, sir, long ago."-- "if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will into some far countrie, where no man shall me know."-- "o stay, o stay, thou goodly youth, she standeth by thy side: she is here alive, she is not dead,-- and ready to be thy bride."-- "o farewell grief, and welcome joy, ten thousand times therefore! for now i have found mine own true love, whom i thought i should never see more." barbara allen's cruelty. in scarlet town, where i was born, there was a fair maid dwellin', made every youth cry, well away! her name was barbara allen. all in the merry month of may, when green buds they were swellin', young jemmy grove on his death-bed lay for love of barbara allen. he sent his man unto her then, to the town where she was dwellin'; "you must come to my master dear, gif your name be barbara allen. "for death is printed on his face, and o'er his heart is stealin': then haste away to comfort him, o lovely barbara allen." though death be printed on his face and o'er his heart is stealin', yet little better shall he be for bonny barbara allen. so slowly, slowly, she came up, and slowly she came nigh him; and all she said, when there she came, "young man, i think y'are dying." he turned his face unto her straight, with deadly sorrow sighing; "o lovely maid, come pity me, i'm on my deathbed lying."-- "if on your deathbed you do lie, what needs the tale you are tellin'; i cannot keep you from your death: farewell," said barbara allen. he turned his face unto the wall, as deadly pangs he fell in: "adieu! adieu! adieu to you all! adieu to barbara allen!" as she was walking o'er the fields, she heard the bell a knellin'; and every stroke did seem to say,-- unworthy barbara allen. she turned her body round about, and spied the corpse a coming: "lay down, lay down the corpse," she said, "that i may look upon him." with scornful eye she look-ed down, her cheek with laughter swellin'; whilst all her friends cried out amain, unworthy barbara allen. when he was dead, and laid in grave, her heart was struck with sorrow, "o mother, mother, make my bed, for i shall die to-morrow! "hard-hearted creature him to slight, who lov-ed me so dearly: o that i had been more kind to him, when he was alive and near me!" she, on her deathbed as she lay, begged to be buried by him; and sore repented of the day, that she did e'er deny him. "farewell," she said, "ye maidens all, and shun the fault i fell in: henceforth take warning by the fall of cruel barbara allen." sweet william's ghost. there came a ghost to margaret's door, with many a grievous groan, and aye he tirl-ed at the pin; but answer made she none. "is this my father philip? or is't my brother john? or is't my true love willie, from scotland new come home?" "'tis not thy father philip; nor yet thy brother john: but 'tis thy true love willie from scotland new come home. "o sweet margret! o dear margret! i pray thee speak to me: give me my faith and troth, margret, as i gave it to thee." "thy faith and troth thou'se never get, of me shalt never win, till that thou come within my bower, and kiss my cheek and chin." "if i should come within thy bower, i am no earthly man: and should i kiss thy rosy lip, thy days will not be lang. "o sweet margret, o dear margret, i pray thee speak to me: give me my faith and troth, margret, as i gave it to thee."-- "thy faith and troth thou'se never get, of me shalt never win, till thou take me to yon kirkyard, and wed me with a ring."-- "my bones are buried in a kirkyard afar beyond the sea, and it is but my sprite, margret, that's speaking now to thee." she stretch-ed out her lily-white hand, as for to do her best: "hae there your faith and troth, willie, god send your soul good rest!" now she has kilted her robes of green, a piece below her knee: and a' the live-lang winter night the dead corpse followed she. "is there any room at your head, willie? or any room at your feet? or any room at your side, willie, wherein that i may creep?" "there's nae room at my head, margret, there's nae room at my feet, there's nae room at my side, margret, my coffin is made so meet." then up and crew the red red cock, and up then crew the gray: "'tis time, 'tis time, my dear margret, that i were gane away." no more the ghost to margret said, but, with a grievous groan, evanished in a cloud of mist, and left her all alone. "o stay, my only true love, stay!" the constant margret cried: wan grew her cheeks, she closed her een, stretched her saft limbs, and died. the braes o' yarrow. ten lords sat drinking at the wine, intill a morning early; there fell a combat them among, it must be fought,--nae parly. --"o stay at hame, my ain gude lord, o stay, my ain dear marrow."-- "sweetest mine, i will be thine, and dine wi' you to-morrow." she's kissed his lips, and combed his hair, as she had done before, o; gied him a brand down by his side, and he is on to yarrow. as he gaed ower yon dowie knowe, as aft he'd dune before, o; nine arm-ed men lay in a den, upo' the braes o' yarrow. "o came ye here to hunt or hawk, as ye hae done before, o? or came ye here to wiel' your brand, upo' the braes o' yarrow."-- "i came nae here to hunt nor hawk, as i hae dune before, o; but i came here to wiel' my brand, upon the braes o' yarrow."-- four he hurt, and five he slew, till down he fell himsell, o; there stood a fause lord him behin', who thrust him thro' body and mell, o. "gae hame, gae hame, my brother john, and tell your sister sorrow; your mother to come take up her son, aff o' the braes o' yarrow." as he gaed ower yon high, high hill, as he had dune before, o; there he met his sister dear, came rinnin' fast to yarrow. "i dreamt a dream last night," she says, "i wish it binna sorrow; i dreamt i was pu'ing the heather green, upo' the braes o' yarrow."-- "i'll read your dream, sister," he says, "i'll read it into sorrow; ye're bidden gae take up your love, he's sleeping sound on yarrow." she's torn the ribbons frae her head, they were baith thick and narrow; she's kilted up her green claithing, and she's awa' to yarrow. she's taen him in her arms twa, and gien him kisses thorough, and wi' her tears she bathed his wounds, upo' the braes o' yarrow. her father looking ower his castle wa', beheld his daughter's sorrow; "o haud yer tongue, daughter," he says, "and let be a' your sorrow; i'll wed you wi' a better lord, than he that died on yarrow."-- "o haud your tongue, father," she says, "and let be till to-morrow; a better lord there coudna be than he that died on yarrow." she kissed his lips, and combed his hair, as she had dune before, o; then wi' a crack her heart did brack upon the braes o' yarrow. kemp owyne. her mother died when she was young, which gave her cause to make great moan; her father married the warst woman that ever lived in christendom. she serv-ed her with foot and hand, in every thing that she could dee; till once in an unlucky time, she threw her in ower craigy's sea. says, "lie you there, dove isabel, and all my sorrows lie with thee; till kemp owyne come ower the sea, and borrow you with kisses three, let all the warld do what they will, oh! borrowed shall you never be." her breath grew strang, her hair grew lang, and twisted thrice about the tree; and all the people far and near, thought that a savage beast was she; these news did come to kemp owyne, where he lived far beyond the sea. he hasted him to craigy's sea, and on the savage beast looked he; her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted was about the tree; and with a swing she came about, "come to craigy's sea and kiss with me. "here is a royal belt," she cried, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your body it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me tail or fin, i vow my belt your death shall be." he stepp-ed in, gave her a kiss, the royal belt he brought him wi' her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted twice about the tree; and with a swing she came about, "come to craigy's sea and kiss with me. "here is a royal ring," she said, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your finger it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me tail or fin, i swear my ring your death shall be." he stepp-ed in, gave her a kiss, the royal ring he brought him wi'; her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted ance about the tree; and with a swing she came about, "come to craigy's sea and kiss with me. "here is a royal brand," she said, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your body it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me tail or fin, i swear my brand your death shall be." he stepp-ed in, gave her a kiss, the royal brand he brought him wi'; her breath was sweet, her hair grew short, and twisted nane about the tree: and smilingly she came about, as fair a woman, as fair could be. o'er the water to charlie. as i came by the shore o' forth, and in by the craigs o' bernie; there i spied a ship on the sea, and the skipper o' her was charlie. o'er the water, and o'er the sea, o'er the water to charlie; i'll gie john ross another bawbie, to boat me o'er to charlie. charlie keeps nae needles nor pins, and charlie keeps nae trappin'; but charlie keeps twa bonnie black een, would haud the lasses waukin'. o'er the water, and o'er the sea, o'er the water to charlie; i'll gie john ross another bawbie, to boat me o'er to charlie. o charlie is neither laird nor lord, nor charlie is a caddie; but charlie has twa bonnie red cheeks, and he's my juggler laddie. o'er the water, and o'er the sea, o'er the water to charlie; i'll gie john ross another bawbie, to boat me o'er to charlie. a pinch o' snuff to poison the whigs, a gill o' geneva to drown them; and he that winna drink charlie's health, may roaring seas surround him. o'er the water, and o'er the sea, and o'er the water to charlie; i'll gie john brown another half-crown, to boat me o'er to charlie. admiral hosier's ghost. as near porto-bello lying on the gently swelling flood, at midnight with streamers flying our triumphant navy rode; there while vernon sate all-glorious from the spaniards' late defeat: and his crews, with shouts victorious, drank success to england's fleet: on a sudden shrilly sounding, hideous yells and shrieks were heard; then each heart with fear confounding, a sad troop of ghosts appeared, all in dreary hammocks shrouded, which for winding-sheets they wore, and with looks by sorrow clouded frowning on that hostile shore. on them gleamed the moon's wan lustre, when the shade of hosier brave his pale bands were seen to muster rising from their watery grave. o'er the glimmering wave he hied him, where the burford reared her sail, with three thousand ghosts beside him, and in groans did vernon hail. "heed, oh heed our fatal story; i am hosier's injured ghost, you who now have purchased glory at this place where i was lost! though in porto-bello's ruin you now triumph free from fears, when you think on our undoing, you will mix your joy with tears. "see these mournful spectres sweeping ghastly o'er this hated wave, whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; these were english captains brave. mark those numbers pale and horrid, those were once my sailors bold: lo, each hangs his drooping forehead while his dismal tale is told. "i, by twenty sail attended, did this spanish town affright; nothing then its wealth defended but my orders not to fight. oh! that in this rolling ocean i had cast them with disdain, and obeyed my heart's warm motion to have quelled the pride of spain! "for resistance i could fear none, but with twenty ships had done what thou, brave and happy vernon hast achieved with six alone. then the bastimentos never had our foul dishonour seen; nor the sea the sad receiver of this gallant train had been. "thus, like thee, proud spain dismaying, and her galleons leading home, though condemned for disobeying, i had met a traitor's doom, to have fallen, my country crying he has played an english part; had been better far than dying of a grieved and broken heart. "unrepining at thy glory, thy successful arms we hail; but remember our sad story, and let hosier's wrongs prevail. sent in this foul clime to languish, think what thousands fell in vain, wasted with disease and anguish, not in glorious battle slain. "hence with all my train attending from their oozy tombs below, through the hoary foam ascending, here i feed my constant woe: here the bastimentos viewing, we recall our shameful doom, and our plaintive cries renewing, wander through the midnight gloom. "o'er these waves for ever mourning shall we roam deprived of rest, if to britain's shores returning you neglect my just request; after this proud foe subduing, when your patriot friends you see, think on vengeance for my ruin, and for england shamed in me." jemmy dawson. come listen to my mournful tale, ye tender hearts, and lovers dear; nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, nor will you blush to shed a tear. and thou, dear kitty, peerless maid, do thou a pensive ear incline; for thou canst weep at every woe, and pity every plaint but mine. young dawson was a gallant youth, a brighter never trod the plain; and well he loved one charming maid, and dearly was he loved again. one tender maid she loved him dear, of gentle blood the damsel came, and faultless was her beauteous form, and spotless was her virgin fame. but curse on party's hateful strife, that led the faithful youth astray the day the rebel clans appeared: oh had he never seen that day! their colours and their sash he wore, and in the fatal dress was found; and now he must that death endure, which gives the brave the keenest wound. how pale was then his true love's cheek, when jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! for never yet did alpine snows so pale nor yet so chill appear. with faltering voice she weeping said, "oh, dawson, monarch of my heart, think not thy death shall end our loves, for thou and i will never part. "yet might sweet mercy find a place, and bring relief to jemmy's woes, o george, without a prayer for thee my orisons should never close. "the gracious prince that gives him life would crown a never-dying flame, and every tender babe i bore should learn to lisp the giver's name. "but though, dear youth, thou should'st be dragged to yonder ignominious tree, thou shalt not want a faithful friend to share thy bitter fate with thee." o then her mourning-coach was called, the sledge moved slowly on before; though borne in a triumphal car, she had not loved her favourite more. she followed him, prepared to view the terrible behests of law; and the last scene of jemmy's woes with calm and stedfast eye she saw. distorted was that blooming face, which she had fondly loved so long: and stifled was that tuneful breath, which in her praise had sweetly sung: and severed was that beauteous neck, round which her arms had fondly closed: and mangled was that beauteous breast, on which her love-sick head reposed: and ravished was that constant heart, she did to every heart prefer; for though it could his king forget, 'twas true and loyal still to her. amid those unrelenting flames she bore this constant heart to see; but when 'twas mouldered into dust, "now, now," she cried, "i'll follow thee. "my death, my death alone can show the pure and lasting love i bore: accept, o heaven, of woes like ours, and let us, let us weep no more." the dismal scene was o'er and past, the lover's mournful hearse retired; the maid drew back her languid head, and sighing forth his name expired. though justice ever must prevail, the tear my kitty sheds is due; for seldom shall she hear a tale so sad, so tender, and so true. william and margaret. 'twas at the silent, solemn hour when night and morning meet; in glided margaret's grimly ghost and stood at william's feet. her face was like an april morn, clad in a wintry cloud: and clay-cold was her lily-hand, that held her sable shroud. so shall the fairest face appear, when youth and years are flown: such is the robe that kings must wear, when death has reft their crown. her bloom was like the springing flower, that sips the silver dew; the rose was budded in her cheek, just opening to the view. but love had, like the canker-worm, consumed her early prime: the rose grew pale, and left her cheek; she died before her time. "awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls, come from her midnight grave; now let thy pity hear the maid thy love refused to save. "this is the dumb and dreary hour when injured ghosts complain; when yawning graves give up their dead to haunt the faithless swain. "bethink thee, william, of thy fault, thy pledge and broken oath: and give me back my maiden vow, and give me back my troth. "why did you promise love to me, and not that promise keep? why did you swear my eyes were bright, yet leave those eyes to weep? "how could you say my face was fair, and yet that face forsake? how could you win my virgin heart, yet leave that heart to break? "why did you say my lip was sweet, and made the scarlet pale? and why did i, young witless maid! believe the flattering tale? "that face, alas! no more is fair; those lips no longer red: dark are my eyes, now closed in death, and every charm is fled. "the hungry worm my sister is; this winding sheet i wear: and cold and weary lasts our night, till that last morn appear. "but hark! the cock has warned me hence; a long and late adieu! come, see, false man, how low she lies, who died for love of you." the lark sung loud; the morning smiled, with beams of rosy red: pale william quaked in every limb, and raving left his bed. he hied him to the fatal place where margaret's body lay: and stretched him on the grass-green turf that wrapped her breathless clay. and thrice he called on margaret's name, and thrice he wept full sore: then laid his cheek to her cold grave, and word spoke never more. elfinland wood. erl william has muntit his gude grai stede, (merrie lemis munelicht on the sea,) and graithit him in ane cumli weid, (swa bonilie blumis the hawthorn tree.) erl william rade, erl william ran,-- (fast they ryde quha luve trewlie,) quhyll the elfinland wud that gude erl wan-- (blink ower the burn, sweit may, to mee.) elfinland wud is dern and dreir, (merrie is the grai gowkis sang,) but ilk ane leaf is quhyt as silver cleir, (licht makis schoirt the road swa lang.) it is undirnith ane braid aik tree, (hey and a lo, as the leavis grow grein,) thair is kythit ane bricht ladie, (manie flouris blume quhilk ar nocht seen.) around hir slepis the quhyte muneschyne, (meik is mayden undir kell,) her lips bin lyke the blude reid wyne; (the rois of flouris hes sweitest smell.) it was al bricht quhare that ladie stude, (far my luve fure ower the sea.) bot dern is the lave of elfinland wud, (the knicht pruvit false that ance luvit me.) the ladie's handis were quhyte als milk, (ringis my luve wore mair nor ane.) her skin was safter nor the silk; (lilly bricht schinis my luvis halse bane.) save you, save you, fayr ladie, (gentil hert schawis gentil deed.) standand alane undir this auld tree; (deir till knicht is nobil steid.) burdalane, if ye dwall here, (my hert is layed upon this land.) i wuld like to live your fere; (the schippis cum sailin to the strand.) nevir ane word that ladie sayd; (schortest rede hes least to mend.) bot on hir harp she evir playd; (thare nevir was mirth that had nocht end.) gang ye eist, or fare ye wast, (ilka stern blinkis blythe for thee,) or tak ye the road that ye like best, (al trew feeris ryde in cumpanie.) erl william loutit doun full lowe. (luvis first seid bin courtesie.) and swung hir owir his saddil bow, (ryde quha listis, ye'll link with mee.) scho flang her harp on that auld tree, (the wynd pruvis aye ane harpir gude.) and it gave out its music free; (birdis sing blythe in gay green wud.) the harp playde on its leeful lane, (lang is my luvis yellow hair.) quhill it has charmit stock and stane, (furth by firth, deir lady fare.) quhan scho was muntit him behynd, (blyth be hertis quhilkis luve ilk uthir,) awa thai flew like flaucht of wind; (kin kens kin, and bairnis thair mither.) nevir ane word that ladie spak; (mim be maydens men besyde.) but that stout steid did nicher and schaik; (small thingis humbil hertis of pryde.) about his breist scho plet her handis; (luvand be maydens quhan thai lyke.) bot they were cauld as yron bandis. (the winter bauld bindis sheuch and syke.) your handis ar cauld, fayr ladie, sayd hee, (the caulder hand the trewer hairt.) i trembil als the leif on the tree; (licht caussis muve ald friendis to pairt.) lap your mantil owir your heid, (my luve was clad in the red scarlett,) and spredd your kirtil owir my stede; (thair nevir was joie that had nae lett.) the ladie scho wald nocht dispute; (nocht woman is scho that laikis ane tung.) but caulder her fingeris about him cruik. (some sangis ar writt, bot nevir sung.) this elfinland wud will neir haif end; (hunt quha listis, daylicht for mee.) i wuld i culd ane strang bow bend, (al undirneth the grene wood tree.) thai rade up, and they rade doun (wearilie wearis wan nicht away.) erl william's heart mair cauld is grown; (hey, luve mine, quhan dawis the day?) your hand lies cauld on my breist-bane, (smal hand hes my ladie fair,) my horss he can nocht stand his lane, (for cauldness of this midnicht air.) erl william turnit his heid about; (the braid mune schinis in lift richt cleir.) twa elfin een are glentin owt, (my luvis een like twa sternis appere.) twa brennand eyne, sua bricht and full, (bonnilie blinkis my ladeis ee,) flang fire flaughtis fra ane peelit skull; (sum sichts ar ugsomlyk to see.) twa rawis of quhyt teeth then did say, (cauld the boysteous windis sal blaw,) oh, lang and weary is our way, (and donkir yet the dew maun fa'.) far owir mure, and far owir fell, (hark the sounding huntsmen thrang;) thorow dingle, and thorow dell, (luve, come, list the merlis sang.) thorow fire, and thorow flude, (mudy mindis rage lyk a sea;) thorow slauchtir, thorow blude, (a seamless shrowd weird schaipis for me!) and to rede aricht my spell, eerilie sal night wyndis moan, quhill fleand hevin and raikand hell, ghaist with ghaist maun wandir on. casabianca. the boy stood on the burning deck whence all but he had fled; the flame that lit the battle's wreck shone round him o'er the dead. yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm-- a creature of heroic blood, a proud, though child-like form. the flames rolled on--he would not go without his father's word; that father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. he called aloud, "say, father! say if yet my task is done!" he knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. "speak, father!" once again he cried, "if i may yet be gone!" and but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on. upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair, and looked from that lone post of death in still yet brave despair; and shouted but once more aloud, "my father! must i stay?" while o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires made way. they wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high, and streamed above the gallant child like banners in the sky. there came a burst of thunder-sound-- the boy--oh! where was he? ask of the winds that far around with fragments strewed the sea,-- with mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their part:-- but the noblest thing which perished there was that young faithful heart. auld robin gray. first part. when the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's a' at hame, and a' the weary warld to rest are gane, the woes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. young jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, but saving a crown he had naething else beside; to mak the crown a pound my jamie gaed to sea, and the crown and the pound--they were baith for me. he hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day when my father brake his arm, and the cow was stown away; my mother she fell sick--my jamie was at sea-- and auld robin gray came a-courting me. my father couldna work, my mother couldna spin, i toiled day and night, but their bread i couldna win; auld rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, said, "jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?" my heart it said na, and i looked for jamie back, but hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack; his ship was a wrack--why didna jamie dee? or why am i spared to cry, "woe is me?" my father urged me sair--my mother didna speak, but she looket in my face till my heart was like to break; they gied him my hand--my heart was in the sea-- and so robin gray he was gudeman to me. i hadna been his wife a week but only four, when, mournfu' as i sat on the stane at my door, i saw my jamie's ghaist, for i couldna think it he, till he said, "i'm come hame, love, to marry thee." oh! sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say o' a', i gied him ae kiss and bade him gang awa'. i wish that i were dead, but i'm no like to dee, for tho' my heart is broken, i'm young, woe's me! i gang like a ghaist, and i carena to spin, i darena think on jamie, for that would be a sin; but i'll do my best a gude wife to be, for oh! robin gray he is kind to me. second part. the winter was come, 'twas simmer nae mair, and, trembling, the leaves were fleeing thro' th' air; "o winter," says jeanie, "we kindly agree, for the sun he looks wae when he shines upon me." nae longer she mourned, her tears were a' spent; despair it was come, and she thought it content-- she thought it content, but her cheek it grew pale, and she bent like a lily broke down by the gale. her father and mother observed her decay; "what ails ye, my bairn?" they ofttimes would say; "ye turn round your wheel, but you come little speed, for feeble's your hand and silly's your thread." she smiled when she heard them, to banish their fear, but wae looks the smile that is seen through a tear, and bitter's the tear that is forced by a love which honour and virtue can never approve. her father was vexed and her mother was wae, but pensive and silent was auld robin gray; he wandered his lane, and his face it grew lean, like the side of a brae where the torrent had been. nae questions he spiered her concerning her health, he looked at her often, but aye 'twas by stealth; when his heart it grew grit, and often he feigned to gang to the door to see if it rained. he took to his bed--nae physic he sought, but ordered his friends all around to be brought; while jeanie supported his head in its place, her tears trickled down, and they fell on his face. "oh, greet nae mair, jeanie," said he wi' a groan, "i'm no worth your sorrow--the truth maun be known; send round for your neighbours, my hour it draws near, and i've that to tell that it's fit a' should hear. "i've wronged her," he said, "but i kent it owre late; i've wronged her, and sorrow is speeding my date; but a' for the best, since my death will soon free a faithfu' young heart that was ill matched wi' me. "i lo'ed and i courted her mony a day, the auld folks were for me, but still she said nay; i kentna o' jamie, nor yet of her vow, in mercy forgive me--'twas i stole the cow. "i cared not for crummie, i thought but o' thee-- i thought it was crummie stood 'twixt you and me; while she fed your parents, oh, did you not say you never would marry wi' auld robin gray? "but sickness at hame and want at the door-- you gied me your hand, while your heart it was sore; i saw it was sore,--why took i her hand? oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land! "how truth soon or late comes to open daylight! for jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew white-- white, white grew your cheek, but aye true unto me-- ay, jeanie, i'm thankfu'--i'm thankfu' to dee. "is jamie come here yet?"--and jamie they saw-- "i've injured you sair, lad, so leave you my a'; be kind to my jeanie, and soon may it be; waste nae time, my dauties, in mourning for me." they kissed his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face seemed hopefu' of being accepted by grace; "oh, doubtna," said jamie, "forgi'en he will be-- wha wouldna be tempted, my love, to win thee?" ***** the first days were dowie while time slipt awa', but saddest and sairest to jeanie o' a' was thinkin' she couldna be honest and right, wi' tears in her e'e while her heart was sae light. but nae guile had she, and her sorrow away, the wife of her jamie, the tear couldna stay; a bonnie wee bairn--the auld folks by the fire-- oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire. ***** glossary. abye: first english - abicgan, pay for. assoiled: absolved. avowe: "i make avowe," i declare; not "i make a vow." avow-e: advocate. awayte: "awayte me scathe," watch for opportunity of doing hurt to me. balis: evils. banis: slayers. first english - bana, whence "bane," destruction or harm. barker: tanner. bedene: all bedene: bidene: promptly, altogether. belife: blive: quickly. bent: coarse grass. bete: make better, amend. bewray: disclose. bickered: skirmished. blave: stayed. first english - belaf (allied to german blieb.) boot: help, remedy. first english - bot. borrow: borowe: (noun) security. (verb) give security for. borowhood: state of being security. borrowed: redeemed, released by the fulfilment of conditions. bra': braw: fine; french - brave. braid: at a braid, with a sudden start. brittling: breaking up (of the deer) and distribution of its parts according to the usual custom. brook: broke: have use of, enjoy. busshement: ambush. busk: make self ready. icelandic - bua, prepare; sik, oneself; sk, for sik, was in old norse or icelandic a suffix marking the reflexive form of a verb. caddie: younger brother. french - cadet, a young fellow who runs on errands. clim: clement. clough: a cliff or fissure of rock, a glen between steep banks. con thank: know thanks to be owing; therefore, pay thanks. coresed: cuirassed, harnessed. dang: struck, forced. dauties: darlings. dee: as in kemp owyne; do. dele: division, "never a dele," never a bit. dereworthy: precious. derne: secret. devilkins: of the devil's kind. dight: made ready; dightand: being made ready. do gladly: make good cheer. do him drink: make him drink. donkir: moister. dowie: dull, sorrowful. dree: suffer, endure. dule: sorrow. french - deuil. eftsoons: again soon, soon after. fause: false. fay: faith. fend of: defend from. fere: companion. in fere: in companionship, together. ferre and fremd bestad: one from afar and among strangers. fet: fetched. flattered: floated to and fro. flyte: scold. fone: foes. force: no force: of no importance, no matter. forthinketh: repenteth. fosters of the fee: foresters in charge of the stock of deer. fou: bushel. freke: fighting-man. frese: curl, bend. fynly: substantial, heavy. first english - findig; prov. scot. - findy. fytte: canto, song. first english - fitt (fem.) a song, poem. gane: (as in sir patrick spens) convenient, proper for. garred me gang: made me go; gang maiden: remain unmarried. gest: deed, adventure. gif: if. glede: live-coal. glent: passed suddenly, flashed. goodman: the master of the "good" or little property of house and field. there is the same sense of "good" in the first use of "goodwife," or "goody." gowk: cuckoo. grain, cloth in: cloth of special quality with a fast purple dye. graithit him: dressed himself. gramercy: great thanks. french - grand merci. gree: satisfaction. gurly: gurgly. halfendell: the half part. halk: flat ground by a river. halse bane: neck bone. haud: hold. hie: high. first english - heah. hie: make haste. first english - higan. hilt: covering. ilke: same. iwis: certainly. first english - gewis. for the prefix i-, answering to first english and german ge-, see y-. this old adverb is often printed as if the prefix were the pronoun i and wis were a verb. japes: trivial mockings. jimp: slender. kell: coif, woman's headdress. kipples: rafters. knowe: knoll, little hill. lap: started, were rent. launsgay: lancegay, a form of spear. lease: leasing: falsehood. leeful: "its leeful lane," "its lane," alone; a scottish idiom joins to "lane" the genitive pronoun, "his lane," "their lane," etc. "leeful," compassionate, the harp played of itself compassionately. lemes: gleams. lend: give. see robin hood - god lend. first english - laenan, to give, lend. lend: dwell, come into contact. see robin hood - "when ye together lend." icelandic - lenda, to land; lendir saman, come close together. lere: learn, teach. first english - laeran. see robin hood - "this lesson shall we lere;" lere: face. first english - hleor. see robin hood - "fell down by his lere." let: hinder. letting: hindrance. lewte: loyalty. lift: sky. linde: lime-tree. linn: torrent; also the pool under a torrent of water. lithe: listen. icelandic - alyoa, to listen. liveray: what is 'livre,' or delivered, as a 'livree' of clothes, food, etc. lodge: dwelling in a forest, as originally made of boughs and leaves. lough: laughed. lourdain: blockhead. lown: loon, dull, base fellow. makis: husbands. male: bag. manople: a large gauntlet protecting hand and fore-arm. march parti: border side. masars: bowls or goblets. may: maid. meany: meynie: body of retainers, or domestic following. meet: narrow. first english - maete, little. met: mete: measured. mister: need. mo: more. mort: the note sounded at death of the deer. mote i thee: may i thrive. first english - theon, to thrive. mote: meeting for decision of cases in ecclesiastical or civil law, or for other public purposes, as ward-mote, etc. strong men were said to oppress the weak by being "mighty to mote." nicher: neigh. numbles: liver, kidneys, etc. french - nombles. the word was often written in english umbles and humbles. the umbles, with skin, head, chine, and shoulders of the deer, were the keepers' share in the brittling. there was a receipt for "umble pie" in the old cookery. to "eat humble pie" was to dine with the servants instead of from the haunch at the high table. okerer: usurer. pace: pass. pay: satisfaction. the old sense of the word in the phrase "it does not pay"--does not give satisfaction. a man could be served "to his pay," meaning in a way that satisfied or pleased him. pieces: drinking-cups. pluck-buffet: whichever made a bad shot drew on himself a buffet from his competitor. prest: ready. prestly: readily. french - pret. prief: proof. proseyla: venus' shells, porcelain. pye: coat a py: a rough coarse cloth. dutch - py, or a coat made from it. the word remains in our "pea-coat." quarry: the skin of the deer on which entrails, etc. were piled as the dogs' share of the spoil. french - cuiree, from cuir, hide. to be distinguished from the quarry, a square bolt for the crossbow, or the quarry or squared stones, both from latin - quadratus. quh: = wh. quite: requite. ray: striped cloth. raikand: ranging. rawe: row. rede: counsel. reve: plunder. room: space or spacious. "the warldis room," the space of the world; or "the warld is room," the world is wide. salved: saluted. scheuch and syke: furrow and rill. seid: seed. shaw: covert of the wood. shear: in different directions. first english - sciran, to divide. shend: blame; shent: blamed. shete: shoot. shot-window: according to ritson, is a window that opens and shuts. sicker and sad: sure and firm. sigh-clout: sieve-cloth. somers: sumpter horses. spleen, on the: in anger or discontent. the spleen was once supposed to be the seat of anger and discontent. spurn: strife, as a kicking against. "that tear began this spurn," that rent began this strife. stalworthy: stalwart. stound: space of time. stour: conflict. stown: stolen. suar: heavy. first english - swaer. tarpe: probably a misprint for targe. in the promptorium parvulorum we have the "targe, or chartyr--carta." tene: vexation, sorrow. thee, mote i: may i thrive. see mote. threap: argue back pertinaciously. throw: space of time. tine: lose. tirled: twirled. to-broke: "to" is intensive. told: counted. tone: the tone = that one, as the tother = that other; "that" being the old neuter of "the." tray: surly, unwillingly. icelandic - thra, obstinate. first english - thrafian, to blame. tynde: horns of hart. unketh: unknown, unexpected. unneth: not easily. voided: quitted the place. wap: throw quickly. weal: twist. wed: pledge. weird: fate. well away: wo, alas, wo! first english - wa, eala, wa! welt them: tumbled them over. first english waeltan, to roll or tumble. wight: a being. wite: wete: weet: know. wone: crowd. wonning wan: where is thy, in what direction is thy home? "wan" is an adverbial affix with the sense of latin versus. wood: wode: mad. woolward: clothed only in wool. wough: "wo and wough." first english - wo, wa, the cry of lament for evil. wough, first english - woh, is the evil done; the first sense of the word is a swerving from the right line, then wrong and evil. y- and i- as prefix = the participial prefix ge- (g being pronounced like y before the weak vowel e). so y-dight: y-granted: y-slaw: i-nocked. yede: yode: first english - eode, went. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations and links to sound clips to demonstrate the music. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). a carat character is used to denote superscription. a single character following the carat is superscripted (example: a^o). multiple superscripted characters are enclosed by curly brackets (example: mat^{ies}). a plus sign is used to represent a dagger signifying a footnore. small capitals are presented as all capitals in this e-text. [illustration: _singing sam of derbyshire_] the ballads & songs of derbyshire. with illustrative notes, and examples of the original music, etc. edited by llewellynn jewitt, f.s.a., &c., &c. [illustration: logo] london: bemrose and lothian, , paternoster row. derby: bemrose and sons, irongate. mdccclxvii. to his grace the duke of devonshire, k.g., lord-lieutenant and custos-rotulorum of the county whose ballads are here for the first time collected, this volume is, as a mark of personal esteem, and as a tribute to the true nobility of his character and to his high intellectual attainments, most gratefully dedicated by the editor. introduction. it is certainly somewhat curious that, in a county so confessedly rich in ballads and in popular songs as derbyshire is, no attempt should hitherto have been made to collect together and give to the world even a small selection of these valuable and interesting remains. such, however, is the fact, and the ballads, the traditions, and the lyrics of the county have remained to the present day uncollected, and, it is to be feared, uncared for, by those to whom the task of collection in days gone by would have been tolerably easy. it has therefore remained for me, with my present volume, to initiate a series of works which shall embrace these and kindred subjects, and vindicate for derbyshire its place in the literary history of the kingdom. in my present volume i have given a selection of upwards of fifty ballads and songs, many of them extremely curious, and all highly interesting, which are purely derbyshire, and relate entirely to that county, to events which have happened within its bounds, or to derbyshire families. these i have collected together from every available source, and several amongst them have never before been reprinted from the old broad-sheets and garlands in which they are contained; while others, taken down from the lips of "old inhabitants," or from the original mss., are for the first-time put into type. knowing that in ballads it is next to, if not quite, impossible to accomplish a successful chronological arrangement, and feeling that, if accomplished, such an arrangement is open to grave objections, i have purposely avoided the attempt, and have contented myself with varying, as much as possible, the contents of my volume, and with giving to each ballad an introductory notice touching on the event commemorated, on the writer of the piece, or on the source from whence the ballad has been obtained. having done this, the necessity for a long introduction here is obviated, and it only remains for me to announce my intention of following up my present volume with another similar one, as a "second series" of derbyshire ballads and songs, and with others on the poets and poetry of derbyshire; on the political and criminal songs of the county; and on its folk-lore and traditions, etc. it is hoped that the present volume will find sufficient favour with the public to act as an encouragement to the early issue of the succeeding volumes, which will contain a vast amount of interesting and valuable information on points about which at present but little is known. it will be seen that in the introductory notices to the ballads in the following pages i have acknowledged my obligations to various kind friends for the assistance they have rendered. i have now only in general terms to again tender them my thanks, and, in so doing, to ask them, and all who can in any way assist me in my labours, to continue their kind help to my future volumes, and so enable me to do justice to the rich and beautiful county which it has been my life-long study to illustrate. as a frontispiece to my present volume, i give a fac-simile of an old portrait of a derbyshire ballad-singer of the last century, "_singing sam of derbyshire_" as he was called, which i copy from the curious plate etched by w. williams in , which appeared in the "topographer" thirty years after that time. the man was a singular character--a wandering minstrel who got his living by singing ballads in the peak villages, and accompanying himself on his rude single-stringed instrument. doubtless "the beggar's ramble" and "the beggar's wells," and other similar rhymes, were the production of "singing sam" or his compeers, and recounted his own peregrinations through the country. his instrument was as quaint and curious as himself. it consisted of a straight staff nearly as tall as himself, with a single string tied fast around it at each end. this he tightened with a fully inflated cow's bladder, which assisted very materially the tone of the rude instrument. his bow was a rough stick of hazel or briar, with a single string; and with this, with the lower end of his staff resting on the ground, and the upper grasped by his right hand, which he passed up and down to tighten or slacken the string as he played, he scraped away, and produced sounds which, though not so musical as those of paganini and _his_ single string, would no doubt harmonize with sam's rude ballad, and ruder voice. this portrait i believe has never been reproduced until now. on the title-page i give a small vignette showing a ballad singer of an earlier date, from a sketch by inigo jones, made two hundred and thirty years ago, which belongs to his grace the duke of devonshire. unlike "singing sam of derbyshire," who sang his ballads from memory, and probably composed many of them as he went on, so as to suit the localities and the tastes and habits of his hearers, the man here shown sings from a printed broad-sheet, of which he carries an armful with him to dispose of to such as cared to purchase them. he is literally a "running stationer," "such as use to sing ballads and cry malignant pamphlets in the streets," and indulged their hearers in town and country with "fond bookes, ballads, rhimes, and other lewd treatises in the english tongue." in my next volume i shall give a portrait of "hale the piper," another derbyshire "worthy," and shall then take occasion to speak of the origin of hornpipes in the locality which gave him birth. _derby, february, ._ contents. dedication vii introduction ix king henry v., his conquest of france, in revenge for the affront offered by the french king, in sending him (instead of a tribute) a ton of tennis-balls a ballad of derbyshire. by sir aston cokain the most pleasant song of lady bessy, the eldest daughter of king edward the fourth, and how she married king henry the seventh, of the house of lancaster devonshire's noble duel with lord danby in the year the unconsionable batchelors of darby: or the young lasses pawn'd by their sweet-hearts, for a large reckning, at nottingham goose fair, when poor susan was forc'd to pay the shot. the humours of hayfield fair on the strange and wonderful sight that was seen in the air on the th of march, the drunken butcher of tideswell a new ballad of robin hood: showing his birth, breeding, valour, and marriage, at titbury bull-running: calculated for the meridian of staffordshire, but may serve for derbyshire or kent robin hood and little john little john's end the lay of the buckstone sir richard whittington's advancement: being an historical account of his education, unexpected fortune, charity, &c. the derbyshire miller tideswell in an uproar, or the prince in the town, and the devil in the church the prince at tideswell the derby ram the blink-ey'd cobler a strange banquet; or the devil's entertainment by cook laurel, at the peak in darby-shire; with an account of the several dishes served to table the taylor's ramble, or the blues' valour displayed squire vernon's fox-chace the trusley hunting song squire frith's hunting song derbyshire men an elegy upon the death of the greatest gentry in darley dale, who loved hunting and hawking, and several other games cocktail reel lines occasioned by a yorkshire pye sent as a present from sir william st. quintin to his grace the duke of devonshire, at bath, on christmas day, the agricultural meeting the complainte of anthonie babington a new song in praise of the derbyshire militia the florists' song the sorrowful lamentation, last dying speech and confession of old nun's green a traveller's dream a poem found by mr. * * * and dedicated to major trowel the quadrupeds, &c., or four-footed petitioners against the sale of nun's green paving and lighting the nun's green rangers; or the triple alliance, consisting of an old sergeant, a tinker, and a bear a birch rod for the presbytarians lost and dead song (satirical, on the choir of all saints' church, derby) sir francis leke; or the power of love the true lover's knot untied: being the right path whereby to advise princely virgins how to behave themselves, by the example of the renowned princess, the lady arabella and the second son of the lord seymour, late earl of hertford an address to "dickie" the driving of the deer the ashupton garland; or a day in the woodlands derbyshire hills derbyshire dales a rhapsody on the peak of derbyshire the derby hero a new song on the great foot race that was contested on the london road, near derby, betwixt jas. wantling, of derby, and shaw, the staffordshire hero, for hundred guineas on the death of the late rev. bache thornhill, m.a. a journey into the peak. to sir aston cokaine epistle to john bradshaw, esq. hugh stenson and molly green the beggar's ramble " " henry and clara the gipsies song the flax-dresser's wife of spondon, and the pound of tea the ashborne foot-ball song the parson's torr index of titles, first lines, names, &c. derbyshire ballads. _king henry v._, _his conquest of france, in revenge for the affront offered by the french king, in sending him (instead of the tribute) a ton of tennis-balls._ this is one of the most curious and popular of the series of derbyshire ballads, and one which, in its early broad-sheet form, is of great rarity. the broad-sheet from which it is here reprinted, is "printed and sold in aldermary church yard, bow lane, london." it is printed broad-way of the sheet, with two short columns of three verses each beneath the engraving, and one whole column of eight verses at the side. the engraving represents a fortification, with central tower, with the union jack flying; the sea in front, with a ship and some small boats; and two tall soldiers in mid-ground, evidently "on guard." versions of this ballad have been printed by mr. dixon, in the volume on _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_, edited by him for the percy society, and in other collections. printed copies are to be found in the roxburghe collection in the british museum, and in the halliwell collection in the chetham library, manchester. the one here given is from the original broad-sheet in my own collection. the ballad will be at once seen to refer to the battle of agincourt, which was a prolific source of inspiration to the ballad and song writers of the time, and of later years. tradition bears out the noble feature of the ballad--that of no married man or widow's son being either recruited or pressed into the service of the sovereign over this expedition. a tradition still obtains in the peak, among the "hills that are so free," that when henry v. was recruiting derbyshire and the adjoining counties, he declared that he would take no married man, and that no widow's son should be of his company, for no woman's curse should go with him in his righteous expedition. the ballad is still not unfrequently sung in snatches by the miners and other hardy sons of the peak, the verse being usually rendered:-- "no married man, nor no widow's son, will i ever ask to go with me; for i will take no widow's curse from the derby hills that are so free." it is said that on one occasion, when george iii. was reviewing a brigade of guards in hyde park, he was particularly struck with the fine stalwart and manly bearing of one of the regiments,[ ] and calling out to the nearest man in the ranks, asked, "well, my fine fellow, where are you from, eh?" "derbyshire, please your majesty," was the reply. "eh, derbyshire eh! from derby hills so free," rejoined the king, showing that he must have been acquainted with the ballad we now print. the tune to which this ballad was sung i here give. i am not aware that it has ever before been printed. i remember hearing it frequently sung when i was a boy, and the spirit with which it was sung is still fresh in my memory. it is as follows:-- [music: as our king lay musing on his bed, he bethought himself upon a time, of a tribute that was due from france, had not been paid for so long a time. _chorus._ fal de ral de ray, fal de ral de ray.] another traditional version of the tune to which the ballad was sung, and which, like the one just given, is common to it and to "robin hood and the pedlar," which begins-- "i'll tell you of a pedlar bold, a pedlar bold he chanced to be, on he roll'd his pack upon his back, as he came tripping o'er the lea." has been kindly supplied to me by my friend mr. william chappell, f.s.a., the gifted author of that admirable work, "popular music of the olden time." it is as follows:-- [music: as our king lay musing on his bed, he bethought himself upon a time, of a tribute that was due from france, had not been paid for so long a time. down, down, a down. down, down, a down.] as our king lay musing on his bed, he bethought himself upon a time, of a tribute that was due from france, had not been paid for so long a time. fal, lal, &c. he called for his lovely page, his lovely page then called he; saying, "you must go to the king of france, to the king of france, sir, ride speedily." fal, lal, &c. o then away went this lovely page, this lovely page then away went he; lo he came to the king of france, and then he fell down on his bended knee. fal, lal, &c. "my master greets you, worthy sir, ten ton of gold that is due to he, that you will send him his tribute home, or in french land you soon will him see." fal, lal, &c. "your master's young, and of tender years, not fit to come into my degree; and i will send him three tennis-balls, that with them he may learn to play." fal, lal, &c. o then returned this lovely page, this lovely page then returned he, and when he came to our gracious king, low he fell down on his bended knee. fal, lal, &c. "what news? what news? my trusty page, what is the news you have brought to me?" "i have brought such news from the king of france, that he and you will ne'er agree. fal, lal, &c. "he says, you're young, and of tender years, not fit to come into his degree; and he will send you three tennis-balls, that with them you may learn to play." fal, lal, &c. "recruit me cheshire and lancashire, and derby hills that are so free; no marry'd man, or widow's son, for no widow's curse shall go with me." fal, lal, &c. they recruited cheshire and lancashire, and derby hills that are so free; no marry'd man, nor no widow's son, yet there was a jovial bold company. fal, lal, &c. o then we march'd into the french land, with drums and trumpets so merrily; and then bespoke the king of france, "lo! yonder comes proud king henry." fal, lal, &c. the first shot that the frenchmen gave, they kill'd our englishmen so free; we kill'd ten thousand of the french, and the rest of them they run away. fal, lal, &c. and then we marched to paris gates, with drums and trumpets so merrily, o then bespoke the king of france, "the lord have mercy on my men and me! fal, lal, &c. "o i will send him his tribute home, ten ton of gold that is due to he, and the finest flower that is in all france, to the rose of england i will give free." fal, lal, &c. footnote: [ ] it is worthy of note, that of late years the derbyshire volunteers have received the marked compliment of being specially noted for their manly bearing and their distinguished appearance by her present majesty, and by the commander-in-chief, h.r.h. the duke of cambridge, on each of the occasions of general review of the volunteer force in hyde park. _a ballad of darbyshire._ by sir aston cokain. sir aston cokain, the most illustrious member of the famous family of cokain, of ashborne, was the son of thomas cokain, of ashborne and of pooley, by his wife ann, daughter of sir john stanhope,[ ] of elvaston, by derby. he was born at elvaston, in , was educated at cambridge, and received the honour of knighthood in . he was one of the most eminent poets of the day, and was the intimate friend of donne, suckling, randolph, drayton, massinger, habbington, sandys, may, jonson, and other wits of the age. he was cousin to charles cotton, to whom he addressed many of his writings. sir aston married mary, daughter of sir gilbert kniveton, of mercaston, near derby. in he, with his son, thomas cokain, sold his estates in the neighbourhood of ashborne to sir william boothby; and he also sold his estate of pooley. in sir aston cokain died at derby, and was buried at polesworth. his son thomas, who married mary, co-heiress of carey sherry, was the last male heir of the family, and died without issue. in sir aston cokain published his volume, _small poems of divers sorts_, a volume of pages, which is now of great rarity. some few copies have a portrait--a laureated bust--of cokain, with the verse-- "come, reader, draw thy purse, and be a guest to our parnassus; 'tis the muses feast. the entertainment needs must be divine-- appollo's th' host where cockains heads ye sign." this portrait is of excessive rarity. curiously enough, the copper-plate was used as the portrait of ovid in north's translation of plutarch's lives, and it has also more than once been re-engraved. the volume contains also two dramatic pieces, "the obstinate lady, a comedy written by aston cokain," which was first published in , and "trappolin suppos'd a prince, an italian trage-comedy." cokain also wrote the "tragedy of ovid," and other things, and several editions of his works, under different titles, were issued. . dear _polyhymnie_, be auspicious unto me, that i may spread abroad our shire's worth in an ode, merrily chanting. they that our hills do blame, have no cause for the same; seeing the muses lye upon _parnassus_ high, where no joy's wanting. . upon _olympus_ hill _hebe_ heaven's cup doth fill: and _iove_ of _candy_ isle doth the gods reconcile, when they do wrangle. in _france_ at _agincourt_ (where we fought in such sort) behind an hill we did make our archers lye hid, foes to entangle. . the long commanding _rome_, and old _byzantium_, _lisbon_ in _portugal_, are situated all upon hills strongly: all therefore that protest hilly ground's not the best, are of their wits bereav'd, and all of them deceiv'd, and censure wrongly. . the peer of _england_ known _darby's_ earldom to own, is honoured by the style of king of _mona's_ isle hereditary. why hath _orantus_ found a channel under ground where t'lye hid, but for shame when it hears _darwin's_[ ] name, which fame doth carry? . why do the nymphs (believe) of _nile_, it down rocks drive; unless it be for fear _trent's_ glory should go near to overgo them? the _spaw luick_ land hath, and _sommerset_ the _bath_: _buxtons_ (dear county) be as famous unto thee as they unto them. . for king _mausolus_ tomb, _lango's_ known by each groom; and the _campanian_ lake doth very famous make _italies_ confines; the walls of burned stone eternise _babylon_: and the large devil's vault doth _darbyshire_ exalt, wherein no sun shines. . the pike to _tennariff_ an high repute doth give; and the coloss of brass, where under ships did pass, made _rhodes_ aspire. _tunbridge_ makes _kent_ renown'd and _epsome surryes_ ground: _pools-hole_, and st. _anne's_ well makes _darbyshire_ excell many a shire. . here on an hill's side steep is _elden_ hole, so deep, that no man living knowes how far it hollow goes; worthy the knowing. here also is a well whose waters do excell all waters thereabout; both being in and out ebbing and flowing. . here's lead, whereof is made bullets for to invade them whose pride doth prevail so far, as to assail our brittish borders. our lead so much may do, that it may win _peru_; and (if we chance to meet a _spanish_ silver fleet) commit great murthers. . _diana's_ fane to us extolleth _ephesus_: the sand-hil, and deaf stone, do _darbyshire_ renown, worth admiration. _windsor berks_ doth commend, and _essex audley-end_; we of our _chatsworth_ boast, a glory to our coast, and the whole nation. . _spain_ doth vaunt of its sack, and _france_ of claret crack; of rhenish _germany_; and of thy ale speak free, my gallant county. now i have made an end, i wish you to commend either the author's wit, or me for singing it, out of your bounty. footnotes: [ ] ancestor of the present earl of harrington, of elvaston. [ ] _darwin_, the river derwent. _the most pleasant_ _song of lady bessy_, _the eldest daughter of king edward the fourth, and how she married king henry the seventh, of the house of lancaster._ this fine old ballad concerning the princess elizabeth of york, wife of henry vii. of lancaster, relates to the earl of derby, the earl of shrewsbury, and others connected with derbyshire. it is supposed to have been written by humphrey brereton. there are two versions of this curious ballad. the version here given is from a ms. copy of the time of charles ii., belonging to the late mr. bateman. it was edited by mr. halliwell for the percy society. for jesus sake be merry and glad, be blythe of blood, of bone, and blee, and of your words be sober and sad, and a little while listen to me: i shall tell you how lady bessy made her moan, and down she kneeled upon her knee before the earle of darby her self alone, these were her words fair and free:-- who was your beginner, who was your ground, good father stanley, will you tell me? who married you to the margaret richmond, a dutchess of a high degree? and your son the lord george strange by that good lady you had him by. and harden lands under your hands, and moules dale also under your fee, your brother sir william stanley by parliament, the holt castle who gave him truely? who gave him brome-field, that i now ment? who gave him chirk-land to his fee? who made him high chamberlain of cheshire? of that country farr and near they were all wholly at his desire, when he did call they did appear; and also the forrest of delameer, to hunt therin both day and night as often as his pleasure were, and to send for baron and knight; who made the knight and lord of all? good father stanley, remember thee! it was my father, that king royall, he set you in that room so high. remember richmond banished full bare, and lyeth in brittain behind the sea, you may recover him of his care, if your heart and mind to him will gree: let him come home and claim his right, and let us cry him king henry! and if you will maintain him with might, in brittain he needeth not long to tarry. go away, bessy, the lord said then, i tell thee now for certainty, that fair words make oft fooles full faine, when they be but found vain glory. oh! father stanley, to you i call, for the love of god remember thee, since my father king edward, that king royall, at westminster on his death bed lee; he called to him my unckle richard, so he did robert of brackenbury, and james terrill he was the third; he sent them to ludlow in the west countrey, to fetch the duke of york, and the duke of clarence, these two lords born of a high degree. the duke of york should have been prince, and king after my father free, but a balle-full game was them among, when they doomed these two lords to dye: they had neither justice nor right, but had great wrong, alack! it was the more pitty! neither were they burried in st. maries, in church or churchyard or holy place; alas! they had dolefull destinies, hard was their chance, worse was their disgrace! therefore, help good father stanley, while you have space, for the love of god and mild mary, or else in time to come you shall, alas! remember the words of lady bessy! good lady bessy, be content, for tho' your words be never so sweet, if king richard knew, you must be shent, and perchance cast into prison deep; then had you cause to waill and weep, and wring your hands with heavy chear; therefore, good lady, i you beseek to move me no more in this mattér. oh! good father stanley, listen now and hear; heare is no more but you and i: king edward that was my father dear, on whose estate god had mercy, in westminster as he did stand, on a certain day in a study, a book of reason he had in his hand, and so sore his study he did apply, that his tender tears fell on the ground, all men might see that stood him by: there were both earls and lords of land, but none of them durst speak but i. i came before my father the king, and kneeled down upon my knee; i desired him lowly of his blessing, and full soon he gave it unto me: and in his arms he could me thring, and set me in a window so high; he spake to me full sore weeping,-- these were the words he said to me: daughter, as thou wilt have my blessing, do as i shall councell thee, and to my words give good listening, for one day they may pleasure thee: here is a book of reason, keep it well, as you will have the love of me; neither to any creature do it tell, nor let no liveing lord it see, except it be the lord stanley, the which i love full heartiley: all the matter to him show you may, for he and his thy help must be; as soon as the truth to him is shown unto your words he will agree; for their shall never son of my body be gotten that shall be crowned after me, but you shall be queen and wear the crown, so doth expresse the prophecye! he gave me tax and toland, and also diamonds to my degree, to get me a prince when it pleaseth christ, the world is not as it will be: therefore, good father stanley, grant my request for the love of god i desire thee; all is at your commandment down in the west, both knight and squire and the commentie; you may choose then where you like best, i have enough both of gold and fee; i want nothing but the strength of men, and good captains two or three. go away, bessy, the lord said then, to this will i never agree, for women oft time cannot faine, these words they be but vain glory! for and i should treason begin against king richard his royalty, in every street within london the eagle's foot should be pulled down, and as yet in his great favour i am, but then shoud i loose my great renowne! i shoud be called traitor thro' the same full soon in every markett towne! that were great shame to me and my name, i had rather spend ten thousand pounde. o father stanley, to you i mak my moane, for the love of god remember thee; it is not three days past and gone, since my unckle richard sent after me a batchelor and a bold baron, a doctor of divinitye, and bad that i should to his chamber gone, his love and his leman that i should bee; and the queen that was his wedded feere, he would her poyson and putt away; so would he his son and his heir, christ knoweth he is a proper boy! yet i had rather burn in a tunne on the tower hill that is so high, or that i would to his chamber come, his love and his leman will i not be! i had rather be drawn with wild horses five, through every street of that citty, or that good woman should lose her life, good father, for the love of mee. i am his brother's daughter dear; he is my uncle, it is no nay; or ever i would be his wedded feere, with sharp swords i will me slay; at his bidding if i were then, and follow'd also his cruel intent, i were well worthy to suffer pain, and in a fire for to be brent. therefore, good father stanley, some pity take on the earl richmond and me, and the rather for my father's sake, which gave thee the ile of man so free; he crowned thee with a crown of lead, he holpe the first to that degree; he set thee the crown upon thy head, and made thee the lord of that countrey; that time you promised my father dear, to be to him both true and just, and now you stand in a disweare, oh! jesu christ, who may men trust? o good lady, i say againe your fair words shall never move my mind; king richard is my lord and sov'raign, to him i will never be unkind. i will serve him truly till i die, i will him take as i him find; for he hath given to mine and me, his bounteous gifts do me so bind. yet good father stanley, remember thee, as i have said so shall it prove, if he of his gift be soe free, it is for fear and not for love; for if he may to his purpose come, you shall not live these years three, for these words to me he did once move in sandall castle underneath a tree: he said there shall no branch of the eagle fly within england, neither far nor nigh; nor none of the talbots to run him by, nor none of their lineage to the ninth degree; but he would them either hang or head, and that he swear full grievously. therefore help, gentle lord with all speed; for when you would fain it will not be. your brother dwellith in holt castle, a noble knight forsooth is he; all the welsh-men love him well, he may make a great company. sir john savage is your sister's son. he is well beloved within his shire, a great company with him will come, he will be ready at your desire. gilbert talbott is a captain pure, he will come with main and might; to you he will be fast and sure, against my uncle king and knight. let us raise an host with him to fight, soon to the ground we shall him ding, for god will stand ever with the right, for he hath no right to be king! go away, bessy, the lord can say; of these words, bessy, now lett be; i know king richard woud not me betray, for all the gold in christantye. i am his subject, sworn to be true: if i should seek treason to begin, i and all mine full sore should rue, for we were as like to lose as winne. beside that, it were a deadly sin to refuse my king, and him betray: the child is yet unborne that might moan in time, and think upon that woefull day. wherefore, good lady, i do you pray, keep all things close at your hart root; so now farr past it is of the day, to move me more it is no boot. then from her head she cast her attire, her colour changed as pale as lead, her faxe that shoan as the gold wire she tair it of besides her head, and in a swoon down can she swye, she spake not of a certain space! the lord had never so great pitty as when he saw her in that case, and in his arms he can her embrace; he was full sorry then for her sake. the tears fell from her eyes apace, but at the last these words she spake, she said, to christ my soul i betake, for my body in tem'ms drow'nd shall be! for i know my sorrow will never slake, and my bones upon the sands shall lye! the fishes shall feed upon me their fill; this is a dolefulle destinye! and you may remedy this and you will, therefore the bone of my death i give to thee! and ever she wept as she were woode, the earle on her had so great pitty, that her tender heart turned his mood. he said, stand up now, lady bessye, as you think best i will agree now i see the matter you do not faine, i have thought in this matter as much as yee: but it is hard to trust women, for many a man is brought into great woe, through telling to women his privity: i trust you will not serve me so for all the gold in christantie. no, father, he is my mortall foe, on him fain wrooken woud i bee! he hath put away my brethren two, and i know he would do so by me; but my trust is in the trinity, through your help we shall bale to him bring, and such a day on him to see that he and his full sore shall rue! o lady bessye, the lord can say, betwixt us both forecast we must how we shall letters to richmond convey, no man to write i dare well trust; for if he list to be unjust and us betray to king richard, then you and i are both lost; therefore of the scribe i am afraid. you shall not need none such to call, good father stanley, hearken to me what my father, king edward, that king royal, did for my sister, my lady wells, and me: he sent for a scrivener to lusty london, he was the best in that citty; he taught us both to write and read full soon, if it please you, full soon you shall see: lauded be god, i had such speed, that i can write as well as he, and also indite and full well read, and that (lord) soon shall you see, both english and alsoe french, and also spanish, if you had need. the earle said, you are a proper wench, almighty jesus be your speed, and give us grace to proceed out, that we may letters soon convey in secrett wise and out of doubt to richmond, that lyeth beyond the sea. we must depart, lady, the earle said then; wherefore keep this matter secretly, and this same night, betwixt nine and ten, in your chamber i think to be. look that you make all things ready, your maids shall not our councell hear, for i will bring no man with me but humphrey brereton, my true esquire. he took his leave of that lady fair, and to her chamber she went full tight, and for all things she did prepare, both pen and ink, and paper white. the lord unto his study went, forecasting with all his might to bring to pass all his intent; he took no rest till it was night. and when the stars shone fair and bright, he him disguised in strange mannere, he went unknown of any wyght, no more with him but his esquire. and when he came her chamber near, full privily there can he stand, to cause the lady to appeare he made a signe with his right hand; and when the lady there him wist, she was as glad as she might be. char-coals in chimneys there were cast, candles on sticks standing full high; she opened the wickett and let him in, and said, welcome, lord and knight soe free! a rich chair was set for him, and another for that fair lady. they ate the spice and drank the wine, he had all things at his intent; they rested them as for a time, and to their study then they went. then that lady so fair and free, with rudd as red as rose in may, she kneeled down upon her knee, and to the lord thus can she say: good father stanley, i you pray, now here is no more but you and i; let me know what you will say, for pen and paper i have ready. he saith, commend me to my son george strange, in latham castle there he doth lye, when i parted with him his heart did change, from latham to manchester he road me by. upon salford bridge i turned my horse againe, my son george by the hand i hent; i held so hard forsooth certaine, that his formast finger out of the joint went: i hurt him sore, he did complain, these words to him then i did say: son, on my blessing, turne home againe, this shall be a token another day. bid him come like a merchant of farnfield, of coopland, or of kendall, wheather that it be, and seven with him, and no more else, for to bear him company. bid him lay away watch and ward, and take no heed to mynstrel's glee; bid him sit at the lower end of the board, when he is amongst his meany, his back to the door, his face to the wall, that comers and goers shall not him see; bid him lodge in no common hall, but keep him unknowne right secretly. commend me to my brother sir william so dear, in the holt castle there dwelleth hee; since the last time that we together were, in the forest of delameere both fair and free, and seven harts upon one hearde, were brought to the buck sett to him and me; but a forester came to me with a whoore bearde, and said, good sir, awhile rest ye, i have found you a hart in darnall park, such a one i never saw with my eye. i did him crave, he said i shoud him have; he was brought to the broad heath truely; at him i let my grayhound then slipp, and followed after while i might dree. he left me lyeing in an ould moss pit, a loud laughter then laughed hee; he said, rise up, and draw out your cousin; the deer is dead, come you and see. bid him come as a marchant of carnarvon, or else of bew-morris whether it be; and in his company seven welshmen, and come to london and speak to me; i have a great mind to speak with him, i think it long since i him see. commend me to sir john savage, that knight, lady, he is my sister's sone, since upon a friday at night before my bedside he kneeled downe: he desired me as i was uncle dear, many a time full tenderly, that i would lowly king richard require if i might get him any fee. i came before my soveraigne lord, and kneeled down upon my knee, so soon to me he did accord, i thanked him full courteously, a gatt him an hundred pounds in kent to him and his heirs perpetually, also a manor of a duchy rent, two hundred pounds he may spend thereby, and high sheriff of worcestershire, and also the park of tewksbury. he hath it all at his desire, therewith dayley he may make merry. bid him come as a merchant man of west chester, that fair city, and seven yeomen to wait him on, bid him come to london and speak with me. commend me to good gilbert talbott, a gentle esquire forsooth is he; once on a fryday, full well i woot king richard called him traitour high: but gilbert to his fawchon prest, a bold esquire forsooth is he; their durst no sarjant him arreast, he is called so perlous of his body. in the tower street i meet him then going to westminster to take sanctuarie; i light beside my horse i was upon, the purse from my belt i gave him truely; i bad him ride down into the north-west, perchance a knight in england i might him see: wherefore pray him at my request to come to london to speak with me. then said the royall lord so just, now you have written, and sealed have i, there is no messenger that we may trust, to bring these writeings into the west countrey. because our matter it is so high, least any man wou'd us descry. humphrey brereton, then said bessye, hath been true to my father and me; he shall take the writeings in hand, and bring them into the west countrey: i trust him best of all this land on this message to go for me. go to thy bed, father, and sleep full soon, and i shall wake for you and me, by tomorrow at the riseing of the sune, humphrey brereton shall be with thee. she brings the lord to his bed so trimly dight all that night where he should lye, and bessy waked all that night, there came no sleep within her eye: in the morning when the day can spring, up riseth young bessye, and maketh hast in her dressing; to humphrey brereton gone is she: but when she came to humphrey's bower bright, with a small voice called she, humphrey answered that lady bright, saith, who calleth on me so early? i am king edward's daughter right, the countesse clear, young bessy, in all hast with mean and might thou must come speak with the earle of darby. humphrey cast upon him a gowne, and a pair of slippers upon his feet; alas! said humphrey, i may not ride, my horse is tired as you may see; since i came from london city, neither night nor day, i tell you plain, there came no sleep within my eye; on my business i thought certaine. lay thee down, humphrey, he said, and sleep, i will give space of hours three: a fresh horse i thee beehyte, shall bring thee through the west countrey. humphrey slept not hours two, but on his journey well thought hee; a fresh horse was brought him tooe, to bring him through the west countrey. then humphrey brereton with mickle might, hard at latham knocketh hee; who is it, said the porter, this time of the night, that so hastily calleth on mee? the porter then in that state, that time of the night riseth hee, and forthwith opened me the gate, and received both my horse and me. then said humphrey brereton, truely with the lord strange speak would i faine, from his father the earle of darby. then was i welcome that time certaine; a torch burned that same tide, and other lights that he might see; and brought him to the bedd side where as the lord strange lie. the lord mused in that tide, said, humphrey brereton, what mak'st thou here? how fareth my father, that noble lord, in all england that hath no peer? humphrey took him a letter in hand, and said, behold, my lord, and you may see. when the lord strange looked the letter upon, the tears trickled downe from his eye: he said, we must come under a cloud, we must never trusted bee; we may sigh and make a great moane, this world is not as it will bee. have here, humphrey, pounds three, better rewarded may thou bee; commend me to my father dear, his daily blessing he would give me; he said also in that tide, tell him all thus from me; if i be able to go or ride, this appointment keep will i. when humphrey received the gold, i say, straight to manchester rideth hee. the sun was light up of the day, he was aware of the warden and edward stanley; the one brother said to the other, as they together their matins did say: behold, he said, my own dear brother, yonder comes humphrey brereton, it is no nay, my father's servant at command, some hasty tydeings bringeth hee. he took them either a letter in hand, and bad them behold, read and see: they turn'd their backs shortly tho', and read those letters readily. up they leap and laughed too, and also they made game end glee,-- fair fare our father, that noble lord, to stirr and rise now beginneth hee; buckingham's blood shall be wroken, that was beheaded in salsbury; fare fall that countesse, the king's daughter, that fair lady, young bessye, we trust in jesus in time hereafter, to bring thy love over the sea. have here, humphrey, of either of us shillings ten, better rewarded may thou bee. he took the gold of the two gentlemen, to sir john savage then rideth hee; he took him then a letter in hand, and bad him behold, read and see: when sir john savage looked the letter upon, all blackned the knight's blee; woman's wisdom is wondrous to hear, loe, my uncle is turned by young bessye: whether it turn to waile or woe, at my uncle's bidding will i bee. to sheffield castle at that same tide, in all the hast that might bee, humphrey took his horse and forth could ride to gilbert talbot fair and free. he took him a letter in his hand, behold, said humphrey, read and see; when he the letter looked upon, a loud laughter laughed hee,-- fare fall that lord in his renowne there, to stirr and rise beginneth hee: fair fall bessie that countesse clear, that such councell cou'd give truely; commend me to my nephew nigh of blood, the young earle of shrewsbury, bid him neither dread for death nor good; in the tower of london if he bee, i shall make london gates to tremble and quake, but my nephew borrowed shall bee. commend me to the countess that fair make, king edward's daughter, young bessy: tell her i trust in jesu that hath no pear, to bring her love over the sea. commend me to that lord to me so dear, that lately was made the earle of darby; and every hair of my head for a man counted might bee, with that lord without any dread, with him will i live and dye. have here, humphrey, pounds three, better rewarded may thou bee: look to london gates thou ride quickly, in all the hast that may bee; commend me to that countesse young bessy, she was king edward's daughter dear, such a one she is, i say truely, in all this land she hath no peer. he took his leave at that time, strait to london rideth he, in all the hast that he could wind, his journey greatly he did apply. but when he came to london, as i weene, it was but a little before the evening, there was he warr, walking in a garden, both the earle, and richard the king. when the earle did humphrey see, when he came before the king, he gave him a privy twink then with his eye, then down falls humphrey on his knees kneeling; welcome, humphrey, says the lord, i have missed thee weeks three. i have been in the west, my lord, there born and bred was i, for to sport and play me certaine, among my friends far and nigh. tell me, humphrey, said the earle then, how fareth all that same countrey? of all the countreys i dare well say, they be the flower of chivalry; for they will bycker with their bowes, they will fight and never fly. tell me, humphrey, i thee pray, how fareth king richard his commenty? when king richard heard him say so, in his heart he was right merry; he with his cap that was so dear, he thanked that lord most courteously: and said, father stanley, thou art to me near, you are the chief of our poor commenty; half england shall be thine, it shall be equall between thee and me; i am thine and thou art mine, so two fellows will we bee. i swear by mary, that mild maiden, i know no more such under the skye; when i am king and wear the crown, then i will be chief of the poor commenty: task nor mize i will make none, in no countrey farr nor nigh; if their goods i shoud take and pluck them downe, for me they woud fight full faintly: there is no riches to me so rich, as is the love of our poor commenty. when they had ended all their speeches, they take their leave full heartiley; and to his bower king richard is gone. the earle and humphrey brereton to bessy's bower anon were gone; when bessy humphrey did see anon, she took him in her arms and kissed him times three. welcome, she said, humphrey brereton; how hast thou spedd in the west countrey i pray thee tell me quickly and anon. into a parlour they went from thence, there were no more but he and shee: humphrey, said bessy, tell me e're we go hence some tideings out of the west countrey; if i shall send for yonder prince to come over the sea, for the love of me, and if king richard shoud him convince, alas! it were great ruthe to see, or murthered among the stanley's blood to be, indeed that were great pitty; that sight on that prince i woud not see, for all the gold in christantie! tell me, humphrey, i thee pray, how hast thou spedd in the west countrey? what answer of them thou had now say, and what reward they gave to thee. by the third day of may it shall be seen, in london all that they will bee; thou shalt in england be a queen, or else doubtless that they will dye. thus they proceed forth the winter then, their councell they kept close all three, the earle he wrought by prophecy certaine, in london he would not abide or bee, but in the subburbs without the city an ould inn chosen hath hee. a drew an eagle foot on the door truely, that the western men might know where he did lye. humphrey stood on a high tower then, he looked into the west countrey; sir william stanley and seven in green, he was aware of the eagle drawne; he drew himselfe so wonderous nigh, and bad his men go into the towne, and drink the wine and make merry; into the same inn he went full prest, whereas the earle his brother lay. humphrey full soon into the west looks over a long lee; he was aware of the lord strange and seven in green, come rideing into the city. when he was aware of the eagle drawn, he drew himself so wonderously nigh, he bad his men go into the towne certain, and drink the wine and make merry; and he himselfe drew then, where as his father in the inne lay. humphrey looked in the west, i say, sixteen in green then did he see; he was aware of the warden and edward stanley, come rideing both in one company. when they were aware of the eagle drawne, the gentlemen they drew it nee; and bad their men go into the towne, and drink the wine and make merry. and did go themselves into the same inn full prest, where the earle their father lay. yet humphrey beholdeth into the west, and looketh towards the north countrey; he was aware of sir john savage and sir gilbert talbot, came rideing both in one company. when they were aware of the eagle drawn, themselves drew it full nigh, and bad their men go into the towne, to drink the wine and make merry. they did go themselves into the same inn, where as the earle and bessy lye. when all the lords together were, amongst them all bessy was full buissy; with goodly words bessy then said there, fair lords, what will you do for me? will you relieve yonder prince, that is exiled beyond the sea? i woud not have king richard him to convince, for all the gold in christentye. the earle of darby came forth then, these words he said to young bessye,-- ten thousand pounds will i send, bessy, for the love of thee, and twenty thousand eagle feet, the queen of england for to make thee; then bessy most lowly the earle did greet, and thankt his honor most heartiley. sir william stanley came forth then, these words he said to fair bessy: remember, bessy, another time, who doth the most, bessy, for thee; ten thousand coats, that shall be red certaine, in an hours warning ready shall bee; in england thou shall be our queen, or doubtlesse i will dye. sir john savage came forth then, these words he said to young bessye,-- a thousand marks for thy sake certaine, will i send thy love beyond the sea. sir gilbert talbott came forth then, these were the words he said to bessy: ten thousand marks for thy sake certaine, i will send to beyond the sea. the lord strange came forth then, these were the words he said to bessy: a little money and few men, will bring thy love over the sea; let us keep our gold at home, said he, for to wage our company; for if we should send it over the sea, we shoud put our gold in jeopartie. edward stanley came forth then, these were the words he said to bessye: remember, bessye, another time, who that now doth the best for thee, for there is no power that i have, nor no gold for to give thee; i will be under my father's banner, if god me save, there either to live or dye. bessye came forth before the lords all, and downe she falleth upon her knee; nineteen thousand pound of gold, i shall send my love behind the sea, a love letter, and a gold ring, from my heart root rite will i. who shall be the messenger the same to bring, both the gold and the writeing over the sea? humphrey brereton, said bessy, i know him trusty and true certaine, therefore the writeing and the gold truely by him shall be carried to little brittaine. alas, said humphry, i dare not take in hand, to carry the gold over the sea; these galley shipps they be so strange, they will me night so wonderously; they will me robb, they will me drowne, they will take the gold from me. hold thy peace, humphrey, said bessye then, thou shalt it carry without jepordye; thou shalt not have any caskett nor any male, nor budgett, nor cloak sack, shall go with thee; three mules that be stiff and strong withall, sore loaded with gold shall they bee, with saddle-side skirted i do tell thee wherein the gold sowe will i: if any man faine whose is the shipp truely that saileth forth upon the sea, say it is the lord lislay, in england and france well beloved is he. then came forth the earle of darby, these words he said to young bessy: he said, bessye, thou art to blame to appoint any shipp upon the sea; i have a good shipp of my owne, shall carry humphrey with the mules three; an eagle shall be drawne upon the mast top, that the italians may it see; there is no freak in all france the eagle that dare come nee if any one ask whose ship it is, then say it is the earles of darby. humphrey took the three mules then, into the west wind wou'd hee, without all doubt at liverpoole he took shipping upon the sea: with a swift wind and a liart, he so saild upon the sea, to beggrames abbey in little brittain, where as the english prince lie; the porter was a cheshire man, well he knew humphrey when he him see; humphrey knockt at the gate truely, where as the porter stood it by, and welcomed me full heartiley, and received then my mules three; i shall thee give in this breed to thy reward pounds three; i will none of thy gold, the porter said, nor humphrey none of the fee, i will open thee the gates certaine to receive thee and the mules three; for a cheshire man born am i certain, from the malpas but miles three. the porter opened the gates that time, and received him and the mules three. the wine that was in the hall that time he gave to humphrey brereton truely. alas! said humphrey, how shoud i doe, i am strayed in a strange countrey, the prince of england i do not know, before i never did him see. i shall thee tell, said the porter then, the prince of england know shall ye, low where he siteth at the butts certaine, with other lords two or three; he weareth a gown of velvet black and it is cutted above the knee, with a long visage and pale and black-- thereby know that prince may ye; a wart he hath, the porter said, a little alsoe above the chinn, his face is white, his wart is redd, no more than the head of a small pinn; you may know the prince certaine, as soon as you look upon him truely.-- he received the wine of the porter, then with him he took the mules three. when humphrey came before that prince he falleth downe upon his knee, he delivereth the letters which bessy sent, and so did he the mules three, a rich ring with a stone, thereof the prince glad was hee; he took the ring of humphrey then, and kissed the ring times three. humphrey kneeled still as any stone, as sure as i do tell to thee; humphrey of the prince answer gott none, therefore in heart was he heavy; humphrey stood up then full of skill, and then to the prince said he: why standest thou so still at thy will, and no answer dost give to me? i am come from the stanleys' blood so dear, king of england for to make thee, a fairer lady then thou shalt have to thy fair, there is not one in all christantye; she is a countesse, a king's daughter, humphrey said, the name of her it is bessye, she can write, and she can read, well can she work by prophecy; i may be called a lewd messenger, for answer of thee i can gett none, i may sail home with heavy cheare, what shall i say when i come home? the prince he took the lord lee, and the earle of oxford was him nee, the lord ferris wou'd not him beguile truely, to councell they are gone all three; when they had their councell taken, to humphrey then turned he: answer, humphrey, i can give none truely within the space of weeks three; the mules into a stable were taken anon, the saddle skirts unopened were, therein he found gold great plenty for to wage a company. he caused the abbot to make him chear: in my stead now let him be, if i be king and wear the crown well acquited abbott shalt thou be. early in the morning they made them knowne, as soon as the light they cou'd see; with him he taketh his lords three, and straight to paris he took his way. an herriott of arms they made ready, of men and money they cou'd him pray, and shipps to bring him over the sea, the stanleys' blood for me hath sent, the king of england for to make me, and i thank them for their intent, for if ever in england i wear the crowne, well accquited the king of france shall be: then answered the king of france anon, men nor money he getteth none of me, nor no shipps to bring him over the sea; in england if he wear the crowne, then will he claim them for his own truely: with this answer departed the prince anon, and so departed the same tide, and the english lords three to beggrames abbey soon coud the ride, there as humphrey brereton then lee; have humphrey a thousand mark here, better rewarded may thou be; commend me to bessy that countesse clear, before her never did i see: i trust in god she shall be my feer, for her i will travell over the sea; commend me to my father stanley, to me so dear, my owne mother married hath he, bring him here a love letter full right and another to young bessye, tell her, i trust in jesus full of might that my queen that she shall bee; commend me to sir william stanley, that noble knight in the west countrey, tell him that about michaelmas certaine in england i do hope to be; at millford haven i will come inn with all the power that make may i, the first town i will come inn shall be the towne of shrewsbury; pray sir william stanley, that noble knight, that night that he will look on me: commend me to sir gilbert talbot, that royall knight, he much in the north countrey, and sir john savage, that man of might,-- pray them all to look on me, for i trust in jesus christ so full of might, in england for to abide and bee. i will none of thy gold, sir prince, said humphrey then, nor none sure will i have of thy fee, therefore keep thy gold thee within, for to wage thy company; if every hair were a man, with thee, sir prince, will i be: thus humphrey brereton his leave hath tane, and sailed forth upon the sea, straight to london he rideth then, there as the earle and bessy lay; and bad them behold, read and see. the earle took leave of richard the king, and into the west wind wou'd he; he left bessye in leicester then and bad her lye in pryvitye, for if king richard knew thee here anon, in a fire burned thou must be. straight to latham the earle is gone, there as the lord strange then lee; he sent the lord strange to london, to keep king richard company. sir william stanley made anone ten thousand coats readily, which were as redd as any blood, thereon the hart's head was set full high, which after were tryed both trusty and good as any cou'd be in christantye. sir gilbert talbot ten thousand doggs in one hour's warning for to be, and sir john savage fifteen white hoods, which wou'd fight and never flee; edward stanley had three hundred men, there were no better in christantye; sir rees ap thomas, a knight of wales certain, eight thousand spears brought he. sir william stanley sat in the holt castle, and looked over his head so high; which way standeth the wind, can any tell? i pray you, my men, look and see. the wind it standeth south east, so said a knight that stood him by. this night yonder prince, truely into england entereth hee. he called a gentleman that stood him nigh, his name was rowland of warburton, he bad him go to shrewsbury that night, and bid yonder prince come inn: but when rowland came to shrewsbury, the portculles was let downe; they called him henry tydder, in scorn truely, and said, in england he shou'd wear no crowne; rowland bethought him of a wyle then, and tied a writeing to a stone, and threw the writeing over the wall certain, and bad the bailiffs to look it upon: they opened the gates on every side, and met the prince with procession; and wou'd not in shrewsbury there abide, but straight he drest him to stafford towne. king richard heard then of his comeing, he called his lords of great renowne; the lord pearcy he came to the king and upon his knees he falleth downe, i have thirty thousand fighting men for to keep the crown with thee. the duke of northfolk came to the king anone, and downe he falleth upon his knee; the earle of surrey, that was his heir, were both in one company; we have either twenty thousand men here, for to keep the crown with thee. the lord latimer, and the lord lovell, and the earle of kent he stood him by, the lord ross, and the lord scrope, i you tell, they were all in one company; the bishopp of durham, he was not away, sir william bonner he stood him by, the good sir william of harrington, as i say, said, he wou'd fight and never fly. king richard made a messenger, and sent him into the west countrey, and bid the earle of darby make him bowne, and bring twenty thousand men unto me, or else the lord strange his head i will him send, and doubtless his son shall dye; for hitherto his father i took for my friend, and now he hath deceived me. another herald appeared then to sir william stanley that doughty knight, bid him bring to me ten thousand men, or else to death he shall be dight. then answered that doughty knight, and spake to the herald without letting; say, upon bosseworth field i meen to fight, uppon monday early in the morning; such a breakfast i him behight, as never did knight to any king. the messenger home can him gett, to tell king richard this tydeing. fast together his hands then cou'd he ding, and said, the lord strange shou'd surely dye; and putt him into the tower of london, for at liberty he shou'd not bee. lett us leave richard and his lords full of pride, and talk we more of the stanleys' blood, that brought richmond over the sea with wind and tyde, from litle brittain into england over the flood. now is earle richmond into stafford come, and sir william stanley to litle stoone; the prince had rather then all the gold in christantye, to have sir william stanley to look upon; a messenger was made ready anone, that night to go to litle stoon; sir william stanley he rideth to stafford towne, with a solemn company ready bowne. when the knight to stafford was comin, that earle richmond might him see, he took him in his arms then, and there he kissed him times three; the welfare of thy body doth comfort me more then all the gold in christantye. then answered that royall knight there, and to the prince these words spake he,-- remember, man, both night and day, who doth now the most for thee; in england thou shalt wear a crown, i say, or else doubtless i will dye; a fairer lady then thou shalt have for thy feer, was there never in christanty; she is a countesse, a king's daughter, and there to both wise and witty; i must this night to stone, my soveraigne, for to comfort my company. the prince he took him by the hand, and said, farewell, sir william, fair and free. now is word come to sir william stanley there, early in the monday, in the morning, that the earle of darby, his brother dear, had given battle to richard the king. that wou'd i not, said sir william anone, for all the gold in christantye, that the battle shou'd be done; straight to lichfield cou'd he ride, in all the hast that might bee, and when he came to lichfield that tyde, all they cryed king henry: straight to bolesworth can they go in all the hast that might be, but when he came bolesworth field unto, there met a royall company; the earle of darby thither was come, and twenty thousand stood him by; sir john savage, his sister's son, he was his nephew of his blood so nigh, he had fifteen hundred fighting men, that wou'd fight and never flye; sir william stanley, that royall knight, then ten thousand red coats had he, they wou'd bicker with their bows there, they wou'd fight and never flye; the red rosse, and the blew boar, they were both a solemn company; sir rees ap thomas he was thereby, with ten thousand spears of mighty tree; the earle of richmond went to the earle of darby, and downe he falleth upon his knee, said, father stanley, full of might, the vaward i pray you give to me, for i am come to claime my right, and faine revenged wou'd i bee. stand up, he said, my son, quickly, thou hast thy mother's blessing truely, the vaward, son, i will give to thee, so that thou wilt be ordered by me: sir william stanley, my brother dear, in the battle he shall be; sir john savage, he hath no peer, he shall be a wing then to thee; sir rees ap thomas shall break the array, for he will fight and never flee; i myselfe will hove on the hill, i say, the fair battle i will see. king richard he hoveth upon the mountaine; he was aware of the banner of the bould stanley, and saith, fetch hither the lord strange certain, for he shall dye this same day; to the death, lord, thee ready make, for i tell thee certainly that thou shalt dye for thy uncle's sake, wild william of stanley. if i shall dye, said the lord strange then, as god forbid it shou'd so bee, alas! for my lady that is at home, it should be long or she see me, but we shall meet at doomsday, when the great doom shall be. he called for a gent in good fay, of lancashire, both fair and free, the name of him it was lathum; a ring of gould he took from his finger, and threw it to the gent then, and bad him bring it to lancashire, to his lady that was at home; at her table she may sit right, or she see her lord it may be long, i have no foot to fligh nor fight, i must be murdered with the king: if fortune my uncle sir william stanley loose the field, as god forbid it shou'd so bee, pray her to take my eldest son and child, and exile him over behind the sea; he may come in another time by feild or fleet, by tower or towne, wreak so he may his father's death in fyne, upon richard of england that weareth the crown. a knight to king richard then did appeare, the good sir william of harrington. let that lord have his life, my dear sir king, i pray you grant me this boone, we shall have upon this field anon, the father, the son, and the uncle all three; then shall you deem, lord, with your own mouth then, what shall be the death of them all three. then a block was cast upon the ground, thereon the lord's head was laid, a slave over his head can stand, and thus that time to him thus said: in faith there is no other booty tho', but need that thou must be dead. harrington in hart was full woe, when he saw that the lord must needs be dead. he said, our ray breaketh on ev'ry side, we put our feyld in jepordie. he took up the lord that tyde, king richard after did him never see. then they blew up their bewgles of brass, that made many a wife to cry alas! and many a wive's child fatherlesse; they shott of guns then very fast, over their heads they could them throw: arrows flew them between, as thick as any hayle or snowe, as then that time might plaine be seene; then rees ap thomas with the black raven, shortly he brake their array; then with thirty thousand fighting men the lord pearcy went his way; the duke of northefolke wou'd have fledd with a good will, with twenty thousand of his company, they went up to a wind millne uppon a hill, that stood soe fayre and wonderousse hye; there he met sir john savage, a royall knight, and with him a worthy company; to the death was he then dight, and his sonne prisoner taken was he; then the lord alroes began for to flee, and so did many other moe; when king richard that sight did see, in his heart hee was never soe woe: i pray you, my merry men, be not away, for upon this field will i like a man dye, for i had rather dye this day, then with the standley prisoner to be. a knight to king richard can say there, good sir william of harrington; he said, sir king, it hathe no peer, upon this feyld to death to be done, for there may no man these dints abide; low, your horse is ready at your hand: sett the crown upon my head that tyde, give me my battle axe in my hand; i make a vow to myld mary that is so bright, i will dye the king of merry england. besides his head they hewed the crown down right, that after he was not able to stand; they dinge him downe as they were woode, they beat his bassnet to his heade, until the braynes came out with the bloode; they never left him till he was dead. then carryed they him to leicester, and pulled his head under his feet. bessye mett him with a merry cheare, and with these words she did him greete; how like you the killing of my brethren dear? welcome, gentle uncle, home! great solace ytt was to see and hear, when the battell yt was all done; i tell you, masters, without lett, when the red rosse soe fair of hew, and young bessye together mett, it was great joy i say to you. a bishopp then marryed with a ringe the two bloods of great renowne. bessy said, now may we singe, wee two bloods are made all one. the earle of darby hee was there, and sir william stanley, that noble knight, upon their heads he set the crown so fair, that was made of gould so bright. and there he came under a cloud, that some time in england looked full high; but then the hart he lost his head, that after no man cou'd him see. but jesus, that is both bright and shine, and born was of mylde mary, save and keepe our noble kinge, and also the poore commentie. amen. the other version of this ballad, to which i have referred, is preserved in the harleian mss. it differs considerably from the one here printed, as will be at once apparent from the following opening passage:-- god that is moste of myghte, and born was of a mayden free, save and kepe our comlye queene, and also the poore comynalitie; for wheras kynge richard, i understande, had not reigned yeares three, but the beste duke in all this lande he caused to be headit at salysburye; that tyme the standleyes without dowte were dred over england ferre and nee, next kynge richard that was soe stowte of any lorde in england free. there was a ladye faire on moulde, the name of hir was litill bessie; she was yonge, she was not oulde, bot of the yeares of one and twentye; she colde wryte and she coulde reede, well she coulde wyrke by propesye; she sojorned in the cetye of london that tyme with the earle of derbye. upon a tyme, as i you tell, there was noe moe bot the earle and she, she made complaynte one richard the kynge, that was hir uncle of blode soe nee. there are many other ballads having reference to the stanleys, earls of derby; but this will be sufficient as a present example. _devonshire's noble duel_ _with lord danby in the year ._ of this curious ballad, which is also known by the name of "the long armed duke," there are several versions. the one here given is printed from a broad-sheet, and is, perhaps, the most complete of any of the versions which has come under my notice. the circumstance which gave rise to the ballad has not as yet been satisfactorily explained. it has been suggested that its origin was the quarrel in which the earl of devonshire, lord delamere, and colonel colepepper were engaged. it is traditionally said that the arms of the "long armed duke" were so long that he could garter his stockings below the knee without stooping down or being seated! good people give attention to a story you shall hear, between the king and my lord delamere a quarrel arose in the parliament house, concerning the taxes to be put in force. with my fal de ral de ra. i wonder, i wonder, that james our good king, so many hard taxes upon the poor should bring; so many hard taxes, as i have heard them say makes many a good farmer to break and run away. such a rout has been in the parliament, as i hear, betwixt a dutch lord and my lord delamere. he said to the king, as he sat on the throne, "if it please you, my liege, to grant me a boon." "oh, what is thy boon? come let me understand." "'tis to give me all the poor you have in the land; i'll take them down to cheshire, and there i will sow both hemp seed and flax seed, and hang them in a row. it's better, my liege, they should die a shorter death, than for your majesty to starve them on earth." with that up starts a dutch lord, as we hear, and he says, "thou proud jack," to my lord delamere, "thou ought to be stabbed," and he turned him about, "for affronting the king in the parliament house." then up got a brave duke, the duke of devonshire, who said, "i will fight for my lord delamere:-- he is under age, as i'll make it appear; so i'll stand in defence of my lord delamere." a stage then was built, and to battle they went, to kill or be killed it was their intent. the very first blow, as we understand, devonshire's rapier went back to his hand; then he muséd awhile, but not a word spoke when against the king's armour his rapier he broke. oh, then he stept backward, and backward stept he, and then stept forward my lord willoughby; he gave him a rapier, and thus he did say, "play low, devonshire, there's treachery, i see." he knelt on his knee, and he gave him the wound; with that the dutch lord fell dead on the ground. the king call'd his soldiers, and thus he did say, "call devonshire down, take the dead man away." he answered, "my liege, i've killed him like a man, and it is my intent to see what clothing he's got on. o treachery! o treachery! as i well may say, it was your intent, o king, to take my life away. he fought in _your_ armour, while i fought him bare, and thou, king, shalt win it before thou dost it wear; i neither do curse king, parliament, or throne, but i wish every honest man may enjoy his own. the rich men do flourish with silver and gold, while poor men are starving with hunger and cold; and if they hold on as they have begun, they'll make little england pay dear for a king." another version, which i have in ms., has, besides many minor variations, these additional verses:-- oh the duchess of devonshire was standing hard by, upon her dear husband she cast her lovely eye; "oh, fie upon treachery--there's been treachery, i say,-- it was your full intent to have ta'en my duke's life away." then away to the parliament these votes all went again, and there they acted like just and honest men. i neither curse my king, nor kingdom, crown or throne, but i wish every honest man to enjoy but what is his own. one of the versions of this ballad gives the name of lord delaware-- "in the parliament house a great rout has been there, betwixt our good king and the lord delaware." and it also gives the locality for sowing "hemp seed and flax seed" to "lincolnshire." this same version speaks of the duke of devonshire as-- "up sprung a welch lord, the brave duke of devonshire." there can be no doubt, however, that lord delamere is the peer intended to be commemorated, and that cheshire is the county to which he is made to refer, and to which indeed he belonged. _the unconsionable batchelors of darby:_ _or the young lasses pawn'd by their sweet-hearts, for a large reckning, at nottingham goose-fair, where poor susan was forced to pay the shot._ to the tune of _to thee, to thee, &c._ this curious ballad i reprint from a black-letter broad-sheet in the roxburghe collection in the british museum, where it is adorned with three curious wood-cuts. nottingham goose fair, it may be well to remark, is still the most popular fair in the midland counties, and is annually attended by many of the "lasses of darby," who "with young men" go "to goose-fair for recreation," by special trains and otherwise. the distance of nottingham from derby by turnpike road, along which the lasses and young men of the ballad must have travelled, is fifteen miles. goose-fair formerly lasted for twenty-one days. you lovers of mirth attend a while a merry new ditty here i write i know it will make you laugh and smile for every line affords delight: the lasses of darby with young men they went to goose-fair for recreation but how these sparks did serve them then is truly worth your observation: truly, truly, worth your observation, therefore i pray observe this ditty the maids did complain they came there in vain and was not, was not that a pity. so soon as they came into the fair the batchellers made them conjues low and bid them a thousand welcomes there this done, to a tipling-school they go: how pleasant was honest kate and sue? believing they should be richly treated, but neighbours and friends as i am true no lasses ever was so cheated: cheated, cheated, very farely cheated they were left alone to make their moan and was not, was not that a pity. the innocent lasses fair and gay concluded the men was kind and free because they pass'd the time away a plenty of cakes and ale they see; for sider and mead they then did call and whatever else the house afforded but susan was forc'd to pay for all out of the money she had hoarded hoarded, hoarded, money she had hoarded it made her sing a doleful ditty and so did the rest with grief opprest and was not, was not that a pity. young katy she seemed something coy because she would make them eager grow, as knowing thereby she might enjoy what beautiful damsels long to know. on compliments they did not stand nor did they admire their charming features for they had another game in hand which was to pawn those pretty creatures; creatures, creatures, loving loving creatures which was so charming fair and pretty the men sneak'd away and nothing did pay and was not, was not that a pity? though 'f out of the door they enterd first and left them tipling there behind those innocent maids did not mistrust that batchelors could be so unkind; quoth susan, i know their gone to buy the fairings which we do require and they will return, i know, for why they do our youthful charms admire, therefore, therefore stay a little longer and i will sing a pleasant ditty but when they found they were catch'd in the pound they sigh'd and weep'd the more's the pity. now finding the men returned no more and that the good people would not trust they presently call'd to know the score it chanc'd to be fifteen shillings just: poor kate had but five pence in her purse but sue had a crown besides a guinney; and since the case had happen'd thus poor soul she paid it e'ry penny; penny, penny, e'ry, e'ry penny tho' with a sad and doleful ditty said she for this i had not a kiss and was not, was not that a pity? printed for j. bessel, in west-smithfield. _the humours of hayfield fair._ this ballad, copied from a broad-sheet, has been printed in hutchinson's "tour through the high peak of derbyshire," . it will be seen to be a version--whether the original one or not remains to be seen--of the favourite ballad usually called "come lasses and lads," of which the earliest known copy appears to have been printed in , under the title of "the rural dance about the may-pole," and which has again been printed in "pills to purge melancholy," in "tixhall poetry," and also, with the music, in chappel's "popular music of the olden time," as well as in several other works. it ought to be stated that the ballad i here reprint--"the humours of hayfield fair,"--although i speak of it as a version of the "rural dance about the may-pole," is, with the exception of here and there a verse, or part of a verse, totally distinct from it. it will, of course, be seen to go to the same tune. hayfield is a village near chapel-en-le-frith, in the high peak of derbyshire,--in the midst of a district as wild in its superstitions as in its ballad poetry, and in its traditions as in its scenery. it has two fairs in the year, which were formerly much frequented by the "lads and lasses" of the district, whether they had "leave of their dads" or not. come, lasses and lads, take leave of your dads, and away to the fair let's hie; for every lad has gotten his lass, and a fiddler standing by; for jenny has gotten her jack, and nancy has gotten her joe, with dolly and tommy, good lack, how they jig it to and fro! ritum, raddledum, raddledum; ritum raddledum ri; ritum, raddledum, raddledum; ritum raddledum ri. my heart 'gain ribs ga' thumps, when i went to th' wake or fair, wi' a pair of new sol'd pumps, to dance when i got there; i'd ride grey nag i swore, and were mounted like a king, cousin dickey walked on a'fore, driving a pig tied wi' a string. ritum raddledum, &c. pally sampson too was there, wi' "neighbour how do you do?" there were all the world at the fair, and drunk 'till they were fou'; 'twas neither heigh! nor gee! for soon as i sold my cow, the fiddler shog'd his knee, and i danced my pumps clean through. ritum raddledum, &c. "you're out," says dick--"i'm not," says nick, "the fiddler plays it false;" and so says hugh, and so says sue, and so says nimble alice; the fiddler did agree, to right us in a crack, dance face to face, says he, and then dance back to back. ritum raddledum, &c. thus after an hour they tript to a bower to play for ale and cakes, and kisses too--until they were due, the maidens held the stakes; the women then began to quarrel with the men, and bad them _take their kisses back_, and gi' 'em their _own again_. ritum raddledum, &c. thus they sat, until it were late, and they tir'd the fiddler quite, wi' singing and playing, without any paying, from morning until it were night: they told the fiddler then they'd pay him for his play, and each gave two-pence, _(speaking)_ (ey, they gave him two pence a piece) and then they hopp'd away. ritum raddledum, &c. come dolly, says i, now homeward hie, and i'll go wi' thee a mile; she twinkled her eyes wi' a sigh as i handed her over the style; then i cuddled, and kissed her face, were i much to blame? had you been in my place, _(speaking)_ (i don't mean you in the smock frock dancing a hornpipe-- i mean that sly looking fellow smoking his pipe in the corner,) i vow you'd ha' done the same. ritum raddledum, &c. _on the_ _strange and wonderful sight_ _that was seen in the air on the th of march_, . this ballad occurs in "the garland of merriment: containing three new songs. st. a game at cards for a kingdom, or mar routed. d. a comical scotch dialogue between a highlander and his wife about the last battle. d. a copy of verses on the death of my lord derwentwater. th. on the wonderful sight that was seen in the air on the th of march last. nottingham: printed by william ayscough in bridlesmith gate." i am not aware that it has ever been reprinted, except by myself in "the reliquary" for april . the appearances were probably those of the aurora borealis. on the title-page of this curious chap-book, which was printed in - , is a wood-cut of four persons playing cards at a table. the sixth of march, kind neighbours this is true, a wonder in the sky came to my view; i pray believe it, for i tell no lye, there's many more did see it as well as i. i was on a travel, and was very late, to speak the truth just about day-light' gate; my heart did tremble being all alone, to see such wonders--the like was never known. the first of all so dark it was to me, that much ado my way i had to see; i turn'd me round to see some lights appear, and then i saw those wonders in the air. these lights to me like great long spears did show, sharp at one end, kind neighbours this is true; i was so troubled, i could not count them o'er, but i suppose there was above a score. then i saw like blood it did appear, and that was very throng among those spears; i thought the sky would have opened in my view, i was so daunted i knew not what to do. the next i saw two clouds meet fierce together as if they would have fought one another; and darkened all these spears excepting one, they gave a clash and quickly they were gone. the very last day in the same month i am told many people did strange sights behold; at _hartington_, the truth i will not spare, that night they saw great wonders in the air. this _hartington_ it is in _darbyshire_, and credible persons living there, they have declared what wonders they did view the very last night in _march_ its certain true. about eleven a'clock late in that night, a very dark cloud which did them sore afright; great smoke there came, it was perfect to their view, they cried out, o lord, what must we do? they saw great lights which did amaze them sore, the like was never seen in any _age_ before, they went into their houses for to pray, we must repent whilst it is call'd to day. _the drunken butcher of tideswell._ tideswell is one of the largest and most important villages in the high peak of derbyshire, and has been more than once, as will be seen in the present volume, celebrated in song and ballad. it is situated about seven miles from buxton, and the same from bakewell, in a highly romantic and wildly picturesque neighbourhood. its church is a fine building, containing many interesting monuments, among which are those to the foljambes, meverells, &c., and one to bishop pursglove. the following ballad is the production of william bennett, the author of "the king of the peak," "the cavalier," etc. of this ballad mr. bennett thus spoke in the "reliquary," in which it appeared:--"the ballad (the subject of which is as well known in the peak as that kinder scout is the highest hill, and tideswell church the most stately and beautiful church in it) will perhaps appear a little modernised to some, who have only heard the tale from the mouths of unsober topers, accustomed to use ancient provincial and obsolete words, which not only render the sense less distinguishable, but also mar the flow of the rhythm. i confess, therefore, to having taken some liberties with the grammar, the orthography, and the metre; but in all other respects i have strictly adhered to the original; and my honesty in this respect will be recognized and admitted by many persons to whom these minstrel relics are precious. "the legend is still so strong in the peak, that numbers of the inhabitants do not concur in the sensible interpretation put upon the _appearance_ by the butcher's wife, but pertinaciously believe that the drunken man was beset by an evil spirit, which either ran by his horse's side, or rolled on the ground before him, faster than his horse could gallop, from peak forest to the sacred inclosure of tideswell churchyard, where it disappeared; and many a bold fellow, on a moonlight night, looks anxiously around as he crosses tideswell moor, and gives his nag an additional touch of the spur, as he hears the bell of tideswell church swinging midnight to the winds, and remembers the tale of the 'drunken butcher of tideswell.'" oh, list to me, ye yeomen all, who live in dale or down! my song is of a butcher tall, who lived in tiddeswall town. in bluff king harry's merry days, he slew both sheep and kine; and drank his fill of nut brown ale, in lack of good red wine. beside the church this butcher lived, close to its gray old walls; and envied not, when trade was good, the baron in his halls. no carking cares disturbed his rest, when off to bed he slunk; and oft he snored for ten good hours, because he got so drunk. one only sorrow quelled his heart, as well it might quell mine-- the fear of sprites and grisly ghosts, which dance in the moonshine; or wander in the cold churchyard, among the dismal tombs; where hemlock blossoms in the day, by night the nightshade blooms. it chanced upon a summer's day, when heather-bells were blowing, bold robin crossed o'er tiddeswall moor, and heard the heath-cock crowing: well mounted on a forest nag, he freely rode and fast; nor drew a rein, till sparrow pit,[ ] and paislow moss[ ] were past. then slowly down the hill he came, to the chappelle en le firth,[ ] where, at the rose of lancaster, he found his friend the smith: the parson, and the pardoner too, there took their morning draught; and when they spied a brother near, they all came out and laughed. "now draw thy rein, thou jolly butcher; how far hast thou to ride?" "to waylee-bridge,[ ] to simon the tanner, to sell this good cow-hide." "thou shall not go one foot ayont, 'till thou light and sup with me; and when thou'st emptied my measure of liquor, i'll have a measure wi' thee." "oh no, oh no, thou drouthy smith! i cannot tarry to-day: the wife, she gave me a charge to keep; and i durst not say her nay." "what likes o' that," said the parson then, "if thou'st sworn, thou'st ne'er to rue: thou may'st keep thy pledge, and drink thy stoup, as an honest man e'en may do." "oh no, oh no, thou jolly parson! i cannot tarry, i say; i was drunk last night, and if i tarry, i'se be drunk again to-day." "what likes, what likes," cried the pardoner then, "why tellest thou that to me? thou may'st e'en get thee drunk this blessed night; and well shrived for both thou shalt be." then down got the butcher from his horse, i wot full fain was he; and he drank 'till the summer sun was set, in that jolly company: he drank 'till the summer sun went down, and the stars began to shine; and his greasy noddle was dazed and addle, with the nut brown ale and wine. then up arose those four mad fellows, and joining hand in hand, they danced around the hostel floor, and sung, tho' they scarce could stand, "we've aye been drunk on yester night, and drunk the night before; and sae we're drunk again to-night, if we never get drunk any more." bold robin the butcher was horsed and away; and a drunken wight was he; for sometimes his blood-red eyes saw double; and then he could scantly see. the forest trees seemed to featly dance, as he rode so swift along; and the forest trees, to his wildered sense, resang the jovial song. then up he sped over paislow moss, and down by the chamber knowle:[ ] and there he was scared into mortal fear by the hooting of a barn owl: and on he rode, by the forest wall, where the deer browsed silently; and up the slack, 'till, on tiddeswall moor, his horse stood fair and free. just then the moon, from behind the rack, burst out into open view; and on the sward and purple heath broad light and shadow threw; and there the butcher, whose heart beat quick, with fear of gramarye, fast by his side, as he did ride, a foul phantom did espy. uprose the fell of his head, uprose the hood which his head did shroud; and all his teeth did chatter and girn, and he cried both long and loud; and his horse's flank with his spur he struck, as he never had struck before; and away he galloped, with might and main, across the barren moor. but ever as fast as the butcher rode, the ghost did grimly glide: now down on the earth before his horse, then fast his rein beside: o'er stock and rock, and stone and pit, o'er hill and dale and down, 'till robin the butcher gained his door-stone, in tiddeswall's good old town. "oh, what thee ails, thou drunken butcher?" said his wife, as he sank down; "and what thee ails, thou drunken butcher?" cried one-half of the town. "i have seen a ghost, it hath raced my horse, for three good miles and more; and it vanished within the churchyard wall, as i sank down at the door." "beshrew thy heart, for a drunken beast!" cried his wife, as she held him there; "beshrew thy heart, for a drunken beast, and a coward, with heart of hare. no ghost hath raced thy horse to-night, nor evened his wit with thine: the ghost was thy shadow, thou drunken wretch! i would the ghost were mine." footnotes: [ ] sparrow pit is a small hamlet about two miles from chapel-en-le-frith, situated at the "four lane ends," where the buxton and castleton and the chapel-en-le-frith and tideswell roads intersect each other. [ ] paislow moss, about half way between sparrow pit and sandy way head. [ ] chapel-en-le-frith is a considerable and important market town, about six miles from buxton. [ ] whaley bridge, near chapel-en-le-frith. [ ] chamber knoll is about half a mile from peak-forest. _a new ballad of robin hood:_ _shewing his birth, breeding, valour and marriage, at titbury bull-running: calculated for the meridian of staffordshire but may serve for derbyshire or kent._ there are no series of ballads in our language so extensive or so popular as those relating to the noble outlaw, robin hood, and his "merry doings" in sherwood forest and its neighbourhood. some of these relate immediately to derbyshire; and many others might, from their allusions and the persons named in them, be claimed by that county. some of his exploits are related to have been performed in derbyshire; numerous places in that county are named after him; some of the relatives of his family resided within its confines; and last, though not least, his faithful friend and follower, _little john_, is said not only to have been one of the sons of its soil, but to have died and been buried in the place of his birth. that robin hood was a real and veritable personage seems to have been satisfactorily settled by the late rev. joseph hunter, who discovered among the state papers some records wherein, besides the name being correctly given as "robyn hood," showed that that personage was in the king's service, and that he left it to travel;--doubtless into his favourite haunts in yorkshire, nottinghamshire, and derbyshire. among the entries relating to robin hood, mr. hunter gleaned several which tallied curiously and conclusively with the circumstances of his early life as given in the "lytell geste of robyn hode," printed about the year , by wynken de worde.[ ] the ballad which i here give, showing "his birth, breeding, valour, and marriage at titbury bull-running," i give from a curious old broad-sheet in my own collection. it is printed broad-way on the paper, and has a rude wood-cut of robin hood with his buckler and quarter staff, and clorinda,--another name for maid marian,--with a tall hat, or like the welsh fashion, and a bow in her hand, the entrance to the church in the back-ground. it bears the imprint, "northampton: printed by r. raikes and w. dicey." a black-letter copy is in the roxburgh collection in the british museum, and it has also been reprinted by evans and by gutch. the ballad is "supposed to be related by the fiddler who played at their wedding." kind gentlemen will you be patient a while, ay, and then you shall hear anon, a very good ballad of bold _robin hood_, and of his man, brave little _john_. in _locksly_ town,[ ] in merry _nottinghamshire_, in merry sweet _locksly_ town; there bold _robin hood_, he was born and was bred, bold _robin_ of famous renown. the father of _robin_ a forester was, and he shot in a lusty long bow, two north country miles and a inch at a shot, as the _pinder of wakefield_[ ] does know. for he brought _adam bell_,[ ] and _clim of the glugh_,[ ] and _william a clowdel-le_;[ ] to shoot with our forester, for forty marks, and the forester beat them all three. his mother was niece to a _coventry_ knight, which _warwickshire_ men call sir _guy_;[ ] for he slew the blew bore that hangs up at the gate, or mine host of the bull tells a lie. her brother was _gamwell_[ ] of great _gamwell-hall_, and a noble house-keeper was he, ay, as ever broke bread in sweet _nottinghamshire_, and a squire of famous degree. the mother of _robin_ said to her husband, my honey, my love and my dear; let _robin_ and i, ride this morning to _gamwel_, to take of my brother's good cheer. and he said, i grant thee boon, gentle _joan_, take one of my horses i pray: the sun is a rising, and therefore make haste, for to morrow is christmas day. then _robin hood's_ father's grey gelding was brought and sadled and bridled was he, god-wot, a blew bonnet, his new suit of cloaths, and a cloak that did reach to his knee. she got on her holy-day girdle and gown, they were of a light _lincoln_ green, the cloath was home spun, but for colour and make it might a beseem'd our queen. and then _robin_ got on his basket-hilt sword, and a dagger on his tother side: and said, my dear mother, let's haste to be gone, we have forty long miles to ride. when _robin_ had mounted his gelding so grey, his father without any trouble, got her up behind him, and bid her not fear, for his gelding had oft carried double. and when she was settled, they rode to their neighbours, and drank and shook hands with them all: and then _robin_ galop'd and never gave o're, till they lighted at _gamwel-hall_. and now you may think the right worshipful squire, was joyful his sister to see; for he kist her and kist her, and swore a great oath, thou art welcome, kind sister, to me. the morrow when mass had been said in the chappel six tables were cover'd in the hall; and in comes the 'squire and makes a short speech, it was, neighbours you are welcome all. but not a man here, shall tast my _march_ beer, till christmas carrol be sung; then all clapt their hands, & they shouted & sung, till the hall and the parlour did ring. now mustard, braun, roast-beef and plumb-pies, were set upon every table: and noble _george gamwel_ said, eat and be merry, and drink so as long as you're able. when dinner was ended his chaplain said grace, and be merry my friends, said the 'squire, it rains and it blows, but call for more ale, and lay some more wood on the fire. and now call ye little _john_ hither to me, for little _john_ is a fine lad, at gambols and juggling, and twenty such tricks, as shall make you both merry and glad. when little _john_ came, to gambols they went, both gentlemen, yeomen and cloun; and what do you think? why as true as i live, bold _robin hood_ put them all down. and now you may think the right worshipful squire, was joyful this sight for to see, for he said cousin _robin_, thou'st go no more home, but tarry and dwell with me. thou shalt have my land when i die, and till then thou shalt be the staff of my age: then grant me my boon, dear uncle, said _robin_, that little _john_ may by my page. and he said kind cousin i grant thee thy boon, with all my heart to let it be, then come hither little _john_, said _robin hood_, come hither my page, unto me. go fetch me my bow, my longest long bow, and broad arrows one two or three; for when it is fair weather, we'll into _sherwood_, some merry pastime to see. when _robin hood_ came into merry _sherwood_, he winded his bugle so clear; and twice five and twenty good yeomen and bold, before _robin hood_ did appear. where are your companions all? (said _robin hood_) for still i want forty and three. then said a bold yeoman, lo yonder they stand, all under a green wood tree. as that word was spoke, _clorinda_[ ] came by, the queen of the shepherds was she: and her gown was of velvet, as green as the grass, and her buskin did reach to her knee. her gate it was graceful, her body was strait and her countenance free from pride: a bow in her hand, and quiver and arrows, hung dangling by her sweet side. her eye-brows were black, ay, and so was her hair, and her chin was as smooth as glass; her visage spoke wisdom and modesty too, sets with _robin hood_ such a lass. said _robin hood_, lady fair, whether away, oh whither fair lady away? and she made him answer, to kill a fat buck, for to-morrow is _titbury_[ ] day. said _robin hood_, lady fair wander with me, a little to yonder green bower, there sit down to rest you, and you shall be sure, of a brace or a lease in an hour. and as we were going towards the green bower, two hundred good bucks we espy'd: she chose out the fattest that was in the herd, and she shot him through side and side. by the faith of my body, said bold _robin hood_, i never saw woman like thee, and com'st thou from east, ay, or com'st thou from west thou needst not beg venison of me. however along to the bower you shall go, and taste of a forester's meat; and when we came thither, we found as good cheer, as any man needs for to eat. for there was hot venison, and warden pies cold, cream coloured with honey-combs plenty, and the sarvitors they were besides little _john_, good yeomen at least four and twenty. _clorinda_ said, tell me your name gentle sir? and he said, 'tis bold _robin hood_; 'squire _gamwel's_ my uncle, but all my delight, is to dwell in the merry _sherwood_: for 'tis a fine life, and 'tis void of all strife, so 'tis sir, _clorinda_ reply'd; but oh, said bold _robin_, how sweet would it be, if _clorinda_ would be my bride? she blush'd at the motion, yet after a pause, said, yes sir, and with all my heart, then let us send for a priest, said _robin hood_, and marry before we do part. but she said, it may not be so gentle sir, for i must be at _titbury_ feast: and if _robin hood_ will go thither with me, i'll make him the most welcome guest. said _robin hood_, reach me that buck, little _john_, for i'll go along with my dear; and bid my yeomen kill six brace of bucks, go meet me to-morrow just here. before we had ridden five _staffordshire_ miles, eight yoemen that were too bold, bid _robin hood_ stand, and deliver his buck, a truer tale never was told. i will not faith, said bold _robin_; come _john_, stand to me and we'll beat 'em all; then both drew their swords, and cut 'em and slash'd 'em, that five of them did fall. the three that remain'd call'd to _robin_ for quarter, and pitiful _john_ beg'd their lives; when _john's_ boon was granted, he gave them good counsel and so sent them home to their wives. this battle was fought near _titbury_ town, when the bagpipes bated the bull: i am king of the fields, and swear 'tis a truth, and i call him that doubts it a gull. for i saw him fighting and fidling the while, and _clorinda_ sung, hey derry down: the bumpkins are beaten put up thy sword _bob_, and let's dance into the town. before we came to it, we heard a strange shouting, and all that were in it look'd madly, for some were a bull-back, some dancing a morris, and some singing _arthur a bradly_.[ ] and there we see _thomas_ our justices clark, and _mary_ to whom he was kind: for _tom_ rod before her, and call'd _mary_ madam, and kist her full sweetly behind. and so may your worship's but we went to dinner, with _thomas_, and _mary_, and _nan_; they all drank a health to _clorinda_, and told her, bold _robin hood_ was a fine man. when dinner was ended, sir _roger_ the parson of _dubbridge_[ ] was sent for in haste: he brought his mass-book, & he bid them take hands, and he join'd them in marriage full fast. and then as bold _robin hood_, and his sweet bride, went hand in hand to the green bower, the birds sung with pleasure in merry _sherwood_, and 'twas a most joyful hour. and when _robin_ came in the sight of the bower, where are my yeomen? said he, and little _john_ answered, lo yonder they stand, all under the green wood tree. then a garland they brought her by two & by two and placed them at the bride's bed: the musick struck up, and we fell to dance, till the bride and the groom were in bed. and what they did there, must be counsel to me, because they lay long the next day: and i had haste home, but i got a good piece of the bride-cake and so came away. now out alas, i had forgot to tell ye, that marry'd they were with a ring: and so will _nan knight_, or be buried a maiden, and now let us pray for the king. that he may get children, and they may get more, to govern and do us some good, and then i'll make ballads in _robin hood's_ bower, and sing 'em in merry _sherwood_. footnotes: [ ] for an account of this discovery see "the reliquary," vol. i., page et seq, where, in a paper entitled "the ballad hero, robin hood," an excellent resumè of his life is given by mr. gutch. [ ] "locksley in nottinghamshire." it seems pretty certain that the real birthplace of robin hood, although often attributed to nottinghamshire, was at loxley chase, in yorkshire, not far from sheffield, and near the borders of derbyshire. [ ] the _pinder of wakefield_, in yorkshire, is often alluded to in robin hood ballads-- "in wakefield there lives a _jolly pinder_, in wakefield all on a green." the pinder was, of course, an impounder of stray cattle. [ ] _adam bell_ was a northern outlaw, so celebrated for archery and other matters as to become proverbial, and "to shoot as well as adam bell" became a common expression. he was also the subject of various ballads, and is thus alluded to by d'avenant in :-- "with loynes in canvass bow-case tyde, where arrowes stick with mickle pride; like ghosts of _adam bell_ and _clymme_, sol sets for fear theyl shoot at hym." [ ] _clim of the clough_ was another famous archer, and is also alluded to in the extract given above. "clough" signifies a ravine, or narrow glen, or close wooded dale. [ ] _william of cloudeslee_ was also a noted archer. [ ] guy, earl of warwick. [ ] gamwell of gamwell hall. the family of gamwell to which this lady belonged, was, i believe, of cheshire, not of nottinghamshire. [ ] clorinda is, i presume, the same personage as the one so often alluded to as "maid marion." [ ] "titbury day:" the day on which the "minstrels' court," with its "bull-running," and other wild amusements, was held. the minstrels court at tutbury, to which all minstrels living in the counties of stafford and derby did service, was presided over by a "king of the minstrels," who was selected yearly by the four stewards, two of whom were chosen from the minstrels of derbyshire, and the other two from those of staffordshire. the court was held before the stewards of the honour of tutbury, on the morrow after the assumption. a deed of "john of gaunt, king of castile and leon, duke of lancaster," dated in the fourth of richard ii., confers certain powers on the "king of the minstrels in our honour of tutbury," and speaks of service and homage which even then had been performed by the minstrels "from ancient times." by a later instrument it was ordered "that no person shall use or exercise the art and science of music within the said counties, as a common musician or minstrel, for benefit and gains, except he have served and been brought up in the same art and science by the space of seven years, and be allowed and admitted so to do at the said court by the jury thereof," under certain fines; that he shall not teach or instruct any one for a less time than seven years; and that he shall, under pain of forfeit, appear yearly at the "minstrels' court." on the day of holding the court,--"tutbury day," as it is called in the ballad,--all the minstrels within the honour came to the bailiff of the manor and proceeded in procession to the parish church, the "king" walking between the bailiff of the manor and the steward of the minstrel's court, and attended by his own four stewards, bearing white wands. from church they proceeded in the same order to the castle hall, where the "king" took his seat, with the bailiff and steward on either side. the court was then opened by proclamation ordering that every minstrel dwelling within the honour of tutbury, either in the counties of derby, stafford, nottingham, warwick, or lancaster, should draw near and give his attendance, and that all pleas would be heard, and fines and amercements made. the musicians having been called over by court roll, two juries were empanelled and charged. the jurors then proceeded to the selection of officers for the ensuing year. the jurors having left the court for the purpose, the king and stewards partook of a banquet, while the musicians played their best on their respective instruments. on the return of the jurors they presented the new king whom they had chosen from the four stewards, upon which the old king, rising, delivered to him his wand of office, and drank a cup of wine to his health and prosperity. in like manner the old stewards saluted, and resigned their offices to their successors. this ended, the court rose, and adjourned to a general banquet, in another part of the castle. the sports of the day then commenced by a wild and infuriated bull being turned loose for the minstrels to catch. the bull was thus prepared: his horns were sawed off close to the head; his tail cut off to the stump; his ears cropped; his body rubbed all over with grease; and his nostrils, to madden him still further, blown full of pepper. while these preparations were being made, the steward made proclamation that all manner of persons should give way to the bull, no person coming nearer to it than forty feet, except the minstrels, but that all should attend to their own safety, every one at his peril. the bull being then turned out, was to be caught by some one of the minstrels, and no one else, between that hour and sunset on the same day, within the county of stafford. if he escaped, he remained the property of the person who gave it (formerly the prior of tutbury); but if any of the minstrels could lay hold of him so as to cut off a portion of his hair and bring it to the market cross, he was caught and taken to the bailiff, by whom he was fastened with a rope, &c., and then brought to the bull-ring in the high street, where he was baited by dogs. after this, the minstrels could either sell him or divide him amongst themselves. this custom appears to have prevailed from to , when it was very properly discontinued. the day was one of feasting, revelry, and great excitement, for the whole district. [ ] "arthur a bradly." this curious ballad, i have reason to believe, is a purely derbyshire one, the locality being bradley near ashborne, within only a few miles of tutbury. of this ballad i shall probably have more to say in another part of the present volume. [ ] "dubberidge." this is doveridge, a village in derbyshire, about seven miles from tutbury. _robin hood and little john._ little john, the friend and sturdy companion of robin hood, was made almost as popular in ballads as his noble master. he is said to have been a man of immense size, and of almost unequalled prowess and strength. his name of _little_ john was, it appears, given to him ironically, because of his extraordinary stature. he is believed to have been born at hathersage, in the peak of derbyshire; a place not many miles distant from loxley chase, where robin hood first drew breath. the place of his birth is, however, claimed by other localities. the ballad i here give is interesting, as detailing his first meeting and encounter with robin hood, which ended in the defeat of the outlaw, and in their becoming sworn friends for life. it will be seen that in the ballad little john is said to have been seven feet in height. this, curiously enough, accords with the tradition current in hathersage, where his bones were exhumed some years ago, and where his grave is still shown. when robin hood was about twenty years old, he happened to meet little john, a jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade, for he was a lusty young man. tho' he was call'd little, his limbs they were large, and his stature was seven foot high: where ever he came, they quak'd at his name, for soon he would make them to fly. how they came acquainted i'll tell you in brief, if you would but listen awhile; for this very jest, among all the rest, i think, may cause you to smile. for robin hood said to his jolly bowmen, pray tarry you here in this grove, and see that you all observe well my call, while thorough the forest i rove. we have had no sport these fourteen long days, therefore now abroad will i go; now should i be beat, and cannot retreat, my horn i will presently blow. then did he shake hands with his merry men all, and bid them at present good-bye; then as near a brook his journey he took, a stranger he chanc'd to espy. they happen'd to meet on a long narrow bridge, and neither of them would give way; quoth bold robin hood, and sturdily stood, i'll shew you right nottingham play. with that from his quiver an arrow he drew, a broad arrow with a goose wing; the stranger replied, i'll liquor thy hide, if thou offer to touch the string. quoth bold robin hood, thou dost prate like an ass, for, were i to bend but my bow, i could send a dart quite through thy proud heart, before thou could'st strike me one blow. thou talk'st like a coward, the stranger replied, well arm'd with a long bow you stand, to shoot at my breast, while i, i protest, have nought but a staff in my hand. the name of a coward, quoth robin, i scorn, therefore my long bow i'll lay by; and now, for thy sake, a staff will i take, the truth of thy manhood to try. then robin hood stept to a thicket of trees, and chose him a staff of ground oak; now this being done, away he did run to the stranger, and merrily spoke: lo! see my staff is lusty and tough: now, here on the bridge we will play; whoever falls in, the other shall win the battle, and so we'll away. with all my whole heart, the stranger replied, i scorn in the least to give out. this said, they fell to't without more dispute, and their staffs they did flourish about. at first robin gave the stranger a bang, so hard that he made his bones ring: the stranger he said, this must be repaid, i'll give you as good as you bring. so long as i'm able to handle a staff, to die in your debt, friend, i scorn: then to it each goes, and follow'd their blows, as if they had been threshing of corn. the stranger gave robin a crack on the crown, which caused the blood to appear; then robin enrag'd more fiercely engag'd, and follow'd his blows more severe. so thick and so fast did he lay it on him, with a passionate fury and ire; at every stroke he made him to smoke, as if he had been all on fire. o then in a fury the stranger he grew, and gave him a damnable look; and with a blow, which laid him full low, and tumbled him into the brook. i prithee, good fellow, o where art thou now? the stranger, in laughter, he cried: quoth bold robin hood, good faith, in the flood, and floating along with the tide: i needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul, with thee i'll no longer contend; for needs must i say thou hast got the day, our battle shall be at an end. then unto the bank he did presently wade, and pull'd him out by a thorn; which done, at the last he blew a loud blast straightway on his fine bugle horn: the echo of which thro' the vallies did fly, at which his stout bowmen appear'd, all cloathed in green, most gay to be seen; so up to their master they steer'd. o what is the matter? quoth will. stutely, good master, you are wet to the skin: no matter, quoth he, the lad which you see, in fighting hath tumbled me in. he shall not go scot-free, the others replied; so straight they were seizing him there, to duck him likewise: but robin hood cries, he is a stout fellow, forbear. there's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid; these bowmen upon me do wait: there's threescore and nine; if thou will be mine, thou shalt have my livery straight, and other accoutrements fit for a man: speak up, jolly blade, never fear; i'll teach you also the use of the bow, to shoot at the fat fallow deer. o here is my hand, the stranger replied, i'll serve you with all my whole heart: my name is john little, a man of good mettle; ne'er doubt me, for i'll play my part. his name shall be alter'd, quoth will. stutely, and i will his godfather be; prepare then a feast, and none of the least, for we will be merry, quoth he. they presently fetch'd him a brace of fat does, with humming strong liquor likewise: they lov'd what was good; so in the green wood this pretty sweet babe they baptiz'd. he was, i must tell you, but seven feet high, and may be an ell in the waist; a sweet pretty lad; much feasting they had, bold robin the christening grac'd, with all his bowmen, which stood in a ring, and were of the nottingham breed. brave stutely came then with seven yeomen, and did in this manner proceed: this infant was called john little, quoth he, which name shall be changed anon: the words we'll transpose; so wherever he goes, his name shall be call'd little john. they all with a shout made the elements ring, so soon as the office was o'er; to feasting they went, with true merriment, and tippled strong liquor gillore. then robin he took the pretty sweet babe, and cloath'd him from top to the toe in garments of green most gay to be seen, and gave him a curious long bow. thou shalt be an archer as well as the best, and range in the green wood with us, where we'll not want gold nor silver, behold, while bishops have ought in their purse. we live here like squires or lords of renown, without e'er a foot of free land; we feast on good cheer, with wine, ale, and beer, and every thing at our command. then music and dancing did finish the day: at length, when the sun waxed low, then all the whole train their grove did refrain, and unto their caves they did go. and so ever after, as long as they liv'd, although he was proper and tall, yet nevertheless, the truth to express, still little john they did him call. _little john's end._ the current tradition in derbyshire concerning little john is that he was born at hathersage, in that county; that he was a man of immense stature, and of wonderful strength and prowess; that he was withal of mild and gentle temperament, of affectionate disposition, and faithful in his attachments; that after the death of robin hood at kirklees, which he took deeply to heart, he was so dispirited that he sank under the loss, and having by great exertion succeeded in reaching the place of his birth, (hathersage,) he was welcomed by his friends and old associates, who begged him to tarry with them for the rest of his life; that he had just strength enough left to point out the place in the churchyard where he wished to be buried, and to give them instructions for his burial; that he told them in three days he should die, and desired that his bow and cap should be hung up in the church; that on the third day he died, in a small cottage still standing, where, it is said, his length was so great when dead and "laid out," that his feet came outside the door; that he was buried where he had directed, his cap and bow being hung in the chancel of the church; that the people drave his last arrow into the ground near his grave, and that it took root and grew up into a tree. it is asserted that until within the last sixty or seventy years, his cap--a green cloth one--still hung high in the chancel, but was then taken away by some people from yorkshire, who also despoiled his grave, and took away the thigh bones, which were found to be of immense length. the grave, which is marked by two small upright stones, one at the head and the other at the foot, measures about ten feet in length. in it was opened, and bones of an enormous size found in it. some years ago it was again opened, and a thigh bone measuring thirty-two inches taken away from it. in reference to this tradition it will no doubt be interesting to give the accompanying fac-simile of the writing of elias ashmole, copied from his mss. at oxford, (who was born in ,) and who there says-- "little john lyes buried in hatherseech church yard within miles fro castleton in high peake with one stone set up at his head and another at his feete, but a large distance betweene them. they say a part of his bow hangs up in the said church neere grindleford bridge are robin hoods pricks." [illustration: the above sentence in handwriting] the following ballad, founded on a part of this tradition, was written by mr. william haines, and appeared in "the reliquary," vol. ii., page . several other ballads relating to little john might well be given in this volume, but the two i have selected--his first acquaintance with robin hood, and his death and burial--will be sufficient to show their character. the others must be deferred for a future work. when robin hood, by guile betrayed, in kirklees' cloister died, silent his merry men dispersed, and never more allied. some passed unknown, or pardon got, and peaceful callings sought, beyond the seas while others fled, and 'gainst the paynim fought. and little john, as lonely through their vacant haunts he strode, repented sadness in his soul had e'er of old abode. as there beneath an oak his limbs repose long failing found, a shape thrice warned him in a dream, to shun st. michael's ground. affrighted, from the sward he starts-- deep shone the guardian night! the moon the woods bowed motionless with plenitude of light. st. michael's road, presaging nought, leal john yestreen had ta'en; but now another way he chose, lest there he should be slain. northward, compelling soon his steps, across the tweed he hied; thence sea and land to traverse far, a long and cheerless tide. for aye his heart in greenwood was, wherever he might be; till pleasing rose resolve once more the forests fair to see. yet bootless he retraced deject each loved resort at last; the birds were mute, the leafless wold held drearily the blast. and as again john wandered wide, a fog so dense did fall, he could not see nor hill nor tree; it clos'd him like a wall. that dismal night he roamed lost, exhausted, sick, and cold: the morn was long ere it was light, and long the vapour rolled. on every side came mighty stones about a barren moor; no roof nor pale might be descried, as spread that waste forlore. at length 'mid wreathing fog-smoke swam the sun's blanch'd disc on high; mantled the ashy mists around; grew wide the rover's eye. when, singing blithe as he approached, a shepherd boy met john: "pray tell to me," the outlaw cried, "what ground i here am on?" "st. michael's, gallant yeomen, this," the boy made prompt reply; "from yonder, hathersage church-spire, may'st plainly now espy." "there hast thou knelled," said little john, "the solemn bell for me; but christ thee save, my bonny lad; aye lucky shalt thou be!" he had not many steps advanced, when in the vale appeared the church, and eke the village sweet, his foot had vainly feared. descending, welcome straight he finds the ruddy hearth before: cried young and old, "among us dwell, and weary roam no more!" said little john, "no, never hence shall i fare forth again; but that abode is yet to found, wherein i must remain." he led them to the churchyard frore, and digg'd therein a grave: "three days," said he, "and neighbours, this the little inn i crave. without a coffin or a shroud inter me, i you pray, and o'er my corse, as now yclad, the greensward lightly lay." the morn ensued, as john foretold, he never rose to greet; his bread upon the board was brought, beside it stayed his seat. they laid him in the grave which he with his own hands had made, and overspread the fragrant sod, as he had wished and said. his bow was in the chancel hung; his last good bolt they drave down to the nocke, its measured length, westward fro' the grave. and root and bud this shaft put forth, when spring returned anon; it grew a tree, and threw a shade where slept staunch little john. _the lay of the buckstone._ the following excellent ballad has been collected from the _disjecta membra_ of the forest minstrelsy of the high peak, and arranged in its present form, by my friend mr. william bennett, of chapel-en-le-frith. mr. bennett considers, and with good reason, that it has originally formed two distinct ballads, one relating to a contention and fight between robin hood and the keepers of peak forest, and the other to a match with the long-bow between him and the foresters. this ballad has been printed in "the reliquary," vol. i., page . 'tis merry in the high peak forest, out upon the lea; 'tis merry in the shady frith, where birds are whistling free: the heather blooms on lady low; o'er combs[ ] the wind blows dree; and the dappled deer are feeding there, under the greenwood tree. "now why amort, bold robin hood! and a buck so near at hand: 'tis easier far to cleave his crown than a peeled willow wand. a nobler herd ne'er saw i run, three hundred head and mo: the king won't miss a hart o' grease, if thou use thy good yew bow." "my bow's unstrung, brian the bearward! so much the worse for thee: thou elder likest the twang of the string, than the deftest minstrelsy: thou prizest the swish of an arrow keen, when the mark is a buck of head; and liefer than tripping o'er the sward, thou wouldst see the quarry dead." "ay, dead and buried," quoth the bearward, "in the grave of a venison pie: and so wouldst thou, or men thee wrong; for all thou talk'st so high: but if thou durst not fly a shaft, as well as i would fly mine, tend thou my bear, and lend thy bow; i'll swop my trade for thine." the bearward strung the bow and shot four hundred feet him fro: and hit a good fat buck, which fell, nor lack'd a second blow. "well shot, shot well," bold robin cried, "thou'rt of the greenwood free; at stable stand, or wanlass drift, thou need'st no lere from me." then they were ware of six wight yeomen, that lusty were, and tall, come marching up from fairfield[ ] side, beneath the archer's wall; all clad in lincoln green were they; and on their right arms wore a silver shield, which, in its field, a lion passant bore. "good morrow, good fellows!" the foremost said, "you are got to work eftsoon, i pray do you hold of the crown in chief, or follow the lady moon? of stout king richard the lion's heart ye should be liegemen good, to break his laws, and kill his deer, within his own greenwood." "thou liest now, thou proud spoken keeper! forever i say thou dost lie: neither forest walk, nor deer are the king's, as i will well abye. to john of mortaigne, the deer belong; to john of mortaigne and _me_; and my share i'll take, when it me lists, despite of him or thee." "why who art thou, thou bold tongued traitor! that durst thus mate with me; and claim one half of the prince's deer, despite of his sovereignty? i trou thou'rt one of the bearward's men, by keeping his company; and i'll make thee dance like a bear from france, if thy tongue not the kinder be." then on he rushed, with his staff uprais'd, and dealt bold robin a blow; but he was ware, and stopped him there, with his long and tough yew bow. and robin put his horn to his mouth, and blew both loud and shrill; and soon appeared five wight yeomen come running down the hill. the first was a man hight little john, a yeoman good and tall; the next will scarlet of gentle blood, bred up in bower and hall; the third, the minstrel, alan a dale, so well with the harp sang he; the fourth was stalwart clym o' the clough, and william of cloudeslie. "now, hold your hands," bold robin cried, "stand by and see fair play; and the keeper and i will try this bout, and see who'll win the day. the bearward shall lay the dainty buck on this mossy boulder stone; and he that fairly knocks down his foe, the fat buck shall have won." "a match, a match," cried the yeomen all, "whoever shall say it nay, 'tis better ye two should fight it out, than all should join in the fray: so handle your staves, and to it like men, as it may no better be; and he that first brings his man to ground, shall gain the victory." then ralph the ranger squared his staff, and gloured on robin the while; the outlaw's staff lay loose in his hands, and he scarce forbore to smile. they stood together like brothers twain, good men at their hands and tall; but each seemed loth to begin the strife, lest he first should have the fall. and round and round each pressed his man, before he could get a blow; so well on guard, each kept his ward, as they traversed to and fro. with feint and dodge each tried to draw, his wary foeman forth; but both were cool, and cautious too; like the good men of the north. bold robin first his staff let fly, (the challenger was he,) and for the honor of his craft, he must not dastard be. woe worth the while he dealt the blow, his staff had scarcely flown; when ralph's came dead athwart his head, and well nigh cracked his crown. he backward gave a step or two, but not one whit dismayed; though now the keeper's quarter staff about his shoulders played: his eye was keen, his hand was true, as well the keeper found; for his staff did knap the keeper's cap, and bring him to the ground. "the buck is mine," the outlaw said, "unless thou lik'st to try which of us twain upon the ground, can best make arrow fly. for kingly blood ye tend the frith; ye ought to shoot right well: for mine own hand will i draw a bow, and see who bears the bell." "a match, a match!" cried the yeomen all, "whoever shall say it nay; good men ye are if ye shoot a shaft, as ye've handled the staff this day. so fix your mark, and choose your ground, and it may no better be; and he that first cleaves the willow wand, shall gain the victory." "no willow wand will we have," quoth robin, "but the buck's dead glassy eye; and we'll shoot the length of the archer's wall,[ ] seven hundred feet or nigh. so bearward lay the deer adown on yon mossy boulder stone; and he who lodges a shaft in his eye, the fat buck shall have won." the buck was laid on the boulder stone, with his head towards the east; and the yeomen tall, with their bows in hand, to win the guerdon press'd; the keeper first with wary eye, took long and careful aim; and hit the buck right yeomanly in the middle of his wame. "well shot, well shot," bold robin cried, (but the outlaw laughed the while,) "right woodmanly that shaft is placed; but a miss is as good as a mile." with careless aim he drew his bow, and let his arrow fly; and lodged the shaft, both hard and fast, in the dead buck's glassy eye. so robin he won the dainty buck, by the side of the archer's wall; and left the tale to be sung or said in tower, and bower, and hall. the old gray wall still stands on the hill, though the archer's marks are gone; and the boulder rock is still kept in mind, by the name of old buckstone. footnotes: [ ] combs moss, one of the highest hills in the neighbourhood, between chapel-en-le-frith and buxton. [ ] a large village closely adjoining buxton. [ ] in a copy of an ancient map made at the time of the enclosure of the wastes and commons in the parish of chapel-en-le-frith, (part of the ancient forest of the high peak,) in the year , an old wall is traced, which is still a boundary fence of the wild moor called combs moss. this wall is named on the map "the archer's wall," and the length of it is traditionally called "robin hood's marks." _sir richard whittington's advancement:_ _being an historical account of his education, unexpected fortune, charity, &c._ the rhyme and the story of "whittington and his cat" are perhaps as well known as any ballads in the language. sir richard whittington, or "dick whittington," as he is commonly called, was of the same family as the de whittingtons, lords of whittington, near chesterfield, derbyshire. he was, it is stated, youngest son of a sir william whittington. in , when he must have been about forty years of age, he became a member of the mercers' company, and was, it is said, besides being a mercer, a merchant adventurer. he was also about this year an alderman, and also sheriff, of london. in he was appointed lord mayor of london, by writ from richard ii., to serve in place of the deceased lord mayor. in , in , and again in , he was elected to and served the office of lord mayor. whittington married alice, daughter of sir hugh fitzwarren and maude his wife. he died in . besides being "_thrice lord mayor of london_," his body was, it seems, _thrice_ buried in the church he had himself erected,--st. michael paternoster: first, by his executors, who erected a monument over his remains; secondly, in the reign of edward vi., when the minister, thinking that probably some great riches had been buried with him, had his body taken up and despoiled of its leaden covering; and, thirdly, in the reign of mary, when the parishioners were compelled to again take him up, re-enclose him in lead, and re-erect the monument over his remains. at the great fire of london, in , both church and monument were destroyed. his memory has been well preserved in the popular mind by ballad and story and tradition; and his noble charities and his munificent acts, of which so many evidences remain in london, form a prouder and more enduring monument than the one which the fire destroyed. the following version of the ballad is perhaps the one most generally known:-- here must i tell the praise of worthy whittington, known to be in his days thrice lord-mayor of london. but of poor parentage born was he, as we hear, and in his tender age bred up in lancashire. poorly to london then, came up this simple lad; where, with a merchant-man, soon he a dwelling had; and in a kitchen plac'd, a scullion for to be; where a long time he pass'd in labour drudgingly. his daily service was turning at the fire; and to scour pots of brass, for a poor scullion's hire: meat and drink all his pay, of coin he had no store; therefore to run away, in secret thought he bore. so from the merchant-man whittington secretly towards his country ran, to purchase liberty. but as he went along, in a fair summer's morn, london's bells sweetly rung "whittington back return:" evermore sounding so, "turn, again, whittington; for thou, in time, shalt grow lord-mayor of london." whereupon, back again whittington came with speed, a servant to remain, as the lord had decreed. still blessed be the bells, this was his daily song; "this my good fortune tells, most sweetly have they rung. if god so favour me, i will not prove unkind; london my love shall see, and my large bounties find." but, see his happy chance! this scullion had a cat, which did his state advance, and by it wealth he gat. his master ventur'd forth, to a land far unknown, with merchandize of worth, as is in stories shown: whittington had no more but this poor cat as then, which to the ship he bore, like a brave valiant man. "vent'ring the same," quoth he, "i may get store of gold, and mayor of london be, as the bells have me told." whittington's merchandise, carried to a land troubled with rats and mice, as they did understand; the king of the country there, as he at dinner sat, daily remain'd in fear of many a mouse and rat. meat that on trenchers lay, no way they could keep safe; but by rats bore away, fearing no wand or staff; whereupon, soon they brought whittington's nimble cat; which by the king was bought, heaps of gold given for that. home again came these men, with their ship laden so; whittington's wealth began by this cat thus to grow: scullion's life he forsook, to be a merchant good, and soon began to look how well his credit stood. after that, he was chose sheriff of the city here, and then full quickly rose higher, as did appear: for, to the city's praise, sir richard whittington came to be in his days, thrice mayor of london. more his fame to advance, thousands he lent the king, to maintain war in france, glory from thence to bring. and after, at a feast which he the king did make, he burnt the bonds all in jest, and would no money take. ten thousand pounds he gave to his prince willingly; and would no penny have for this kind courtesy. as god thus made him great, so he would daily see poor people fed with meat, to shew his charity: prisoners poor cherish'd were, widows sweet comfort found: good deeds, both far and near, of him do still resound. whittington's college is one of his charities; record reporteth this to lasting memories. newgate he builded fair, for prisoners to lie in; christ-church he did repair, christian love for to win. many more such like deeds were done by whittington; which joy and comfort breeds, to such as look thereon. _the derbyshire miller._ i have not as yet been able to recover the whole of the words of this ballad. the following fragment was written by mr. chappell, from the singing of mr. charles sloman, and is all i have respecting it:-- [music: the miller he caught the maid by the toe; what d'ye call this, my dearest? the miller he caught the maid by the toe; what d'ye call this, my dearest? oh! this is my toe, near to my shoe sole. thy toe on my territory. i'm the maid of the mill, and the corn grinds well.] _tideswell in an uproar,_ _or the prince in the town, and the devil in the church._ one sunday in the prince of wales, afterwards george iv., passed through tideswell, in the high peak, and stopped to change horses at the principal inn of the place. the circumstance caused, as was only natural, considerable excitement in the place, which culminated in not only the whole of the congregation of the parish church, but also the clergyman himself, and his clerk, forsaking the service to see him pass. this circumstance gave rise to much merriment, and more than one ballad was the result. the following is the best:-- declare, o muse, what demon 'twas crept into tideswell church, and tempted pious folk to leave their parson in the lurch. what caused this strange disaster, say, what did the scene provoke? at which the men unborn will laugh, at which the living joke! the prince of wales, great george's heir, to roam once took a freak; and as the fates did so decree, he journey'd through the peak. but, ah! my prince, thy journey turn'd the sabbath into fun day; and tideswell lads will ne'er forget, thy trav'ling on a sunday. the ringers somehow gain'd a hint, their loyalty be praised! that george would come that way, so got the bells already rais'd. the prince arrived, then loudest shouts thro' tideswell streets soon rang; the loyal clappers strait fell down, with many a merry bang. to pulpit high, just then the priest, his sacred gown had thrust; and, strange coincidence! his text "in princes put no trust." with man of god they all agreed, till bells went clitter clatter; when expectation did them feed, but not with heavenly matter. the congregation, demon rous'd, arose with one accord; and, shameful, put their trust in prince, and left the living lord. they helter skelter sought the door, the church did them disgorge; with fiercest fury, then they flew, like dragons to the "george." as through churchyard with tumult dire and wild uproar they fled; confusion was so great, some thought they would have rais'd the dead. the parson cried, with loudest lungs, "for love of god, pray stay!" but love of prince more prevalent, soon hied them fast away. the demon hov'ring o'er their heads, exulted as they pass'd; "friend belzebub," the parson cried, "thou'st got a prize at last." the clerk then to his master said, "we're left behind complete; what harm if we start off for prince, and run the second heat?" the parson with good capon lin'd, then ran with middling haste; spare clerk, was at his rear, who knew, "amen," should come the last. amidst the mob, they soon descried the prince, great britain's heir; then with the mob they both did join, and play'd at gape and stare. their wish the sovereign people show, impress'd with one accord; it was to turn themselves to beasts, and draw their future lord. the prince put forth what's filled with sense, it was his royal sconce: insisted they should act like men, and break their rules for once. steeds more appropriate being brought, huzzas formed parting speech; the prince drove on and people went to swig with mrs. leech. thy flock's frail error, reverend sir, did serve a loyal dish up; for which, if prince has any grace, he'll surely make thee bishop. another short piece on this same subject may be added: ye tideswellites, can this be true, which fame's loud trumpet brings; that ye the cambrian prince to view, forsook the king of kings? that ye, when swiftly rattling wheels proclaimed his highness near; trode almost on each other's heels, to leave the house of prayer? another time adopt this plan, lest ye be left i' th' lurch; place at the end o' th' town a man to ask him into th' church! _the derby ram._ the origin of this popular old ballad has yet to be ascertained. at present it has puzzled more heads than one, and its elucidation must be left to future research. its principal characteristic is its bold extravagance. derby and derby people have, however, i know by references to allusions to it, been fond of their ram for more than a century. how much older it is than that time is difficult to say. there are several versions of the ballad: the one i here give is, however, the most complete i have met with. the "derby ram" has been set as a glee by dr. callcott, and is still sung with much applause at public dinners in the town. so popular, indeed, is the ram in the district, that a few years ago--in --the first regiment of derbyshire militia, whose barracks and head quarters are at derby, carrying out the idea of the welsh fusileers with their goat, attached a fine ram to the staff of the regiment. so well trained was he, and so evidently proud of his post, that he marched with a stately step in front of the band as they marched day by day through the town while up for training, and attracted quite as much notice as any drum-major ever did. more than this, a political periodical, a kind of provincial _charivarri_, has been issued under the title of the "derby ram," which is supposed to butt at party doings, and at local abuses of various kinds; and i write this note with a steel pen which bears the extraordinary name stamped upon it of the "derby ram pen!" as i was going to darby, sir, all on a market day, i met the finest ram, sir, that ever was fed on hay. daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day, fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day. this ram was fat behind, sir, this ram was fat before, this ram was ten yards high, sir, indeed he was no more. daddle-i-day, &c. the wool upon his back, sir, reached up unto the sky, the eagles made their nests there, sir, for i heard the young ones cry. daddle-i-day, &c. the wool upon his belly, sir, it dragged upon the ground, it was sold in darby town, sir, for forty thousand pound.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. the space between his horns, sir, was as far as a man could reach, and there they built a pulpit for the parson there to preach. daddle-i-day, &c. the teeth that were in his mouth, sir, were like a regiment of men; and the tongue that hung between them, sir, would have dined them twice and again. daddle-i-day, &c. this ram jumped o'er a wall, sir, his tail caught on a briar, it reached from darby town, sir, all into leicestershire. daddle-i-day, &c. and of this tail so long, sir, 'twas ten miles and an ell, they made a goodly rope, sir, to toll the market bell. daddle-i-day, &c. this ram had four legs to walk on, sir, this ram had four legs to stand, and every leg he had, sir, stood on an acre of land.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. the butcher that killed this ram, sir, was drownded in the blood, and the boy that held the pail, sir, was carried away in the flood.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. all the maids in darby, sir, came begging for his horns, to take them to coopers, to make them milking gawns.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. the little boys of darby, sir, they came to beg his eyes, to kick about the streets, sir, for they were football[ ] size. daddle-i-day, &c. the tanner that tanned its hide, sir, would never be poor any more, for when he had tanned and retched[ ] it, it covered all sinfin moor.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. the jaws that were in his head, sir, they were so fine and thin, they were sold to a methodist parson, for a pulpit to preach in.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. indeed, sir, this is true, sir, i never was taught to lie, and had you been to darby, sir, you'd have seen it as well as i.[ ] daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day, fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day. footnotes: [ ] another version has-- "the wool upon his back, sir, was worth a thousand pound, the wool upon his belly, sir, it trailed upon the ground." [ ] another version says-- "and every time he shifted them, he covered an acre of land." [ ] another version has-- "and all the people of darby were carried away in the flood." [ ] "gawn" is a provincialism for pail,--a milk pail. [ ] football was essentially a derby game, and was played every year, frequently with highly disastrous consequences, until put down by the authorities a few years back. on shrove tuesday business was entirely suspended, and the townspeople being divided into two parties,--all saints and st. peters,--the ball was, at noon, thrown from the town hall to the densely packed masses in the market-place, the two parties each trying to "goal" it at their respective places. the fight--for it was nothing less--continued for many hours, and sewers, brook-courses, and even rivers, were invaded, and scores of people who were fortunate enough not to get killed or lamed, were stripped of their clothing in the fray. [ ] stretched,--_i.e._, fastened it down with pegs to dry. [ ] sinfin moor is a few miles from derby. it is a place where, in former times, derby races were held. another version says "swinscoe moor," which is in the neighbourhood of ashborne. [ ] i take it that this verse is a later addition to the song, put in, probably, by some singer who was antagonistic to methodism. it does not appear in most of the versions i have collected. [ ] another version says-- "and if you go to darby, sir, you may eat a bit of the pie." _the blink-ey'd cobler._ the plot of the ballad of "the blink eyed cobler," is the old story of a young gentleman falling in love with a servant, seducing her, promising to marry her, the marriage prevented by the "cruel father," a disguise adopted, the father giving a dowry to the supposed cobbler so as to induce him to marry her, and in the end the happy reconciliation of all the parties. the ballad is here given from a broad-sheet in my own collection. it is printed broad-way of the paper, in four columns, and has a wood-cut at the head, of a lady and her waiting-woman before a looking-glass, and a gentleman standing in the room with them. it occurs also in other forms. all you that delight in merriment, come listen to my song, it is very new and certain true, you need not tarry long, before you laugh your belly full, therefore be pleas'd to stay, i hope that you will be pleased, before you go away. it's of a knight in derbyshire, who had a handsome son, he kept a handsome chambermaid, who had his favour won; they dearly lov'd each other, being full of sport and play, having seduced this "handsome chambermaid," and she having told him that she is likely to become a mother, the ballad goes on-- he cries love be contented, (this is what must be said,) and do not let my father know, for on sunday we will wed. but mind how cruel fortune, their fate did seem to force, the old man stood in the corner, and heard the whole discourse. next morn he call'd the maid, likewise the youth his son, and with a smiling sneering look, the story thus begun. he said i wish you both much joy, you are to wed on sunday, but i'd have you be rul'd by me, and put it off till monday. 'twill be but one day longer, with that he laugh'd outright, but i'm resolv'd to part you both, for fear it should be to-night. he paid the girl her wages, and home he then her sent, and confin'd him to his chamber, in tears for to lament. next morning unto london, along with a sturdy guide, to his uncle's house on cornhill, he sent him to abide. but as they rode along the way, he said unto the guide i'll give thee twenty guineas to let me step aside. because this very morning, one word my father said, the same i do remember, and keep it in my head. the guide straightway gave consent, and he went to his sweetheart sue, then told to her the story, and what he design'd to do. disguis'd like a poor cobler, with a long rusty beard, with a leather coat not worth a groat, to his father's house he steer'd. he knocked boldly at the door, and when his father came, he said, sir, be you such a one? he answered, yes, the same, he cry'd, i understand your son, wanton tricks has play'd, unknown to your worship, along with your chambermaid. i understand some money with her you are freely to give, to help to keep the child and she, so long as they do live. now i am an honest cobler, who do live here just by, for fifty pounds i'll marry her, if that will but satisfy. the old man answer'd, before the money i do pay, i'll see her fairly marry'd, and give her myself away. with all my heart, the cobler unto the old man did say, with that he fetch'd the fifty pounds, and the bargain he made straightway. and when they came unto the church, as we do understand, the old man strutted boldly, then took her by the hand, crying, heavens bless you from above, and send you long to live, and as a token of my love, this fifty pounds i give. they parted very friendly, the old man home he went, the bride and bridegroom rode away, to london by consent. where she was fairly brought to bed, with joy and much content, a letter into the country, to his father then he sent, sir, i think it is my duty, and am bound to acquaint thee, that there is a lady in this city, who has fallen in love with me. five thousand pounds a year she, all in good house and land, that if you're willing for the match, come to london out of hand. the old man got his coach ready, and up to london came, for to view this charming lady, who was of birth and fame. then coming to his brother's house, this beauty for to view, he little thought this beauty bright, was his old servant sue. with gold and silver spangles, she was bedeck'd all round, the noise of her portion being told, for so many thousand pounds. the old man took his son aside, and thus to him did say, take my advice and marry her, my dearest child this day. that morning they were marry'd, and dinner being done, the old man being mellow, the story thus begun. he said dear son i'll tell you, and nothing but what is true, a poor blinking one ey'd cobler, has wedded thy sweetheart sue. the young man went a little aside. as i to you confess, and then within a short time, he put on his cobler's dress. then taking susan by the hand, they fell on their bended knees, saying, pardon, honoured father, pardon if you please. for i am john the cobler, and this is my sweetheart sue, o pardon us, dear father, because we tell you true. if you are the cobler, said the old man, who had the blinking eye, thou'st cobl'd me of a thousand pounds and a pox on thy policy. the uncle he persuaded him, so did all the guests, the old man fell a laughing, saying, "'tis but a merry jest," that i cannot be angry, then straight these words did say, i pray fetch me the fiddlers, and so let's dance away. now we may see the old and rich, are bit by policy, for beauty, wit, and good manners, beyond all riches be. so here's a good health to the cobler, with another to handsome sue, let every one drink off his glass, without any more ado. _a strange banquet;_ _or the devil's entertainment by cook laurel, at the peak in derby-shire; with an account of the several dishes served to table._ to the tune of _cook laurel, &c._ cook laurel, or cock lorel, as he is variously called, was a notorious rogue in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, and is not unfrequently alluded to by the old writers. lorel, or laurel, was a word signifying a rascal,--a bad, low, worthless fellow; and _cock_ lorel would therefore denote an arch-rogue, a very prince of rascals! _lorel's den_ was a place of resort, no doubt, for thieves and sharpers, and "lazy lorel," which is an expression even now not unfrequently heard, means an idle, worthless fellow. a curious little tract, entitled "cocke lorrell's bote," was printed by wynken de worde; and this "cock lorel's boat" is mentioned in a ms. poem of _doctor double ale_, in the bodleian library, and in other writings. in it persons of various classes, including the minstrels, are summoned to go on board his ship of fools. in rowland's "martin markhall, his defence and answer to the bellman of london" ( ), cock lorrell stands second only in the list of rogues there given, and is thus described: "after him succeded, by the generall council, one cock lorrell, the most notorious knave that ever lived. by trade he was a tinker, often carrying a pan and hammer for show; but when he came to a good booty he would cast his profession in a ditch, and play the padder."[ ] the ballad of cock lorrell is introduced in ben jonson's masque of the "gipsies metamorphosed," and in "pills to purge melancholy." the copy i here give i have copied from the original broad-sheet in the roxburghe collection in the british museum. it is in some parts exceedingly coarse in its wording, and is therefore unfit to be given entire. it will be seen that cock lorrell, the prince of rogues, invites his satanic majesty to castleton, in the high peak of derbyshire, to dinner, and the dishes served up for the occasion are people of various disreputable callings and hypocritical habits, against whom the shafts of the writer are levelled. the broad-sheet from which the ballad is here copied, is printed in black letter, and has an engraving of the banquet at the head. it is "licensed and entered according to order. london: printed by and for w. o. and a. m. ...to be sold by j. deacon, at the angel in guiltspur street." it begins:-- cook lawrel would have the devil his guest, and bid him home to peak to dinner, where fiend never had such a feast, prepared at the charge of a sinner. with a hey down, down adown, down. his stomach was quesie, he came thither coached, the joggings had caused his cruets to rise, to help which he call'd for a puritan poach'd, that used to turn up the white of his eyes. with a hey down, &c. and so he recovered unto his wish; he sat him down and began to eat: a promooter[ ] in plumb broth was the first dish, his own privy-kitchen had no such meat. with a hey down, &c. yet though with (it) he much was taken, upon a sudden he shifted his trencher as soon as he spied the bawd[ ] and bacon, by which you may know the devil's a wencher. with a hey down, &c. six pickled taylors sliced and cut with semsters[ ] and tire-woman,[ ] fit for his pallet, with feather-men and perfumers, put some twelve in a charger, to make a grand sallet.[ ] with a hey down, &c. a rich fat usurer stewed in his marrow, with him a lawyer's head and green sawce were the next dishes; usurers and lawyers, in those days, being common subjects for satire. then carbanado'd[ ] and cook'd with pains was brought up a serjent's cloven face, the sawce was made of a yeoman's brains that had been beaten out with his mace. with a hey down, &c. two roasted sheriffs came whole to the board, the feast had nothing been without them, both living and dead were foxed and fur'd, and their chains like sassages hung about them. with a hey down, &c. the next dish was the mayor of the town, with pudding of maintenance[ ] put in his belly, like a goose in her feathers, in his gown with a couple of hinch boys[ ] boyl'd to jelly. with a hey down, &c. then came the over-worn justice of peace, with clerks like gizzards stuck under each arm, and warrants like sippets,[ ] lay in his own grease, set over a chafing dish to be kept warm. with a hey down, &c. in the next four verses, other "dainty dishes" were served up. then followed-- the jewel of a time-server for a fish, a constable sowced, with vinegar by two alderman-lobsters laid in a dish a deputy-tart and church-warden pye.[ ] with a hey down, &c. all which devoured, then for a close he did for a draught of _derby_[ ] call, he heaved the vessel up to his nose, and never left till he'd drank up all. with a hey down, &c. then from the table he gave a start where banquet and whine was not to seek-- and thus the banquet ended. the ballad closes with the assertion that from this feast the common name of the cavern at castleton, where it is said to have taken place, is derived. footnotes: [ ] a foot-pad. [ ] a _promooter_, was an informer. [ ] a provincialism for hare. [ ] a sempstress. [ ] a milliner. [ ] this verse is evidently altogether a shaft levelled against the follies of fashion and foppery of the time, and against those who made it their trade to promote them. [ ] _carbanado_, a steak cut crossways for broiling. [ ] the "cap of maintenance" was a mark of dignity: the "pudding of maintenance" is evidently a severe satirical allusion to the fondness for good living of corporate functionaries. [ ] hench boy,--a page; an attendant on a nobleman or dignitary. [ ] small thin pieces of bread soaked in gravy or broth. [ ] _warden_ was a large baking pear. "warden pies" were very favourite dishes, and are frequently to be found alluded to by the old writers. the wit of "_church_-warden pie" is very obvious. [ ] derby ale. _the taylor's ramble,_ _or the blue's valour displayed._ this ballad i print from a ms. copy of full fifty years old, in my own collection. i am not aware that it has ever before been printed. to another copy in the bateman collection, (which differs in the wording, though not in the sense, in many places, and in which the sixth verse is wanting,) is appended this note: "the tailor's name was eyre, and this curious exploit was performed on the th january, ." come all you gallant heroes of courage stout and bold, and i'll tell you of a taylor that would not be controld; it happened in derbyshire, as you may understand, five troops of the cavelry to take this noble man. so now i do begin to tell you of the fun, full twenty miles that morning this taylor he had run, and when he came to ashford,[ ] the people they did cry, make haste, my jovel lad, for your enimies are nigh. this taylor was a mighty man, a man of wonderous size, and when he came to entcliff[ ] hill, you would have thought he would have reached the skies; and when he did climb those rocks that was so wonderous high, the cavelry came all round, and the taylor they did spy. they loaded their pistols with powder and with ball, all for to take this taylor that was both stout and tall; he was near four feet high, and a mighty man indeed, youl'd a laugh'd to have seen the cavelry ride after him full speed. in lighting from their horses, their valour for to shew, five of them upon the ground this taylor he did throw; they being sore afrighted, saying, we would shoot him if we durst, but their carbines would not fire, for their balls they had put in first. their captain, as commander, he ordered ranks to form, all for to take this taylor, and entcliff rocks to storm; prime and load then was the word their captain he did cry, chear up, my jovel lads, let us conquerors be or die. these valiants being reinforced, they took the taylor bold, and guarded him to bakewell,[ ] the truth i will unfold: at the white horse inn in bakewell, as you may understand, full fifty of their troops to guard this noble man. the battle being over, the taylor they have won, and this is the first prank our cavelry has done; i'll tell you the truth, they cannot refuse, they are ten times worse than the run away blues. here's a health unto the taylor, of courage stout and bold, and by our noble cavelry he scorns to be controld; if he'd but had his goose, his bodkin, and his shears, he would soon have cleared bakewell of those derby volunteers. footnotes: [ ] ashford-in-the-water, a considerable village and parish, three miles from bakewell, in the high peak of derbyshire. [ ] endcliff, or entcliffe, is about a mile from bakewell, on the way to ashford. [ ] bakewell is a town of considerable importance in the high peak, about twenty-five miles from derby, and twelve from buxton. _squire vernon's fox-chace._ this ballad, one of the most popular of our hunting songs, relates to the noble old derbyshire family of vernon, in olden times of haddon hall, but for several generations of sudbury hall, in the same county, which family is now represented by the right hon. lord vernon, whose seat sudbury hall is. "squire vernon," of this ballad, was george vernon, an ancestor of lord vernon, and was, like his namesake and ancestor of old, george vernon of haddon, (father of the celebrated dorothy vernon,) who acquired and deserved the name of the "king of the peak," remarkably fond of hunting, and kept a capital pack of hounds. the copy i here give i print from a very scarce broad-sheet in my own collection. it is in two columns, with two curious little wood-cuts at the head. one morning last winter to shirley park[ ] came, a noble brave sportsman george vernon by name resolved over hedges and ditches to fly, came a hunting the fox--bold reynard must die. it was early in the morning before it was light, where a great many gentlemen appointed to meet, to meet 'squire vernon of honour and fame, his hounds they bring glory and honour to his name. hoke cross him and wind him: tom mullins he cry'd, i warrant we shall unkennel him by the south side, let us draw to the cover that lies on the south, bold reynard lies there, trouler doubles his mouth. cries, loo, hark to trouler that never fails, do you hear how young snowball does challenge the train there are fowler and royal two brave hounds, they'll find out bold reynard if he lies above ground. hark, rogues, together, while juno comes in, there's lady and lambert likewise little trim, there's pleasant and careless, a bitch that runs fleet, but loo, hark to little justice, for she sets you to right. there is jovial and frolick, and vigour besides, there is dido the best bitch that ever was try'd, there is tospot and bumper and virgin i say, there is fifty-four couple that run every day. mr. walker then over the cover did stand, he hollow'd most clearly with horn in his hand, cries, loo, hark together, we'll storm reynard's fort, and if cover he breaks, we'll tear his old coat. loo, hark rogues together, the scent it lies warm, mr. walker and tom mullins both concert with horn, tantwivee, tantwivee, the horn they did sound, they alarmed the country for above a mile round. tom mullins the huntsman his whip he did crack, cries, loo, hark to little careless, that leedeth the pack, these words made jack wooley, that was whipper in, to hollow most clearly, loo, hark rogues, hark in. the hounds they did rally and flourish about, bold reynard broke cover, tom mullins did shout, over wheyersome[ ] common away he did trim, then so merrily run by the tinker's inn.[ ] then for blakeley oldhurst but the door was stop'd there then bold reynard was forc'd to take staffordshire, then he crossed the river dove i declare, and straight for durintwoods, for great cover was there. but the hounds they pursu'd him so hot in the chace, which reynard perceiving would not take the place, then he took weaver hill,[ ] which was a pleasant thing, to hear the wood echo, and the college hall ring. tom mullins was mounted on a trusty bay, over hedges and ditches the devil would play, up rocks and high mountains so merrily did climb, cries, hark to little careless she runs him like wind. then for the new buildings away he did steer, i thought we should run him all round staffordshire, but we briskly pursu'd him with hound and with horn, and we forced him back again by the tyth barn. 'squire vernon was mounted upon golden dun, he leaped with courage and like fury did run, mr. walker was on a gelding so free, he maintained the chace and kept him company. 'squire vernon's a sportsman 'tis very well known, he rid swiftly all day, you'd have thought he had flown, 'squire brown rid a gelding that run very fleet, he may challenge the country to carry his weight. 'squire boothby of ashbourn[ ] rid over the plain, expecting every minute bold reynard was slain, he rid with great courage all the day through, he was rarely well mounted upon his true blue. mr. boothby of bradford who never was cast, but in all the whole course he rallied at last, mr. gretion, of langford,[ ] he bravely came in, he was rarely well mounted on tearing robin. mr. walker did hollow cry'd sentence is past, here is trouler and snowball puts up at the last, come, gentlemen, ride, for the game is our own, now the old hounds puts up i find reynard is blown. the sportsmen they rid at a desperate rate, as if they had run for a thousand pound plate, no hedges could turn them, nor wall could them set, for the choicest of sportsmen in england were met. the hounds they did rally and briskly pursue, do you hear little careless, she runs him in view, fifty miles in four hours which is a great ride. but in wooton[ ] old park bold reynard he died. and for jack wooley we'll not him forget, he rid with great courage and ne'er fear'd his neck, no hedges or walls could turn him again, he came in that same minute that reynard was slain. the sportsmen came in every one at the last, the hounds they run briskly not one that was cast, let's ring reynard's farewell with a horn that sounds clear you've not heard such an hollow this hundred year. all pastime in hunting here doth command, there's the otter by water the deer upon land, here hunting is pleasant the stag's noble chace, to the animal reynard all ought to give place. come gentlemen sportsmen, where'er you be, all you that love hunting draw near unto me, the chace is now ended, you've heard reynards fall, so here's a health to 'squire vernon of sidbury hall. footnotes: [ ] shirley park.--shirley, a village and parish, lies about ten miles from derby, and three and a half from ashborne. from it the noble family of shirley, viscount tamworth and earl of ferrars, takes its name. it has, however, long ceased to be the seat of the shirleys. [ ] wyaston. [ ] tinker's inn is a hamlet about a mile and a half from osmaston-by-ashborne. [ ] the weaver hills are among the highest in staffordshire, lying about midway between alton towers and ilam hall. [ ] "squire boothby of ashborne" and "mr. boothby of bradford," were of the family of the boothbys of ashborne hall, a family connected by marriage with the vernons. the present dowager lady vernon was a miss boothby. [ ] longford, about two miles from shirley. longford hall is now the residence of the hon. e. k. coke. [ ] wooton is under the weaver hills, on the side next alton. "wooton-under-weaver, where god comes never," is a common, though not very complimentary, saying regarding this place. _the trusley hunting song._ this interesting ballad, which has been more than once printed, recounts the events of a famous day's "sport,"--a run with the hounds,--at trusley, in derbyshire; trusley hall being one of the seats of the coke family for many generations. the ballad was written by tom handford, a blacksmith at trusley, who also acted in the capacity of "whipper-in" to "squire coke," who was the last william coke of trusley, and who died in . a portrait of tom handford was painted by order of squire coke, and hung up in the servants' hall at trusley, with this inscription, written by mr. coke-- "this is tom handford--don't you know it? he was both smith and poet!" a version of this ballad, preserved in ms. by the late d'ewes coke, esq., was furnished to me by that gentleman. it differs in many essential points from the one i now print, both in the names as well as in the construction of the stanzas. the different versions of this and other ballads have doubtless arisen from their having been written down from memory; and the different singers would also, probably, take some little license in altering the words to suit their own particular tastes. i prefer giving the _printed_ version, which is evidently the original one. my copy, which i here give, was "printed by w. o. in leadenhall street," and is of an almost contemporaneous period with the song itself. it is printed broadway on the sheet, in four columns, and has at the head of the first two columns a rude engraving of two huntsmen galloping past a tree, and following a stag and a couple of hounds. it is headed "_princely diversion: or the jovial hunting-match_." trusley is a village and parish nearly seven miles from derby, and about midway between radbourne and longford, a seat of the coke family. one _valentine's_ day in the morning bright phoebus began to appear sir _william cook_ winded his horn and was going a hunting the hare says _handford_[ ] uncouple your beagles and let them go questing along for lose her or win her, i must go to dinner or else they will think me long. says _handford_, i pray now forbear, sir and talk not of dinner so soon for i've not been a hunting this year and how can you give over by noon. black _sloven_ shall warm your bay _robin_ and make him go smoaking along bonny _dick_ shall not gallop so quick if we light of a hare that is strong. well, _handford_, then said the good squire i mean for to show you a trick i value no hedges nor ditches, but i'll let you know bonny _dick_; then hye for the _clossam bowfield_ we shall get her ten thousand to one there's _wonder_, lays hard _thunder_ away, o're away, she is gone. the morning was pleasant all o're so bright and so clear was the air we made all the woods for to roar with the noise of our sweet harmony. it was for the space of three hours we held all our horses to speed black _slovin_ held hard to bay _robin_ but yet could not do the deed. it was about nine in the morning we sounded our first passing bell sir _william_, pray put up your horn for another fresh hare will do well. well, _handford_, then said the good squire what think you of my bonny _dick_ do's think thou can make him to retire or not for to gallop so quick? faith, master, i needs must confess that i fear i was boasting too soon but i for another fresh hare and you _dick_ shall have din'd by noon. well _handford_, have at your black _sloven_ i'll make him in purple to ride and if he does offer to tire i'll certainly liquor thy hide. you'd serve him right well, says _jack wilson_[ ] for he has been taunting at me i never was beat in the field so for a fresh hare let us see, for here is some closses of corn see well to your place e'ry one, then master, pray pull out your horn for away, o're away she is gone. young _blew-bell_, she cry'd it before and she cry'd it all over the lane and after her twelve couple more thus they rattled it o're the plain, bonny _dick_ play'd with his bridle and went at a desperate rate come _handford_, pox take you, your idle, must i open you the gate. o, your humble servant good master but i will not die in your debt, you shall find black _sloven_ go faster for now he begins for to sweat. there's _wonder_, and _thunder_, and _dido_ and _merry lass_ sweetly runs on, there's _younger_, old _ranter_, and _rain-bow_ but _beauty_, she leads the van. she headed them stoutly and bravely just up into _sutton's_[ ] cross field black _sloven_ began to go heavy and made a fair offer to yield. _jack wilson_ came swinging before so well did bay _robin_ maintain and after him bonny _dick_ scour'd, black _sloven_ was spur'd in vain. but he had the luck and good chance for to go now and then by the string, she led us a dilicate dance but as we came the last ring a fresh hare, duce take her, we started, we ne'er was so vexed before, and e're we could make em forsake her we run her two miles or more. and then we left sir _william cook_ for to ponder upon the old hare who presently leap'd o're a brook and a desperate leap i declare. he had not got past half a mile but this cunning old gypsie he spy'd was making back to her old file then away, o're away, he cry'd, away, o're away, my brave boys, and he merrily winded his horn our beagles all toss'd up their heads and they soon made a speedy return, and drawing just up to a point where this cunning old gypsie had gone, you never saw better dogs hunt for life underneath the sun. now there was _tantive_ and _ranter_, they sounded her last passing bell, and _wilson_ made moan unto _handford_ a cup of old hock will do well and _handford_ cry'd master, ride faster for now i begin to cool with sweat, all my cloaths are as wet as if i had been in some pool. where not these two dainty fine pusses they held us from seven till one, we scour'd thro hedges and bushes so merrily they run on. and as for the praise of these hounds and horses that gallops so free, my pen would not bring to bounds if time would allow it to be. now gallants, i bid you farewel for i fear i your patience have try'd, and hie for a glass of good ale that poetry may be admir'd. and heres a good health to the sportsman that hunts with the horn and hound, i hope you'll all pledge for the future and so let this health go round.[ ] footnotes: [ ] handford acted as whipper-in. [ ] jack wilson. the coke version of the ballad says "wheeldon," and mr. coke adds a note, "wheeldon the huntsman." i am inclined, however, to think "jack wilson" is the correct name. [ ] sutton-on-the-hill, the adjoining village to trusley. [ ] in the trusley version this verse occurs:-- "then coming home by the ash holt, close under the royal oak tree, there _blood_* and old _willet_+ were fall'n asleep as it happen'd to be. come _handford_ and give them a larum, my lips are grown sore with the horn, and round about they did be-stare 'em like babies that were newly born." * blood, one of the beaters. + willett, the squire's gardener, on foot and tired. _squire frith's hunting song._ another good old derbyshire hunting song is the following, which relates to a celebrated run with the hounds of "squire frith, of bank hall," near chapel-en-le-frith, in the high peak. mr. samuel frith was a keen sportsman, and for more than fifty years was one of the most daring and best hunters in the district--one of the roughest and most awkward that could be found anywhere. with regard to the run celebrated in this song, it appears that one december morning, some eighty or ninety years ago, in a keen frost, mr. frith turned out his own pack of harriers at castle naze rocks, on the moors near his residence. to the surprise of the squire, instead of a hare putting off, a fine fox broke covert, and made away to the moors. the dogs got away after him, and mr. frith and his huntsman, jack owen, followed over some of the most tremendous ground even of derbyshire. the fox made off across the moors, skirting axe-edge,--the highest mountain in the peak,--to macclesfield forest; thence by langley and gracely woods to swithingley. from thence he went by housley and gawsworth, and at length, after a run of more than forty miles, was killed at clouds hill, near congleton, mr. frith and his huntsman being up at the time. mr. frith rode a favourite black cob of his called "black jack," one of the best fencers in the county,--a quality of essential importance in that district of stone walls and rocks. bank hall is about two and a half miles from chapel-en-le-frith. hark! hark! brother sportsmen, what a melodious sound, how the valleys doth echo with the merry-mouthed hound; there's none in this world with squire frith can compare, when chasing bold reynard, or hunting the hare. bright phoebus peeps over yon eastern hills, and darted his rays through the meadows and fields; on the eighth of december, that memorable morn, we chased bold reynard with hound and with horn. then over young cumrocks like lightning he flew, what a melodious chorus when reynard's in view; there's nothing like hunting we mortals do know, then follow, boys, follow, tally-ho! tally-ho! with a staunch and fleet pack, most sagacious and true, what a melodious chorus when reynard's in view; the hills and the valleys do echo around, with the shouts of the hunter, and cries of the hound. squire frith being mounted upon a swift steed, black jack, there's but few that can match him for speed; the squire and his huntsman no horse-flesh will spare, when chasing bold reynard, or hunting the hare. there's grinder, and saddler, two dogs of great fame, hark to primrose, and bonny lass, and conqueror by name; there's killman, and bowman, ringwood, and dido, with lily, and lady, and rolly, also. o'er macclesfield forest old reynard did fly, by tragnell, and runcorn, and unto langly; by shalcross, and greswark, and unto swithinly, at his brush close did follow the hounds in full cry. by shalcross and greswark we came back again, it was speed that prolonged his life it was plain; full forty long miles that old creature did return, and he holed in clown hills, near to congleton. of geese, ducks, and hens, great havoc he's made, and innocent lambs, he has worried the said; there's no barn-door fowls old reynard did spare, take care, all ye farmers, of your poultry, take care. here's a health to all hunters, wherever they be, to all honest sportsmen of every degree; with a full flowing bowl, we'll drink a health all, to that great and true sportsman, squire frith, of bank hall. _derbyshire men._ there is an old saying connected with derbyshire, which is not very complimentary to the sons of its soil:-- "derbyshire born and derbyshire bred, strong in the arm, but weak in the head." this saying forms the text of the following excellent lines, written by mr. walter kirkland, which first appeared in print in "the reliquary" for october, . "i' darbyshire who're born an' bred, are strong i' th' arm, bu' weak i' th' head:" so th' lying proverb says. strength o' th' arm, who doubts shall feel: strength o' th' head, its power can seal the lips that scoff, always. the rich vein'd mine, the mountain hoar, we sink, an' blast, an' pierce, 'an bore by th' might o' darby brawn. an' darby brain con think an' plon, as well as that o' ony mon; an' clearly as the morn. "strong i' th' arm, an' strong i' th' head," the fou' fause proverb should ha' said, if th' truth she meant to tell. bu' th' union, so wise an' rare o _brawn_ an' _brain_, she didna care to see or speak of well. the jealous jade, nor darby born, where praise wor due, pour'd forth bu' scorn, an' lying words let fau. bu' far above the proverb stands the truth, that god's almighty hands ha' welded strength an' mind i' one; an' pour'd it down i' plenty on born darbyshire men au. _an elegy_ _upon the death of all the greatest gentry in darley-dalle, who loved hunting and hawking, and several other games. the poet's view, well known to you, to be too true, and so adieu, by me leo. w. ._ the following extremely curious poem, containing many interesting allusions to families long since departed, was written in , by leonard wheatcroft, some time clerk of the parish, poet, tailor, and schoolmaster, at ashover, in derbyshire. he was a man of talent, and wrote many things which are worth collecting together. it is here printed from the original ms. the last verse was evidently added after the accession of george the first. the title of the ballad is particularly quaint, and characteristic of the man and of the county of which he was a native. in the dialect of the district the rhymes would be perfect, and would read thus:-- the poet's view well known to yew, to be too trew, and so adieu by me leo double yew, sixteen seventy tew. . as i on oaker-hill[ ] one day did stand, viewing the world which i could not command, i turn'd my face tou'rd berchore[ ] partly west, to view where greaveses us'd to have their nest; but out, alas! i found they were all gone, not one was left to rest against a stone. . then looking forward, the coast being very cleare, at rowther,[ ] there i found one adam eayre; but now he's gone, left house and land behind him, so to be short i know not where to find him; but if any counceller can make it out, he'st have his land and i will go without. . i'll up to hassap[ ] to hear them sing a mass, there i shall know who made the old man pass; death made it wrong, i send him to purgatory, where he must stay till he be fit for glory; but if there be such a place 'twixt this and heaven, i fear he cannot pass, 'tis so uneven. . then did i to my panting muses say, haste and begone, you shall no longer stay (within this place); haste and begone, upon calton top your banners, and call at haddon, where lived ould john manners, o use him kindly i strictly you command, for he was kind to th' poore of ingland. . but now he's gone, like others hence away, then for another earle like him ever pray, that will be kind both unto rich and poore, then god almighty will increase his store, and bless him here upon this earthly throne, and at the last call him one of his owne. . walking by the river, stanton[ ] i did spye, but neither calton[ ] nor a bage[ ] saw i: they are all gone and none left but old boards, alas! alas! what doth this world affordes. there's severall more that are slipt out o' th' way, but not one word of them i here will say. . then calling back my muses, mee thought i spyed little stancliffe[ ] standing pleasantly, but not one steare[ ] i' th' stall shall yet be seene; well fed win springs and deck'd with lorrells green, but one old backer bourning of the owne, till steare retourne, there' no one knows how sowne. . then on the hills i came to darley hall, to hear that music in those ashes tall. listening awhile, i not being pleased well, thought i where is my pretty cullen-bell,[ ] whose name and fame made all this vale once sound, but now that honour's buried under ground. . besides your parsons of divinity as pain, and pot, edwards, and mosley, all four divines and men of noble birth, all dead and gone and buried in the earth; how can i chuse but must lament to see my friends all gone who did make much of me. . tho' all in haste one place i have past by, that's cowley hall, where oft i heard the cry of great-mouthed doggs who did not feare to kill what was their master's pleasure, word, and will; his name was sinner, who ever did him know, he's dead and gone now many years ago. . then turning round, all gone, thus did i thinke, where shall i make my friend or muses drinke; then looking down below i did espy a pretty hall which stood me very ney, where lived the father, son, and wives of either, both in my time, all-tho' not both together. . a knight the father, and a squire the son, one heir is left, if dead that name is done; this heir being young, with ladies durst not play, so he in sorrow quickly went away, leaving no heir o' th' name, no, not one, so farewell milwards[ ] now of snitterton. . then rushing forward down by darwen side, my muses presently through matlock hied, and finding there the good ould pastur gone, i hide to riber[ ] there to make my mone; but out, alas! my sorrows to increase, that name is gone now buried under hears. . wolley, wolley, woolley, farewell to thee, a noble esquire, thou was both kind and free to all that come, i say, both rich and poore, there's few went empty that came to his doore. walker's fair hous is almost wore away, with several more now going to decay. . to speak of dedick[ ] what shall i do there, babbington's[ ] treason hateful doth appear; their house is down, and they are gone to nought, so will all those which ere rebellion sought. then pray to god for peace and unity, that king and nobles all may well agree. . then i to ogston,[ ] there to break my fast, they all in mourning stood at me agast, to think my friend and lover was departed, and so i left them almost broken hearted; what shall i doe thought i to hide my head, seeing so many gallants now are dead. . then up by amber i did quickly hey, none of my ancient friends i could espey, in asher[ ] parish i could find not one, old crich,[ ] and dakin,[ ] and ould hobskinson,[ ] they are departed and gone hence away, as er self, i have not long to stay. . i will retourne unto my hill againe, and cause my muses to sing out a straine, and that in mourning too she shall be drest, to sing new anthems of the very best. and thus you see in a few dayes how they are all gone hence and tourned to dirt and clay. . farewell you huntsmen that did hunt the hare, farewell you hounds that tired both horse and mare, farewell you gallant falkners every one, the chief of all did live at snitterton. so to conclude both greate and small, those that are left the lord preserve them all. by me leonard wheatcroft. . the conclusion. this verse is written in a blacker ink, and at a much later time. if any one of this same truth do doubt, from oker hill ide have them walk about from house to house to prove the truth of this, and then they'll say there's nothing in't amiss. i have no more to say but this my charge, let all that's heare say pray god bless king george. finis. footnotes: [ ] oker hill, near darley dale. [ ] birchover. [ ] roo tor, or row tor, by birchover, an old seat of the eyre family. [ ] hassop, a principal residence of the family of eyre. [ ] stanton, the present residence of w.p. thornhill, esq. [ ] the caltons were an old derbyshire family, long settled in this district and at chesterfield. [ ] bache, this family resided for two centuries at stanton hall, and from them the name of bache-thornhill was derived. [ ] stancliffe, now the seat of joseph whitworth, esq., the inventor of the celebrated whitworth rifles and rifled canons. [ ] steere. stancliffe hall passed to the steeres by purchase in , from whom it passed to jenkinson, and from them, in , to greensmith. [ ] columbell. nether hall, darley dale, was for many years the chief seat of the columbell family, who held it till the death, in , of john columbell, whose heiress married marbury. [ ] the milwards held snitterton for a long time. the last of the family, john milward, died _circa_ , when the estate passed by marriage of his heiress with adderley. [ ] riber hall, in matlock parish, was for many generations the property and seat of the wolley family. anthony wolley, the last of that branch, died a bachelor in , when his co-heiresses sold the estate to statham. [ ] dethick. [ ] anthony babington, the unfortunate conspirator, was of dethick. [ ] now the seat of gladwin turbutt, esq. [ ] ashover. [ ] the family of crich was one of considerable note in this parish, and at one time owned the stubbing edge estate. [ ] the dakeynes were of ashover and of darley dale, and were people of much note. [ ] hodgkinson. part of the old hall manor, as well as overton manor, in this parish, belonged to this family. overton passed from them, by marriage, to sir joseph banks. _cocktail reel._ the "merriment" recounted in this singular ballad, which i am not aware has ever before been printed, is said to have taken place at dronfield, in derbyshire, and i have heard the sixth line sung as "from chesterfield, beighton, and masber." it is, however, uncertain whether this is correct, or whether it may not more probably have taken place at rotherham, which is near both kimberworth, brightside, and masber (masborough). the copy i here give is from a ms. of more than half a century old. soon as old ball was got better, a merriment there was appointed, creditor as well as debtor, both met to be better acquainted. number of lads there were present from kimberworth, brightside, and masper, each with a countenance pleasant, his true love did cuddle and clasp her. stephen turn'd out with his fiddle, each lad took his lass by the middle, went reeling about like a riddle, as if they had been enchanted. care, the forerunner of sorrow, was kick'd out of door till to-morrow, not one in his spirit was narrow; then, boh! cry'd tyger, undaunted. . tyger connected with jemmy, conducted ball out of the stable, join'd in the yard by old sammy, who alefied came from the table. ball being well prim'd with ginger, was fit to jump over the fences, neighbour as well as each stranger all thought they were out of their senses. sammy, who hates to be idle, seized ball fast by the bridle, then gave him a kick made him sidle, so went far round as they wanted, right hand and left they did clever, made jem to squint harder than ever, he promis'd his partner som liver; then, boh! cried tyger, undaunted. . out jump'd the calf, elevated; the cow broke her sole and ran after; shout upon shout it created, and filled the spectators with laughter. tideswell the cow was so nam'd, because at that fair they had bought her, she ran at tyger untam'd, to fork him as nature had taught her. tyger at that was displeas'd, which caus'd a fresh dust to be rais'd; her nose in a instant he seiz'd, at which old samuel ranted. tideswell took off like be madded, o'er mother and daughter she gadded, huzzas in abundance were added, then, boh! cried tyger, undaunted. . stephen, though blind as a beetle, laughed hard at old hannah's disaster, he lost no time with his fiddle, his elbow went quicker and faster: ball cut such a new fashion'd caper, which really by-standers amazed, all his four feet were at tapers, the pavement it perfectly blazed; samuel nor no one that join'd him durst venture their carcase behind him, tho' age in a manner did blind him. no colt could win him 'twas granted, tideswell caught tyger and tost him quite out of the ring till she lost him, though many a bruise it did cost him; still, boh! cried tyger, undaunted. . oceans to drink being call'd for, hot cuddle-me-buff was the liquor, wife of my own jemmy called for, old hannah, cried stephen, play quicker. off they went after each other, as if they had quicksilver in them, join'd by first one, then another, you never see nothing could win them setting down sides, and then up again, crossing in couples, to sup again, sam'el, inspir'd with his cup, again of his activity vaunted. ball being prim'd with the best of them, pranced and kick'd with the rest of them, seeing he made a mere jest of them; boh! cried tyger, undaunted. . tyger ran under ball's belly, all danger, like rodney, kept scorning, some thought he was rather silly, as ball was new frosted that morning. sam'el got hurt in the scuffle, as ball his fore feet was advancing, that seem'd his temper to ruffle, and quite put an end to their dancing. so they dismiss'd in civility, talking of ball's great agility, tideswell and tyger's fidelity, which kind nature implanted. how the four brutes in particular danc'd with their tails perpendicular, straight forwards, sideways, and circular; boh! cries tyger, undaunted. _lines occasioned by_ _a yorkshire pye,_[ ] _sent as a present from sir william st. quintin, to his grace the duke of devonshire, at bath, on christmas-day, . written by mr. derrick._ this curious effusion of samuel derrick's, who was master of the ceremonies at bath at the time, i here reprint from a slip broad-sheet of the period in my own collection. the peer to whom this famous yorkshire pie was sent, was william, fourth duke of devonshire, who died in . sir william st. quintin, bart., of harpham, in the county of york, who died in , was member of parliament for thirsk, and high sheriff in . he married rebecca, daughter of sir john thompson, lord mayor of london, and by her was father of the last baronet of the name of st. quintin. were but my muse inspir'd by _fludyer's_[ ] taste, or with _quin's_ skill and lively poignance grac'd; th' _apician_ muse, who bade _lucullus_ treat, and taught the gay _mark anthony_ to eat; i'd venture then _st. quintin_ to commend, whose faithful memory ne'er forgets his friend; of placid temper, and of gen'rous blood, whose only vanity is doing good; whose open looks imply an honest heart, courtly in manners, yet unspoil'd by art; the emblem of whose liberal soul i see in yonder pile of hospitality; an edifice for _cavendish_ to view, all english fabric, and that fabric true. such plenteous sights were known in times of old, when christmas by th' expiring year was told; long e'er our hardy sires, un-nerv'd by sloth, had dwindled down into a pigmy growth. within this pile varieties unite, to please at once the taste, the smell, the sight. robb'd of his vivid green, and glossy dyes, his golden plumage, and his scarlet eyes, here rests the _attic_ pheasant,[ ]--never more, narcissus like, his image to adore; here lies the turkey,[ ] who with redd'ning pride once all the farmer's feather'd brood defy'd; true emblem of _bæotia_, whence he came, a noisy blockhead, emulous of fame. the wheeling plover, and the timid hare, here mix;--the generous ox bestows a share-- his tongue--at jovial tables always found; and indian spice enriches the compound; the rare compound! where various parts conspire to form one mass, which all who taste admire. thus out of chaos did the world first rise, and from confusion sprung th' illumin'd skies. life's pleasures on variety depend, her various views make hope so much our friend. thus while the bard by _avon's_ winding stream unfolded to the _naiadès_ his theme, while from the humid rocks, and cavern'd hills, he mark'd them, guiding the salubrious rills to bladud's baths, where rosey health presides, shedding her influence o'er the steaming tides; wondering he saw britannia's genius nigh, aiding the nymphs, and blessing their supply. if near my springs, she cry'd, you chance to view my son, to honour and to virtue true; my fav'rite devonshire, of antient line, where loyalty and truth united shine, the faithful guardian of his country's fate, the friend of freedom and the british state, exert the panacea of your art, hygeia fair, your sovereign powers impart; unlock the sacred treasures of your store, and give the patriot to my arms once more; esteem'd in public, as in private lov'd, and ev'n by foes unwillingly approv'd. footnotes: [ ] this pye was composed of pheasants, turkeys, plovers, snipes, woodcocks, partridges, ox tongue, and hare, &c. [ ] when their present majesties honoured the city of london with their presence, sir samuel fludyer, bart., late lord mayor, entertained them with more elegance than ever was known. [ ] according to aldrovandus, the pheasant is very fond of viewing his own image. [ ] according to the same writer, the turkey is originally a bæotian bird. _the agricultural meeting._ tune--"_the king of the cannibal islands._" this excellent song was written on occasion of the meeting of the royal agricultural society of england at derby, in the year , under the presidency of the earl of hardwicke, and was a general favourite. come gather round and form a throng, and trust me i'll not keep you long, i'll entertain you with a song on the agricultural meeting! a subject i have good and pat, to make you smile, i'll answer that; they say that laughing makes one fat, and if you don't laugh i'll eat my hat! i'll not give pain by any jokes,-- tho' of the derby 'tis, good folks, about it there's not any "_hoax_," the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, care, and strife, all the world will, and his wife, muster there, upon my life, at the agricultural meeting. the wish'd-for time is very nigh, and all to do their best will try, on the eleventh of july, at the agricultural meeting! come forward, lads, your best make haste, you that plough, and you that rake;-- let 'em see that you're awake, for you've a chance a prize to take! forward bring the ox and sheaf, show foreigners unto their grief, the meaning of _real_ corn and beef, at the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, &c. the thing will just be as it should, for there'll be there, 'tis understood, the rich, the titled, and the good, at the agricultural meeting! of those who in the good cause stand, and help with purse, and heart, and hand, are spencer, hardwick, colvile,[ ] and the duke of richmond--what a band! joy will beam in heart and face, to know that surely 'tis the case, that their gay presence here will grace the agricultural meeting? away with sorrow, &c. 'twill be a glorious holiday-- all the week for fun and play-- no one then at home will stay from the agricultural meeting! every one some sport will catch-- for there will be of fun a batch:-- tuesday they'll come to the scratch, and try the famous ploughing match! of implements there will be a show,-- of things that reap, and things that mow, things to dig, and things that sow, at the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow &c. when this is o'er, at close of day, again for fun they'll start away-- gents, and ladies, such display-- at the agricultural meeting! they'll to the grand hotel repair, for john bell crompton, who's the mayor, will give a dinner of rare fare, and all the council will be there! then after this, they'll dancing go, and trip it gaily to and fro, upon "the light fantastic toe," at the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, &c. on wednesday there's another spree-- the implements again we'll see, and prove what's done in husbandry, at the agricultural meeting! come dick and thomas, ralph and giles, in your best clothes, and your smiles, over hedges, ditches, stiles-- across the country--many miles! then on _that_ night it will fall-- the council are invited all to dinner at the county-hall, from the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, &c. on thursday there'll be more than this-- and such enjoyment who would miss? on that day there'll be double bliss at the agricultural meeting! won't there be a fine to do? pigs and sheep, and oxen, too;-- four-legged calves--and, 'tween i and you, a few, no doubt, that _walk on two_! lots of cattle will be there, derby horses, i declare, as well as our good _derby mayor_, at the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, &c. on thursday there's another feed-- when they've shown their live-stock breed; for after work they'll something need, at the agricultural meeting! the grand pavilion, deck'd out fine, will be--and there'll two thousand dine:-- and they'll astonish, i opine, above a bit--the food and wine! and even then the sport ne'er stops, for they'll for dancing leave their drops, and take to _capers_ and to _hops_, at the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, care, and strife, all the world will, and his wife, muster there, upon my life, at the agricultural meeting! footnote: [ ] earl spencer, earl of hardwicke, and c. r. colvile, esq., m.p. _the_ _complainte of anthonie babington._ the following deeply interesting "complaynt" was written by richard williams, and dedicated, in ms., to king james the first. it remained unpublished until , when it was communicated to "the reliquary" by mr. w. durrant cooper, f.s.a. anthony babington was born in , and on the death of his father, succeeded to the family estates at dethick, in derbyshire, which had been acquired by the babingtons through marriage with the heiress of dethick. he was executed, along with thirteen others, under circumstances of peculiar barbarity, on the th of september, , for a conspiracy to liberate the truly unfortunate and much to be commiserated mary queen of scots. his petition to queen elizabeth is simple and touching in the extreme, and the heart must indeed have been callous to good and womanly feeling that could withstand it and spurn its prayer. it is as follows:--[ ] "most gratious souvarigne yf either bitter teares a pensisve contrite harte ore any dutyfull sighte of the wretched synner might work any pitty in your royall brest, i would wringe out of my drayned eyes as much bloode as in bemoaninge my drery tragedye shold, lamentably bewayll my faulte, and somewhat (no dought) move you to compassion, but synnce there is no proportione betwixte the qualitye of my crimes and any human commiseration, showe sweet queene some mirakle on a wretch that lyethe prostrate in yr prison, most grivously bewaylinge his offence and imploringe such comforte at your anoynted hande as my poore wives misfortunes doth begge, my childe innocence doth crave, my gyltless family doth wishe, and my heynous trecherye dothe leaste deserve, so shall your divine mersy make your glorye shyne as far above all princes, as my most horrible practices are more detestable amongst your beste subiectes, whom lovinglye and happielye to governe. "i humbly beseche the mercye master himself to grante for his sweete sonnes sake, jesus christe." [illustration: end of petition, signed by anthony babington] the following is the "complaynte of anthonie babington by richard williams:"-- to the kinges most excellent maiestie with all other kinglie titles and dignities whatsoever to whome your poore humble subject richard williams wishethe healthe long life and many happy yeares to reigne over us to the glory of god and your maiesties comforte. my dreade and royall sovereigne, this anthonie babington was borne at a mansion house of his father called dethicke in the countie of darbye in the parishe of critche; whose father was a man of good accompte and lived well and orderlie in his contrie, kept a good house, and releived the poore. but he was inclined to papistrie as the times then required; who had a brother that was doctor of divinitie in queene maryes dayes, of whome some mention is made in this storye. this anthonye, the son, was a yonge man, well featured, and of good proportion in all the lyneamentes of his bodie, of a most pregnante fyne witt and great capacitie, had a watchinge head, ande a moste proude aspiringe mynde; and by nature a papist, whereinn hee was borne and brought upp; where if he had bene trayned otherwise hee might have proved a good member of the common wealthe, where nowe be became a reproche and scandall to the same. in whose course of life many accidents hapned even from his birthe to his deathe as appeares in this his complainte wherein i have followed the methode of a booke intituled, the "mirrour of magistrates" wherein everye man semes to complayne of his owne misfortunes, humbly beseeching your royall maiestie to pardon all defectes as well in my writinge as in the baseness of the verses. in the one i have done as well as my learninge did serve me, for the other as well as my olde eyes woulde permitt me, which i beseech your royall maiestie to censure with clemencye, and i will trulye praise to the almightie for the long continuance of your healthe and happie estate bothe to godes glorye and your maiesties comforte. your poore distressed subjecte richard williams. the complainte of anthonie babington, sometyme of lyncolns inne esquier, who with others weare executed for highe treason in the feildes nere lyncolns inne the xixth of september a^o .[ ] footnotes: [ ] the original is in the bateman collection at lomberdale house. [ ] an error for th. a dreame or induction. anthonie babington his complaynt. what will it avayle on fortune to exclayme when a due desarte is chiefest cause of all; myself and none but myselfe justlie can i blame, that thus have procured myne untymelie fall; and turned have my honnye swete unto bitter gall. wherefore good frende take thie penne and write, and in mournful verse my tragedie recite. long mighte i have lived a contented happie state, and have borne a porte and countnance with the beste, if fortune should me cheicke, i could her mate; thus none like me more happie was and bleste, till that discontente procured myne unreste; and the pompe of pride so glared in myne eyen, that i rejected vertue moste devyne. but firste i will tell thee myne estate, and name, and contrie soile, where i was bredd and borne; anthonie babington i hight; of a worthy house i came, till my mysdemeanours made me forlorne, givinge cause to my foes to laugh me to scorne. whoe have stayned my state and blemisht my name, in clymbing by follie have falne to my shame. at dethwicke in darbye shire i was both borne and bredd; my father was an esquier of good reputation; a good house he kepte, a virtuose life he ledd; my selfe beinge a childe was helde in estimation; but havinge gott the rayne i changed my facion; then privatlie i sought my owne will and pleasure, livinge to my liking, but never kepte a measure. doctour babington myne _eame_[ ] did pronosticate that harde was the happe whereto i was borne, he sayde that "pride by glorye shoulde abate and destenye decreede i shoulde be folorne;" whose wordes my father then helde in scorne, "o trayne him up well," mine unkell did saye, "unlesse hee repente the same a nother daye." "give hym not brother his libertie in youthe, for then olde dayes hee never shall see, hee is my nephewe the more is my rewthe, to think of his happe and harde destinie, if skill beguyle me not hanged he shalbe." this was the foresight of my father's brother, for which lote of his hee was hated by my mother. i know not where hee spoke by hassarde or skill, for such divinations i doe not comende; yet his counsell was good to flie future ill; for whoe so in vertue there dayes doe not spende shalbe sure with me repente them in th' ende. the proofe of myne unkells worde i founde so trewe as by the sequell hereafter you may viewe. not longe after my father resyned upp his breathe, and lefte my wofull mother with a great charge; whiche proved for us all to tymelie a deathe; for then good gentelwoman her purse ranne at large, havinge of debts and legacies great somes to discharge; but in the state of widowhode not long she tarried for with that good gentleman henry foljambe she married. whoe loved us all tenderlie as wee had benne his owne, and was verye carefull of oure education, whose love so mee was diverse wayes showne, and i of the saime had daylie probation, and by this maye appeare of whiche i make narration. withe his owne chaine of golde hee would mee oftene decke whiche made me a proud boye to weare about my necke. as on a tyme this chayne about my necke i did weare, and going to an orcharde some apples to gett, when clymbing a high tree, as one without feare, the boughe then brake, whereon my foote i sett, and downwarde i slipt, but was caught in a nett. in the tree i was hanged faste by the chayne, so desyre of my pride was cause of my payne. but was not suffered there longe to hang, but was nere strangled or i was taken downe, for there i strugled with suche a deadlie pange; my mother shee frighted and fell in a sowne, and griefe made my father likewise to frowne. but my reviving, there sorrowes over caste; then they rejoyeste sayinge, "my destinie was paste." thus carelesse a tyme with them i lived at pleasure, surfetted with self will and with fonde delite; i knew no golden meane, nor never kepte a measure, but like a kyndlie beare gan tymelie to byte. even then i harborde envye and sucked despite; and pride at that instante tooke so deepe a roote, that humilitie for ever was troden under foote. in myne noneage i was when my father dyde, philip draycott, of paynslie hee did me obtayne, whoe had appoynted me his doughter for my bryde, and in whose house a space i did remayne; there suckte i pleasure that proved to my payne; there was i misled in papistre my soul to wounde; there was i corrupted made rotten and unsounde. there, even there awhile, i spente my youthfull tyme, there was i lulled in securitie faste asleepe, then was i frollicke, there was i in my pryme, in jollitie then i laught, but never thought to weepe; my witts were moste fynne and conceits verye depe. but oh paynslie! paynslie! i may thee curse; where nature made me ill, education made me worse. for by nature i was with papistrie infected, but might have beene restrayned, had it pleased god; my father and myne eame they weare suspected; they lived with there censcience wherein i was odd, therefore was beaten with a more sharper rodd; there conscience they kepte, & ruled it by reason; livinge like subjectes, and still detested treason. my father-in-lawe still ledd me to what i was inclined; i meane for my conscience, no farther he coulde deale; my mayntnance sufficient to content my mynde, so that all this, whiche i tasted, nought but weale, but could not be contente, which i muste nowe reveale. my fynne head was desyrouse to studye the lawe, in attainge whereof i proved my selfe a dawe. and for that cause forthwith i to london wente, where in lyncolns inne a student i became; and there some part of my flittinge tyme i spente, but to bee a good lawyer my mynde coulde not frame; i addicted was to pleasure and given so to game; but to the theater and curtayne woulde often resorte, where i mett companyons fittinge my disporte. companyons, quothe you, i had companyons in deede, suche as in youthe with me weare well content to drawe; lyncked so in myscheife, wherein wee did excede, we cared not for order nor paste of reasons lawe; of god, nor of good man, wee stoode in little awe. wee paste the bounds of modestie, and lived without shame, wee spotted our conscience, and spoiled our good name. we cared not for the church, that place we not frequented; the tavernes weere better our humors to fitt. the companye of dayntie dames, wee chieflie invented; with whom in dalliance wee desyred ofte to sitt. theise weare the fruytes of yonge hedds and witt; thus in lustlie libertie i led a loose life, and thoughe i weare maried i cared not for my wife. yett to the sèrmons wee woulde oftene resorte, not in hope edification by them to obtayne; but rather to jeste and make of them a sporte; whiche nowe i feele to my sorrowe griefe and payne; these bee the fruytes that sicophantes doe gayne, cheiflie when they mocke, and skorne god's worde, disdaining the servantts and prophetts of the lorde. with catholicks still conversant i coveted to be, that weare alwayes in hope and looked for a daye; gapinge for a change which wee trusted to see. ambition so stonge me my selfe i could not staye, whiche makes me sighes to sighe well a waye. then i had my will and playde with pleasure's ball, then i was alofte and feared not this fall. yett so covertlie all this tyme i did my selfe behave, and so closelie wrought in subtell _syners_ faime, what so ere i thought my selfe i sought to save, livinge all this while without suspecte or blame; and more to wynne mee credditt a courtier i becaime; where the syrens song so swetelie i did synge, i never was suspected to worke such a thinge. the nobles of the courte of me thoughte so well, that often to their tables they would me invite; where in gesture and talke i did the common sorte excell; thereby wynninge favor in my company to delite, whiche with a judas kisse i soughte to requyte. as in a sequell of my storye will after appeare, which i shame to tell it toucheth me so nere. and daylie more and more my credditt did increase, and so in like manner did pride still abounde; beloved i was bothe of more and lesse; when my inwarde motions were all unsounde; my parsonage was comelie which favour eache where founde; but pryde had so blynded me i could not see. that with iccarus aloft, i mynded was to flee. the grounde, that i troade on, my feet could not holde, nor i bee contente in a happie state to reste, like bayarde that blushed not, then was i more bolde; when rancor inwardlie still boyled in my breste, that like an unnaturall birde i filed my neste; in parlinge with parasites that looked for a daye, by the counsell of caterpillers, i wrought my decaye. then i beganne to prie into matters of the state, and with what i liked nott i secrett faulte did fynde; where i fawned openlie, i inwardlie did hate, and to my confederates would closelie breake my mynde; i mean to suche as to my love weare inclynde; betweene whome and mee suche mischiefe intented, that we thoughte to have made all england repented. where upon in to france a jorney i did frame, to parle with _padgett_, _morgan_, and others of that crewe; what wee had but decrede, they resolved on the same; whose pretended purpose at large, when i knewe, i willinglie consented too, which makes mee nowe to rewe; and to sett the same forwarde a solleme oathe did take; o cursed conscience that a traytor didst me make! then into englande i retorned agayne with spede, and gott conferrence hereof with some of greate fame. manye weare the plotts, whereon we agreed; and greate the attemptes, whereat wee did aime; which afterwarde proved oure ruynose shaime; and aspiringe pride so fyred my harte, i was content to playe a traytors parte. footnote: [ ] this word signifies uncle. _vide_ ash. dict. his articles of arraygnment. yea to bee a most savage monster agaynste all kynde, in seking the deathe of my queene, the lord's anoynted, ambition so stonge me, that i was stroke blynde, in pluckinge her downe that god had appoynted, and the unitie of the realme in sonder to have joynted; to have made kings and rulers at our pleasure; to have exceeded in vyllanye without rule or measure. to have made suche lawes as wee thought beste; to have turned the state quyte upside downe; the nobles to have slayne and clene dispossest; and on a stranger hedd have placed the crowne; herein we weare resolute, but fortune did frowne, no twas god woulde not suffer our villanyes take place; but unlookte for retornde them to our shamefull disgrace. farther our intente was to poyson the ordinance of the realme; a most haynouse matter as ever was invented, whoe ever hath harde of trecheries so extreame, concluded, agreed upon, and fullye consented? an wofull matter of all to be lamented. all court rolls and records we mente to have raced, and them to have burned spoyled and defaced. the faire cittie of london wee also mente to rifell, to have rob'de the rich, and killed eke the poore; theis thinges in effecte we counted but a trifell; in all places of the lande have sett an uprore; the wealthie to have bereavde both of life and store, no state nor degree we weare mente to spare, but if hee would resiste deathe should be his share. theise weare our intents, with mischiefs many more, even confusion to the whole realme to have brought, confederates we had, and that no small store; which ruyne and destruction weare readie to have wrought; we either mente to make or bringe all to noughte. nought ne nought indeede, for nought weare our happs, for desperate myndes doe feare no after clapps: so forwarde weare that the verye daye was sett to murther our good queene, that god had preserved; _barnewell_ and _savage_ should have done the feate; but justice rewarded them as they well deserved, being twoe monstrose traytors that from duty swerved; the daggs and all things weare redye preparde, but in the nett they layde, they themselves weare snared. and _ballarde_, that beast, hee into england was come, a jesuite, a prieste, and a semynarie vilde; hee brought with him our absolution from roome, promysinge good successe, wherein he was beguyled; so that from our hartes all pitye hee exilde; and still he incoraged us in my myscheife to precede, egging us forwarde wherein there was no neede. but god woulde not suffer us so closelie to worke, but that all our doyngs laye open in his sight: revealinge those myscheifs, that in our hartes did lurke, when wee suspected not, he brought the same to light. then must wee hyde our hedds, or scape awaye by flight; but when wee had inklinge our treasons were descryde, away awaye in haste twas then no tyme to byde. then watche and warde was made in everye coaste, then weare wee taken, eache houre of the daye; my selfe was once taken, but whie shoulde i boaste, howe that i made a scape and so gott awaye, not knowinge where to goe nor have perfitt staye; but to harrow on the hill my selfe i convayde, there in _bellamyes_ howse a little tyme i stayde. but there was made for me suche previe watche and warde, and the contrie so besett, i no where coulde flye, all hope of my escape was utterlie debarde; and searche in eache corner was made no nye, that i was compelde this polecye to trye; to forsake the house and my self disguyse, lyke an inkeper of london, to bleare the people's eyes. but a rewarde was promyst hym that coulde me take, which made the people looke so much the nere; and beinge constrayned the house to forsake; walked throughe the pastures as men without feer; my man, like an hostler, was cladd in simple geare; but this woulde not serve if truthe i shall tell, my favor i could not change, my face was knowen well. there was a poore man, a weaver, was one of the watch, by whome the gate laye, as of force i must walke; hee came to mee boldly, by the arme did me catche, "staye, good frende," quothe he, "with you i must talke:" my consciense beinge guyltie my tonge gane to balke. "wee are not those you looke for," i foltringlie did say, "our comyssion," quoth hee, "is all passengers to staye." then the people gan flocke aboute me a pace, and before the master of the rolls i forthwith was broughte; when i came there, i was knowne by my face. to bee the same man that theye so longe had soughte; and chiefest of the crewe that all the sturr had wroughte; _sir gilberte gerrarde_ examynde, and sente me to the towre, and stronglie was i guarded with a myghtie greate powre. then the londoners rejoyced, and merrye did make, with ringinge of bells, givinge god the prayse; all my olde comon frendes did me clene forsake, that before had flattred me dyverse and sondry wayes; but favor, friendshipp, and faithe by treason decayes, as appeares by me, whosse faime creditt and renowne, my traytrose attempts had sone plucked downe. then shortlie after to the kings benche wee were broughte, and a nomber of others confederates like case; there to make awnswer to the deeds wee had wroughte; but then my glorye gan darkyne apace, yett with a countnance i sett thereon a face; where beinge arraygned, i guyltie was found of high treason, agaynste my kinge and crowne. _barnewell_ and _savage_ had confest the same before; then bootlesse twas for us anye poynte to denaye; our conscience beinge guiltie it irkt us the more; so that fourteene of us weare condemned that daye. we carde not for deathe, wee stowtlie did saye; our judgment was to bee hanged & quartered like case; of whiche wee made no accounte deathe coulde not us disgrace. and nowe the day of our execution drewe nere, in whiche wee did playe our laste tragicke parte; when seven of us on hurdles from the towre were drawne, whiche was no small _corsive_[ ] to our heavie hartes, yet a juste rewarde for our wicked desartes; the people flockte aboute us with this heavie sounde, "god save the queene, and all traytors confounde." in the fieldes near lyncolns inne a stage was sett upp, and a mightie high gallose was rayled on the same, whiche was the verye instrument & our deadlie cuppe, of whiche to taste our selves wee must frame; and beastlye _ballarde_ twas hee beganne the game, whoe was hanged and quartered in all the peoples sight, and his head on a poule on the gallose sett upright. nexte muste i make readie to treade the same dance; wherto i prepared myselfe, as a man without feare, thousands lamented i had so harde a chance, and for mee there was shedd many a salte teare; they lookte for confession, but weare never the nere, _sir francis knolls_ with others offered with me to praye, "none but catholick's prayers will profitt thus" did i saye. thus died i stoutlie and did not trulie repente, my wicked life paste and moste haynouse treason; if in a good cause my life had been spente, to have avouchte the same there had bene some reason; but wickedlie i lived and died at that season. havinge hanged a while, and my head cut off in haste, on the right hande of _ballards_ it was placed.[ ] then died _barnwell_; _savage_; and yonge _tuchborne_; with _tilnie_; and _abington_, in order as they came; but o tuchborne! tuchborne! thou makest me follorn! for i was the firste that allurde thee to the same, thie witts beinge yonge likewaye i did frame, thou beinge well inclined through mee didst consente to conceale the thinge that made us all repente. the nexte daye dyed _salsburye_; _henrye dunne_; & _jones_; and _john travice_ of preskott, which is in lancashire; so did _john charnocke_, a traytor for the nonce; _robert gage_ of croydon muste then on stage appeare; and lastlie _bellamye_ our hoste that made us all the chere. theise seven weare apointed on _sainte matthewes_ daye, the twentithe of september their partes they did playe. oure quarters weare boyled like the flesh of swyne, and on the cittie gates in open veiwe doe stande; our conceited hedds, that once wee thought so fyne, on london bridge be spectakles to subjectes of the lande, warning them to shunne to take like things in hande. our selves in the censure of god's judgments doe reste; this was the rewarde for the treasons wee profeste. thus have i tolde thee my traggedie at large, in everye particular as the same was wroughte; reporte it to my contrie men, i thee straytlie charge, to shunn those things, that my destruction brought, for traytrose attempts at all tyme prove noughte, serche our englishe chronikells thou shalte fynde the same, that, whoe beginns in trecherie, hee endeth still in shame. at my request therefore admonyshe then all men, to spende well the tallente, that god hathe them lente; and hee that hathe but one lett hym not toyle for tenne, for one is to muche unlesse it be well spente; i meane by ambition leaste he to sone repente. to conclude happie is the man and threefold bleste is he, that can be contente to live with his degree. felix quam faciunt aliena pericula cantum. finis. footnotes: [ ] _sic._ query corrosive? [ ] these executions were also commemorated by thomas deloney, in a ballad edited by mr. j. p. collier, for the percy society, in .--_old ballads_, p. . the lines on babington are-- next _babington_, that caitife vilde, was hanged for his hier; his carcase likewise quartered, and hart cast in the fire. and of those executed on the st, he makes _donne_ and _jones_ both complain of babington. the first of them was _salsburie_, and next to him was _dun_, who did complaine most earnestly of _proud yong_ babington. both lords and knights of hye renowne he meant for to displace, and likewise all the towers and townes and cities for to raze: so likewise _jones_ did much complaine of his detested pride, and shewed how lewdly he did live before the time he died. richard jones had been licensed on th august, to print a ballad authorised by the archbishop of canterbury, "beinge a joyfull songe made by a citizen of london in the behalfe of her mat^{ies} subjectes touchinge the joye for the taking of the traytors." _registers of the stationers' company_, vol. ii., p. ; but no copy is known to be extant. _a new song in praise of_ _the derbyshire militia._ this song is of the period from to , and is here given from a broad-sheet in my own collection. it is the only copy i have as yet met with. at the head of the song is a wood-cut of three soldiers seated round a table, smoking. on the table is a punch-bowl and glasses. on the same sheet is "_the pressed man's lamentation_," a song of four verses, beginning, "farewell our daddies and our mammies." at the head is a wood-cut of two ships at sea, one of which has struck on a rock. should the french but presume on our coast to appear, we'll meet them as freely as we would drink beer with courage undaunted or glory enhance, nor let our roast beef be a dainty to france, be this our ambition in chorus to sing, he's just to himself who is true to his king. so brave our commanders so generous and kind, to love and obey them we are all inclin'd, no terror nor dread in our conduct is shewn, their good and our king we prefer to our own. be this our ambition in chorus to sing he's just to himself who is true to his king. those false-hearted fellows who fall from their lot, and others procure as they think to be shot, deserve with a badge to be branded with shame, they are not of britains deserving the name, but make us quite angry whilst that we sing, they're untrue to themselves their country and king. we are willing and free now the order is come, from derby to march with the fife and the drum. come fill up your glasses boys up to the brim, that they mayn't overflow let us chalk round the rim, let each take his bumper and drive away care, with a toast to the king and the duke of devonshire. to our wives and our sweethearts that we must leave behind, we hope all true britons to them will be kind, altho that we go for the term of three years, and as we expect to face proud monsieurs, if we live to return then we'll merrily sing, and we'll drink a good health unto george our king. _the florist's song._ the florists' society of derby flourished in the latter part of last century. its meetings were held at the angel inn, in the corn-market; and it held exhibitions, at which prizes were awarded. the following song was sung at the convivial meetings of its members, and is here reprinted from a broad-sheet in my own possession. attend ye jolly gardeners of every degree, from the setter of a _flower_, to the planter of a _tree_: _and a planting we will go, will go, and a planting we will go._ our first great father adam, was a gardener by trade; and likewise eve our mother, did use the pruning blade: _and a planting_, &c. since gardening so ancient, it's praises let us sing; for in his own enclosure, he's as happy as a king: _and a planting we will go_, &c. observe th' lowly _shrub_, and lofty spreading _trees_; that form the pleasant shade, fann'd by th' pleasant breeze: _and a planting_, &c. the florist claims the precedence, in this delightful art; in ranging of his _flowers_, and setting each a-part: _and a planting_, &c. take notice of their beauties, and all their various hues; set by his skillful hand, and rais'd by gentle dews: _and a planting_, &c. it wou'd be much too tedious, to tell each _flower's_ name; or, which for smell or beauty, th' preference can claim: _and a planting_, &c. yet all allow the auricula has the greatest share; since feasts are held in honour of the _flower_ ev'ry year: _and a planting_, &c. it is of ancient standing, and well conducted too; when each in emulation, their finest _flowers_ show: _and a planting_, &c. there is a _prize_ allotted, to him that gains the day; and 'tis the noblest _flower_, that bears the prize away: _and a planting_, &c. likewise the second best, for so we all agree; has both his ordinary and extraordinary free: _and a planting_, &c. these _flowers_ rais'd from seed, which we preserve with care; for if the seed be bad, the _flowers_ they are not fair: _and a planting_, &c. we have stewards at our _feasts_, to see that all be right; in joy we spend the day, and pleasure crowns the night: _and a planting_, &c. our _feasts_ are full of mirth, we have no windy wars; we never raise disputes, and are very free from jars: _and a planting_, &c. our judges are impartial, both faithful men and true; they never take a bribe, but gives each man his due: _and a planting_, &c. then to conclude, since _florists_ enjoy so sweet a life; here's a health to the society all foes to _care_ and _strife_: _and a planting we will go, will go, and a planting we will go._ _the sorrowful lamentation, last dying speech and confession of_ _old nun's green,_ _who after upwards of years (being a great and good gift, by john of gaunt, duke of lancaster, and earl of leicester) was tried, cast and condemned, on the th of february, , for being serviceable to the poor people of this town, as well as a stranger, but a great eye sore to some particular gentlemen; but the execution is left till the pleasure of parliament be known._ nun's green was a large piece of ground, containing about fifty acres of land, in the town of derby, on which the inhabitants of the borough had right of common. on this common many encroachments were made by persons digging for gravel, erecting small buildings, etc.; and in an act was passed for selling a portion of the green, so as to erect dwelling-houses for the increasing population of the town, and for the removal of nuisances and encroachments. in the remaining portion of the green was determined to be sold for the like purpose, and application for the necessary powers was made to parliament, the scheme being that the proceeds should in part, at all events, go towards defraying the cost of paving and lighting, and otherwise improving, the town of derby. this movement provoked the utmost opposition, and i have in my own collection some thirty or forty, at least, different hand-bills, squibs, pamphlets, and songs to which the excitement gave birth. despite the opposition and the petitions which were got up, nun's green was disposed of, and the tract of land is now covered with thickly inhabited streets. the following pieces will serve to show the style of the songs and ballads to which i have alluded. the first, which is printed in two columns, has a wood-cut, at its head, of a man being led to execution in a cart, with hangman, parson, javelin-men, and others around-- _a traveller's dream._ last night as slumbering on my bed i lay, good people pray now mind but what i say, i thought as i was walking over cross nun's green, i saw the fairest goddess that was ever seen: her head reclining o'er the purling stream, at first i thought this could not be a dream, i ask'd her name, and weeping thus said she, i once was call'd, that jewel liberty. i ask'd her, why she in that posture lay, she rais'd her head, and softly thus did say, with broken accents and with flowing tears, "i have liv'd here, four hundred and sixty years; was station'd here by glorious john of gaunt, who never thought the poor should ever want, but now i'm doom'd to die a cruel death, by gentlemen, who never knew my birth; because i gave assistance to the poor, and oft times kept the wolf, sir, from the door, because i'll not be sold the streets to light, that is the reason, sir they owe me spite; if gentlemen could only once agree, they need not hang nor sell poor liberty, but let me live as i was first design'd, to be a comfort to the poorest kind: tho' i'm the smallest of that family, i'm not the only child of liberty. if you will tamely stand and see me die, you'll soon repent the loss of liberty: my other sisters soon, must fall a prey, to those who falsely take my life away; now tyranny does put the town in fear, don't wonder why i drop this melting tear, tread on a worm, that insect cannot bite, but turns in anguish to revenge its spite: so let them know such usage you'll not brook whilst such a man does live as parker coke;" at this i shouted, but found it a joke, a dream it was, so instantly awoke. _a poem,_ _found by mr. * * * and dedicated to major trowel._--mdccxcii. when heav'n from earth had shut out day, and all was wrapt in darkest night, on nuns green bridge in proud array there stood a venerable sprite. pale was his face, and, marked with scars, his burnished steel was all complete; the same with which in rueful wars, he did our ancient foes defeat. a goodly knight, forsooth, was he, (as in old story may be seen) for he to derby gave in fee, that airy, healthful, pleasant green. across the plain the spectre went, (he stalked with all the pomp of yore) then calling loud, "i'm john of ghent," he tapt at sammy's chamber door. now pow'r of speech from samuel flew, his pride and courage were quite gone, full sorely now he did him rue, of all the guilty deeds he'd done. the door upon the hinges creak'd, in came the envoy from the dead, poor sammy, sweating, frighted, sneaked under the cov'ring of his bed. "crompton," the spectre said, "i come "thy guilty conduct to arraign, "from the close confines of the tomb "where i for ages past have lain. "nuns green was mine by martial lot, "the just acquirement of the brave; "and what by prowess i had got, "to charity i freely gave. "how dar'st thou then with impious hand, "this public property invade? "nor shall thy mean and quibbling band "defeat the generous grant i made. "why not a bright example give, "why not espouse an honest cause, "why not support those men who strive, "t' inforce our good and ancient laws? "oh sammy! quit the hireling crew "which now the town so much disgrace, "and be it said thou can'st be true, "to th' rights of this thy native place. "renounce that nonconforming set, "whose party zeal, and public hate, "would wildest anarchy beget, "and glory in a ruin'd state. "remember how they serv'd their king, "how serv'd the faithful barons bold-- "they voted one an useless thing, "to unjust death the other sold. "in all the wiles of satan taught, "despising order, god, and laws; "with bitter rage and envy fraught, "they plead the grand reforming cause. "to that unhappy time look back, "when britain, tottering from her base, "sent forth her chosen sons t' attack, "a haughty and rebellious race. "ah! think of saratoga's day, "or on that horrid murd'rous scene, "when fainting legions bleeding lay "unpitied on the rebel plain. "and when repeated losses prov'd, "the brave embattled hosts betrayed; "the gloomy tale they heard unmov'd, "and, smiling, her defeats survey'd. "no longer then such miscreants join, "to rob the poor of common right; "renounce this guilty scheme of thine, "by other means the town enlight. "to meddling majors leave the field, "who, deeply skill'd in warlike art, "the battle-sword can fiercely wield, "and march their armies 'gainst a cart.[ ] "the red rose gift shall ne'er be seen "immur'd in filth, and foul'd by crimes; "nor shall the lancastrian green, "disgrac'd, descend to distant times." thus spoke the fierce offended sprite, then vanishing, with sullen gloom, through the dark realms of dreary night, he hasten'd to the silent tomb. the clock struck one, and sam arose from off his damp and dewy bed, and swore he'd ne'er again oppose what angry john of ghent had said. footnote: [ ] a great impediment to the manoeuv'ring of the militia, about years ago. _the quadrupedes, &c.,_ _or, four-footed petitioners, against the sale of nun's-green. a terrestrial poem. written by me the celestial bard!!_ [**pointing hand symbol]i sing of asses:----(a motto of my own.) two _jack-asses_, (the _father_, and his _son_,) who, after work, on _nun's-green_ us'd to run exactly like two _bards_;--the other day stood in a _muse_;--and then began to bray with human voice;--for _balaam's_ breed were they. quoth _old ned_, to his _lad_;--"i have been told, _nun's-green_, my little dear, is to be sold to pave, and light, old derby; (_fulsome town!_) and save the poor from _laying money down_. now is it _fair_, that you and i should be depriv'd of our just _rights_, and _property_? it is an _insult_ on the _jack-ass_ kind, who have possess'd this _green_, time out of mind; and in co-partnership with _pigs_ and _geese_ (a truly ancient, honorable race!) enjoy'd a _bit o' mouth_, and common run, quite down from _john of ghent_, to you my son. "say little _david_, why the devil should _asses_ find fault with _dirty_ ways, and _narrow_ passes? these wild _projectors_, are the _asses_ foes, for _pavements_, boy, will only hurt our _toes_; and when the town's improv'd, in proud array we poor _jack-asses_, shall be driven away! no _panniers_ then, forsooth, must there be seen, so let us all _unite_ to keep _nun's-green_." the youthful _ass_, brim full of _spiteful_ ire, prick'd up his ears; and answer'd _thus_, his _sire_, "this shall not be;--this shall not come to pass; they shall not rob us of our _lawful grass_! and if to parliament the _knaves_ should stray, we'll throw _petitions_ in the _robbers'_ way." so saying, young _david_, on all fours bent, to _lawyer goose_, for pious counsel went: _quill_ took his _fee_, (the _life_ and _soul_ of law) then heard the _case_; and _thus_, unscrew'd his jaw: "you must _petition_, sir; and every creature that is _aggriev'd_, must put his _pen_ to _paper_: "as hunters' _pudding_, we most toothsome find, the more with _currants_ or with _plumbs_, 'tis lin'd; so your _petition_ will disturb their dreams, the more 'tis stuff'd, with _any kind of names_." "thank ye," quoth he; "my business now is done; back to my _daddy_, and _nun's-green_ i'll run;" so saying, swift he flew; and _edward_ found all at his ease; and rolling on the ground: the _scrawl_ he read; and all compos'dly then, stretch'd forth his hoofs; and 'twixt them held his pen, the paper sign'd, and after him the _geese_, and _pigs_, aggriev'd;--fill'd up each vacant space. yet not enough, to please his craving maw, and answer all the good _intents_ of law, young _david_ did a _glorious_ thought reveal; "that _rats_, and _mice_, would suffer by the _sale_! and by destroying _swamps_, and _wholesome bogs_, it must invade the _property_ of _frogs_! so _these_ amongst the rest, as i divine should be solicited, forthwith to _sign_." "right;" said old _ned_, "you reason well, my son; directly to the _dikes_, and _gutters_ run; and if you cannot there, get _names_ enough, employ some _rat_ to canvass every _sough_." away he went;--away, away, went he; out came my lady _froggy_, who but she! smirk'd at the _paper_, nibb'd her crow quill pen, then sign'd her _name_ against these _naughty men_. next to the _mice_, young _david_ went with speed; poor little souls, they could not _write_ or _read_! but well inclin'd, to stop, these _horrid scenes_, employ'd the _jack-ass_, to write down their names. now _david_ got the whole, engross'd on skins, forming a pile, much higher than one's shins! and when roll'd up, upon his back 'twas ty'd, who, then for _london_ went, in _stately pride_! but here's the _rub_;--when parliament, serene, consider'd _well_, the business of _nun's-green_; and by _each_ house, most clearly understood, that 'twas a plan, design'd for public good, they curs'd the _names_, and laugh'd at all the _rigs_, contriv'd by asses, geese, frogs, mice, and pigs. _paving and lighting,_ _a new song._ _to the tune of chivy chase._ god prosper long fair derby town, and may it still be free; from hellish plots of every kind, against its liberty. a juncto formed of wicked men, though rich its true they be, they'd rob the poor of common-right, that they may go shot free. the prebyterians jesuit like, the established church took in; to do the drudgery of their work, and trudged through thick and thin. poor silly men to be misled, by that deceitful race; that would cut your throat behind your back, but smile before your face. from the town-hall they issue forth, with _eunuch_ at their head; lazarus the banker followed him, you'd have thought they wanted bread. next one from beggar's blood that sprung, to opulence grown is he; and _struts_ along with iron rod, and swears you shan't be free. a tawny _smith_ was of the gang, and others as well as he; they've neither house nor land in town, yet want your property. a brazen face with empty skull, in dibden's tour well known; that cares not what he does or says, so that the poor's o'erthrown. sly _foxes_ too with silly _hopes_, expect to have their share; of all the common-right you have, their pockets for to spare. lo! deep in thought as tragic muse, with dagger to stab behind; lo! another as bad as he, and much of the same kind. the scribbling kind with parchment roll, for you to sign away, the right you have upon _nun's-green_, their charges to defray. there are many others of the gang, as bad as bad can be; that lie, fawn, and threat, and use deceit, to get your property. old _shot-bag_ he has chang'd about, that his mills may go shot-free; some others too have done the same, such worthless men there be. but all's a blank that they have done, if you but true will be; to the first promise that was made, the friends to liberty. now mundy's join'd with parker coke, and others of renown; those tyrants for to circumvent, to save this goodly town. those veterans that have stood the brunt, of many a well fought day; will always cheer you in the front, and shew you the right way. for to be free as britons ought, and have a right to be; in spite of these tyrannic fools, that want your liberty. _the nun's-green rangers,_ _or the triple alliance. consisting of an old sergeant, a tinker, and a bear._ tune--_bow, wow, wow._[ ] come listen to me, neighbours all, attend unto my story, my song concerns not _church_ or _king_, neither _whig_ nor _tory_; but my ballad is to caution you, against the machinations, of those who mean t' impose on you by false insinuations. bow, wow, wow. there's jemmy pad, that _irish lad_, who heads the clan of faction, swears by the _holy poker_ now, he'll make us all distraction, to keep nun's green that _precious_ land, for his own _dear_ advantage, he means by lies to dupe you all, and gobble up the pasturage. bow, wow, wow. good twenty pounds a year, this son of a teague sir, of lawful british money is regularly paid sir, for driving the poor geese, from the land their inheritance, whereby he addeth riches to _irish impertinence_. bow, wow, wow. there's tinker joe comes next, because next in colour, he tells you all he'll make a speech, but alas, he's no scholar; he'll talk of lords and baronets his juvenile connections, by mending all their pots and pans, he's gained their affections. bow, wow, wow. to claim your attention more, he'll talk about the parliament, and say how many members, old _ruby face_ has thither sent, that his interest is great in affairs of the nation, though still _baboon_ of nottingham, _nun's green_ shall be his station. bow, wow, wow. oroonoko next presents himself, t' engage your attention, as oft' before the _bear_ has done, with many a vile intention, by blasts and oaths to lead you all, against your common senses, for tho' almost an ideot, he'll forge some false pretences. bow, wow, wow. but none of you've forgot, the _sixteenth_ of _september_, th' exalted part he then perform'd, you all must well remember; by such a wretch you'll ne'er be led, against your inclinations, who persecutes the poor man with _game informations_. bow, wow, wow. then join neighbours all, without hesitation, resist these imposters, without exceptation, may all of us with one accord, oppose this host of evil, and send sergeant pad and co. to canvas with the d---l. bow, wow, wow. footnote: [ ] this tune is the same as "the barking barber" and "date obolum belisario." _a birch rod for the presbytarians._ _a new song._ tune of "_chevy chace_." this ballad, printed from the original broad-sheet in my possession, is another of the series to which i have alluded as being connected with the sale of nun's green, derby. it is printed in two columns, with a wood-cut at its head representing a highlander playing on the bag-pipes. good neighbours all, both great and small, of high and low degree; let's straight unite, ourselves to fight, against this _presbytree_. if you'll but trace this hellish race, thro' every stage of life; where e'er they be you'll plainly see, nought but discord and strife. if you'll history read your hearts will bleed, to hear of their transactions; for _king_ and _church_ have suffered much, by their damn hellish factions. must we be opprest by this vile nest, who strives us to enslave; such is their spleen to sell _nun's green_, the town to light and pave. they do not care who the burden bear, such is their tyranny; to enforce the tax on others' backs, whilst they themselves go free. i wish all such aldermen and folks like them, was forc'd to change their situation; and that greenland hulks for their vile bulks, might for ever be their station. proud oppulence with impudence, as he struts along the streets; swears by his god with his iron rod, he'll beat down all he meets. there's shufling charles both grins and snarles, and where he can he'll bite; for this last mishap he'll surely snap, except he's musseld tight. there's jemmy twichit did both scrub and fidge it, his head he roll'd about; he stampt and swore he'd come there no more, when he found the bill thrown out. they blam'd old george that did not discharge, his duty as he ought; and his addle pate that cou'd not relate, what kind of a bill he'd brought. the wigs got a fall, i wish they ne'er may rise, but henceforth for the future, may learn to be more wise; and ne'er persume to sit in chairs, nor honoured be with town affairs, but stay at home and say their prayers, & not over us tyrannize. pray god above from this earth remove, this vile deceitful crew, and send them hence for their offence, where they may receive their due. god bless _mundy_ and _cooke_, on them we look, as two from heaven sent; to set us free from tyranny, and serve in parliament. _lost and dead._ in the parish register of chapel-en-le-frith is the sad entry of the burial of a child which was found dead in the neighbourhood--"s. sept. , . a poor child found dead in y^e forest." the following ballad, from the pen of mr. henry kirke, is founded on this circumstance. it has not before been printed. the fire burns brightly upon the hearth, and dances and crackles with glee; and the cottar's wife sits before the blaze, but the child--ah, where is she. the cottar's hand is on the latch, and he stands by the opened door, and his wife she kisses his sunburnt cheek, but his child he shall see no more. "she is gone out to play," the dame replied, "and will soon be back again;" but their hearts felt heavy, they knew not why and ach'd sorely as if with pain. and soon the gude wife on the ample board has spread out the frugal fare, but a mist rose up in the cottar's eyes as he gazed on that empty chair. and he started up from his chair and cried, "i can stay no longer here, i must go and find my own bonnie child, for my heart aches sore wi' fear." and he wandered around from house to house, across the weary wild; and his heart grew heavier every step, for no one had seen his child. the night had drawn her curtains dark, and every star shone clear; but still he followed his fruitless search, half dead with fatigue and fear. through brake and copse of the forest drear he followed his weary way, till the rosy light of the morning sun told the dawn of another day. it bathed his face in gladsome light with the stream of its glorious ray, it seemed but to mock his saddened heart, and he turned with a sigh away; he turned away down a mossy dell, where the sunbeams danced and smiled, and there midst the fern and the mossy cups the father found his child. one little arm beneath its head on the mossy bank was laid, and the sunbeams lighted its little face, and the wind with its tresses played. a smile still lingered on those sweet lips, which seemed as by sleep untied, but the father's heart grew cold as he looked, for he knew it had smiled--as it died. _song._ tune--"_vicar and moses_." as a satirical attack on some members of the choir of all saints church, derby, in the last century, the following verses are clever. all saints is the principal church in derby, and its choir has generally had the reputation of being at least tolerably good. i prefer leaving the blanks in the names of the parties, still unfilled. the broad-sheet from which i here reprint it is in my own collection. i. when apollo thinks fit to handle his lyre, the sweet vocal muses take place; the _treble_ and _counter_ repair to their choir, attended with _tenor_ and _bass_. ii. as mortals below--the high gods will be aping in all their sublime occupations; they love to be _singing_ and _piping_ and _scraping_ to assist your devout congregation. iii. thus to raise our devotion and stop all complaints, (as ev'ry man knows it's his duty) we've compleated our choir at the church of _all saints_; that god may be worship'd in _beauty_. iv. whoever comes in it can't help but admire a worship so solomn and goodly; such voices were sure never heard from a choir, as those that are led by _will. d--d--y._ v. _sam. d--d--y's_ sweet _counter will's treble_ excells, well strengthen'd with _roger's_ strong _bass_ each softning each like a good peal of bells, were _c--b--y's_ fine _tenor_ takes place. vi. neither _paul's_ nor _king's chapel_ can boast of such voices, nor can our grand _op'ras_ come near 'em; when on 'em i think, how my spirit rejoices! then what must it do when i hear 'em! vii. tho' their parts are all charming how much his excels, adorning the vocal profession! their _treble_ i mean, that so quavers and swells, enchanting beyond all expression! viii. by the _doctor's_ fine _treble_ how well they are led, whose expression all hearers admire; o'er topping his fellows at least by the _head_, so well he ennobles the _choir_. ix. altho' in the _choir_ he so _eminent_ stands, yet still ith' _orchestra_ he's greater: with his _fiddle_ excelling the greatest of hands, so bountiful to him is nature! x. with this he can _irritate_ all that is quick, (such pow'r have his taste and his tone!) for he ev'ry thing moves but his long fiddle-stick, none like him before was yet known. xi. so useful a hand (without doubt) was ne'er born, for _concerts_, _assembly_ and _ball_; he can turn to the _fiddle_, _bass trumpet_, or _horne_, yet equally _great_ upon all. xii. for _here_ his expressions so _full_ i must own, we ne'er were so fiddled before; but then his fine _taste_, _execution_ and _tone_, delight us a thousand times more. xiii. where lives that grave mortal so strangely supine, so senseless and stupidly lazy; in hearing such hands himself to confine, and not like his brother, grow _crazy_? xiv. to hear such sweet hands who wou'd not but give, or spend the best part of his rental; at so charming a place as _derby_ to live, with such _vocal_ and such _instrumental_? xv. and this is the reason your strolling _italians_, (as it happen'd, we know, to'ther day) at _derby_ are treated like tatter--de mallions, when _unheard_ they went weeping away. finis. n.b. speedily will be published, a particular account of the great abilities of each of these famous _singers_, wherein will be shewn their ignorance and impudence in attempting such things as solo and verse anthems by dr. _greene_, _boyce_, _nares_, &c. oratorio songs and chorusses by mr. handel, &c., &c., it being well known to every person who has the least ear to music, that they are not capable of _decently_ singing a bar in any such compositions. mr. w---- some time since absolutely discharged them from making use of any thing but the old psalm tunes. the scandalous behaviour of _d----_, and _c----_, on this occasion shall be particularly pointed out. _sir francis leke;_ _or the power of love._ _a derbyshire catholic legend of cromwell's time._ the lekes, or leakes, of sutton-in-scarsdale, derbyshire, derived their descent from alan de leka, of leak in nottinghamshire, who was living in . the first of the family who settled at sutton was william, a younger son of sir john leke of gotham, in the early part of the fifteenth century; and the manor was acquired by a marriage with the heiress of the hilarys, who took the name of gray, and who inherited it from robert de hareston, lord of sutton. sir francis leake, the fourth in descent from william above-named, married a co-heiress of swift, and was succeeded by his son francis, who in was created a baronet. in he was created lord deincourt of sutton, and in , earl of scarsdale. these titles became, however, extinct in , by the death of nicholas, the fourth earl, and the last of the family. his lordship took an active part in the civil wars; and lysons, speaking of him, says in , (the beginning of april) "lord deincourt began to fortify his house at sutton. sir john gell sent his brother, colonel thomas gell, with five hundred men and three pieces of ordnance to besiege it. lord deincourt was summoned, but refused to surrender, and for some time obstinately defended himself. the house was taken, and lord deincourt and his men made prisoners. the works were demolished, and lord deincourt set at liberty, on giving his word that he would repair to derby within eight days and submit himself to the parliament. sir john gell observes that the forfeiture of his word on this occasion was revenged by the garrison at bolsover, who some time afterwards, when that castle was in the hands of the parliament, plundered lord deincourt's house at sutton. in lord deincourt was created earl of scarsdale. having rendered himself very obnoxious to the parliament by his exertions in the royal cause during the civil war, his estates were sequestered, and, as he refused to compound, they were sold. his son procured some friends to be the purchasers, he paying the sum of £ , , fixed by the parliamentary commissioners as the composition." his lordship felt so deeply the execution of his royal master, charles the first, that he clothed himself in sackcloth, and, causing his grave to be dug some years before his death, laid himself in it, it is said, every friday for divine meditation and prayer. the following ballad, embodying a tradition concerning sir francis leke, is by richard howitt, one of the "worthies" of derbyshire, of which county i am proud to say he is a native. part i. "o, say not so, sir francis, breathe not such woe to me:-- broad and pleasant are your lands, and your hall is fair to see. faithful servants have you many, fortune fair on you attends; nor hath knight in all the island, braver followers or friends. with the court you are a favourite-- yet your king shall righted be: in his hour of deadly peril can you from your monarch flee? look upon your blooming children, flowers of heaven newly blown! here renewed behold your lucy, and that boy is all your own. shall we in these dread commotions, neither need your arm nor mind, where shall i behold defender, where shall these a father find? how i thought you loved us! never lightly could such love decline; nor could you to idly voyage, all the wealth of life resign!" ----"lucy! this is only torture-- here i may no longer pause-- long i for my king have battled-- now we've neither king nor laws. with our shrewd exultant victor, bootless now were strife of steel; looking on my bleeding country can i for her cease to feel? all the land is grown outrageous: honour, worth, are hunted down: demons mock at our religion-- idiots trample on the crown. roaming o'er the billowy ocean, peace may greet me here unknown; and, returning, civil tempests may be fairly overblown. should aught menacing approach you, to your noble brothers, look: danger! did they ever dread it? insult! did they ever brook? guard your precious life, my lucy! need i say--not your's alone! present--absent--living--dying-- i am--fear not--all your own!" starting from her arms, sir francis quick his noble steed bestrode: and, with manly face averted, forward--seaward--fleetly rode. soon his vessell, anchor weighing, to the sails the winds were true; and with sad, not weak, delaying, he bade his native land adieu! part ii. far amidst the western ocean, lies a small and pleasant isle; fair with everlasting verdure, bright with summer's endless smile. there o'er one, all sadly musing sweets distil from spicy trees; yet, though all around is blooming, nothing cheers him that he sees. lonely in sweet groves of myrtle, sad amongst the orange bloom; nothing cheers his drooping spirit, nothing dissipates his gloom. twice ten years he there has wandered, nor one human face has seen; moving like a silent shadow, rocks have his companions been. clad in skins of beasts; like serpents wild, is his unheeded hair; yet through lines of deep dejection, his once manly face is fair. as from gathered flowers, the odour never wholly dies away,-- of the warrior, and the scholar, intimations round him play. nurtured in the camp, the college, never can his soul be void; in the busy past his spirit, heart, and mind, must be employed. lists he yet the stirring battle, lists he victory's rending shout? tranquil is the isle, the ocean, pain within him, peace without. yes! he oft-times hears the trumpet, captains' shouting, horses' neigh! till before the horrid stillness, all the tumult dies away. and is this the courtly warrior, gallant, gay sir francis leke? he, the same!--who shunning discord, found a peace he did not seek? bravely sailed he from old england, boldly with adventurous prow; from the horrors of that voyage he alone is living now. to his bravery owes he being-- last to quit the groaning deck-- in his fight his comrades perished-- days he floated on the wreck. till this lone and lovely island, cheered him with refreshing bloom; saved him from the ravening ocean, to a sad and lingering doom. in a cave has he his dwelling, high, o'erlooking wide the main, where he feeds in painful being, longings infinite and vain. nightly there he burns a beacon; often there the day he spends; and towards his native country wistful gaze o'er ocean sends. there a cross has he erected-- near to which an altar stands, humble growth of feelings holy reared by his unaided hands. truly needs he prove a christian, thus cut off from all his kind; firmest faith he needs in heaven; and boundless fortitude of mind. store he needs of endless knowledge, his unvaried hours to cheer; furnished with sublime resources for this solitude austere. still the isle is very lovely-- never yet in poet's mind, haunt of peri, realm of faéry, was more lavishly divined. lovely as the primal garden, in the light of sabbath blest; human love alone is wanting in this eden of the west. leap from rocks the living waters: hang delicious fruits around: and all birds of gorgeous plumage fill the air with happy sound. painful is to him its beauty-- sad the splendour of the sun; to the odorous air he utters sorrow that is never done:-- "blest was i beyond all blessing! "in my wife and children blest: "in my friends and in my fortune-- "yet in peace i could not rest. "never in his prosperous greatness, "can himself the wisest trust; "god has weighed and found me wanting-- "and the punishment is just." oft before the cross, the altar, murmuring prayer he sinks to rest; to his god, and to his saviour-- and the virgin mother blest. and for love unto the virgin finds in heaven his prayer chief grace! "mary, mother, me deliver, "from the horrors of this place! "others crave more worldly guerdon-- "wealth, or fame, or station high; "love i seek--to see my country-- "my own people--and to die!" praying thus, old legends tell us, scarce his eyes in sleep were sealed; when, o, happy inward vision, to him was his home revealed. there his patrimonial mansion, he beheld in moonlight sleep, saw with joy though mystery veiled it-- sadness and a silence deep. and, o miracle of gladness! more, those ancient legends say, was permitted him to witness, waking, in the open day. in his old church-porch awaking-- trance, or voyage all unknown; o'er his own domains he wandered-- saw, and knew them for his own. had chance voyagers beheld him, in a trance, who slumbering bore, by some heavenly impulse, guided him unto his native shore? not so--says the holy legend-- force of penitential prayer-- and the love he bore the virgin-- won for him that transit fair. spare the legend for its beauty-- carp not--what is it to you if the letter is a fable? in its spirit it is true. leave we unto old tradition that which its dim mist sublimes, nor submit the ancient spirit to the light of later times! see! before his welcome threshold! once again, sir francis stand: oh! the transport,--it is real!-- he is in his native land! part iii. merry once again is england, civil warfare is forgot; now another charles is reigning plenty smiles in hall and cot. spring is like a present angel; loosened waters leap in light: flowers are springing, birds are singing, all the world is glad and bright. may, the blue-eyed bloomy creature, from god's presence yearly sent, works with sweet ethereal fingers, till both heaven and earth are blent. lovliest is a rural village in the may-time of the year; with its hall, its woods and waters, verdant slopes, and herds of deer. and in one, joy is exultant-- for this day the manly heir of sir francis leke is wedded-- wedded too, his daughter fair. age rejoices; in the mansion rural hinds find wassail cheer; and bright troops of knights and ladies, crowd the hall from far and near. who is this in weeds unseemly, half a man that seems, half beast, who obtrudes himself unbidden on the merry marriage feast? hermit is he, or some pilgrim, entering boldly his own cell? no,--he lacks those ancient symbols, sandal-shoon, and scallop shell. all the youngsters titter; anger flushes cheeks austere and cold: whilst the aged look complacent on a beggar that is bold. "bear this ring unto your mistress," to a page sir francis cried; and his words emphatic uttered rung throughout the dwelling wide. one there is--an age-blind servant-- who in darkness sits apart-- carried forth to feel the sunshine-- she has heard him in her heart; and in agony of gladness, at that voice so long desired, she has loudly named her master-- and then instantly expired. pensive in her room, the matron grieved--but distant from the crowd; she would not with selfish sorrow their bright countenances cloud. there her ring receiving; lucy knew the sender of her gift, and, it seemed, by feet unaided, to him she descended swift. there upon the rugged stranger, gazed, with momentary check, gazed, but for a passing moment, and then fell upon his neck. twice ten weary summers absent; by his faithful wife deplored; like ulysses to his consort, good sir francis is restored. 'tis a time of double gladness-- never was a scene like this; joy o'erflows the hall, the village-- 'tis a time of boundless bliss! clothed as instantly became him, of vile skins all disarrayed, in his old paternal mansion he is honoured and obeyed. all he prayed for to the virgin, she has granted him and more; not to die, his own beholding, first, when on his native shore. added years of happy ending, are accorded him of right; 'midst a cloud of friends descending, in a sunset warm and bright. _the true lover's knot untied:_ _being the right path whereby to advise princely virgins how to behave themselves, by the example of the renowned princess the lady arabella, and the second son of the lord seymour, late earl of hertford._ the beautiful, much-injured, and ill-fated lady arabella of this touching ballad, whose sole crime was that she was born a stuart, was the daughter of elizabeth cavendish of chatsworth, in derbyshire, by her husband charles stuart, earl of lennox, who was brother to lord darnley, the husband of the unfortunate mary queen of scots. she was grand-daughter of sir william cavendish of chatsworth, and of his wife, the celebrated "bess of hardwick," afterwards countess of shrewsbury. the incidents of the life of this young, beautiful, and accomplished lady, which form one of the most touching episodes in our history,--the jealous eye with which elizabeth looked upon her from her birth,--the careful watch set over her by cecil,--the trials of raleigh and his friends,--her troubles with her aunt (mary, countess of shrewsbury),--her being placed under restraint,--her marriage with seymour,--her seizure, imprisonment, sufferings, and death as a hopeless lunatic in the tower of london, where she had been thrown by her cousin, james the first,--are all matters of history, and invest her life with a sad and melancholy interest. as the autograph signature of this ill-starred but lovely and exemplary young lady is but little known, i append a fac-simile, [illustration: signature of arbella stuart] which no doubt will add to the interest of the following ballad. the ballad was sung to the tune of "the frog galliard." as i to ireland did pass, i saw a ship at anchor lay, another ship likewise there was, which from fair england took her way. this ship that sail'd from fair england, unknown unto our gracious king, the lord chief justice did command, that they to london should her bring. i then drew near and saw more plain, lady arabella in distress, she wrung her hands, and wept amain, bewailing of her heaviness. when near fair london tower she came, whereas her landing place should be, the king and queen with all their train, did meet this lady gallantly. "how now, arabella," said our good king, unto this lady straight did say, "who hath first try'd thee to this thing, that you from england took your way?" "none but myself, my gracious liege, "these ten long years i have been in love, with the lord seymour's second son, the earl of hertford, so we prove: "full many a hundred pound i had in goods and livings in the land, yet i have lands us to maintain, so much your grace doth understand. "my lands and livings so well known unto your books of majesty, amount to twelvescore pounds a week, besides what i do give," quoth she. "in gallant derbyshire likewise, i ninescore beadsmen maintain there, with hats and gowns and house-rent free, and every man five marks a year. "i never raised rent," said she, "nor yet oppress'd the tenant poor, i never did take bribes for fines, for why, i had enough before. "whom of your nobles will do so, for to maintain the commonalty? such multitudes would never grow, nor be such store of poverty. "i would i had a milk-maid been, or born of some more low degree, then i might have lov'd where i liked, and no man could have hinder'd me. "or would i were some yeoman's child, for to receive my portion now, according unto my degree, as other virgins whom i know. "the highest branch that soars aloft, needs must beshade the myrtle-tree, needs must the shadow of them both, shadow the third in his degree. "but when the tree is cut and gone, and from the ground is bore away, the lowest tree that there doth stand, in time may grow as high as they. "once too i might have been a queen, but that i ever did deny, i knew your grace had right to th' crown, before elizabeth did die. "you of the eldest sister came, i of the second in degree, the earl of hertford of the third, a man of royal blood was he. "and so good night, my sovereign liege, since in the tower i must lie, i hope your grace will condescend, that i may have my liberty." "lady arabella," said the king, "i to your freedom would consent, if you would turn and go to church, there to receive the sacrament. and so good night, arabella fair," our king replied to her again, "i will take council of my nobility, that you your freedom may obtain." "once more to prison must i go," lady arabella then did say, "to leave my love breeds all my woe, the which will bring my life's decay. "love is a knot none can unknit, fancy a liking of the heart, him whom i love i can't forget, tho' from his presence i must part. "the meanest people enjoy their mates, but i was born unhappily, for being cross'd by cruel fates, i want both love and liberty. "but death i hope will end the strife, farewel, farewel, my love," quoth she, "once i had thought to have been thy wife, but now am forc'd to part with thee." at this sad meeting she had cause, in heart and mind to grieve full sore, after that time arabella fair, did never see lord seymour more. _an address to "dickie."_ at a farm-house at tunstead, near chapel-en-le-frith, a human skull, about which hangs many a strange story, has for several generations--indeed "time out of mind"--been preserved. there are some curious traditions connected with this skull, which is popularly known as "dickie," or "dicky o' tunsted." how it first came to the farm is a complete mystery. all that is known is that it has been there for many generations, and always occupies the same position in the window-seat of the house. no matter what changes take place in the other occupiers of the house, dicky holds his own against all comers, and remains quietly ensconced in his favourite place. it is firmly and persistently believed that so long as dick remains in the house, unburied, everything will go on well and prosperously, but that if he is buried, or "discommoded," unpleasant consequences will assuredly follow. on more than one occasion he has been put "out of sight," but tempests have arisen and injured the building, deaths have ensued, cattle have been diseased and died off, or crops have failed, until the people have been humbled, and restored him to his proper place. one of the crowning triumphs of dickie's power is said to have been evinced over the formation of the new buxton and whaley bridge line of railway. he seems to have held the project in thorough hatred, and let no opportunity pass of doing damage. whenever there was a land slip or a sinking, or whenever any mishap to man, beast, or line happened, the credit was at once given to dickie, and he was sought to be propitiated in a variety of ways. hutchinson, who wrote "a tour through the high peak" in , thus speaks of the skull, and of the supernatural powers attributed to it:--"having heard a singular account of a human skull being preserved in a house at tunstead, near the above place, and which was said to be haunted, curiosity induced me to deviate a little, for the purpose of making some enquiries respecting these _natural_ or _super_ natural appearances. that there are three parts of a human skull in the house is certain, and which i traced to have remained on the premises for near two centuries past, during all the revolutions of owners and tenants in that time. as to the truth of the supernatural appearance, it is not my design either to affirm or contradict, though i have been informed by a creditable person, a mr. adam fox, who was brought up in the house, that he has not only repeatedly heard singular noises, and observed very singular circumstances, but can produce fifty persons, within the parish, who have seen an apparition at this place. he has often found the doors opening to his hand--the servants have been repeatedly called up in the morning--many good offices have been done by the apparition, at different times;--and, in fact, it is looked upon more as a guardian spirit than a terror to the family, never disturbing them but in case of an approaching death of a relation or neighbour, and showing its resentment only when spoken of with disrespect, or when its own awful memorial of mortality is removed. for twice within the memory of man the skull has been taken from the premises,--once on building the present house on the site of the old one, and another time when it was buried in chapel churchyard;--but there was no peace! no rest! it must be replaced! venerable time carries a report that one of two coheiresses residing here was murdered, and declared, in her last moments, that her bones should remain on the place for ever.[ ] on this head the candid reader will think for himself; my duty is only faithfully to relate what i have been told. however, the circumstance of the skull being traced to have remained on the premises during the changes of different tenants and purchasers for near two centuries, must be a subject well worth the antiquarian's research, and often more than the investigation of a bust or a coin!" the following clever _address to "dickie"_ was written by mr. samuel laycock, and first appeared in the _buxton advertiser_. neaw, dickie, be quiet wi' thee, lad, an' let navvies an' railways a be; mon, tha shouldn't do soa,--it's to' bad, what harm are they doin' to thee? deod folk shouldn't meddle at o', but leov o' these matters to th' wick; they'll see they're done gradeley, aw know,-- dos' t' yer what aw say to thee, dick? neaw dunna go spoil 'em i' th' dark what's cost so mich labber an' thowt; iv tha'll let 'em go on wi' their wark, tha shall ride deawn to buxton for nowt; an' be a "director" too, mon; get thi beef an' thi bottles o' wine, an' mak' as much brass as tha con eawt o' th' london an' north western line. awm surproised, dick, at thee bein' here; heaw is it tha'rt noan i' thi grave? ar' t' come eawt o' gettin' thi beer, or havin' a bit ov a shave? but _that's_ noan thi business, aw deawt, for tha hasn't a hair o' thi yed; hast a woife an' some childer abeawt? when tha'rn living up here wurt wed? neaw, spake, or else let it a be, an' dunna be lookin' soa shy; tha needn't be freeten'd o' me, aw shall say nowt abeawt it, not i! it'll noan matter mich iv aw do, i can do thee no harm iv aw tell, mon there's moor folk nor thee bin a foo', aw've a woife an some childer misel'. heaw's business below; is it slack? dos' t' yer? aw'm noan chaffin thee, mon' but aw reckon 'at when tha goes back tha'll do me o' th' hurt as tha con. neaw dunna do, that's a good lad, for awm freeten'd to deoth very nee, an' ewar betty, poor lass, hoo'd go mad iv aw wur to happen to dee! when aw'n ceawer'd upo' th' hearston' awhoam, aw'm inclined, very often, to boast; an' aw'n noan hawve as feart as some, but aw don't loike to talke to a ghost. so, dickie, aw've written this song, an' aw trust it'll find thee o' reet; look it o'er when tha'rt noan very throng, an' tha'll greatly obleege me,--good neet. p.s.--iv tha'rt wantin' to send a reply, aw can gi'e thee mi place ov abode, it's reet under dukinfilt sky, at thirty-nine, cheetham hill road. aw'm awfully freeten'd dos t' see, or else aw'd invite thee to come, an' ewar betty, hoo's softer nor me, so aw'd _raythar_ tha'd tarry awhoam. footnote: [ ] on examining the parts of the skull, they did not appear to be the least decayed. _the driving of the deer._ this admirable ballad, founded on an old derbyshire tradition, is by my friend mr. william bennett, of whom i have before spoken. the peverels were, as a part of the immense possessions given to them by william the conqueror, owners of the tract of country comprising the honour and forest of the high peak. their stronghold was the castle at castleton. the "lord's seat" mentioned in the ballad is a mountain separating rushop edge from the valley of edale. the view from here, where peverel used to alight from his horse to watch the progress of the chace, says mr. bennett, "is magnificent; perhaps one of the finest in north derbyshire, as from its summit you may see the pennine chain of cheshire, derbyshire, and staffordshire, with many of the lovely valleys which lie among the hills. westward, you look down upon the valley of chapel-en-le-frith, the eastern part of which contains the ancient manor of bowdon. to realize the following ballad, my readers must imagine the lord of the peak, william peverel, with a number of his knights and gentlemen, on the lord's seat, preparing for the chace, when they hear the bugle blast which informs the proud baron that some audacious sportsmen are in chase of the deer within his forest. we may picture to ourselves the astonishment and indignation of the norman prince, and his fierce determination to pounce upon the trespassers and punish them with all the severity of the cruel forest law. well was it for all parties that he was attended by his brother payne peverel, the lord of whittington, who was one of the noblest sons of chivalry, and whose presence prevented an affray which in all probability would have been fatal to many. payne peverel had previous to this time exhibited a grand pageant at castleton, accompanied by a tournament held in the meadows below the castle, when he gave away his daughter to the knight who most distinguished himself on that occasion." lord peverel stood on the lordis seat, and an angry man was he; for he heard the sound of a hunter's horn slow winding up the lea. he look'd to north, he look'd to south, and east and west look'd he; and "holy cross!" the fierce norman cried, "who hunts in my country? belike they think the peverel dead, or far from forest walk; woe worth their hunting, they shall find abroad is still the hawk." again he looked where helldon hill joins with the konying's dale; and then once more the bugle blast came swelling along the gale. "mount, mount and ride!" the baron cried, "the sound comes o'er the edge, by perry dale, or gautriss side, my knightly spurs i pledge. these outlaws, who now drive my deer, shall sooth our quarry be; and he who reaches first the hounds shall win a guerdon free." each knight and squire soon sat in selle, and urged his horse to speed, and peverel, first among the rout, proved his horse good at need. adown the slope, along the flat, against the hill they ride, nor pull a rein 'till every steed stands fast on gautriss side. "hold hard! they're here," the peverel said, and upward held his hand, while all his meany kept behind, awaiting their lord's command; and westward, on the bolt-edge moor, beyond the rocky height, both hounds and hunters, men and horse, and deer were all in sight. said then the baron, "who are these who fear not peverel's sword nor forest laws." outspoke a squire, "of bowdon he's the lord; sir bruno, hight, a franklin brave, one of the saxon swine who feasts each day on fat fed beef, and guzzles ale, not wine." "what stirs the sodden headed knave to make his pastime here?" cried peverel, "and thus dare to brave him whom the king doth fear? ride down the villains, horse and man; would we were armed to-day, no saxon chine should bear its head forth from the bloody fray." up spoke his frere, payne peverel, then, of whittington lord was he, and said, "fair sir, for ruth and grace this slaughter may not be. the saxon's lands are widely spread, and he holds them in capité, and claims three days with hawk and hound to wind his bugle free." "beshrew his horn, and beshrew his heart, in my forest he may not ride: if he kills a deer, by the conqueror's bow by forest law he shall bide. ride on, sir payne, and tell the churl he must cease his hunting cheer, and come to the knee of his suzerain lord awaiting his presence here. ride with him, sirs, some two or three, and bring him hither straight: 'twere best for him to come at once than cause his lord to wait. there are trees in the forest strong enow to bear the madman's corse, and he shall hang on the highest bough if hither he comes perforce." sir payne rode swiftly cross the dale, followed by gentles three, nor stayed his horse 'till he had reached the hunter's company: and then he said, "fair sirs, ye ride and drive our deer as free as if the land were all your own and not in forestry. lord peverel yonder waits your ease, to know how this may be; since he is lord of the forest wide, and will no trespass see. he bids you, as your suzerain lord, forthwith to come to his knee, and as his liegeman humbly stand, and answer him truthfully." "no man of his," cried the franklin, "then am i, as he knows full well, though within the bounds of his forest walk it likes me sooth to dwell. my manor of bowdon, i hold in chief from good king harry i trow; and to him alone will i homage pay and make my fealty vow." "beware, sir franklin," cried sir payne, "beware how thou play the fool! to brave the ire of thy suzerain lord will lead to direful dule. come on with me, and make thy peace, better do that than worse; he'll hang thee on the forest tree if we take thee hence perforce." "take me you can't while i have thews, and these have bows and spears," cried the brave franklin. "threaten him who the lord peverel fears. we've broke no forest law to-day; our hunting here's my right; and only ye can force me hence if strongest in the fight." each hunter then upraised his spear, or twanged his good yew bow, while cloth yard shafts from every sheaf glinted a threatening shew. and back payne peverel reined his horse, and, as he rode away, cried, "fare ye well, this day of sport will breed a bloody day." well was it for the saxons then the normans rode unarmed, or they had scantly left that field and homeward gone unharmed. lord peverel viewed their bows and spears, and marked their strong array, and grimly smiled, and softly said, "we'll right this wrong some day." but e'er that day, for fearful crime, the peverel fled the land, and lost his pride of place, and eke his lordship and command. for ranulph earl of chester's death, by him most foully wrought, he fled fair england's realm for aye, and other regions sought. where, so 'tis writ, a monk he turned, and penance dreed so sore, that all the holy brotherhood quailed at the pains he bore. and yet the haughty norman blood no sign of dolour showed; but bore all stoutly to the last, and died beneath the rood. so heaven receive his soul at last, he was a warrior brave; and pope and priest were joined in mass his guilty soul to save. for holy church and kingly crown he was ever a champion true; for chivalry and ladies' grace chiváler foiál et preux. _the ashupton garland,_ _or a day in the woodlands;_ _showing how a "righte merrie companie" went forth to seek a diversion in the woodlands, aud what befell them there._ to a pleasant northern tune. ashopton is a small village, but little known away from its own neighbourhood, in the vale of the river ashop, in the chapelry of derwent, in the high peak. this very clever ballad was written on occasion of what was evidently an extremely happy pic-nic party, held there not many years ago. it is one of the best modern ballads i have seen. in summer time when leaves were green, with a hey derry down, you shall see; james oakes he called his merry men all, unto the green-wood tree. james oakes he was a worthy squire, full six feet high he stood; no braver chief the forest rang'd, since the days of robin hood. then some came east, and some came west, and southrons there came three; such a jovial band of fine fellows, you never more shall see. nor fairer maidens ever tripp'd, than bore them companie; the wood-nymphs peep'd, in wonder all, as they were passing by. there was sally of riddings with her wit so sly, that young men's hearts beguil'd; and wilding meg, with the hazel eye, and sweet maid-marian mild. then came blithe helen of osgarthorpe, with her sister, as you shall know; two fairer maids in sheffield town did ne'er set foot i trow. maid-marian's sister too was there, and a merry little minx was she; and they were merry merry maidens all, when under the greenwood tree. then followed straight a matron dame, that summers more had seen; her kindly eye did sparkle bright, and she seemed the woodland queen. james oakes the elder he went first, as captain of the band; bill graham of skiers was by his side, and they shouted, "for merry england!" sylvester next, that rover bold, (some called him little john,) with bob the tall, from london town, as you shall hear anon. two stalworth blades, sworn friends, were there, jem oakes, and asho'er will; they wanted only a good cross-bow, the queen's fat deer to kill. then came nick milnes, that smart young man, of fifteen winters old; with charley oakes, a proper young man, of courage stout and bold. next tom of riddings, the rural swain, (their allen-a-dale was he,) came tripping o'er the heather bell, as blithe as blithe could be. good lord it was a pleasant sight, to see them all on a row; with every man his good cigar, and his little bag hanging low. bill graham, of skiers, he then stepped forth, all buskined up to the knee; and he swore by all the fair maids there, their champion he would be. when this the captain he did hear, to bill up stepped he; and thus he said before the face of that goodly companie:-- "the devil a drop, thou proud fellow! of my whiskey shalt thou see, until thy courage here be tried-- thou shalt not go scot-free." "by my troth," cried bill "thourt a gallant knight, and worthy of me for thy squire, and i'll show thee how for a lady i'll fight, if thoul't meet me in good yorkshire." when sweet maid-marian this did hear, with a hey down down and a derry; her rosy cheek did bleach with fear, but sweet meg it made merry. "a boon, a boon," cried little john, "i'm sick, and fain would see, what thou hast got in thy leather bottel, i pray thee show to me." "come hither, come hither, thou fine fellow, hold up thy head again; i've that within my leather bottel, that shall not breed thee pain." then the captain took little john by the hand, and they sat them under the tree; "if we drink water while this doth last, then an ill death may we dee." then little john he rose up once more, renewed with mirth and glee; and eke with a bound, he danced a round, in sight of that companie. these fine fellows all, did then take hands, and danced about the green tree; "for six merry men, for seven merry men, for nine merry men we be." then on they walked the rocks among, all on a midsummer day; every youth with a maiden by his side, while the birds sang from each spray. with kirtle tucked up to the knee, the maidens far did go; and bob the tall to each and all, great courtesie did show. some plucked the green leaf, some the rose, as to _kinder-scout_ they sped; or wiled away the sweet summer's day, at lovely _derwent-head_. and some did shout, and some did sing, with the heart so blithe and merry; and some adown the hill did roll, with a hey derry down, down derry. and ever and anon they'd sit, on a mossy bank to rest; while the bag and the whiskey glass went round, with the ringing glass and jest. then some among the heather strayed, springing the bonny moor-hen; and some did climb the green hills' side, or roam in the tangled glen. the blackbird tried his golden bill, his sooty love to greet; upon the bough, the throstle cock, did carol blithe and sweet. and when the dews began to fall, and the glowworm's lamp to shine, to _ashupton_ inn they did repair, in order for to dine. then on the board did smoke roast beef, with pasties hot and cold; and many a right good stomach showed, and many a tale was told. and when the table it was cleared, and landlord brought them wine; he swore, that never there before, such a companie did dine! so a health to the queene, and long may she reign, and albert long live he; push the glass about,--old _kinder-scout_, we'll drink long life to thee. and here's a health to those fine fellows, and to all those maidens merry; may each take a heart from the _ashupton-hills_, singing hey derry down, down derry! and here's a health unto james oakes! and many a year may he rise up, and call his merry men all, unto the greenwood tree. _derbyshire hills._ james bannard, "a wandering poet, in his th year," is the writer of the following lines, which he says at the heading of the broad-sheet from which i reprint it, are "views and reflections taken from solomon's temple, near buxton." of bannard i know nothing, farther than that he was a poor man, and eked out his living by selling these verses "at the 'cottage of content,' buxton." at length my wand'ring feet have brought me on this derby hill; where my sweet muse and fancy both may sit and take their fill. although i've trod the stage of life past seventy years and three: 'tis the first time that ever i these derby hills did see. reader, before i now proceed, i pray you will excuse; your pardon humbly i do beg, intruding with my muse. born in an humble state of life, grammar i could not attain; but from the school of nature i, did all my learning gain. as on this eminence i stand, and view the landscape round, here hills and dales, rivers and rocks, most sweetly do abound. mark how the glorious setting sun fair buxton town displays; buxton whose healing streams and air, give hope for length of days. the next that did attract the muse was the fine noble church, where sinners every sabbath day their wicked hearts should search. what numbers there already lie, now sleeping at its feet; waiting the great and awful day, when they their judge must meet. their dust then joins its better part, i hope in realms above; and all its dross be pressed away, by the redeemer's love. the fine hotels i next remarked, the walks and lawns so gay, where gentry their amusements take, in this sweet month of may. to solomon's temple i repaired, to take a wider view; and as i was a stranger there, all things appeared new. how dare the wicked infidel say that there is no god? these mountains high and these firm rocks may crumble at his nod. in him i live, in him i move, in him i have my being; in him i on this mount now stand and paint this beauteous scene. brierlow and foxlow i remark'd, haddon and croome likewise; but axedge overcap'd them all, and struck me with surprise. the lover's leap likewise i view'd, shootingslow did appear; the cat-and-fiddle i have seen but i was never there. chee tor, bakewell, and matlock too, likewise the diamond hill; the shivering tor for to describe is far beyond my skill. now from this mount i do descend into the vale below, from whence the river wye doth spring, and sweetly on doth flow. for to describe the beauties all, display'd in derbyshire; instead of musing for one day, methinks 'twould take a year. having seen seventy years and three, my days are not a few; i may expect in a short time, to bid this world adieu. may blessings rest on all your heads, ye rich, likewise ye poor; something forebodes within my mind, i must see these derby hills no more. _derbyshire dales._ having given some lines on "derbyshire hills," by a "wandering poet" totally unknown to fame, it will be well to follow it by others on "derbyshire dales," by one whose name is known throughout the length and breadth of the land--eliza cooke. i sigh for the land where the orange-tree flingeth its prodigal bloom on the myrtle below; where the moonlight is warm, and the gondolier singeth, and clear waters take up the strain as they go. oh! fond is the longing, and rapt is the vision that stirs up my soul over italy's tales; but the _present_ was bright as the _far-off_ elysian, when i roved in the sun-flood through derbyshire dales. there was joy for my eye, there was balm for my breathing; green branches above me--blue streams at my side: the hand of creation seemed proudly bequeathing the beauty reserved for a festival tide. i was bound, like a child, by some magical story, forgetting the "south" and "ionian vales;" and felt that dear england had temples of glory, where any might worship, in derbyshire dales. sweet pass of the "dove!" 'mid rock, river, and dingle, how great is thy charm for the wanderer's breast! with thy moss-girdled towers and foam-jewelled shingle, thy mountains of might, and thy valleys of rest. i gazed on thy wonders--lone, silent, adoring, i bent at the altar whose "fire never pales:" the great father was with me--devotion was pouring its holiest praises in derbyshire dales. wild glen of dark "taddington"--rich in thy robing of forest-green cloak, with grey lacing bedight; how i lingered to watch the red western rays probing thy leaf-mantled bosom with lances of light! and "monsal," thou mine of arcadian treasure, need we seek for "greek islands" and spice-laden gales, while a tempe like thee of enchantment and pleasure may be found in our own native derbyshire dales? there is much in my past bearing way-marks and flowers, the purest and rarest in odour and bloom; there are beings and breathings, and places and hours, still trailing in roses o'er memory's tomb. and when i shall count o'er the bliss that's departed, and old age be telling its garrulous tales, those days will be first when the kind and true-hearted were nursing my spirit in derbyshire dales. _a rhapsody_ _on the peak of derbyshire._ the following exquisite lines by my late highly-gifted father,[ ] on the land he loved so well,--the glorious district of the peak of derbyshire,--may well claim a place in this part of my present volume. i give them, not as being the most favourable example i could choose of his style, but as being the most appropriate for my present purpose. o, give me the land where the wild thyme grows, the heathery dales among; where sol's own flow'er with crimson eye creeps the sun-burnt banks along! where the beetling tor hangs over the dell, while its pinnacles pierce the sky, and its foot is laved by the waters pure, of the lively murmuring wye; oh! give me the land, where the crimson heather, the thyme and the bilberry grow together. o! where upon earth is another land so green, so fine, so fair? can any within old england's bounds with this heathery land compare? the mountain air, the crystal springs, where health has established her throne, the flood-swollen torrent, the bright cascade, belong to this land alone; o! give me the land where grow together the marj'ram, cistus, and purple heather. oxford may boast of its hundred spires, its colleges, halls, and towers; built in an ague-producing marsh, are the muses' and learning's bowers; o! tell me not of the sluggish stream, too lazy to creep along; too dull to inspire a poet's dream! this is not the land of song! no! give me the land where grow together the cistus, the thyme, and the purple heather. footnote: [ ] author of the "history of buxton," "history of lincoln," &c., &c. _the derby hero._ the two following productions of some local muse, written in the year , are intended to do honour to a young pedestrian of derby, who no doubt was thought famous in those days of foot-racing and pugilism. of all your modern heroes that rank so high in fame, there's one that takes the lead of all, young wantling is his name; for when he takes the field so nimbly he doth run, his feet is at the destin'd mark ere the race is well begun! fol de rol, &c. this youth's been lately tried against a man of great renown, and to run the stafford hero he was back'd for fifty pounds; o he is the bravest lad that ever eyes did see, for he won the race quite easy, when the bets were five to three! fol de rol, &c. now ye men of sporting talent i would have you all to know, on the eighteenth day of march you've a chance to see him go, for this hero he is match'd to run three hundred yards we're told, against the stafford bragger for one hundred guineas in gold! fol de rol, &c. then keep your spirits up, my lads, for he will show the way, he is as swift as mercury, and is sure to win the day; for wantling's of such good mettle, and his honour is as good, he is sure not to deceive you, as some other runners would. fol de rol, &c. of all the runners now in vogue young wantling takes the lead; you would think him jealous of the wind when you view him in his speed: he will make that braggadocia afraid to show his face, to be beat by an apprentice boy-- it will be such disgrace. fol de rol, &c. we've another hero on the list that runs but now and then, but he's well known upon the turf by the name of little ben; he's lately been to try his strength some miles from derby town, and there he well confirmed his name as a youth of some renown. fol de rol, &c. then drink success to derby town, for it stands high in fame, its lads will yield to none, for they're chickens of true game; their strength has oft been tried by men both far and near, but they never yet was beat, for their hearts are void of fear. fol de rol, &c. _a new song_ _on the great foot race that was contested on the london road, near derby, on the th day of march, , betwixt jas. wantling, of derby, and shaw, the staffordshire hero, for hundred guineas._ the eighteenth day of march will long be handed down, when thousands came from far into famed derby town, to see the great foot race for one hundred guineas aside, betwixt shaw, the stafford hero, and wantling, derby's pride! fol de rol, &c. now the time is come that these heroes try their skill, whilst numbers flock together offering to lay who will; large sums are laid around ere they begin to run, and mingled sounds you hear crying i take your bet--done, done. fol de rol, &c. and now you see them striving which shall get the first, straining each nerve and muscle till their veins are almost burst; but wantling takes the lead, and labours hard to gain the money for his friends, and establish his own fame. fol de rol, &c. the race it soon was over, whilst women, men, and boys cried "wantling still for ever!" in shouts that rend the skies. his name this day is raised, as a runner of great fame, for shaw, the stafford hero, has been beat by him again! fol de rol, &c. all ye wise men of staffordshire, who back'd shaw on that day, having ventured all your money, leaving none your shots to pay, be wiser for the future, if again you chance to come, and bring more money with you, lest you go empty home. fol de rol, &c. then let us drink the hero's health, whilst fame proclaims his name, may he never sell his honour for the sake of sordid gain: all base attempts to bias him with scorn from him be hurl'd, then he will rise a wonder, and astonish all the world. fol de rol, &c. but let us act with honour, and not run the hero down, although he lost the race, he's a claim to great renown; for shaw and his supporters have acted manly parts, and any thing contrary is quite foreign to their hearts. fol de rol, &c. _on the death of the late_ _rev. bache thornhill, m.a.,_ _perpetual curate of winster, ashford, and longstone._ mr. thornhill, on whose death through accident the following verses were written, was son of bache thornhill, esq., of stanton in the peak. he was a man of refined tastes, fond of antiquarian pursuits, and was highly esteemed in the county of derby. he was m.a. of st. john's college, cambridge, where he was a fellow-student with sir robert peel, with whom to the period of his untimely death he kept up an intimate friendship. on the th of december, , mr. thornhill was accidentally shot by the discharge of the fowling-piece of a friend. he lingered until the th, when he died, at the age of forty-two. he was buried at youlgreave, the coffin bearing the inscription--"rev. bache thornhill, vicar of winster, and vice-vicar of ashford and longstone, died the th day of december, ; aged forty-two." the writer of these verses was john brimlow, of winster. brimlow had been a soldier in colonel thornhill's regiment, under which gallant officer he served in egypt. he afterwards suffered from opthalmia, became blind, and got a precarious livelihood by rambling about the country with a basket, gathering "rags and bones." the verses are here reprinted from a broad-sheet. as i sat musing by the fire i heard some people say a dreadful accident has befel a worthy man this day. then i got up, went out of door for to see, and likewise hear, on every tongue enquiry sat, and, in many an eye, a tear, saying our worthy pastor he has fall'n, oh! how hard has been his lot, by accident a gun went off, and this good man was shot. the rich, the poor, in groups they meet, their sorrow for to express, saying if fifty come there will be none like bache to those that are in distress. for he was a friend to every one, to all alike was kind, he was the same to rich and poor, likewise sick, lame, or blind. oh! cruel fate, what have we done, that this good man should fall, but the die was cast, and the thing is past, and there must be an end to all. but, hark! a messenger has just arrived, glad tidings doth he bring, this good man he is still alive, oh! let us praise the king of kings. rejoice, my friends, he better gets, for the lord has heard our prayer, and he has promised when a few does meet that he always will be there. but adieu, vain hope, thou art for ever fled, for this good man is no more, for he is now numbered amongst the dead, so adieu, adieu, farewell for evermore. john brimlow, winster. _a journey into the peak._ _to sir aston cokaine._ charles cotton, the "honoured friend" of good old izaac walton, and of most of the celebrated men of his day, was born at beresford hall, on the banks of his "----beloved nymph! fair dove, princess of rivers," whose praises he has sung, and whose beauties he has rendered immortal by his pen, and by his fishing-house, dedicated to lovers of the angle. he was the only child of charles cotton, esq., by olive, daughter of sir john stanhope, of elvaston castle, near derby (ancestor of the earl of harrington, and of the same family as the earl of chesterfield, earl stanhope, &c.) he married, first, isabella, daughter of sir thomas hutchinson, of owthorpe; and, second, the widowed countess of ardglass (daughter of sir william russel, of strensham). he died in . charles cotton was a profuse writer. among his principal works are the second part of "the complete angler," "the wonders of the peak," "virgil travestie," "moral philosophy of the stoics," "the planter's manual," "life of the duke of espernon," "the commentaries of de montluc," "the complete gamester," "the fair one of tunis," "burlesque upon burlesque," "montaigne's essays," &c., &c. after his death, a collection of "poems on several occasions," by charles cotton, was published. the following characteristic lines i here print from the original ms. copy, in my own possession. the volume of manuscript is of the highest interest, and is in the autograph writing of charles cotton himself. it is entitled, in his own writing, "charles cotton, his verses," and is in folio, in the old binding with clasps. this volume is described in sir harris nicholas' life of cotton, attached to his edition of the complete angler. it contains some pieces not printed, and others very different from those in his "poems on several occasions," printed surreptitiously after his death in . the following varies in many parts from the copy printed in the volume alluded to. s'r, coming home into this frozen clime, grown cold, and almost senselesse, as my rythme, i found, that winter's bold impetuous rage prevented time and antidated age: for, in my veins did nought but crystall dwell, each hair was frozen to an iceicle. my flesh was marble, so that, as i went, i did appear a walking monument. 't might have been judged, rather than marble, flint, had there been any spark of fier in't. my mother looking back (to bid good night) was metamorphos'd, like the sodomite. like sinons horse, our horses were become, and, since they could not go, they slided home. the hills were hard to such a qualitie, so beyond reason in philosophie; if pegasus had kickt at one of those, homer's odysses had been writ in prose. these are strange stories, s'r, to you, who sweat under the warm sun's comfortable heat; whose happy seat of pooley farre outvies the fabled pleasures of blest paradise. whose canaan fills your hous with wyne and oyl, till't crack with burdens of a fruitful soil. which hous, if it were plac't above the sphear, would be a palace fit for jupiter. the humble chappell for religious rites, the inner rooms for honest, free delights, and providence, that these miscarrie, loth, has plac't the tower a centinell to both: so that there's nothing wanting to improve either your pietie, or peace, or love. without, you have the pleasure of ye woods, fair plains, sweet meadows, and transparent flouds, with all that's good, and excellent, beside the tempting apples by euphrates' side. but, that, which does above all these aspire, is delphos, brought from greece to warwick-shire. but oh! ungodly hodge! that valu'd not the saving juice o'th' ænigmaticke pot. whose charming virtue made mee to forget t'enquire of fate, else i had stayed there yet. nor had i then once dar'd to venture on the cutting ayr of this our freezland zone. but once again, dear sir, i mean to come and learn to thank, as to be troublesome. another "journey into the peak" by charles cotton, which is but little known, is the following, which is an admirable specimen of his style. it is entitled an _epistle to john bradshaw, esq._ from _porto nova_ as pale wretches go, to swing on fatal _tripus_, even so my dearest friend, i went last day from thee, whilst for five miles, the figure of that tree was ever in my guilty fancy's eye, as if in earnest i'd been doom'd to die for, what deserv'd it, so unworthily stealing so early, _jack_, away from thee. and that which (as't well might) encreas'd my fear, was the ill luck of my vile chariotier, who drove so nicely too, t'increase my dread, as if his horses with my vital thread had harness'd been, which being, alas! so weak he fear'd might snap, and would not it should break, till he himself the honour had to do't with one thrice stronger, and my neck to boot. thus far in hanging posture then i went, (and sting of conscience is a punishment on earth they say the greatest, and some tell it is moreo'er the onely one in hell, the worm that never dies being alone the thing they call endless damnation:) but leaving that unto the wise that made it, and knowing best the gulf, can best evade it, i'll tell you, that being pass'd through _highgate_, there i was saluted by the countrey air, with such a pleasing gale, as made me smell the _peak_ it self; nor is't a miracle, for all that pass that _portico_ this way are _transontani_, as the courtiers say; which suppos'd true, one then may boldly speak, that all of th' north-side _high-gate_ are i'th' _peak_; and so to hanging when i thought to come, wak'd from the dream, i found my self at home. wonder not then if i, in such a case so over-joy'd, forgot thee for a space; and but a little space, for, by this light, i thought on thee again ten times e'er night; though when the night was come, i then indeed thought all on one of whom i'd greater need: but being now cur'd of that malady, i'm at full leisure to remember thee, and (which i'm sure you long to know) set forth in northern song, my journey to the north. know then with horses twain, one sound, one lame, on _sunday's_ eve i to st. _alban's_ came, where, finding by my body's lusty state i could not hold out home at that slow rate, i found a coach-man, who, my case bemoaning, with three stout geldings, and one able stoning, for eight good pounds did bravely undertake, or for my own, or for my money's sake, through thick and thin, fall out what could befall, to bring me safe and sound to _basford[ ]-hall_. which having drank upon, he bid good-night, and (heaven forgive us) with the morning's light, not fearing god, nor his vice-gerent constable, we roundly rowling were the road to _dunstable_, which, as they chim'd to prayers, we trotted through, and 'fore elev'n ten minutes came unto the town that _brickhill_ height, where we did rest, and din'd indifferent well both man and beast. 'twixt two and four to _stratford_, 'twas well driven, and came to _tocester_ to lodge at even next day we din'd at _dunchurch_, and did lie that night four miles on our side _coventry_. _tuesday_ at noon at _lichfield_ town we baited, but there some friends, who long that hour had waited, so long detain'd me, that my chariotier could drive that night but to _uttoxiter_. and there the _wedn'sday_, being market-day, i was constrain'd with some kind lads to stay tippling till afternoon, which made it night when from my hero's tower i saw the light of her flambeaux, and fanci'd as we drave each rising hillock was a swelling wave, and that i swimming was in _neptune'_ spight to my long long'd-for harbour of delight. and now i'm here set down again in peace, after my troubles, business, voyages, the same dull northern clod i was before, gravely enquiring how ewes are a score, how the hay-harvest, and the corn was got, and if or no there's like to be a rot; just the same sot i was e'er i remov'd, nor by my travel, nor the court improv'd; the same old fashion'd squire, no whit refin'd, and shall be wiser when the devil's blind: but find all here too in the self-same state, and now begin to live at the old rate, to bub old ale, which nonsense does create, write leud epistles, and sometimes translate old tales of tubs, of _guyenne_, and _provence_, and keep a clutter with th'old blades of _france_, as _d'avenant_ did with those of _lombardy_, } which any will receive, but none will buy, } and that has set _h.b._[ ] and me awry. } my river still through the same chanel glides, clear from the tumult, salt, and dirt of tides, and my poor fishing-house, my seat's best grace, stands firm and faithfull in the self-same place i left it four months since, and ten to one i go a fishing e'er two days are gone: so that (my friend) i nothing want but thee to make me happy as i'd wish to be; and sure a day will come i shall be bless'd in his enjoyment whom my heart loves best; which when it comes will raise me above men greater than crowned monarchs are, and then i'll not exchange my cottage for _white_-hall, _windsor_, the _lauvre_, or th' _escurial_. footnotes: [ ] beresford hall, dove dale, his residence. [ ] "henry brome at the gun in st. paul's churchyard," who published many of cotton's works. _hugh stenson and molly green._ the following ballad has not, as far as i am aware, been "in print" before. i here give it from a ms. copy in my own possession. the duke of devonshire alluded to in the ballad as having acted so nobly in saving the life of "his countryman," hugh stenson, was, i presume, william, fourth duke of devonshire, who was lord lieutenant of ireland in . then oh, hugh stenson is my name, from ashborne in the peak i came, and at the age of seventeen i fell in love with molly green. she is a beauty i do declare, she came from highchurch in shropshire; she was an angel in my eye, which caused me from my colours to fly. long time i courted her for her love, but she would never constant prove; a thought then i did entertain, to cross the roaring ocean main. but when i was upon the seas, i could not have one moment's ease; for she was daily in my sigh, which made me from my colours to fly. but when i did return again, i went unto this youthful dame, desiring she would not disdain a bleeding heart and dying swain. "stenson," said she, "i pray forbear, i know that you a deserter are, and if my parents come to know, they sure would prove your overthrow." when i heard she made this reply, i from her arms did swiftly fly, and with a kiss i took my leave, although i'm bound a captive slave. at woolaton near nottingham i put my trust in a false man, i took him for my friend to be, but he, like judas, betrayed me. then a court marshall there was call'd, and i was brought amongst them all, and for deserting they did me try, and they condemned me for to die. oh lord, oh lord, it grieved me sore to lay my bones on an irish shore; one general pearcey he did cry, "it's by the law that you must die." from january to july upon the boards and stones i did lie, praying to heavens both night and day to take this thread of life away. oh then bespoke the president, hoping of me for to repent, "i have done the best for you i can, but o you are a dying man." twenty-five days i had to live, and bread and water i did receive; the clergyman came twice a day, and for my soul did daily pray. but at that time from england came the duke of devonshire by name, our lord lieutenant for to be, and he from death did set me free. and when this lord appeared in land, i wrote to him with my own hand, desiring that his grace would save a dying mortal from the grave. but when he looked these lines upon, and saw i was his own countryman, he said, "i'll ease him of his care, and send him home into derbyshire." oh then he gave a strict command for to release me out of hand; a free discharge to me he gave, and so his grace my life did save. so whilst i live i'm in duty bound to kneel and pray upon the ground, that when i die without control, sweet jesus may receive my soul. you soldiers all, where e'er you be, and hear of this my misery, i beg you'll warning take by me, and so i end my tragedy. finis. _the beggar's ramble._ there are at least three or four different versions of the "ramble;" or rather i should say there are at least three or four different metrical "rambles" through derbyshire, of this character. i give two. the first i reprint from a broad-sheet, and the second from an old ms. copy, both in my own collection. the allusions to places, persons, inns, &c., in the county, are curious and interesting. hark ye well, my neighbours all, and pray now can you tell which is the nearest way unto the begger's well? there is eaton, and toten, and brancot on the hill, there's beggerly beeston, and lousy chilwell. there's trowel, and there's cosel, from there to cimberly knowl, i would have call'd at watnall, but i thought it would not do, there's beaver, and there's hansley, & so for perkin wood, i meant to have call'd at selson, but there ale is not good. there's snelson green, and pinstone green, and blackwell old hall, an old place where i had lived i had a mind to call; i got a good refreshment, and something else beside, so turning up the closes, south normanton i 'spied. there's blackwell, and there's newton, from there to marrot moor, there's tipshall, and there's hardstaff, where i had been before, i cross o'er hardstaff common, from there to pilsley lane where once a noted butcher lived, geo. holland was his name. there's wingfield, and tupton, from there to the claycross, from there i went to chesterfield,--was almost cut to loss, there's asher, and there's firbeck, and stretton on the hill, there's hickam, and oakerthorpe, and so for wiremill. there's brankenfield, & wessenton, from there to morat moor, there's pentrich, and alfreton, where i had been before, there's swanick, and ripley, then to the hillocks i came, from there to denby common, for to see old dolly green. there's denby and bottlebrook, from there to the lane ends, from there i went to horseley, in hopes to meet a friend, so turning down coxbench, i made a sudden stop, thinks i i'll up the closes go, for potters of th' hill top. in woodhouse lane, as i've been told, they used to get good coal, and stansby is a pretty place, and so for the dob hole, there's the justice room, and smalley bell, likewise the rose and crown, and at morley smithey, i've been told there lives one saml. brown. there's morley, and stansby, and so for lockey grange, there's spondon and ockbrook, and so for chaddeson came; there's ferby, and breadsall, and so for alestree, from there to little eaton went, george milward for to see. there's duffield down by derwent side, & milford, in a line, there's belper, and there's shottle, if i can get there in time; there's turnditch, and kirk ireton, and so for cross-in hand, and when i got to wardgate, i was almost at a stand. there's hollington and middleton by youlgrave i've heard tell, there's bonsal and there's winster, from and to bakewell, there's wardlemire & uckler, from there to hoyland came, and when that i did thither get, i began to feel quite lame. there's calver, & there's rowsley, that most delightful place, from there went to chatsworth, the mansion of his grace; there's darley dale, & matlock, where i once stopt a week, there's cromford, & wirksworth, & ashbourn in the peak. there's ashbourn green, & hognaston, and so for atlow-win, then on by shepherd folly, and from there to ginglers' inn. there's yeldersly, and alderwasley, and langley, and longford, there's brailford, and mugington, and weston underwood. there's quarndon, and markeaton, oft times i have heard tell, from there i went to kedleston, where there is a useful well; and at windy mill, i do sure you very pleasant looks, if you will only stop and drink with honest puss-in-boots. there's darley by derby, for that is a shady bower, and derby is a county town; there's handsome micklover. there's litlover, and mackworth, and so for etwell i went, until at last i did arrive at burton-upon-trent. there's findon, and repton, and ashton also, and there's another little place, i think they call shardlow; there's elvaston, and allvaston, i have travelled o'er and o'er, there's wind mills and south mills, and barrow-upon-soar. there's swarston bridge and smalley bridge, as plain it doth appear, there's keyworth, and hathenturns, that lieth very near, there's sheepshead, and thingstun, and whitrick also across the sherwood forest, and from there to loughborough. there's gotham rare for wisdom, and bunny's rare for game, there's clifton grove and rudington, wilford down the lane; there's cropwell, and there's ratliffe, and bridgeford on the hill, there's gunthorpe, and calthorpe, and overington mill. there's southwell, and westhorpe, and eperston so green, there's lowtom and burton joice, and bulcott lies between, there's lambley, and woodborough, from there to calverton, and there's a place at arnold, they call it foxen den. there's redhill and maperly hills, from there to thornywood, where once a noted robber lived, his name was robin hood; there's gedling, and carlton, as plainly it does appear, there's keyworth, and hatherturns, that lieth very near. there's lenton, and radford, and so for bobber's mill, there's hyson green, and basford, and so for sinder hill; there's broxter, and there's nuttel, and greasley lieth nigh, there's giltbrook, and newthorpe, from there to beggerley. there's moregreen and nether green, where lives a man of sport, and eastwood is a pretty place of trade and resort; and at langley mill i stopt a while, to see a noble fight, and when i came to brunsley gin, thinks i i'll light my pipe. there's oldacre and bentley, and so for the lime kilns, there's woodend, and heaner, and famous tag hill, there's lee lane, and marpole, where lives one mr. clay, there's shipley, and shipley wood, and so for cotnermay. and there's another little place, if i am not mistaken, i think some people call it mapley by name, there's little hallam, and hilson, and so for gallows inn, and when i came to sandacre i was looken very thin. there's stapleford, and risley, and dracott also, at last i came to breaston, where i wish'd for long ago, so i hope these lines which i have wrote no one they will offend, for at every door there stands a whore, at leak town end. _the beggar's ramble._ come hark you well, my masters, pray can you me tell which is the nearest road unto the beggar's wells? there's shoobottams of womfords, and bessicks in the flash, there's ropemakers of mansfield, and dales of bordbast. there's sigsmore and staysmore, and clackmore so rough, there's winster and cotsworth, and merry locksclough; there's longnor and buxton, and outerside the shade, from thence you may go to leechurch[ ] and call at the west gaites. there's caldon and caulton, there's the waterfall and grinn, and these are four of the foulest places that ever man was in; there's haymore by ashbourn, and then to the peak hills, for wool and lead is the chiefest thing that the country yields. there's oaker[ ] hall and blesford hall,[ ] and mappleton in the sands, there's thorpe cloud and bentley, and at tissington lies good land; there's parrich[ ] and braston,[ ] there's bradburn and wet wilnn,[ ] there's hopton and carsdale, park nook and pusses inn.[ ] there's middleton and cromford, and so to gosley bank, and if you taste of wirksworth ale it's sure to make you drunk; there's hognaston and atlow, and atlor in the fall, and from thence you may go to bradley, and there's a pretty hall. there's marston and mugginton and allestree and quarn, and in that pretty country there does grow good corn; there's donington and diseworth, and breedon-on-the-hill, and from thence you go to newton, and so to the king's mills. there's mackworth and marton,[ ] and so to the nun's green, there's harehill and hogdeston, a little way between; there's longford and mammaton, and so to harton forge, and from thence you may go to tidbury,[ ] and in at the old george. there's foston and roston, and so to darley moor, there's yeavely and radgley, and thence you may be sure for why i did ramble to the far end of the town, and there's a pretty landlady that keeps the rose and crown. at ellaston and wooton, and at stanton there's good ale, and from thence you may go to swinsor and pantons in the dale; there's crumpwood and prestwood, and rosemary hill, there's wotten lodge and alton lodge, and so on to the wire mill. there's alton and farley, and rempstone so high, there's cheadle and oakamoor is a little hard by; there's quicksall and rosley[ ] and camebridge beyond, and from thence you may go to utcetter,[ ] and there lies good land. there's eaton and crapnidge and perwolt in the clay, there's stramshall and bramshall and merry loxley, there's overton and netherton, and bramest and fole, there's leechurch and park hall, and checkley-in-the-hole. there's dubberidge and blyfield, and so to coloten green, there's boslem[ ] and handley[ ] green a little way between, for potmen and great carriers they bear the bell away, but the old stock of borleyash is quite gone to decay. footnotes: [ ] query ludchurch. [ ] okeover hall. [ ] brailsford. [ ] parwich. [ ] brassington. [ ] wilne. [ ] "puss-in-boots" at windley. [ ] markeaton. [ ] tutbury. [ ] rodsley. [ ] uttoxeter. [ ] burslem. [ ] hanley. _henry and clara._ _a peak ballad._ in the middle of last century as brutal and cold-blooded a murder as ever disgraced the annals of this kingdom was perpetrated in the winnats (a corruption of "wind gates") at castleton, the victims being a young gentleman and lady of "gentle," if not of "noble," blood, on their wedding-day, and the murderers being five miners of the place. the following ballad, the production, in his early days, of my late brother, the rev. arthur george jewitt,[ ] was printed by him in his "_wanderings of memory_," in . the following explanatory note appears in "_wanderings of memory_:"-- "in the year ,[ ] a young gentleman and lady, each mounted on a fine horse, but unattended by any servants, had been up to the chapel of peak forest to be married, (as being extra-parochial, the vicar at that time exercised the same privilege as the parson of gretna green, and married any couple that came to him, without making any impertinent enquiries concerning them,) and on their return, wishing to take castleton in their way home, and being strangers in the country, found themselves benighted at the winnats." "here they were seized by five miners, dragged into a barn, robbed of a great sum of money, and then murdered. in vain the lady sought them to spare her husband; vainly he strove to defend his wife. while one part of them were employed in cutting the gentleman's throat, another of the villains, stepping behind the lady, struck a pick-axe into her head, which instantly killed her. their horses were found, some days after, with their saddles and bridles still on them, in that great waste called peak forest; and eldon hole was examined for their riders, but without effect. they were then taken to chatsworth, (the duke of devonshire being lord of the manor,) and ran there as '_waifs_,' but never were claimed, and it is said the saddles are yet preserved there. this murder, thus perpetrated in silence, though committed by so large a company, remained a secret till the death of the last of the murderers; but heaven, ever watchful to punish such horrid wretches, rendered the fate of all the five singularly awful. one, named nicholas cock, fell down one of the winnats, and was killed on the spot. john bradshaw, another of the murderers, was crushed to death by a stone which fell upon him near the place where the poor victims were buried. a third, named thomas hall, became a suicide; a fourth, francis butler, after many attempts to destroy himself, died raging mad; and the fifth, after experiencing all the torments of remorse and despair which an ill-spent life can inflict on a sinner's death-bed, could not expire till he had disclosed the particulars of the horrid deed." christians, to my tragic ditty deign to lend a patient ear, if your breasts e'er heav'd with pity, now prepare to shed a tear. once there lived a tender virgin, virtuous, fair, and young was she, daughter of a wealthy lordling, but a haughty man was he. many suitors, rich and mighty, for this beauteous damsel strove, but she all their offers slighted, none could wake her soul to love. one alone, of manners noble, yet with slender fortune blessed, caus'd this lady's bosom trouble, raised the flame within her breast. mutual was the blissful passion, stronger and stronger still it grew; henry liv'd but for his clara, clara but her henry knew. but, alas! their bliss how transient, earthly joy but leads to care: henry sought her haughty parent and implor'd his daughter fair-- dar'd to ask the wealthy lordling, for the damsel's willing hand,-- pleaded with respectful fervour, who could his request withstand? clara's father,--he withstood it, he the ardent suit denied,-- to a house so poor, though noble, never would he be allied. bade him seek a love more equal, banish clara from his mind, for he should no more behold her,-- she,--poor maid, he close confin'd. hapless henry, thus rejected, lost, unfriended, and forlorn, wretched, sad, by all neglected, his fond heart with anguish torn. then, to crown his bosom's sorrow, news was whisper'd in his ear, clara on the coming morrow, would a lordling's bride appear. wild, distracted, mad with phrenzy, to the father's house he flew, there determin'd to behold her, and to breathe his last adieu. joyous on the nuptial even, round the sparkling festal board, with a crowd of guests carousing, sat this rich and haughty lord. left a moment unattended, clara soon that moment seiz'd, first to heav'n her sire commended, then fled from home, tho' weeping, pleas'd. henry gain'd the castle portal, a footstep clara's fears alarm'd; she stops,--she lists,--they came,--fast panting, henry caught her in his arms. now no time for fond endearments, swift on wings of love they fled; till from father's house far distant, father's frowns no more they dread. then before the sacred altar, they in wedlock join'd their hands: long their souls had been united in indissoluble bands. now with virtuous rapture burning, whilst fond hope encreas'd the flame; tow'rds their home again returning, to this lonesome place they came. christian, shall i close my story? words can never tell the tale;-- to relate a scene so bloody, all the pow'rs of language fail. in that glen so dark and dismal, five ruffians met this youthful pair; long the lover bravely struggled, fought to save his bride so fair. but at last, o'erpowr'd and breathless, faint he sinks beneath their pow'r: joyful shouts the demon murder, in this gloomy midnight hour. bids them not to rest with plunder, but their souls with rage inspires, all their dark and flinty bosoms, with infernal malice fires. high they lift the murd'rous weapon, wretches, hear ye not her cries? high they lift the murd'rous weapon? lo! her love, her husband dies! rocks, why stood ye so unmoved? earth, why op'dst thou not thy womb? lightnings, tempests, did ye slumber? scap'd these hell-hounds instant doom? high they lift the murd'rous weapon, who can 'bide her piercing shriek? 'tis done----the dale is wrapt in silence, on their hands her life-blood reeks. dark and darker grows the welkin, through the dale the whirlwind howls; on its head the black cloud low'ring, threat'ning now, the grey rock scowls. conscience, where are now thine arrows? does the murd'rer feel the smart? death and grave, where are your terrors? written in the murd'rer's heart. yes, he sees their ghastly spectres ever rising on his view; eyes wide glaring,--face distorted, quiv'ring lips of livid hue. ever sees the life-blood flowing, ever feels the reeking stream, ever hears _his_ last weak groaning, mingled with _her_ dying scream. christians, i have told my ditty, if you shudder not with fear, if your breasts can glow with pity, can you now withhold a tear? footnotes: [ ] the rev. a. g. jewitt, who was the author of several well-known works, was born at chesterfield in , and died in . [ ] another account says . _the gipsies' song._ for the following curious old derbyshire song i am indebted to my good friend james orchard halliwell, f.s.a. it occurs in playford's "musical companion," printed in , and has not, so far as i am aware, been reprinted till now. "honest john playford," who was a printer as well as clerk of the temple church, london, published several of the most famous music-books of his day, and which at the present time are of the most service of any in determining the dates and names of tunes to which the old ballads, &c., were sung. in he published "a musical banquet, in three books, consisting of lessons for the lyra viol, allmains, and sarabands, choice catches and rounds, &c.;" and again with the title, "a banquet of musick, set forth in three several varieties of musick: first, lessons for the lyra violl; the second, ayres and jiggs for the violin; the third, rounds and catches: all which are fitted to the capacity of young practitioners in music." among his many other publications, his most famous was "the english dancing master, or plaine and easie rules for the dancing of country dances, with the tune to each dance," which passed through many editions, with additional tunes, &c. the "musical companion" was first published in , and from this edition the following "gipsies song" and music are taken. the work contained two hundred and eighteen compositions, of which one hundred and forty-three were catches and rounds, and the remainder glees, airs, part-songs, &c. this work was highly popular, and between the years and it passed through ten editions. the "gipsies' song" here given was for two voices, and was composed by robert johnson. [music: a. . _voc._ (the gipsies' song.) _cantus._ _rob. johnson._ from the fam-ous peak of _dar-by_, and the de- vil's a--that's hard by; where we year-ly make our mus-ters; there the _gyp-sies_ throng in clus-ters. be not fright-ed with our fashion, though we seem a tatter'd na-tion; we account our raggs our rich-es, so our tricks ex-ceed our stitches: give us ba-con, rinds of wal-nuts, shells of cockels and of small nuts: ribonds, bells, and saffron lin-nin; and all the world is ours to win in.] _the_ _flax-dresser's wife of spondon,_ _and the pound of tea._ the following ballad, recounting the droll mistake made by a woman at spondon, near derby, who thought _green_ tea was to be boiled as _greens_, and eaten accordingly as "cabbage and bacon," was printed in the "spirit of english wit," in . it tells its own tale. it may be well to remark that flax was, some years ago, much grown in this part of derbyshire: some meadows at duffield through which the turnpike road passes, are still known by the name of _flax-holmes_. 'twas more than fifty years ago, in spondon's simple village, spondon, in derbyshire, i trow, well known for useful tillage. there dwelt a pair of simple souls-- the husband a flax-dresser; his wife dressed victuals for his jowls, and darn'd his hose--god bless her. now these poor folks had got a friend, who dwelt in london city; and oft some present he would send to john and dame, in pity. now, reader, if you'll backwards turn, and read this tale's beginning, full half-a-century you'll learn this story has been spinning. now near that time, you must be told, tea first came into fashion; tea, which oft made a husband scold, and bounce about in passion. at least, 'mongst those of middling life it made a hideous riot; to have a gay tea-drinking wife, a man could ne'er be quiet. 'twas thought as bad as now, i ween,-- a sin since then grown bigger,-- were a man's wife, by guzzling gin, to cut a reeling figure. but london, who drank tea the first, grew reconcil'd unto it; and, though 'twas thought of crimes the worst, the ladies still would do it. now, reader, the flax-dresser's friend (the flax-dresser of spondon) thought a good pound of tea he'd send to please them both from london. but he forgot, good man, i trow, that in this favoured nation, good things, or bad, still travel slow, like cow-inoculation. nor ever dreamt, you may believe, that they had no more notion what was the gift they did receive, than of the western ocean. so when it came, long ponder'd they how 'twas to be devour'd; they wish'd he'd sent some hint to say, for they were quite o'erpower'd. at length, right well they both agreed 'twere best it should be taken, by way of greens, when next they'd need, with some of their fat bacon. next day arrived, the flax-man's wife set on her sauce-pan flattish, popp'd in the tea, then took a knife and cut some bacon fattish. the bacon soon enough was done, but still the tea, so evil, kept very tough--the clock struck one; she wish'd it at the devil. for at the hour of noon each day, these humble friends of labour took their plain meal--nor only they, for so did every neighbour. finding it hard, though tasted oft, she bawl'd out like a sinner, "this cursed stuff will ne'er be soft, so, john! come down to dinner." _the ashborne foot-ball song._ on page i have spoken of the game of foot-ball as played at derby. ashborne was also one of the strongholds of this manly game, and in that pleasant little town it has been played from time immemorial, until "put down" by the strong arm of the law--not without much unpleasantness and strenuous opposition--a few years ago. the following song was sung (and i believe written) by mr. fawcett, the comedian, at the ashborne theatre, on the th of february, . i'll sing you a song of a neat little place, top full of good humour and beauty and grace; where coaches are rolling by day and by night, and in playing at foot-ball the people delight. where health and good humour does always abound, and hospitality's cup flows freely around, where friendship and harmony are to be found, in the neat little town of ashborne. shrove tuesday, you know, is always the day, when pancake's the prelude, and foot-ball's the play, where upwards and downwards men ready for fun, like the french at the battle of waterloo run. and well may they run like the devil to pay, 'tis always the case as i have heard say, if a derbyshire foot-ball man comes in the way, in the neat little town of ashborne. there's mappleton, mayfield, okeover and thorpe, can furnish some men that nothing can whop, and bentley and tissington always in tune, and clifton and sturston are ready as soon. then there's snelston and wyaston, shirley and all, who all are good men at brave whittaker's call; and who come to kick at paul gettliffe's foot-ball, in the neat little town of ashborne. the ball is turn'd up, and the bull ring's the place, and as fierce as a bull-dog's is every man's face; whilst kicking and shouting and howling they run, until every stitch in the ball comes undone. there's faulkner and smith, bodge hand and some more, who hide it and hug it and kick it so sore, and deserve a good whopping at every man's door in the neat little town of ashborne. if they get to the park the upwards men shout and think all the downwards men put to the rout, but a right about face they soon have to learn, and the upwards men shout and huzza in their turn. then into shaw croft where the bold and the brave, get a ducking in trying the foot-ball to save; for 'tis well known they fear not a watery grave, in defence of the foot-ball at ashborne. if into church street should the ball take its way, the white hart and wheat sheaf will cause some delay, for from tasting their liquor no man can refrain, till he rolls like the foot-ball in warin's tear-brain. then they run and they shout, they bawl and they laugh, they kick and huzza, still the liquor they quaff till another foot-ball has been cut into half, by the unfair players of ashborne. _the parsons torr._ the following admirable ballad, the production of the rev. w. r. bell, formerly curate of bakewell, is founded partly on _facts_, and partly on _local traditions_. the unfortunate hero of the story was the rev. robert lomas, incumbent of monyash, who was found dead, as described in the ballad, on the th of october, . the scene of the ballad comprises the towns of bakewell and monyash, and the mountainous country between them, the western part of which--that bordering on lathkiln and harlow dales--being one of the most romantic districts of the peak. the ballad first appeared in the "reliquary," in . the parson of monyash, late one eve, sat in his old oak arm-chair; and a playful flame in the low turf fire oft-times shewed him sitting there. what was it that made that kind-hearted man sit pensively there alone? did other men's sorrows make sad his heart? or, say--a glimpse of his own? black dark was that night and stormy withal, it rained as 'twould rain a sea; and round and within the old parsonage house the wind moaned piteously. still sat he deep musing till midnight hour, and then in a waking dream-- he quailed to hear mid the tempest a crash, and eke a wild piercing scream. o mercy! cried he, with faltering breath, what sounds are these which i hear? may evil be far from both me and mine! good lord, be thou to us near! no longer sat he in that old arm-chair, but prayed and lay down in bed; and strove hard to sleep, and not hear the storm that scowled and raged o'er his head. but sleep seldom comes when 'tis most desired, and least to a troubled mind; and the parson lay wake long time, i ween, ere soft repose he could find. as the dark hours of night passed slowly on, he slept as weary man will; but light was his sleep, and broken his rest, and sad his fore-dread of ill. thus restless he lay, and at early dawn he dream'd that he fell amain, down--down an abyss of fathomless depth, loud shrieking for help in vain. he woke up at once with a sudden shock, and threw out his arms wide-spread; "good heavens!" he gasped, "what ill-omen is this? where am i--with quick or dead?" right well was he pleased to find 'twas a dream-- that still he was safe and sound: with the last shades of night, fear passed away, and joy once again came round. the morning was calm, and the storm was hushed, nor wind nor rain swept the sky; and betimes he arose, for bound was he to bakewell that day to hie. old hugh brought his horse to the garden gate, and saw him all safe astride; "good-bye!" quoth the parson; quoth hugh, "good-bye! i wish you a pleasant ride!" forth rode he across the lone trackless moor, his thoughts on his errand bent and hoped he right soon to come back again the very same way he went. the journey to bakewell he safely made a little before mid-day: but vicar and people were all at church,[ ] where they were oft wont to pray. "i'll put up my beast," quoth the parson, "here, at the white horse hostelry;[ ] and go up to church, that when prayers are done, the vicar i there may see." but ere he could reach the old newark door,[ ] both priest and people were gone; and the vicar to soothe a dying man, to over-haddon sped on. 'twas three past noon when the vicar came back, the parson he asked to dine, and time stole a march on the heedless guest, six struck as he sat at wine. up rose he from table and took his leave, quite startled to find it late; he called for his horse at the hostelry, and homeward was soon agate. as he rode up the hill, past all saints' church, the moon just one glance bestowed, and the wierd-like form of the old stone cross, in the church-yard, dimly shewed. still higher and higher he climbed the hill, yet more and more dark it grew; the drizzling rain became sleet as he climbed, and the wind more keenly blew. ah! thick was the mist on the moor that night, poor wight, he had lost his way! the north-east wind blowing strong on his right, to the left had made him stray. and now he was close to lone haddon grove, bewildered upon the moor; slow leading his horse that followed behind, himself groping on before. still onward and leeward, at last he came to the edge of harlow dale; from his cave[ ] the lathkil a warning roared, but louder then howled the gale. on the brink of fox torr the doomed man stood, and tugged the bridle in vain; his horse would not move--then quick started back, and, snap, went each bridle-rein! then headlong fell he o'er the lofty cliff, he shrieked, and sank in the gloom; down--down to the bottom he swiftly sped, and death was his dreadful doom. the dead man lay cold on the blood-stained rocks-- the darkness did him enshroud;-- and the owls high up in the ivy-clad torr, bewailed him all night full loud. o little thought they in the old thatched cot, hard by the parsonage gate; their master they never again should see, nor ope to him soon nor late! "this night is no better than last," quoth hugh, "and master has not come back; i hope he is hale and safe housed with friends, and has of good cheer no lack." quoth betty, "i liked not his morning ride-- i fear he's in evil plight-- a friday's venture's, no luck! i've heard say, god help him if out this night." at dawn of next day, old betty went forth to milk the cow in the shed;-- and saw him sitting upon a large stone, all pale, and mute--with bare head. but a moment she turned her eyes away, a fall she heard and a groan; she looked again, but, no parson was there, he'd vanished from off the stone! soon spread the dread tale through monyash town-- they made a great hue and cry; and some off to this place--and some to that, to seek the lost man did hie. bad tidings from bakewell--no parson there-- no parson could else be found; 'twas noon, yet no tidings--they still searched on, and missed they no likely ground. at last the searchers went into the dale, and there at the foot of fox torr-- they found the parson, all cold and dead, 'mong the rocks all stained with gore. they took up his corse--and six stalwart men, slowly bore it along the dale; and they laid the dead in his house that night, and many did him bewail. when time had passed over--a day or twain, they buried him in the grave; and his bones now rest in the lone churchyard, till doomsday them thence shall crave. o dread was the death of that luckless man-- not soon will it be forgot; the dismal story--for ages to come-- will often be told, i wot. you may not now see in monyash town the deadman's sear tuft of grass; but still it is there, in memory stored, and thence it never shall pass. you may not now find fox torr by that name, the swain thus knows it no more; but pointing thereat from the lathkil grot, he'll shew you the parson's torr. and now, my dear friends, what more need i say? i've told you the story through:-- if you've in the least been pleased with my song, then i am well-pleased with you. footnotes: [ ] at the _friday_ morning service. [ ] now called the _rutland arms_. [ ] the door in the south transept, locally called the _newark_ door. [ ] the river lathkil issues from a cavern in the limestone rock, directly opposite the parson's torr. index. [** asterism]in the following index the titles of the ballads are given in small capitals, and the first lines in _italics_. a ballad of derbyshire, a day in the woodlands, a journey into the peak, , a new song on the great foot-race at derby, a peak ballad, a poem found by mr. * * * and dedicated to major trowell, a rhapsody on the peak of derbyshire, a strange banquet, or the devil's entertainment by cook laurel at the peak in derbyshire, abington, adam bell, address to "dickie," agincourt, battle of, et seq., agricultural meeting, alderwasley, ale, derby, , , ---- cakes and, aldermary church yard, "_all you that delight in merriment_," allestree, , all saints' church, derby, alfreton, alvaston, allan-a-dale, alroes, lord, alton towers, , , alton lodge, amber, an address to "dickie," "angler, complete," an elegy upon the death of the greatest gentry in darley dalle, anne, st. well, anthony babington's complainte, ap. thomas, sir rees, , , arabella stuart, archer's wall, ardglass, countess of, arnold, "_as i sat musing by the fire_", "_as our king lay musing in his bed_," , , "_as i was going to darby, sir_," "_arthur a bradley_," "_as i on oker hill one day did stand_," "_as i to ireland did pass_," ashborne, , , , , , , et seq., , , - ashborne foot-ball song, ashborne inns, -------- bull-ring, -------- "tear brain," -------- theatre, ashop, river, ashopton, , , ashford-in-the-water, , ashmole, elias, --------------- autograph, ashover, , , et seq., ashton, ashupton garland, atlow, , "_attend, ye jolly gardeners_", "_at length my wandering feet have brought_," audley end, autograph, anthony babington, ---------- arabella stuart, ---------- elias ashmole, aurora borealis, ballad on, axe edge, , ayscough, william, babington family, , - babington, antony, complainte, bakewell, , , , , , , et seq. ballad of derbyshire, --------- hero robin hood, bage, baske, ballard, bank hall, , banks, sir joseph, bannard, james, , barking barbers, barnwell, barrow-upon-soar, bachelors of darby, the unconscionable, basford, bath, ballad, a peak, henry and clara, bateman, thomas, , bath, beggars' well, beeston, beaumaris, beggar's ramble, beggar's wells, beggarley, bellamy, bell, adam, belper, bellman of london, belvoir, bennett, william, , , beresford hall, , bessy, song of the lady, begrammes abbey, , bessel, j., (printer,) bentley, bell, rev. w. r., bessick, beggar's ramble, the, birchover, blackwell, blakely oldhurst, blink-eyed cobbler, blue's valour displayed, blesford hall, blyfield, bonner, sir william, boothby, ----------- , boyce, dr., bottle brook, bolt edge moor, bosworth field, , bolesworth field, , bonsall, boar, blue, , bow lane, bow, wow, wow, bowden, , bood, borleyash, broxter, brailsford, brown, samuel, bridgeford, breadsall, bramcote, bradford, brickhill, brackenbury, , et seq. browne, brierlow, brereton, humphry, , et seq. bradshaw, epistle to john, brimlow, john, , brome, henry, bromefield, brightside, bradley, _bradley, arthur a'_, brunsley gin, breaston, brailsford hall, braston, brassington, bradburn, breedon on the hill, bramshall, bramest, butler, bradshaw, bull, , , - bullets, buxton, , , , - , , , , , ------ advertiser, buckstone, lay of the, buckingham, bulcote, "burlesque upon burlesque," burning in a tun, burton-on-trent, burton joyce, bull-running, , , , , butcher, drunken, of tideswell, burslem, calverton, calton family, carlton, calton, calthorpe, castle naze works, cakes and ale, calver, callcott, , cat, whittington and his, cat and fiddle, cambridge, duke of, , ---------- , , castleton, , , - , , , ---------- a strange banquet at, , cards, game at, for a kingdom, candles, cap of maintenance, carnarvon, "cavalier," cavendish, sir william, ---------- elizabeth, countess of, caldon, caulton, carsdale, cecil, celestial bard, chappell, w., , , chapel-en-le-frith, , , , , , , , , , chamber knoll, charcoal, chatsworth, , , , chaddesden, cheadle, checkley in the hole, cheetham, library, chester, ranulph, earl of, cheshire, , et seq., , , , , chesterfield, , ------------- earl of, chee tor, cheetham hill, chester, west, chevy chace, chilwell, chirk land, choir of all saints' church, "_christians, to my tragic ditty_," ---------- thunder at, , cider, cinder hills, clara, henry and, claret, clay cross, clarence, duke of, , et seq. clifton, clifton grove, clim of the clough, , clorinda (maid marian), et seq. clough, clim of the, , clowdeslee, william of, , cobler, the blink-eyed, cock tail reel, cock lorel, or cook laurel, comical scotch dialogue, coke family, , , et seq., to cokain, sir aston, notice of, , ------- ballad of derbyshire, ------- poems, ------- portrait of, ------- journey into the peak, cokain, thomas, , coke, daniel parker, -- cook laurel's entertainment to the devil, ------------- note, cook, eliza, cook, "_cook laurel would have the devil his guest_," colepepper col., coloton green, collyer, j. payne, colvile, c. r., collumbell, "complete gamester," "commentaries of de montlac," complainte of anthonie babington, combs moss, , "_come lasses and lads_," "_come all you gallant lasses of courage stout and bold_," "_come gather round and form a throng_," "complete angler," , et seq. "_come hark you well, my masters, pray can you me tell_," "_coming home into this frozen clime_," congleton, cooper, w. durant, coopland, cosel, cottage of content, cotnermay, cotton, charles, , - ---------------- journey into the peak, ---------------- epistle to john bradshaw, ---------------- list of his works, ---------------- ms. poems, ---------------- poems on several occasions, ---------------- life of, ---------------- complete angler, coventry, coventry, cowley, coxbench, crapnidge, crich, , cromford, , crompton, john bell, croome, cropwell, cross-o'th-hands, crumpswood, cubley, dakin, dale, danby, lord, devonshire's noble duel with, darnall park, darley, darley abbey, darley dale, elegy upon the death of the greatest gentry, ------------ date obelum belisario, death of rev. bache thornhill, deaf stone, "_dear polyhymnie be_," "_declare, o muse, what demon 'twas_," deincourt, delamere forest, , et seq. -------- lord, , et seq. delaware, lord, deloney, thomas, denby, derby, earl of, , , et seq. derby, , , , et seq., derby ram, derby, , , , derby, agricultural meeting, ------ nun's green, songs on, -- derby blues, , derby hero, derby hills, , ----- ale, , ----- unconscionable bachelors of, ----- lasses of, ----- races, ----- florist's song, derbyshire volunteers, , ---------- militia, , , derbyshire, a ballad of, derbyshire, new ballad of robin hood, derbyshire miller, derbyshire men, derbyshire militia, song in praise of, derbyshire hills, derbyshire dales, derbyshire, a rhapsody on, derrick, samuel, derwent, river, , , , -------- village, derwentwater, lord, dethick, , - devonshire's noble duel, ---------- duke of, , et seq., , , , , ---------- long-arm'd duke, ---------- duchess of, ---------- yorkshire pie, diamond hill, dibden, dicey, w., dick whittington, dickie of tunstead, "dickie," an address to, diseworth, dixon, h., donnington, dob holes, doctor double ale, dove, river, doveridge, , dove dale, , , et seq. ---- river, et seq. doune, draycott, drawn with wild horses, drayton, draycott, philip, driving of the deer, dronfield, drunken butcher of tideswell, duckinfield, dudley, w., ------- s., duel, devonshire's noble, duffield, , dunstable, dunchurch, durham, bishop of, durintwood, eagles foot, eastwood, eaton, , ebbing and flowing well, edale, edward iv., edwards, eldon hole, , ----- hill, ellaston, elegy upon the death of the greatest gentry of darley dale, elizabeth of york, elvaston, , , entcliffe hill, , eperstone, epistle to john bradshaw, esq., epsom, espernon, duke of, etwall eyre, family, , "fair one of tunis," fairfield, fair, humours of hayfield, ----- nottingham goose, , et seq. "_farewell our daddies and our mammies_," farley, farnfield, faulkner, fawcett's ashborne foot-ball song, ferrars, lord, , findern, firby, firbeck, fitzwarine, sir hugh, ----------- alice, ----------- maud, flash, flax-dresser's wife of spondon and the pound of tea, flax-holmes, florists' song, florist's song, florist's society, fludyer, fole, foljamb, forest, delamere, , et seq. "_for jesus' sake be merry and glad_," foston, foot-ball, game of, ---------- derby, , foot-ball song, ashborne, foot-ball at ashborne, , et seq. fox chase, squire vernon's, fox, family, , fox low, fox torr, , , france, conquest of, french king, , frith, squire, hunting song, frith, samuel, fools, strips of, "_from the famous peak of darby_," gage, gallow's inn, game at cards for a kingdom, ------- cakes and ale, "gamester, complete," gamwell of gamwell hall, , garland of merriment, garland, ashupton, gaunt, john of, , - gautriss dale, gawn, gawsworth, gedling, gell, colonel thomas, ----- sir john, george inn, george iii., gerrard, sir gilbert, getliffe, ghent, john of, , - ghost, , giltbrook, gingler's inn, gipsies metamorphosed, gipsies' song, the, "_god that is moste of myghte_," "_god prosper long fair derby town_," "_good people give attention to a story you shall hear_," gosley bank, goose fair, , et seq. gotham, , gray, graceley, greaves, greensmith, greene, green, hugh stenson and molly, gresley, greswark, gretna green, grindleford bridge, guards, brigade of, gunthorpe, gutch, john mathew, guy, earl of warwick, habbington, haddon hall, , , ------ over, ------ grove, haines, william, hall, halliwell, j. o., hand, halliwell collection, , handford, tom, - hansley, handel, harpham, harden, harestan, harrington, earl of, , "_hark, hark, brother sportsmen, what a melodious sound_," harehill, harton, harlow dale, , harleian mss., hardstaff, "_hark you well, you neighbours all, and pray now can you tell_," harrington, sir william, , hardwick, earl of, , --------- bess of, hartington, "strange and wonderful sight" there, hartington, , hathersage, , , hassop, ------- and little john, , et seq., , et seq. ------- little john's grave, &c., , hathenturns, hayfield fair, humours of, hayfield, , haymore, heanor, helldon hill, henry and clara, a peak ballad, "_here must i tell the praise_," hero, derby, ----- stafford, - hertford, earl of, , hickham, high peak, , , , , , high church in shropshire, highlander, highgate, hilson (ilkeston), hills, derby, , hillary, hood, robin, - hodgkinson, hogdeston, hognaston, , holland, george, hollington, holt castle, , , , holy poker, horsley, howitt, richard, howsley, hoyland, hugh stenson and molly green, humours of hayfield fair, hunter, rev. joseph, hunting songs, squire vernon's fox chace, -------------- trusley, -------------- squire frith's, hurdle, hutchinson, tour through the peak, , ---------- of owthorpe, hyde park, hyson green, "_i'll sing you a song of a neat little place_," "_i sigh for the land where the orange tree flingeth_," "_i' darbyshire who're born an' bred_," ilam hall, ilkeston, "_in summer time when leaves are green_," isle of man, , "_jack asses' trot_," james, king, ------------ taxes, , et seq. ------------ treachery of, jenkinson, jewitt, arthur, ------- rev. arthur george, -------------------'s "wanderings of memory," --------------------- henry and clara, a peak ballad, johnson, jonson, ben, jones, , journey into the peak, , kedleston, kendall, kent, , ----- earl of, keyworth, "_kind gentlemen will you be patient awhile_," king's mills, king henry v., his conquest of france, ---- edward iv., ---- george iii., ---- henry vii., ---- charles ii., ---- richard, , et seq. ---- james, "---- of the peak," , ---- henry viii., ---- richard ii., ---- castile and leon, ---- george iv., ---- george i., ---- james i., , ---- charles i., ---- william i., kimberworth, kimberley, kinder scout, , , kirk ireton, kirke, h., kirkland, walter, kirklees priory, , kniveton, sir gilbert, --------- mary, knolls, sir frederick, konynges dale, langley mill, lady bessy, song of the, lady low, lady arabella stuart, -- lambley, lancashire, , , lancaster, duke of, , -- langley, , , lasses of darby pawned by their sweethearts, "_last night as slumbering on my bed i lay_," latham house, , et seq. lathkiln dale, , -------- river, latimer, lord, lay of the buckstone, laycock, samuel, layksley (see loxley) lead, lead, , leak, leake, or leke, family, et seq. lee lane, lee, lord, leech, mrs., of tideswell, leechurch, , leicestershire, leigh, lord, leicester, , leke, sir francis, lennox, earl of, lenton, lichfield, , "life of the duke of espernon," lincoln, , lincolnshire, lines occasioned by a yorkshire pie, lislay, lord, little hallam, little britain, , ------ stoone, ------ eaton, little john, - , , et seq. little john and robin hood, little john's end, littleover, liverpool, locko grange, lomas, longnor, london, , et seq., , , , , , , , ------- great fire of, ------- tower of, long-armed duke, longstone, longford, , , , lordis seat, , "_lord peverel stood on the lordis seat_," lost and dead, loughborough, lovell, lord, lovers' leap, lowton, loxley, - , ludlow, lysons, mackworth, , macclesfield forest, , maid marian, - , , et seq. malpas, mam tor, mammaton, manners, manchester, , , et seq. mansfield, mapperley, , mappleton, markeaton, , marrot moor, mar routed, martin markall, marston, marpole, marton, mary queen of scots, masbro', massinger, matlock, , , may, may pole, mayfield, mead, mercaston, mercer's company, merriment, garland of, meverell, mickleover, middleton, middleton by youlgrave, milford haven, militia, derbyshire, , -------------------- song in praise of, milnes, , et seq. milward, , miller, the derbyshire, minstrels, , minstrels' court, , ---------- king of the, , monsal dale, "montaigne's essays," montlac de, monyash, , et seq. moregreen, morley, , morgan, "moral philosophy of the stoics," moules dale, music of "as our king lay musing in his bed," music of "the derbyshire miller," music of "the gipsies' song," - mugginton, , mullins, tom, - mundy family, , nares, "_neaw, dickie, be quiet wi' thee, lad_," nether green, netherton, new ballad of robin hood, shewing his birth, breeding, valour, and marriage, at tutbury bull running, new song in praise of the derbyshire militia, newton, , newthorpe, norfolk, duke of, , northampton, northern lights, ballad on, nottingham, , , , , ---------- goose fair, , et seq. nottinghamshire, - nun's green rangers, nun's green, ballads on, - nuttall, oaker hall, oakes, james, , et seq. oakamoor, obstinate lady, ockbrook, "_of all your modern heroes_," "_o give me the land where the wild thyme grows_," ogston, oker hill, , okerthorpe, okeover hall, , oldacre, old nun's green, "_one valentine's day in the morning_," on the strange and wonderful sight that was seen in the air on the th of march, , on the death of the late rev. bache thornhill, m.a., "_o say not so, sir francis_," osgathorpe, , et seq. osmaston by ashborne, over haddon, overton, overton, overington, owen, jack, owthorpe, oxford, earl of, oxford, paget, paislow moss, , pain, pantons in the dale, paris, , park nook, park hall, parson's torr, parwich, paving and lighting. a new song, paynslee, pearcey, general, peel, sir robert, peak hills, ---- ballad, henry and clara, "peak, wonders of the," ----- tradition of, ----- high, , , , , , ----- a rhapsody on, ----- journey into the, , ----- forest, , , , , pedlar and robin hood, percy society, , ----- lord, , pentrich, perkin wood, perwolt, perry dale, peverel and the driving of the deer, peverel family, , , et seq. pie, yorkshire, pills to purge melancholy, , pilsley, pinder of wakefield, pinxstone, playford, poems on nun's green, - ----- dedicated to major trowel, "----- upon several occasions," polesworth, pooley, , poole's hole, potter of hill top, pott, power of love, pressed man's lamentation, prestwood, princely diversion, or the jovial hunting match, prince in the town, and devil in the church, prince of wales, george, printers, j. bessel, --------- william ayscough, --------- wynkende worde, , --------- w. dicey, --------- r. raikes, --------- w. o., , --------- a. m., --------- j. deacon, "planter's manual," "puss in boots," , pursglove, bishop, quadrupeds, the, quarndon, , queen elizabeth, , , ----- of scots, mary, - quicksall, quin, quintin, st., family, , -------- sir william, , radborne, radford, radgley, raikes, r., raleigh, sir walter, ram, the derby, ramble, beggar's, ramble, the beggar's, randolph, ratcliffe, rees ap thomas, sir, , , red hill, reel, cocktail, recruiting derby hills, , red rose, - rempstone, repton, "reliquary," , , , , , , rhapsody on the peak of derbyshire, riber hall, richmond, duke of, richard, king, , et seq. richmond, margaret, , et seq. --------- earl of, , et seq. riddings, , et seq. ripley, risley, robin hood and the pedlar, ---------- a new ballad of, ---------- lytell geste of, ---------- and little john, ---------- - , , et seq., robin hood's marks, rodsley, rosemary hill, rosley, roston, ross, lord, rose of england, rose, red, , rose, union of, rose of lancaster, rose and crown, rowlands, row (or roo) tor, rowsley, rowland of warburton, roxburghe collection, , , , ruddington, runcorn, rural dance about the may-pole, rushop edge, russell, sir william, sack, salisbury, , salford, ------- bridge, sandall castle, sandiacre, sandys, sandy way head, savage, savage, sir john, , scarsdale, ---------- lord, scarlet, will, scotch dialogue, scrope, lord, selston, seymour, lord, shallcross, shardlow, shaw, the staffordshire hero, shaws croft, sheepshead, sheffield, , , , et seq. ---------- castle, sheppards folly, sherwood forest, - , sherry, cary, ------- mary, ship of fools, shipley wood, shipley, shirley park, , ------- family, shoolbottam, shottle, shootingslow, "_should the french but presume on our coast to appear_," shrewsbury, earl of, , et seq., ----------- , shrove tuesday, sign of the eagle's foot, ----------- bull, ----------- george, ----------- angel, , ----------- white horse, ----------- rutland arms, ----------- white hart, , ----------- wheat sheaf, ----------- sun, ----------- rose and crown, ----------- puss in boots, sigsmore, sinfin moor, sir richard whittington's advancement, sir francis leke; or the power of love, skiers, , et seq. skull at tunstead, slack, sloman, charles, smalley, smith, , smock frock, snelston, , snitterton, solomon's temple, , song, song of the lady bessy, song, ashborne foot-ball, song, the gipsies', "_soon as old ball was got better_," song (a satirical attack on the choir of all saints' church, derby) south normanton, southwell, sparrowpit, spencer, earl, spondon, the flax-dresser's wife of, and the pound of tea, spondon, , - squire vernon's fox chace, st. albans, st. ann's well, st. michael's ground, st. quintin sir william, stafford, , , , et seq. --------- hero, , et seq. staffordshire, , stainsby, stancliffe hall, stanhope, sir john, , --------- earl, stanley, earls of derby, , et seq. -------- family, , et seq. stapleford, stanton, , staysmore, stenson, hugh, and molly green, steare, stoics, moral philosophy of, stone, staffordshire, , stone, little, stoone, little, stramshall, strange and wonderful sight at hartington, strange, lord george, , et seq. stratford, strensham, stretton on the hill, strutt, stuart, arabella, -- ------- charles, sturston, stutely, will, , suckling, sudbury hall, , surrey, earl of, sutton-on-the-hill, sutton-in-scarsdale, , swarkstone, swanwick, swinsor, swinscoe moor, swift, swithamly, , taddington, tag hill, talbot, tamworth, lord, taylor's ramble, tea, pound of, tennis balls, , teneriffe, terrill, james, tewkesbury, the agricultural meeting, - the ashborne foot-ball song, the ashupton garland, or a day in the woodlands, the beggar's ramble, the derby hero, the driving of the deer, "_the eighteenth day of march_," "_the fire burns brightly on the hearth_," the flax-dresser's wife of spondon, the florists' song, the gipsies' song, the humours of hayfield fair, "_the miller he caught the maid by the toe_," the most pleasant song of the lady bessy, the nun's green rangers, or the triple alliance, consisting of a sergeant, a tinker, and a bear, "_the parson of monyash late one eve_," the power of love; sir francis leke, or, the quadrupeds, or four-footed petitioners against the sale of nun's green, the sorrowful lamentation, last dying speech and confession of old nun's green, "_the sixth of march, kind neighbours this is true_," the tailor's ramble, or the blues' valour displayed, the true lover's knot untied (arabella stuart), the unconscionable batchelors of darby, "_then, oh hugh stenson is my name_", thirsk, thomas rees, ap, , , thompson, thorpe, thorpe cloud, thornywood, thornhill family, , --------- thomas bache, elegy on, thringstone, tibshelf, tideswell in an uproar, or the prince in the town, and the devil in the church, tideswell, drunken butcher of, tideswell, , et seq., , , , , tinker's inn, tipling school, "_'tis merry in the high peak forest_," tissington, titbury (see tutbury) tixhall poetry, ton of tennis balls, toton, tower hill, , , towcester, tragedy of ovid, tragnel, trapalin supposed a prince, trent, river, tribute, , triple alliance, consisting of an old sergeant, a tinker, and a bear, trowel, trowell, major, true lovers' knot untied, trusley, - trusley hunting song, tudor, henry, tune, "to thee, to thee," ----- "as our king lay musing on his bed," , ----- derbyshire miller, ----- cook laurel, ----- king of the cannibal islands, ----- chevy chace, ----- bow, wow, wow, ----- barking barber, ----- date obolum belisario, ----- vicar and moses, ----- gipsies' song, - tun, burning in a, tunbridge, "tunis, fair one of," tunstead, dickie of, tunstead, , tupton, turbutt, gladwin, turnditch, tutbury, , et seq., tutbury bull-running, , , "_'twas more than fifty years ago_," "_two jackasses, the father and the son_," tydder henry, ucklow, unconscionable batchelors of derby, union of the roses, utceter, uttoxeter, , vernon, squire, fox chace, ------- family, , et seq. ------- lord, , ------- george, - ------- dorothy, victoria, queen, "virgil travestie," volunteers, derbyshire, , wakefield, pinder of, walker, , walton, isaac, "wanderings of memory," wantling, - warburton, wardgate, wardlowmier, warin, warwick, guy, earl of, warwickshire, , waterloo, wathall, wells, lady, "_were but my muse inspired by fludyer's taste_," west chester, ---- smithfield, westminster, , et seq. weston-under-wood, westhorpe, wessington, wet willm, weever hills, whaley bridge, , "_what will it availe on fortune to exclayme_," wheatcroft, leonard, , "_when apollo thinks fit to handle his lyre_," "_when heaven from earth had shut out day_," "_when robin hood was about twenty years old_," whittaker, whittington, sir richard's, advancement, whittington and his cat, ----------- de, ----------- in derbyshire, , , ----------- sir william, whitrick, whitehall, whitworth guns, whitworth, joseph, wilford, williams, richard, - willoughby, lord, will stutely, , willett, winnats, , winnats, murder at, , windsor, , winster, - , , wilson, jack, wire mill, windley, wirksworth, , wood end, woodlands, , et seq. woodlands, a day in the, woodborough, wool, woolaton, wooley, - , , womfords, "wonders of the peak," worde, wynken de, , worcestershire, wootton, , wotton lodge, wyaston, , wye river, , wynken de worde, , yeaveley, "_ye tideswellites can this be true_," yeldersley, york, york, duke of, , et seq. yorkshire pie, "_you lovers of mirth attend awhile_," young lasses pawned by their sweethearts, bemrose and sons, printers, derby. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors were corrected. all spelling variations and apparent printer's errors in the text have been retained. descriptions were added to captionless illustrations. all spelling variations and apparent printer's errors in text have been retained. changes to index entries: - castleton, a strange banquet at: page number removed as it does not exist; - chester: removed as there's no corresponding text; - music of "the gipsies' song": page numbers - added; - rosemary hill: page number added; - the agricultural meeting: page numbers - added; - "_the parson of monyash late one eve_": moved to the correct place according to alphabetical order and page number corrected to be ; - tune, derbyshire miller: page number added; - tune, gipsies' song: page numbers - added. the newcastle song book; or, tyne-side songster. being a collection of comic and satirical songs, descriptive of eccentric characters, and the manners and customs of a portion of the labouring population of newcastle and the neighbourhood. chiefly in the newcastle dialect. illustration newcastle upon tyne: printed and sold by w. & t. fordyce, no. , grey street. . a period of sixteen years having elapsed since an edition of local songs was published in a collective form, and that volume having been for some time out of print, renders almost superfluous any apology in presenting the following collection to the public. during the last few years, so great has been the progress of education amongst the humbler classes of society, that many of those eccentricities so often seized upon by our local poets as subjects of humourous satire, are fast disappearing, and ere many more years shall have elapsed, the songs of our local bards will be the only memorials of the peculiar characteristics of this ancient border town. should an occasional coarseness of language meet the eye, let not the fastidious reader forget, that such were the modes of expression used by the parties described, and that elegance of language would be as much out of place as are the polished classical sentences of shenstone's rustics, so often and so justly a theme of censure. the publishers beg to tender their best thanks to the several respectable individuals who have so kindly favoured them with the many original pieces which appear in this volume; and regret that the limited space for an address prevents a more personal allusion, than referring the reader to their names in the table of contents. contents. page. acrostic on the death of blind willie, _r. emery_ alarm! or, lord fauconberg's march, amphitrite, _r. gilchrist_ april gowk; or, the lovers alarmed, baboon _armstrong_ barber's news; or, shields in an uproar, _j. shield_ battle of spitaloo, battle on the shields railway, bear club, _r. gilchrist_ beggars' wedding, bessy of blyth, _h. robson_ birth-day of queen victoria, _r. gilchrist_ billy oliver's ramble between benwell & newcastle, blind willie singing, _r. gilchrist_ blind willy's flight _r. emery_ blind willie's death, blind willie's epitaph, _r. gilchrist_ bold jack of the journal _h. r._ bob cranky's 'size sunday, _john selkirk_ bob cranky's leum'nation neet, _john shield_ bob cranky's account of the ascent of mr sadler's balloon, from newcastle, sep. , , _w. midford_ bob cranky's adieu, _john shield_ bob fudge's postscript bold archy and blind willie's lament on the death of capt. starkey, _r. gilchrist_ bonassus _oliver_ bonny keel laddie, bonny clock fyece, bonny gyetsiders, _j. shield_ bonny keel laddie, british justice; or, newcastle privy court, broom busoms burdon's address to his cavalry, _jas. morrison_ canny newcassel, _t. thompson_ canny sheels, _john morrison_ cappy, or the pitman's dog, _wm. midford_ changes on the tyne, coaly tyne, coal trade, cobbler o' morpeth, (_cholera morbus_,) _j. m'lellan_ collier's rant, collier's keek at the nation, _r. gilchrist_ colliers' pay week _h. robson_ come up to the scratch! or, the pitman haggished, _r. emery_ commit no nonsense, cookson's alkali, corn market, a lament, coronation day at newcastle, coronation thursday _w. midford_ custom-house branch, custom-house tree, custom-house branch, dance to thy daddy, _w. watson_ death of bold archy, _r. gilchrist_ do li a, donocht-head, _r. pickering_ drucken bella roy, o!, duchess and mayoress eagle steam packet, _wm. midford_ election day, _w. watson_ euphy's coronation, _thomas marshall_ farewell to the tyne, _r. gilchrist_ famed filly fair; or, a peep into pilgrim-street, farewell, archy!, fishwives' complaint _r. emery_ friar and the nun, gateshead rads, geordy's disaster george the fourth's coronation gipsy's song, _h. robson_ glister _armstrong_ golden horns; or, the general invitation, green's balloon, greenwives' lamentation, half-drowned skipper, herbage committee, _r. gilchrist_ humble petition of the old house in the shieldfield to john clayton, esq. _r. gilchrist_ hydrophobie; or, skipper and quaker, _r. emery_ invitation to the mansion-house dinner in honour of the coronation _armstrong_ jemmy joneson's whurry, _t. thompson_ jenny hoolet: or, lizzie mudie's ghost, _armstrong_ jesmond mill, _phil. hodgson_ jocker _nunn_ johnny sc--tt and tommy c--rr. a dialogue, jossy's nag's head, keel row (new) _t. thompson_ keelman and the grindstone, _armstrong_ kelvin grove.--the lassie's answer, _h. robson_ kitty port admiral at the bench, lass of wincomblee, little pee dee, lizzie liberty, _h. robson_ lizzie mudie's ghost, _armstrong_ local militia-man, _wm. midford_ lovely delia loyal festivities; or, novel scenes at newcastle, lukey's dream, mary drue, _t. houston_ maw canny hinny, masquerade at newcastle theatre, _wm. midford_ mayor of bourdeaux; or, mally's mistake, _do._ misfortunes of roger and his wife, _j. b._ mechanics' procession; or, a trip to south shields, _r. emery_ miraculous well; or, newcastle spaw water, _r. emery_ more innovations, _r. gilchrist_ music hall, my lord 'size, _john shield_ nancy wilkinson, _h. robson_ nanny of the tyne _gibson_ natural philosopher; or, the downfall of the learned humbugs!, newcastle fair; or, pitman drinking jackey, new keel row, _t. thompson_ newcastle wonders; or, hackney coach customers, _r. emery_ newcassel races _w. watson_ newcastle signs, _cecil pitt_ newgate-street petition to mr. mayor, newcassel props _oliver_ newcassel wonders, newcastle subscription mill, _h. robson_ new fish market, _wm. midford_ new year's carol for the fishwives of newcastle, _m. ross_ newcastle assizes (duchess _versus_ mayoress); or, a struggle for precedence, newcastle hackneys, newcastle hackney coaches _oliver_ newcastle improvements, _r. charlton_ newcastle noodles, _james morrison_ newcastle swineherds proclamation newcastle theatre in an uproar, newcastle worthies, _wm. armstrong_ newcastle in an uproar; or, george the fourth's coronation _w. midford_ newcastle beer _versus_ spaw water; or, the pitman and temperance society, _r. emery_ newcastle blunderbuss! or, travelling extraordinary, _r. emery_ newcastle old country gentleman, newcastle landlords, _w. watson_ new markets _oliver_ new markets; or, newcastle improvements, _midford_ new nursery rhyme, new song for barge-day, , _r. gilchrist_ north shields song, northumberland free o' newcassel, _r. gilchrist_ old nick's visit to h-ll's kitchen, old and curious song, on the late mr. r. clayton being made an alderman, on simpson the pedestrian's failure, opening of the new markets, owl _r. emery_ oyster-wife's petition on the removal of the oyster-tub from the quay, _r. emery_ paganini, the fiddler; or, pitman's frolic _do._ pandon dean, parody on billy oliver's ramble, parody, parson malthus peggy's leg _h. r._ permanent yeast _john morrison_ peter watson, _h. robson_ petition from the women of the vegetable market to the mayor of newcastle, peter waggy, _h. robson_ picture of newcastle; or, george the fourth's coronation, _wm. midford_ pitman's revenge against bonaparte _shield_ pitman's skellyscope, _wm. midford_ pitman's ramble; or, newcastle finery, pitman's courtship, _wm. midford_ pitman's dream; or, a description of the north pole, _r. emery_ pitman's dream; or, a description of the kitchen, _r. emery_ pitman's pay; or, a night's discharge to care, _thomas wilson_ pitman's ramble _r. emery_ pitman's visit to newcastle on valentine's day, politicians, quack doctors, quayside shaver, _wm. stephenson_ quayside ditty for february, , russell the pedestrian, sandgate wife's nurse song _nunn_ sandgate pant; or, jane jemieson's ghost, _r. emery_ sandgate lass on the ropery banks _nunn_ sandgate lassie's lament, _h. robson_ sandgate girl's lamentation, sandhill monkey, shields soliloquy, shields chain bridge humourously described, _oliver_ sir tommy made an odd fellow, _r. gilchrist_ skipper's wedding, _w. stephenson_ skipper's fright _bailey_ skipper in the mist _armstrong_ skipper's account of the mechanics' procession, _r. emery_ skipper's mistake _armstrong_ skipper's dream, _t. moor_ skipper's account of the orangemen's procession, south shields song, spring, _h. robson_ steam soup; or, cuckoo jack's petition _r. emery_ sunderland jammy's lamentation, december, , swalwell hopping _selkirk_ st. nicholas church, _nunn_ st. nicholas' great bell, thomas whittell's humourous letter to mr. moody, thumping luck, _w. watson_ till the tide came in, _h. robson_ tim tunbelly _oliver_ t--ly's best blood, tom carr and waller watson _oliver_ tommy thompson, _r. gilchrist_ tommy c--rr in limbo _oliver_ tyne, _h. robson_ tyne, _john gibson_ tyne, _j. wilson_ tyne cossacks, _wm. midford_ verses written for the burns club, , _h. robson_ victory; or, the captain done over, voyage to lunnin, _r. gilchrist_ walker pits, water of tyne, weel may the keel row, winlaton hopping, _john lennard_ wonderful gutter, _wm. midford_ worthy rector, wreckenton hiring, x-y-z at newcastle races, , _wm. midford_ the tyne songster. canny newcassel. 'bout lunnun aw'd heard ay sic wonderful spokes, that the streets were a cover'd wi' guineas: the houses sae fine, an' sic grandees the folks, te them huz i' the north were but ninnies. but aw fand mawsel blonk'd when to lunnun aw gat, the folks they a' luik'd wishey washey; for gowd ye may howk till ye're blind as a bat, for their streets are like wors--brave and blashy! 'bout lunnun then divent ye myek sic a rout, there's nowse there maw winkers to dazzle: for a' the fine things ye are gobbin about, we can marra iv canny newcassel. a cockney chep show'd me the thames druvy fyace, whilk he said was the pride o' the nation; and thowt at their shippin aw'd myek a haze-gaze; but aw whopt maw foot on his noration. wi' huz, mun, three hundred ships sail iv a tide, we think nowse on't, aw'll myek accydavy; ye're a gowk if ye din't knaw that the lads o' tyneside are the jacks that myek famish wor navy. 'bout lunnun, &c. we went big st. paul's and westminster to see, and aw war'nt ye aw thought they luick'd pritty: and then we'd a keek at the monument te; whilk maw friend ca'd the pearl o' the city. wey hinny, says aw, we've a shot tower sae hee, that biv it ye might scraffle to heaven; and if on saint nicholas ye once cus an e'e, ye'd crack on't as lang as ye're livin. 'bout lunnun, &c. we trudg'd to st. james's, for there the king leaves, aw war'nt ye a good stare we teuk on't; by my faicks! it's been built up by adam's awn neaves, for it's and as the hills, by the luik on't. shem bin ye! says aw, ye should keep the king douse, aw speak it without ony malice: aw own that wor mayor rather wants a new house, but then--wor infirm'ry's a palace. 'bout lunnun, &c. ah hinnies! out com the king, while we were there, his leuks seem'd to say, bairns, be happy! sae down o' my hunkers aw set up a blare, for god to preserve him frae nappy: for geordy aw'd dee--for my loyalty's trig, and aw own he's a good leuken mannie; but if wor sir matthew ye buss iv his wig, by gocks! he wad leuk just as canny. 'bout lunnun, &c. ah hinnies! about us the lasses did lowp, thick as cur'ns in a spice singin hinnie; some aud and some hardly fligg'd ower the dowp, but aw kend what they were by their whinnie: ah! mannie, says aw, ye hev mony a tight girl, but aw'm tell'd they're oft het i' their tappin: aw'd cuddle much rather a lass i' the sworl, than the dolls i' the strand, or i' wappin. 'bout lunnun, &c. wiv a' the stravaigin aw wanted a munch, an' maw thropple was ready to gizen; so we went tiv a yell-house, and there teuk a lunch, but the reck'ning, me saul, was a bizon. wiv huz i' the north, when aw'm wairsh i' my way, (but t' knaw wor warm hearts ye yur-sel come) aw lift the first latch, and baith man and dame say, 'cruick your hough, canny man, for ye're welcome! 'bout lunnun, &c. a shilling aw thought at the play-house aw'd ware, but aw jump'd there wiv heuk finger'd people; me pockets gat ripe'd, an' heerd them na mair nor aw cou'd frae saint nicholas's steeple. dang lunnun! wor play-house aw like just as weel, and wor play-folks aw's sure are as funny; a shillin's worth sarves me to laugh till aw squeel, nae hallion there thrimmels maw money. 'bout lunnun, &c. the loss o' the cotterels aw dinna regaird, for aw've gettin some white-heft at lunnun; aw've learn'd to prefer me awn canny calf-yaird; if ye catch me mair frae't ye'll be cunnun. aw knaw that the cockneys crack rum-gum-shus chimes to myek gam of wor bur and wor 'parel; but honest blind willey shall string this iv rhymes, and we'll sing'd for a chrissenmas carol. 'bout lunnun, &c. the quayside shaver. on each market day, sir, the folks to the quay, sir, go flocking with beards they have seven days worn, and round the small grate, sir, in crowds they all wait, sir, to get themselves shav'd in a rotative turn. old soldiers on sticks, sir, about politics, sir, debate--till at length they quite heated are grown; nay, nothing escapes, sir, until _madam scrape_, sir, cries, 'gentlemen, who is the next to sit down? a medley this place is, of those that sell laces, with fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets; where match-men, at meeting, give each a kind greeting, and ask one another how trade with them sets; join'd in with _tom hoggers_ and little _bob nackers_, who wander the streets in their fuddling jills; and those folks with bags, sir, who buy up old rags, sir, that deal in fly-cages and paper wind mills. there pitmen, with baskets, and gay posey waistcoats, discourse about nought but whe puts and hews best; there keelmen just landed, swear, may they be stranded, if they're not shav'd first, while their keel's at the _fest_! with face full of coal dust, would frighten one almost, throw off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair; while others stand looking, and think it provoking, but, for the insult, to oppose them none dare. when under the chin, sir, she tucks the cloth in, sir, their old quid they'll pop in the pea-jacket cuff; and while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting, and looking around with an air fierce and bluff. such tales as go round, sir, would surely confound, sir, and puzzle the prolific brain of the wise; but when she prepares, sir, to take off the hairs, sir, with lather she whitens them up to the eyes. no sooner the razor is laid on the face, sir, than painful distortions take place on the brow; but if they complain, sir, they'll find it in vain, sir, she'll tell them, 'there's nought but what _patience_ can do:' and as she scrapes round 'em, if she by chance wound 'em, they'll cry out, as tho' she'd bereav'd them of life, 'od smash your brains, woman! aw find the blood's comin, aw'd rather been shav'd with an aud gully knife!' for all they can say, sir, she still rasps away, sir, and sweeps round their jaws the chop torturing tool; till they in a pet, sir, request her to whet, sir; but she gives them for answer, 'sit still, you pist fool!' for all their repining, their twisting and twining, she forward proceeds till she's mown off the hair; when finish'd, cries, 'there, sir!' then straight from the chair, sir, they'll jump, crying, 'daresay you've scrap'd the bone bare!' the jenny hoolet; _or, lizzie mudie's ghost._ sum time since a skipper was gawn iv his keel, his heart like a lion, his fyece like the deil: he was steering hissel, as he'd oft duin before, when at au'd lizzie mudie's his keel ran ashore. fal de ral la, &c. the skipper was vext when his keel ran ashore, so for geordy and pee dee he loudly did roar: they lower'd the sail--but it a' waddent dee; sae he click'd up a coal and maist fell'd the pee dee. fal de ral, &c. in the midst of their trouble, not knawn what to do, a voice from the shore gravely cried out, 'hoo hoo!' how now, 'mister hoo hoo! is thou myekin fun, or is this the first keel that thou e'er saw agrun?' fal de ral, &c. agyen it cried 'hoo! hoo!' the skipper he stampt, and sung out for geordy to heave out the plank: iv a raving mad passion he curs'd and he swore, 'aw'll hoo-hoo thou, thou b--r, when aw cum ashore!' fal de ral, &c. wiv a coal in each hand, ashore then he went, to kill mister hoo-hoo it was his intent: but when he gat there, o what his surprize! when back he cam running--'o geordy!' he cries. fal de ral, &c. 'wey, whe dis thou think hes been myekin this gam? aw'll lay thou my wallet thou'll not guess his nyem;'-- 'is't the ghost of au'd lizzie?'--'o no no, thou fool, it is nae ghost at all, but--an au'd jenny hoolet!' fal de ral, &c. the glister. some time since a pitman was tyen very bad, so caw'd his wife mall te the side of his bed; 'thou mun run for a doctor, the forst can be fund, for maw belly's a' wrang, an' aw'm varry fast bund.' 'wey, man, thou's a fuil, aw ken thou's fast boon, wi' thy last bindin munny thou bowt this new goon: nae doctor can lowse thou one morsel or crum, for thou's bun te tyne main for this ten month te cum.' 'aw divent mean that--maw belly's sae sair; run fast or aw'll dee lang afore ye get there!' so away mally ran to their awn doctor's shop; 'gie me somethin for tom, for his belly's stopt up.' a glister she gat--and nae langer she'd wait, but straight she ran hyem, an' gat out a clean plate: 'oh tommy! maw tom! ony haud up thy heed! here's somethin 'ill mend thou, suppose thou was deed. thou mun eat up that haggish, but sup the thin forst; aw's freeten'd that stopple it will be the worst,'-- 'oh, mally! thou'll puzzen poor tom altogether, if aw drink aw the thin, an' then eat up the blether.' he manag'd it a' wiv a great deal to do; 'oh, mally! oh, mally! thou's puzzen'd me now!' but she tuik nae notice of poor tommy's pain, but straight she ran off te the doctor's again. 'o doctor! maw hinny! tom's tyen'd a' thegether, he supp'd up the thin, then he eat up the blether: the blether was tuif, it myest stuck in his thropple; if he haddent bad teeth he wad eaten the stopple.' 'oh, woman! you have been in too great a hurry, stead of mending your husband, you'll have him to bury: stead of making him better, you've sure made him warse, for you've put in his mouth what should gone up his a----e.' the eagle steam packet. oh, hae ye heard the wond'rous news? to hear me sang ye'll not refuse, since the new steam packet's ta'en a cruise, an' bore away for sunderland. the folks cam flocking ower the keels, betwixt newcassel key and sheels, before she ply'd her powerful wheels, to work their way to sunderland. the sky was clear, the day was fine, their dress an' luggage all in stile; an' they thought to cut a wond'rous shine, when they got safe to sunderland. now when they to the pier drew nigh, the guns did fire and streamers fly; in a moment all was hue and cry, amang the folks at sunderland. there was male and female lean an' fat, an' some wi' whiskers like a cat; but a barber's 'water-proof silk hat' was thought the tip at sunderland. in pleasures sweet they spent the day, the short-liv'd moments wing'd away; when they must haste without delay, to quit the port of sunderland. as on the ocean wide they drew, a strong north wind against them blew, and the billows dash'd the windows through: a woeful trip to sunderland. such howlin, screamin rend the sky, all in confusion they did lie, with pain and sickness like to die, they wish'd they'd ne'er seen sunderland. a lady lay beside the door, said she had been at sea before, where foaming billows loud did roar, but ne'er had been at sunderland. she soon amongst the heap was thrown, while here and there they sat alone: poor puff had passage up and down, but none could get from sunderland. some in a corner humm'd their prayers, while others choak'd the cabin stairs; and bloody noses, unawares, were got in sight of sunderland. in vain they strove now to proceed, so back again they came with speed; but the passengers were all nigh deed, when they got back to sunderland. now their dresses fine look'd worse than rags, while each a safe conveyance begs, and many had to use their legs, to travel home from sunderland. by this affair your reason guide, when on the seas you'd wish to ride, choose a good strong ship with wind and tide; and so good bye to sunderland. jemmy joneson's whurry. the cavers biv the chimlay reek, begox! its all a horney; for thro' the world aw thowt to keek, yen day when aw was corney: sae, wiv some varry canny chiels, all on the hop and murry, aw thowt aw'd myek a voyge to shiels, iv jemmy joneson's whurry. ye niver see'd the church sae scrudg'd, as we were there thegither; an' gentle, simple, throughways rudg'd, like burdies of a feather: blind willie, a' wor joys to croon, struck up a hey down derry, an' crouse we left wor canny toon, iv jemmy joneson's whurry. as we push'd off, loak! a' the key to me seem'd shuggy-shooin; an' tho' aw'd niver been at sea, aw stuid her like a new-on. an' when the malls began their reels, aw kick'd maw heels reet murry; for faix! aw lik'd the voyage to shiels, iv jemmy joneson's whurry. quick went wor heels, quick went the oars, an' where me eyes wur cassin, it seem'd as if the bizzy shore cheer'd canny tyne i' passin. what! hes newcassel now nae end? thinks aw it's wond'rous vurry; aw thowt i'd like me life to spend iv jemmy joneson's whurry. tyneside seem'd clad wiv bonny ha's, an' furnaces sae dunny; wey this mun be what bible ca's, 'the land of milk and honey!' if a' thor things belang'd tiv me, aw'd myek the poor reet murry, an' gar each heart to sing wiv glee, iv jemmy joneson's whurry. then on we went, as nice as ouse, till nenst au'd lizzy moody's; a whirlwind cam an' myed a' souse, like heaps o' babby boodies. the heykin myed me vurry wauf, me heed turn'd duzzy, vurry; me leuks, aw'm shure, wad spyen'd a cauf, iv jemmy joneson's whurry. for hyem and bairns, an' maw wife nan, aw yool'd out like a lubbart; an' when aw thought we a' shud gan to davy jones's cubbart, the wind bee-baw'd, aw whish'd me squeels, an' yence mair aw was murry, for seun we gat a seet o' shiels, frev jemmy joneson's whurry. wor geordies now we thrimmel'd out, an' tread a' shiels sae dinny; maw faix! it seems a canny sprout, as big maist as its minny: aw smack'd thir yell, aw climb'd thir bree, the seet was wond'rous, vurry; aw lowp'd sic gallant ships to see, biv jemmy joneson's whurry. to tynemouth then aw thowt aw'd trudge, to see the folks a' duckin; loak! men an' wives together pludg'd, while hundreds stuid by leukin. amang the rest aw cowp'd me creels, eh, gox! 'twas funny, vurry: an' so aw end me voyage to shiels, iv jemmy joneson's whurry. the skipper's wedding. neighbours, i'm come for to tell ye, our skipper and mall's to be wed; and if it be true what they're saying, egad we'll be all rarely fed! they've brought home a shoulder of mutton, besides two thumping fat geese, and when at the fire they're roasting, we're all to have sops in the greese. blind willy's to play on the fiddle. and there will be pies and spice dumplings, and there will be bacon and peas; besides a great lump of beef boiled, and they may get crowdies who please; to eat of such good things as these are, i'm shure you've but seldom the luck; besides for to make us some pottage, there'll be a sheep's head and pluck. blind willy's to play on the fiddle. of sausages there will be plenty, black puddings, sheep fat, and neats' tripes; besides, for to warm all your noses, great store of tobacco and pipes. a room, they say, there is provided for us at 'the old jacob's well;' the bridegroom he went there this morning, and spoke for a barrel o' yell. blind willy's to play on the fiddle. there's sure to be those things i've mention'd, and many things else; and i learn, there's white bread and butter and sugar, to please every bonny young bairn. of each dish and glass you'll be welcome to eat and to drink till you stare; i've told you what meat's to be at it, i'll next tell you who's to be there. blind willy's to play on the fiddle. why there will be peter the hangman, who flogs the folks at the cart-tail, au'd bob, with his new sark and ruffle, made out of an au'd keel sail! and tib on the quay who sells oysters, whose mother oft strove to persuade her to keep from the lads, but she wouldn't, until she got by them betray'd. blind willy's to play on the fiddle. and there will be sandy the cobbler, whose belly's as round as a keg, and doll, with her short petticoats, to display her white stockings and leg; and sall, who, when snug in a corner, a sixpence, they say, won't refuse; she curs'd when her father was drown'd, because he had on his new shoes. blind willy's to play on the fiddle. and there will be sam the quack doctor, of skill and profession he'll crack; and jack who would fain be a soldier, but for a great hump on his back; and tom in the streets, for his living, who grinds razors, scissors, and knives; and two or three merry old women, that call "mugs and doublers, wives!" blind willy's to play on the fiddle. but neighbours, i'd almost forgot, for to tell ye--exactly at one, the dinner will be on the table, the music will play till it's done: when you'll be all heartily welcome, of this merry feast for to share; but if you won't come at this bidding, why then you may stay where you are. blind willy's to play on the fiddle. the amphitrite. frae team-gut to whitley, wi' coals black and brown, for the amphitrite loaded, the keel had gyen down; but the bullies ower neet gat their gobs sae oft wet, that the nyem of the ship yen and a' did forget. for to find out the nyem each bother'd his chops, and claw'd at his rump fit to murder the lops,-- when the skipper, wha's guts was beginning to gripe, said the paw hoggish luggish was caw'd empty kyte. frae the gut to the point a' the time driving slow, the bullies kept blairing, 'the empty kyte, ho!' but their blairing was vain, for nae empty kyte there, tho' they blair'd till their kytes were byeth empty & sair. now au'd slavers, the skipper, harangu'd a' his men, twee mun gan to newcassel to ax the reet nyem; but thinking the young one to blame in the matter, pee dee and his marrow was pack'd 'cross the watter. up shields road as they trudg'd, wi' their half worn out soals, oft b----r--g the empty kyte, skipper, and coals, at the sign of the coach they byeth call'd, it befel, to moan their hard fates, and to swattle some yell. here a buck at a surloin hard eating was seen, and he said that the air myed his appetite keen;-- 'appetite!' cried the bullies, like pole-cats they star'd, wide gaping wi' wonder, when loud cuddy blair'd, 'the appetite! geordy, smash! nobbet hear that, the b----r--g outlandish, cull nyem we forgat; bless the dandy! for had he not tell'd us the nyem, we might trudg'd to newcassel byeth weary and lyem.' now to shields back they scamp, & straight frae the keel roar'd 'the appetite, ho!' 'neugh to freighten the deil; now they seun fund the ship, cast their coals in a swet, still praising the dandy that day they had met. now into the huddock, weel tir'd, they a' gat, and of appetite, empty kyte, lang they did chat; when the skipper fund out, mair wise than a king, if not the same nyem, they were much the same thing. my lord 'size. the jailor, for trial, had brought up a thief, whose looks seem'd a passport for botany bay; the lawyers, some with and some wanting a brief, around the green table were seated so gay: grave jurors and witnesses, waiting a call: attornies and clients, more angry than wise, with strangers and town's-people, throng'd the guild-hall, all waiting gaping to see my lord 'size. oft stretch'd were their necks, oft erected their ears, still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound, when tidings arriv'd, which dissolv'd them in tears, that my lord at the dead-house was then lying drown'd! straight left _tete a tete_ were the jailor and thief; the horror-struck crowd to the dead-house quick hies; ev'n the lawyers, forgetful of fee and of brief, set off, helter-skelter, to view my lord 'size. and now the sandhill with the sad tidings rings, and the tubs of the taties are left to take care; fish-women desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings, and each to the dead-house now runs like a hare. the glassmen, some naked, some clad, heard the news, and off they ran smoking, like hot mutton-pies; whilst castle-garth tailors, like wild kangaroos, came tail-on-end jumping, to see my lord 'size. the dead-house they reach'd, where his lordship they found, pale, stretch'd on a plank, like themselves out of breath; the coroner and jury were seated around, most gravely enquiring the cause of his death. no haste did they seem in, their task to complete, aware that from hurry mistakes often rise; or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat of thus sitting in judgment upon my lord 'size. now the mansion-house butler thus gravely depos'd:-- 'my lord on the terrace seem'd studying his charge; and when (as i thought) he had got it compos'd, he went down the stairs and examin'd the barge. first the stem he survey'd, then inspected the stern, then handled the tiller, and look'd mighty wise; but he made a false step when about to return, and souse in the water straight tumbled lord 'size.' now his narrative ended--the butler retir'd. whilst betty watt mutt'ring (half drunk) thro' her teeth, declar'd, 'in her breest greet consarn it inspir'd, that my lord should sae cullishly come by his deeth.' next a keelman was call'd on, bold archy his name, who the book as he kiss d shew'd the whites of his eyes, then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim, and this evidence gave them respecting lord 'size:-- 'aw was setting the keel, wi' dick stavers and matt, an' the mansion-house stairs we were just alangside, when we a' three see'd somethin, but didn't ken what, that was splashing and labbering about i' the tide. it's a fluiker, ki dick; no, ki matt, it's owre big, it luik'd mair like a skyet when aw furst seed it rise: kiv aw--for aw'd gettin a gliff o' the wig-- ods marcy! wey, marrows, becrike, it's lord 'size! sae aw huik'd him, and haul'd him suin into the keel, and o' top o' the huddock aw rowl d him aboot; an' his belly aw rubb'd, an' a skelp'd his back weel, but the water he'd drucken it wadn't run oot. sae i brought him ashore here, an' doctors, in vain, furst this way, then that, to recover him tries; for ye see there he's lying as deed as a stane, an' that's a' aw can tell ye about my lord 'size.' now the jury for close consultation retir'd: some '_death accidental_' were willing to find; some '_god's visitation_' most eager requir'd, and some were for '_fell in the river_' inclin'd: but ere on their verdict they all were agreed, my lord gave a groan, and wide open'd his eyes; then the coach & the trumpeters came with great speed, and back to the mansion-house carried lord 'size. cappy, or the pitman's dog. in a town near newcassel a pitman did dwell, wiv his wife nyemed peg, a tom cat, and himsel; a dog, called cappy, he doated upon, because he was left him by great uncle tom: weel bred cappy, famous au'd cappy, cappy's the dog, tallio, tallio. his tail pitcher-handled, his colour jet black, just a foot and a half was the length of his back; his legs seven inches frev shoulders to paws, and his lugs, like two dockins, hung owre his jaws: weel bred cappy, &c. for huntin of varmin reet cliver was he, and the house frev a' robbers his bark wad keep free: could byeth fetch and carry; could sit on a stuil; or, when frisky, wad hunt water-rats in a puil. weel bred cappy, &c. as ralphy to market one morn did repair, in his hat-band a pipe, and weel kyem'd was his hair, owre his arm hung a basket--thus onward he speels, and enter'd newcassel wi' cap at his heels: weel bred cappy, &c. he hadn't got further than foot of the side, before he fell in with the dog-killing tribe: when a highwayman fellow slipp'd round in a crack, and a thump o' the skull laid him flat on his back: down went cappy, &c. now ralphy _extonish'd_, cap's fate did repine, while it's eyes like twee little pearl buttons did shine: he then spat on his hands, in a fury he grew, cries "gad smash! but awse hev settisfaction o' thou, for knocking down cappy," &c. then this grim-luiken fellow his bludgeon he rais'd, when ralphy ey'd cappy, and then stood amaz'd: but, fearing beside him he might be laid down, threw him into the basket and bang'd out o' town: away went cappy, &c. he breethless gat hyem, and when liften the sneck, his wife exclaim'd 'ralphy! thou's suin getten back: 'getten back!' replied ralphy, 'i wish i'd ne'er gyen, in newcassel they're fellin dogs, lasses, and men; they've knock'd down cappy, &c. if aw gan to newcassel, when comes wor pay week, aw'll ken him agyen by the patch on his cheek: or if ever he enters wor toon wiv his stick, we'll thump him about till he's black as au'd nick,' for killin au'd cappy, &c. wiv tears in her een peggy heard his sad tale, and ralph, wiv confusion and terror grew pale: while cappy's transactions with grief they talk'd o'er, he crap out o' the basket quite brisk on the floor; weel duin cappy! &c. the pitman's courtship. quite soft blew the wind from the west, the sun faintly shone in the sky, when lukey and bessy sat courting, as walking i chanc'd to espy. unheeded i stole close beside them, to hear their discourse was my plan; i listen'd each word they were saying, when lukey his courtship began. last hoppen thou won up my fancy, wi' thy fine silken jacket o' blue; an' smash! if their newcassel lyedies could marrow the curls o' thy brow. that day aw whiles danc'd wi' lang nancy, she couldn't like thou lift her heel: maw grandy lik'd spice singing hinnies, maw comely! aw like thou as weel. thou knaws, ever since we were little, together we've rang'd through the woods; at neets hand in hand toddled hyem, very oft wi' howl kites and torn duds: but now we can talk about mairage, an' lang sair for wor weddin day; when mairied thou's keep a bit shop, and sell things in a huikstery way. and to get us a canny bit leevin, a' kinds o' fine sweetmeats we'll sell, reed herrin, broon syep, and mint candy, black pepper, dye sand, and sma' yell; spice hunters, pick shafts, farden candles, wax dollies, wi' reed leather shoes, chalk pussy-cats, fine curly greens, paper skyets, penny pies, an' huil-doos. aws help thou to tie up the shuggar, at neets when frae wark aw get lowse; and wor dick, that leeves ower by high whickham, he'll myek us broom buzzoms for nowse. like an image thou's stand ower the counter, wi' thy fine muslin cambricker goon; and to let the folks see thou's a lyedy, on a cuddy thou's ride to the toon. there's be matches, pipe clay, and brown dishes, canary seeds, raisins, and fegs; and to please the pit laddies at easter, a dish full o' gilty paste-eggs. wor neybors, that's snuffers and smokers, for wor snuff and backey they'll seek; and to shew them we deal wi' newcassel, twee blackeys sal mense the door cheek. so now for tim bodkin awse send, to darn maw silk breeks at the knee, thou thy ruffles and frills mun get ready, next whitsunday married we'll be. now aw think it's high time to be steppin, we've sitten tiv aw's about lyem. so then, wiv a kiss and a cuddle, these lovers they bent their way hyem. the baboon. sum time since, sum wild beasts there cam to the toon, and in the collection a famous baboon, in uniform drest--if my story you're willin to believe, he gat lowse, and ran te the high fellin. fal de rol la, &c. three pitmen cam up--they were smoking their pipe, when straight in afore them jake lowp'd ower the dike: ho, jemmy! smash, marrow! here's a red-coated jew, for his fyece is a' hairy, and he hez on nae shoe! wey, man, thou's a fuil! for ye divent tell true, if thou says 'at that fellow was ever a jew: aw'll lay thou a quairt, as sure's my nyem's jack, that queer luikin chep's just a russian cossack. he's ne volunteer, aw ken biv his wauk; and if he's outlandish, we'll ken biv his tauk: he's a lang sword ahint him, ye'll see'd when he turns: ony luik at his fyece! smash his byens, how he gurns! tom flang doon his pipe, and set up a greet yell; he's owther a spy, or bonnypairty's awnsell: iv a crack the high fellin was in full hue and cry, to catch bonnypairt, or the hairy french spy. the wives scamper'd off for fear he should bite, the men-folks and dogs ran te grip him se tight; if we catch him, said they, he's hev ne lodging here, ne, not e'en a drop o' reed robin's sma' beer. billy oliver's ramble _between benwell and newcastle._ me nyem it's billy oliver, iv benwell town aw dwell; and aw's a cliver chep, aw's shure, tho' aw de say'd mysel. sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw, sic an a cliver chep am aw. there's not a lad iv a' wur wark, can put or hew wi' me; nor not a lad iv benwell toon, can coax the lasses se. sic an a cliver chep am aw. when aw gans tiv newcassel toon, aw myeks mawsel se fine, wur neybors stand and stare at me, and say, 'eh! what a shine!' sic an a cliver chep am aw. and then aw walks wi' sic an air, that, if the folks hev eyes, they a'wis think it's sum greet man, that's cum in i' disguise. sic an a cliver chep am aw. and when aw gans down westgate-street, and alang biv denton-chare, aw whussels a' the way aw gans, to myek the people stare. sic an a cliver chep am aw. and then aw gans intiv the cock, ca's for a pint o' beer; and when the lassie comes in wid, aw a'wis says, maw dear! sic an a cliver chep am aw. and when aw gets a pint o' beer, aw a'wis sings a sang; for aw've a nice yen aw can sing, six an' thorty vairses lang. sic an a cliver chep am aw. and if the folks that's i' the house, cry, 'haud yor tongue, ye cull!' aw's sure to hev a fight wi' them, for aw's as strang as ony bull. sic an a cliver chep am aw. and when aw've had a fight or twee, and fairly useless grown; aw back, as drunk as aw can be, to canny benwell toon. sic an a cliver chep am aw. a parody on billy oliver's ramble. my nyem is willy dixon, a coachmaker to my trade; and when aw see a pitman come, aw run--because aw's flaid. sic an a cliver chep am aw, am aw, am aw. sic an a cliver chep am aw. on pay-day neets aw gan to the cock, when the pitmen's aw gyen hyem, then aw begins to rair and sing, and myek o' them a gyem. sic an a cliver chep am aw. ou sunday mornings, then, you see, aw dress mesel se fine; and wi' me white drill pantaloons, aw cuts a fearful shine. sic an a cliver chep am aw. then what a swagger aw dis cut, as aw gan alang the street, but aw's myed se like nut-crackers, that maw nose and chin they meet. sic an a cliver chep am aw. then when aw gans to see the lass, it's in the afternoon; an' then we gans a wauking, wi' her fine lustre goon. sic an a cliver chep am aw. and as we gan through jesmond fields, the lasses gyep and luick, and efter we get past them a', they cry, 'ah! what a buck!' sic an a cliver chep am aw. then efter wandering up and down, at neet we toddle hyem; and aw gies her a kiss, you see, and she cries, 'fie for shem!' sic an a cliver chep am aw. then aw seeks out my au'd wark claes, gets on another sark; and on monday morn, at six o'clock, gans whisslin off to wark. sic an a cliver chep am aw. x y z at newcastle races, ; _or, pitmen's luck._ smash! jemmy, let us buss, we'll off and see newcassel races; set dick the trapper for some syep, we'll suin wesh a' wor faces. there's ne'er a lad iv percy main be bet this day for five or ten; wor pockets lin'd wiv notes and cash, amang the cheps we'll cut a dash; for x y z, that bonny steed, he bangs them a' for pith and speed, he's sure to win the cup, man. we reach'd the moor, wi' sairish tews, when they were gawn to start, man: we gav a fellow tuppence each, to stand upon a cart, man: the bets flew round frae side to side; 'the field agyen x y!' they cried: we'd hardly time to lay them a', when in he cam--hurraw! hurraw! 'gad smash!' says aw, 'x y's the steed, he bangs them a' for pith an' speed, we never see'd the like, man!' next, to the tents we hied, to get sum stuffin for wor bags, man; wi' flesh we gaily pang'd wor hides-- smok'd nowse but patten shag, man; while rum an' brandy soak'd each chop, we'd jackey an' fine ginger-pop; we gat what myed us winkin blin'-- when drunkey aw began te sing-- 'od smash! x y, that bonny steed, thou bangs them a' for pith an' speed, we never see'd his like, man!' next up amang the shows we gat, where folks a' stood i' flocks, man, to see a chep play bob and joan, upon a wooden box, man; while bairns and music fill'd the stage, and some, by gox! were grim wi' age: when next au'd grin a powny browt, could tell at yence what people thowt! 'od smash!' says aw, 'if he's the breed of x y z, that bonny steed, thou never see'd his like, man.' but haud! when we cam to the toon, what thinks tou we saw there, man? we saw a blacky puffin, sweetin, suckin in fresh air, man; they said that he could fell an ox-- his name was fighting molinox: but ere he fit another round, his marrow fell'd him to the ground. 'od smash!' says aw, 'if thou's sic breed as x y z, that bonny steed, thou never see'd his like, man!' next 'board a steamer-boat we gat, a laddie rang a bell, man; we haddent sitten varry lang, till byeth asleep we fell, man: but the noise seun myed poor jemmy start-- he thowt 'twas time to gan to wark, for pick and hoggers roar'd out he-- and myed sic noise it waken'd me. 'od smash!' says aw, 'x y's the steed, he bangs them a' for pith and speed, aw never see'd his like, man!' when landed, straight off hyem aw gans, an' thunners at the door, man; the bairns lap ower the bed wi' fright, fell smack upon the floor, man: but to gaur the wifey haud her tongue, show'd her the kelter aw had won: she with a cinder burnt her toes, an' little jacob broke his nose-- the brass aw've getten at the race will buy a patch for jacob's face-- so now my sang is duin, man. newcastle fair; _or, the pitman drinking jackey._ ha' ye been at newcastle fair, and did ye see owse o' great sandy? lord bliss us! what wark there was there; and the folks were drinking of brandy. brandy a shilling a glass! aw star'd, and thought it was shameful: never mind, says aw, canny lass, give us yell, and aw'll drink my wame full. rum te idity, &c. says she, canny man, the yell's cau'd; it comes frev a man they caw mackey, and by my faith! it's byeth sour and au'd; ye'd best hev a drop o' wor jackey. your jackey! says aw, now what's that? aw ne'er heard the nyem o' sic liquor. english gin, canny man, that's flat, and then she set up a great nicker. rum te idity, &c. says aw, divent laugh at poor folks, but gan and bring some o' yur jackey; aw want nyen o' yur jibes or jokes, i' th' mean time aw'll tyek a bit backey. aw just tuik a chew o' pig-tail, she brought in this jackey sae funny: says she, sir, that's better than ale, and held out her hand for the money. rum te idity, &c. there's three-pence to pay, if you please: aw star'd and aw gap'd like a ninny; od smash thee! aw'll sit at my ease, and not stir till aw've spent a half ginny. aw sat and aw drank till quite blind, then aw gat up to gan to the door, but deil smash a door could aw find! and fell flat o' maw fyece on the floor. rum te idity, &c. there aw lay for ever sae lang, and dreamt about rivers and ditches; when waken'd, was singing this sang-- 'smash, jackey, thou's wet a' me breeches!' an' faith! but the sang it was true, for jackey had been sae prevailing. he'd whistled himsel' quickly through, and the chairs and tables were sailing. rum te idity, &c. then rising, aw went maw ways hyem, aw knock'd at the door, and cry'd jenny! says she, canny man, is te lyem, or been wading in tyne, maw hinny? i' troth, she was like for to dee, and just by the way to relieve her, the water's been wading through me, and this jackey's a gay deceiver. rum te idity, &c. if e'er aw drink jackey agyen, may the bitch of a lass, maw adviser, lowp alive down maw throat, with a styen as big as a pulveriser. rum te idity, &c. the little pee dee. 'twas between hebbron and jarrow, there cam on a varry strang gale, the skipper luik'd out o' the huddock, crying, 'smash, man, lower the sail! smash, man, lower the sail! or else to the bottom we'll go! the keel and a' hands wad been lost, had it not been for jemmy munro. fal lal la, &c. the gale blew stranger and stranger, when they cam beside the muck house, the skipper cried out--'jemmy, swing 'er!' but still was as fear'd as a mouse. pee dee ran to clear the anchor, 'it's raffled!' right loudly he roar'd:-- they a' said the gale wad sink her, if it wasn't seun thrawn overboard. the laddie ran sweaten, ran sweaten, the laddie ran sweaten about; till the keel went bump against jarrow, and three o' the bullies lap out: three o' the bullies lap out, and left nyen in but little pee dee; who ran about stamping and crying-- 'how! smash, skipper, what mun aw dee?' they all shouted out frae the kee, 'steer her close in by the shore; and then thraw the painter to me, thou cat-fyec'd son of a whore!' the lad threw the painter ashore, they fasten'd her up to the kee: but whe knaws how far she meyt gyen, had it not been for little pee dee. then into the huddock they gat, and the flesh they began to fry: they talk'd o' the gale as they sat, how a' hands were lost--varry nigh. the skipper roar'd out for a drink, pee dee ran to bring him the can: but odsmash, mun! what d'ye think?-- he cowp'd a' the flesh out o' the pan! fal lal la, &c. the tyne cossacks. not long ago, a fray in shields and sunderland began, 'tween the seamen and ship-owners, how their vessels they should man; but the owners stiff, to them were deaf, which made the seamen for to grumble, for our tyne cossacks they soon did send, the haughty pride of jack to humble. whack row de dow, &c. a letter being sent, they were call'd out without delay; but the gen'ral thought he'd try their skill before they went away: so round the moor he made them scour, before him cut such wond'rous capers; their praise he sounded high and low, in all the three newcassel papers. whack row de dow, &c. he cries, my lads, you're qualified to do such wond'rous feats, that to shields and cleadon you must go, to clear the lanes and streets; destroy all those who may oppose the ships from sailing down the river, and then our prince will sure commend your deeds in arms, my boys, so clever. whack row de dow, &c. the butcher cries, if we begin, we'll surely kill and slay; the tanner swore they'd tan their hides, before they came away; a tailor next, with fear perplext, said, he should like no other station, than to be the doctor's waiting man, if sanction'd by the corporation. whack row de dow, &c. to shields they got, tho' much fatigued, upon their worn-out hacks, some cried, 'the polish lancers come!' and others, 'tyne's cossacks!' by some mishap, the farrier's cap blew off, but met with coolish treatment, into a huckster's shop it went-- now martin's cap's a tatie beatment. whack row de dow, &c. for several weeks they rode about, like poachers seeking game; the marines so bold, as i am told, had better sight than them; for every boat that was afloat, they seiz'd upon with mad-like fury, and to the bottom sent them straight, not asking either judge or jury. whack row de dow, &c. the deed was done by this effort, all opposition gone, the ardour of the heroes cool'd, 'cause they were lookers on: odsmash! says yen, if e'er agyen there's ony mair au'd boats to smatter, we'll hev horses that's web-footed, then we'll fight byeth on the land and watter. whack row de dow, &c. now should our tyne cossacks e'er have to face their enemies, they'll boldly meet them on the land, or on the stormy seas. while the farmers sing, that they, next spring, at spreading dung will ne'er be idle: so--success to these invincibles, their long swords, sadle, bridle. whack row de dow, &c. the pitman's revenge _against buonaparte._ ha' ye heard o' these wondrous dons, that myeks this mighty fuss, man, about invading britain's land? i vow they're wondrous spruce, man: but little do the frenchmen ken about our loyal englishmen; our collier lads are for cockades, and guns to shoot the french, man. tol lol de rol, de rol de rol. then to parade the pitmen went, wi' hearts byeth stout an' strang, man; gad smash the french! we are sae strang, we'll shoot them every one, man! gad smash me sark! if aw wad stick to tumble them a' down the pit, as fast as aw could thraw a coal, aw'd tumble them a' doon the hole, an' close her in abuin, man. tol lol de rol, &c. heads up! says yen, ye silly sow, ye dinna mind the word, man: eyes right! says tom, and wi' a dam, and march off at the word, man: did ever mortals see sic brutes, to order me to lift me cutes! ad smash the fuil! he stands and talks, how can he learn me to walk, that's walk'd this forty year, man! tol lol de rol, &c. but should the frenchmen shew their fyece, upon our waggon-ways, man, then, there upon the road, ye knaw, we'd myek them end their days, man: aye, bonaparte's sel aw'd tyek, and thraw him i' the burning heap, and wi' greet speed aw'd roast him deed; his marrows, then, aw wad nae heed, we'd pick out a' their e'en, man. tol lol de rol, &c. says willy dunn to loyal tom, your words are all a joke, man; for geordy winna hae your help, ye're sic kamstarie folk, man: then willy, lad, we'll rest in peace, in hopes that a' the wars may cease; but awse gi'e ye wull, to understand, as lang as aw can wield me hand, there's nyen but george shall reign, man. tol lol de rol, &c. enough of this hes sure been said, cry'd cowardly willy dunn, man; for should the frenchmen come this way, we'd be ready for to run, man. gad smash you, for a fuil! says tom, for if aw could not use me gun, aw'd tyek me pick, aw'd hew them doon, and run and cry, through a' the toon, god save greet george our king, man! tol lol de rol, &c. bob cranky's 'size sunday. ho'way and aw'll sing thee a tune, man, 'bout huz seein my lord at the toon, man: aw's seer aw was smart, now aw'll lay thee a quart, now, nyen them a' cut a dash like bob cranky! when aw pat on maw blue coat that shines sae, me jacket wi' posies sae fine, sae, maw sark sic sma' threed, man, maw pig-tail sae greet, man! od smash! what a buck was bob cranky! blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters, yellow breeks, and me shoon wi' lang quarters, aw myed wor bairns cry, eh! sarties! ni! ni! sic varry fine things had bob cranky. aw went to au'd tom's and fand nancy; kiv aw, lass, thou's myed to my fancy! aw like thou as weel as a stannin pye heel, ho'way to thee toon wi' bob cranky. as up jenny's backside we were bangin, ki' geordy, how! where are ye gannin? wey t' see my lord sizes, but ye shanna gan aside us, for ye're not half sae fine as bob cranky. ki' geordy, we leeve i' yen raw, wyet, i' yen corf we byeth gan belaw, wyet, at a' things aw've play'd, and to hew, aw'm not flaid, wi' sic in a chep as bob cranky. bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin, at the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin: can ye jump up and shuffle, and cross owre the buckle, when ye dance, like the cliver bob cranky. thou knaws i' my hoggers and drawers, aw'm nyen o' your scarters and clawers: frae the trap door bit laddie t' the spletter his daddie, nyen handles the pick like bob cranky. sae, geordy, od smash my pit sark! thou'd best haud thee whisht about wark, or aw'll sobble thee body, and myek thee nose bloody, if thou sets up thee gob to bob cranky. nan laugh'd--to church we gat without 'im; the great crowd, becrike, how aw hew'd 'em! smasht a keel-bully roar'd, clear the road! whilk's my lord? half sae high as the noble bob cranky. aw lup up, and catch'd just a short gliff o' lord trials, the trumpets and sheriff, wi' the little bit mannies, sae fine and sae canny, ods heft! what a seet for bob cranky! then away we set off to the yell-hoose, wiv a few hearty lasses an' fellows: aw tell'd ower the wig, sae curl'd and sae big; for nyen saw't sae weel as bob cranky. aw gat drunk, fit, and kick'd up a racket, rove me breeks and spoil'd a' me fine jacket; nan cry'd and she cuddled, maw hinny thou's fuddled, ho'way hyem, now me bonny bob cranky! so we stagger'd alang frae the toon, mun, whiles gannin, whiles byeth fairly down, mun; smash, a banksman or hewer, no, not a fine viewer, durst jaw to the noble bob cranky. what care aw for maw new suit, i' tatters, twee blaek een--od smash a' sic matters! when me lord comes agyen, mun, aw'll strive, ev'ry byen, mun, to bang a' wor consarn, ki bob cranky. o' the flesh an' breed day, when wor bun, mun, aw'll buy claes far bonnier thau thou, mun; for, od smash my nyavel! as lang as wor yebble, let's keep up the day! ki bob cranky. bob cranky's leum'nation neet. lord 'sizes leuks weel in coach shinin', whese wig wad let nan's heed an' mine in; but a bonnier seet, was the leum'nation neet-- it dazzled the een o' bob cranky. aboot seven aw gov ower warkin, gat beard off, and put a white sark on; for newcasslers, thowt aw, giff they dinna see me braw, will say 'what a gowk is bob cranky!' a ran to the toon without stoppin', an' fand ilka street like a hoppin; an' the folks stood sae thick, aw sair wish'd for maw pick, to hew oot a way for bob cranky. the guns then went off frae the cassel, seun windors wur a' in a dazzle; ilka place was like day, aw then shouted, 'hurray! there's plenty an' peace for bob cranky!' sum windors had pictures sae bonny! wi' sma' lamps aw can't tell how mony; te count them, aw'm sure, wad bother the viewer-- a greater goggriffer than cranky. aw see'd croons myed o' lamps blue an' reed, whilk aw wad na like to put on my heed! 'g. p. r.' aw see'd next, for wor geordy prince rex:-- nyen spelt it sae weel as bob cranky. sum had anchors of leet high hung up, to shew folk greet bonny was deun up; but, far as aw see, man, as reet it wad be, man, to leet up the pick o' bob cranky. a leg of meat sed, 'doon aw's cummin!' but sum chep aw suen fand was hummin; for aw stopp'd bit belaw, haudin oot a lang paw, but mutton cam ne nearer cranky. a cask on the vicar's pump top, man, markt 'plenty an' peace,' gard me stop, man: thinks aw te mesel, aw's here get sum yell, but only cau'd waiter gat cranky. bonny, shav'd biv a bear, was then shot, man; and biv auld nick weel thump'd in a pot, man; but aw thowt a' the toon shuddent lick him when doon, tho' he'd a greet spite to bob cranky. yen price had the cream o' the bowl, man, wi' goold lamps clagg'd close cheek by jowl, man: it was sick a fine seet, aw could glower'd a' neet, had fu' been the wame o' bob cranky. ne mair seed aw till signal gun fired, out went the leets, an' hyem aw gat, tired: nan ax'd 'bout leum'nations, aw bad her hae patience, an' first fetch sum flesh to bob cranky. aw tell'd her what news aw had heerd, man, that shuggar was sixpence a pund, man; an' good beef at a groat:-- then wor nan clear'd her throat, an' shooted oot, 'plenty for cranky!' 'twas a' lees--for when nan gang'd te toon, an' for yen pund a sixpence pat doon; frae shop she was winnin', when grosser, deuce bin him! teuk a' the cheap shuggar frae cranky. but gif _peace_ brings another gran' neet, aw think folk shou'd hae _plenty_ te eat: _singin' hinnies_, aw'm shoor, an' strang yell at the door, wad better nor candles please cranky. then agyen, what a shem an' a sin! te the pitt dinner nyen ax'd me in: yet aw work like a turk, byeth wi' pick, knife, an' fork-- an' whe's mair a _pittite_ nor cranky. or what could ye a' dee without me, when cau'd ice and snaw com aboot ye? then sair ye wad shiver, for a' ye're sae cliver, an' lang for the pick o' bob cranky! the pitman's skellyscope. oh! tommy, lad, howay! aw's myek thou full o' play; aw'm sartin that thou'll byeth skip and lowpy-o: aw've sic a bonny thing, an' it's myed o' glass an' tin, an' they say it's nyem's a bonny gleediscowpy-o. skellyscowpy-o, &c. a gawn alang the close, a bit laddy cock'd his nose, an' was keekin throud' aside the jabel growpey-o: aw fand that he wad sell'd; sae, odsmash! aw'm proud te tell'd! for twee shillin' bowt his bonny gleediscowpey-o. wey, then aw ran off hyem--nan thowt me myekin gyem; said, my deavy[ ] for a new aw'd had a cowpey-o: but she gurn'd, aye, like a sweeper, when aw held it tiv her peeper, see'd church-windors through my bonny gleediscowpey-o. then the bairns they ran like sheep, a' strove to hev a peep, frae the audest lass, aye doon to the dowpey-o: there dick dang ower cud, myed his nose gush out o' blood, as he ran to see the bonny gleediscowpey-o. there was dwiney little peg, not sae nimmel i' the leg, ower the three-footed stuil gat sic a cowpey-o; and sandy wiv his beak, myed a lump i' mother's cheek, climbin up to see the bonny gleediscowpey-o. but she held it tiv her e'e, aye, till she could hardly see, oh! then aboot the markettin she thowty-o: wey, lukey, man! says she, 'stead o' shuggar, flesh, an' tea, thou's fetch'd us hyem thy bonny gleediscowpey-o. she struck me wi' surprise while she skelly'd wiv her eyes, and aw spak as if aw'd gettin a bit rowpey-o. so, neighbours, tyek a hint, if ye peep ower lang ye'll squint, for aw think they're reetly nyem'd a gleediscowpey-o. footnote : a term for the safety lamp. the bonny keel laddie. maw bonny keel laddie, maw canny keel laddie, maw bonny keel laddie for me, o! he sits in his keel, as black as the deil, and he brings the white money to me, o. ha' ye seen owt o' maw canny man, an' are ye sure he's weel, o? he's gyen ower land, wiv a stick in his hand, to help to moor the keel, o. the canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie, the canny keel laddie for me, o; he sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buddock, and brings the white money to me, o. maw canny hinny. where hest te been, maw canny hinny? an' where hest te been, maw bonny bairn? aw was up an' doon seeking for maw hinny, aw was through the toon seekin for maw bairn: aw went up the butcher bank and doon grundin chare, caw'd at the dun cow, but aw cuddent find thee there. where hest te been, maw canny hinny? an' where hest te been, maw bonny bairn, &c. then aw went t' th' cassel-garth and caw'd on johnny fife. the beer drawer tell'd me she ne'er saw thee in her life. where hest te been, &c. then aw went into the three bulls' heads, and down the lang stairs, and a' the way alang the close, as far as mr. mayor's. where hest te been, &c. fra there aw went alang the brig, and up to jackson's chare, then back agyen to the cross keys, but cuddent find thee there. where hest te been, &c. then comin out o' pipergate, aw met wi' willy rigg, whe tell'd me that he saw the stannen p----n on the brig where hest te been, &c. cummin alang the brig agyen, aw met wi' cristy gee, he tell'd me that he saw thee gannin down humes's entery. where hest te been, &c. where hev aw been! aw seun can tell ye that; cummin up the kee, aw met wi' peter pratt; meetin peter pratt, we met wi' tommy wear, and went to humes's t' get a gill o' beer. there's where aw've been, maw canny hinny, there's where aw've been, maw bonny lamb! wast tu up an' down, seekin for thee hinny? wast tu up an' down, seekin for thee lamb? then aw met yur ben, and we were like to fight, and when we cam to sandgate it was pick night; crossin the road, aw met wi' bobby swinny.-- hing on the girdle, let's hev a singin hinny. a' me sorrow's ower now aw've fund maw hinny; a' me sorrow's ower now aw've fund maw bairn; lang may aw shoot, maw canny hinny! lang may aw shoot, maw bonny bairn! bob cranky's account _of the ascent of mr. sadler's balloon, from newcastle, sept. , ._ ho'way, a' me marrows, big, little, and drest, the first of a' seets may be seen; it's the balloon, man, see greet! aye, faiks! it's ne jest, tho' it seems, a' the warld, like a dream. aw read iv the papers, by gocks! aw remember, it's to flee without wings i' the air, on this varry friday, the furst of september, be it cloudy, wet weather, or fair. and a man, mun, there means, in this varry balloon, above, 'mang the stars to fly, and to haud a converse wi' the man i' the moon, and cockwebs to soop frae the sky. so we started frae hyem by eight i' the morn, byeth faither and mother and son, but fand a' wor neighbours had started before, to get in good time for the fun. the lanes were a' crouded, some riding, some walking, aw ne'er see'd the like iv my life; 'twas bedlam broke oot, aw thowt by their talking, every bairn, lad, lass, and the wife. the folks at the winders a' jeer'd as we past, an' thowt' a' wor numbers surprisin; they star'd and they glower'd, and axed in jest, are all of ye pitmen a rising? aw fand, at the toon, te, the shops a' shut up, and the streets wi' folks were sae flocken; the walls wi' balloon papers sae closely clagg'd up, be cavers! it luckt like a hoppen. a fellow was turnin it a' into a joke, another was a' the folks hummin, while a third said, it was a bag full o' smoke, that ower wor heeds was a cummin. to the furst o' these cheps, says aw, nyen o' yur fun, or aw'll lay thee at length on the styens, or thy teeth aw'll beat oot, as sure as a gun, and mevies aw'll chowk ye wi' byens. to the beak o' the second aw held up me fist, d--mn! aw'll bray ye as black as a craw, aw'll knock oot yur e'e, if aw don't aw'll be kist, an' mump a' the slack o' yur jaw. aw pat them to reets, an' onward aw steer'd, an' wonder'd the folks aw had see'd, but a' was palaver that ever aw heurd, so aw walk'd on as other folk did. at last aw gat up on the top o' sum sheds, biv the help of an au'd crazy lether; an' ower the tops o' ten thousand folks' heads, aw suen gat a gliff o' the blether. d--mn, a blether aw call it! by gocks, aw am reet, for o' silk dipt iv leadeater melted it's myed of, an' lord! what a wonderful seet, when the gun tell'd that it was _filated_. 'twas just like the boiler at wor bella pit, o'er which were a great cabbage net, which fasten'd, by a parcel of strings sae fit, a corf for the mannie to sit. as aw sat at me ease aw cud hear a' the folk gie their notions about the balloon; aw thowt aw shud brust when aw heurd their strange talk, aboot the man's gaun to the moon. says yen, iv a whisper, aw think aw hev heurd he is carryin a letter to bonny, that's ower the sea to flee like a burd; the thowt, by my jinkers! was funny. a chep wiv a fyece like a poor country bumpkin, sed he heurd, but may hap tisent true, that the thing whilk they saw was a great silken pumpkin by me eye, what a lilly-ba-loo! another said, sadler (for that is the nyem o' the man) may pay dear for his frolic, when he's up iv the clouds (a stree for his fame!) his guts may have twangs of the cholic. the man a' this time the great blether was filling, wiv stuff that wad myed a dog sick, it smelt just as though they were garvage distilling, till at length it was full as a tick. they next strain'd the ropes to keep the thing steady, put colley and drams iv the boat; then crack went the cannon, to say it was ready, an' aw see'd the blether afloat. not a word was there heurd, a' eyes were a starin, for the off ganen moment was near: to see sic a crowd se whisht was amazen, aw thowt aw fand palish and queer. after waitin a wee, aw see'd him come to, shaken hands, as aw thowt, wiv his friend; of his mountin the corf aw had a full view, as he sat his ways down at the end. the ropes were then cut, and upwards he went, a wavin his flag i' the air; ev'ry heed was turn'd up, and a' eye's wur intent on this comical new flying chair: it went it's ways up like a lavrick sae hee, till it luckt 'bout the size of a skyate; when in tiv a cloud it was lost t' the e'e, aw wisht the man better i' fate. bob cranky's adieu. fareweel, fareweel, maw comely pet! aw's forc'd three weeks to leave thee; aw's doon for _par'ment duty_ set, o dinna let it grieve thee! maw hinny! wipe them een, sae breet, that mine wi' love did dazzle; when tha' heart's sad can mine be leet? come, ho'way get a gill o' beer, thee heart te cheer: an' when thou sees me mairch away, whiles in, whiles oot o' step, nae doot, 'bob cranky's gane,' thou'lt sobbing say, 'a sowgering to newcassel!' come, dinna, dinna whinge an' whipe, like yammering isbel macky; cheer up, maw hinny! leet thee pipe, an' tyek a blast o' backy! it's but for yen an' twenty days, the folks's een aw'll dazzle.-- prood, swagg'ring i' maw fine reed claes: ods heft! maw pit claes--dis thou hear? are warse o' wear; mind cloot them weel, when aw's away; an' a posie goon aw'll buy thee soon, an' thou's drink thy tea--aye, twice a-day, when aw cum frae newcassel. becrike! aw's up tiv every rig, sae dinna doot, maw hinny! but at the _blue styen_ o' the brig aw'll hae maw mairchin ginny. a guinea! wuks! sae strange a seet maw een wi' joy wad dazzle; but aw'll hed spent that varry neet for money, hinny! ower neet to keep, wad brick maw sleep: sae, smash! aw think't a wiser way, wi' flesh an' beer mesel to cheer, the lang three weeks that aw've to stay a sowgering at newcassel. but whisht! the sairjeant's tongue aw hear, 'fa' in! fa' in!' he's yelpin: the fifes are whusslin loud and clear, and sair the drums they're skelpin. fareweel, maw comely! aw mun gang the gen'ral's een to dazzle! but, hinny! if the time seems lang, an' thou freets about me neet and day; then come away, seek out the yell-house where aw stay, an' we'll kiss and cuddle; an' mony a fuddle sall drive the langsome hours away, when sowgering at newcassel. the mayor of bourdeaux; _or, mally's mistake._ as jackey sat lowsin his buttons, and rowlin his great backey chow, the bells o' the toon 'gan to tinkle; cries mally, what's happen'd us now? ho! jump and fling off thy au'd neet-cap, and slip on thy lang-quarter'd shoes, ere thou gets hauf way up the key, ye'll meet sum that can tell ye the news. fol de rol, &c. as mally was puffin an' runnin, a gentleman's flonkey she met; 'canny man, ye mun tell us the news, or ye'll set wor au'd man i' the pet.' the mayor of bourdeaux, a french noble, has com'd to newcassel with speed: to neet he sleeps sound at wor mayor's, and to morn he'll be at the queen's heed. fol de rol, &c. now mally thank'd him wiv a curtsey, and back tiv her jackey did prance: 'mary mordox, a fine fitter's leydy's com'd ower in a coble frae france.' 'mary mordox, a fine fitter's leydy! ise warrant she's some frolicksome jade, and com'd to newcassel for fashions, or else to suspect the coal trade.' fol de rol, &c. so to peter's thou's gan i' the mornin, gan suin an' thou'll get a good pleyce; if thou canna get haud of her paw, thou mun get a guid luick at her fyece: and if ye can but get a word at her, and mind now ye divent think shem, say, 'please, ma'm, they ca' my wife mary, wor next little bairn's be the syem.' fol de rol, &c. so betimes the next mornin he travels, and up to the queen's head he goes, where a skinny chep luik'd frev a winder, wi' white powther'd wig an' lang nose: a fine butterflee coat wi' gowld buttons, a' man! how the folks did hurro; aw thowt he'd fled from some toy-shop i' lunnin, or else frae sum grand wax-work show. fol de rol, &c. smash! mally, ye've tell'd a big lee, for a man's not a woman, aw'll swear: but he hardly had spoken these words, till out tumbled a cask o' strang beer: like a cat jackey flang his leg ower, ay, like bacchus he sat at his ease, tiv aw's fuddled, odsmash! ye may tauk yor french gabberish as lang as ye please. fol de rol, &c. they crush'd sair, but jack never minded, till wi' liquor he'd lowsen'd his bags; at last a great thrust dang him ower, he lay a' his lang length on the flags: iv an instant mall seiz'd his pea jacket, says she, is thou drunk, or thou's lyem? the mayors o' wor box! smash, aw'm fuddled! o mally, wilt thou lead me hyem. fol de rol, &c. swalwell hopping. lads! myek a ring, an' hear huz sing the sport we had at swalwell, o; wor merry play. o' the hoppen day, ho'way, marrows! an' aw'll tell ye, o. the sun shines warm on whickham bank, let's a' lie doon at dolly's, o; an' hear 'bout mony a funny prank, play'd by the lads at crowley's, o. there was sam, o zoons! wiv's pantaloons, an' gravat up ower his gobby, o; an' willy, thou, wi' the jacket blue, thou was the varry bobby, o: there was knack knee'd mat, wiv's purple suit, an' hopper-a-s'd dick, a' yellow, o: great tom was there, wi' h----ple's au'd coat, an' buck-sheen'd bob frae stella, o. when we wor drest, it was confest we shem'd the cheps frae newcassel, o: so away we set to wor toon gyet, to jeer them a' as they pass'd us, o: we shouted some, and some dung down; lobstrop'lus fellows, we kick'd them, o: some culls went hyem, some crush'd to toon, some gat aboot by whickham, o. the spree com on-- the hat was won by carrot-pow'd jenny's jackey, o: what a fyace, begok! had muckle-mouth'd jock, when he twin'd his jaws for the backy, o! the kilted lasses fell tid, pell mell, wi' 'talli-i-o the grinder,' o-- the smock was gi'en to slavering nell, ye'd dropp'd had ye been behind her, o. wor dance began wi' buck-tyuth'd nan, an' geordy, thou'd jen collin, o; while the merry black, wi' mony a crack, set the tamboureen a rolling, o. like wor forge-hammer we bet sae true, an' shuk raw's house sae soundly, o: tuff canna cum up wi' crowley's crew, nor thump the tune sae roundly, o. then gyetside jack, wiv's bloody back, wad dance wi' goggle-eye'd mally, o: but up cam nick an' gav him a kick, and a canny bit kind of a fally, o: that day a' hawks's blacks may rue,-- they gat mony a varry sair clanker, o: can they de owse wi' crowley's crew, frev a needle tiv an anchor, o? what's that to say to the bonny fray we had wi' skipper robin, o? the keel bullies a', byeth greet an' sma', myed a b----rly tide o' the hoppen, o. gleed will cried, _ma-a_! up lup au'd frank, an' robin, that marry'd his dowter, o: we hammer'd their ribs like an anchor shank; they fand it six weeks efter, o. bald pyat jone carr wad hev a bit spar, to help his marrows away wid, o; but poor au'd fellow, he'd getten ower mellow, so we doon'd byth him and davy, o: then petticoat robin jump'd up agyen, wiv's gully to marcykree huz a' but willanton dan laid him flat wiv a styen: hurrah! for crowley's crew, boys, a'! their hash was sattled, so off they rattled, an' we jigg'd it up sae hearty, o. wi' mony a shiver, an' lowp sae cliver, can newcassel turn out sic a party, o? when, wheit dyun ower, the fiddlers went, we stagger'd a hint sae merry, o; an thro' wor toon, till fairly spent, roar'd--crowley's crew an' glory, o! winlaton hopping. ye sons of glee come join with me, ye who love mirth and toping, o, you'll ne'er refuse to hear my muse sing of winlaton fam'd hopping, o, to tenche's hotel let's retire, to tipple away so neatly, o: the fiddle and song you'll sure admire, together they sound so sweetly, o. tal lal la, &c. with box and die you'll sammy spy, of late sword-dancers' bessy, o-- all patch'd and torn with tail and horn, just like a de'il in dressy, o: but late discharg'd from that employ, this scheme popp'd in his noddle, o; which fill'd his little heart with joy, and pleas'd blithe sammy doddle, o. close by the stocks, his dies and box he rattled away so rarely, o; both youth and age did he engage, together they play'd so cheerly, o: while just close by the sticks did fly at spice on knobs of woody, o: 'how! mind my legs!' the youngsters cry, 'wey, man, thou's drawn the bloody!' o. rang'd in a row, a glorious show of spice, and nuts for cracking, o; with handsome toys for girls and boys, grac'd winlaton fam'd hopping, o. each to the stalls led his dear lass, and treat her there so sweetly, o; then straight retire to drink a glass, an' shuffle an' cut so neatly, o. ye men so wise who knowledge prize, let not this scene confound ye, o; at winship's door might ye explore the world a' running round ye, o: blithe boys and girls on horse and chair, flew round without e'er stopping, o; sure blaydon races can't compare with winlaton fam'd hopping, o. the night came on, with dance and song, each public-house did jingle, o; all ranks did swear to banish care, the married and the single, o: they tript away till morning light, then slept sound without rocking, o; next day got drunk in merry plight, and jaw'd about the hopping, o. at last dull care his crest did rear, our heads he sore did riddle, o; till peacock drew his pipes and blew, and tenche he tun'd his fiddle, o; then painter jack he led the van, the drum did join in chorus, o,-- the old and young then danc'd and sung, dull care fled far before us, o. no courtier fine, nor grave divine, that's got the whole he wishes, o, will ever be so blithe as we, with all their loaves and fishes, o: then grant, o jove! our ardent prayer, and happy still you'll find us, o;-- let pining want and haggard care, a day's march keep behind us, o. the sandgate girl's lamentation. i was a young maiden truly, and lived in sandgate-street; i thought to marry a good man, to keep me warm at neet. some good-like body, some bonny body, to be with me at noon; but last i married a keelman, and my good days are done. i thought to marry a parson, to hear me say my prayers; but i have married a keelman, and he kicks me down the stairs. he's an ugly body, a bubbly body, an ill-far'd ugly loon; and i have married a keelman, and my good days are done. i thought to marry a dyer, to dye my apron blue; and i have married a keelman, and he makes me sorely rue. he's an ugly body, a bubbly body, an ill-far'd ugly loon; and i have married a keelman, and my good days are done. i thought to marry a joiner, to make me chair and stool; but i have married a keelman, and he's a perfect fool. he's an ugly body, a bubbly body, an ill-far'd ugly loon; and i have married a keelman, and my good days are done. i thought to marry a sailor, to bring me sugar and tea; but i have married a keelman, and that he lets me see. he's an ugly body, a bubbly body, an ill-far'd ugly loon; and i have married a keelman, and my good days are done. the collier's rant. as me and my marrow was gannin to wark, we met wi' the de'il, it was in the dark; i up wi' my pick, it being in the neet, and knock'd off his horns, likewise his club feet. follow the horses, johnny, my lad, oh! follow them through, my canny lad, oh! follow the horses, johnny, my lad, oh! oh, lad, lie away, canny lad, oh! as me and my marrow was putting the tram, the lowe it went oot, and my marrow went wrang; you would have laugh'd had you seen the gam, the de'il gat my marrow, but i gat the tram. follow the horses, &c. oh, marrow! oh, marrow! what dost thou think? i've broken my bottle and spilt a' my drink; i've lost a' my shin-splints amang the greet stanes, draw me to the shaft, it's time to gan hame. follow the horses, &c. oh, marrow! oh, marrow! where hest thou been? driving the drift frae the low seam, driving the drift frae the low seam: haud up the lowe, lad! de'il stop oot thy een! follow the horse, &c. oh, marrow! oh, marrow! this is wor pay week, we'll get penny loaves, and drink to our beek; and we'll fill up our bumper, and round it shall go, follow the horses, johnny lad, oh! follow the horses, &c. there is me horse, and there is me tram; twee horns full of greese will myek her to gan; there is me hoggers, likewise me half shoon, and smash me heart! marrow, me putting's a' done! follow the horses, &c. weel may the keel row. as i cam thro' sandgate, thro' sandgate, thro' sandgate, as i cam thro' sandgate, i heard a lassie sing, weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in. he wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet, he wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin: and weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, and weel may the keel row that my laddie's in. the new keel row. whe's like my johnny, sae leish, sae blithe, sae bonny? he's foremost 'mang the mony keel lads o' coaly tyne; he'll set or row sae tightly, or in the dance sae sprightly, he'll cut and shuffle sightly: 'tis true--were he not mine. weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in: he wears a blue bonnet, a bonnet, a bonnet, he wears a blue bonnet, a dimple in his chin. he's nae mair o' learning, than tells his weekly earning, yet reet frae wrang discerning, tho' brave, nae bruiser he: tho' he no worth a plack is, his awn coat on his back is, and nyen can say that black is the white o' johnny's e'e. weel may the keel row, &c. he takes his quairt right dearly, each comin' pay-day, nearly, then talks o, latin o--cheerly, or mavies jaws away; how caring not a feather, nelson and he together, the springey french did lether. and gar'd them shab away. weel may the keel row, &c. we're a' kings comparely, in each i'd spy a fairly, an' ay wad johnny barly, he gets sic bonny bairns: go bon, the queen, or misses, but wad, for johnny's kisses, luik upon as blisses, scrimp meals, caff beds, and dairns. weel may the keel row, &c. wor lads, like their deddy, to fight the french are ready; but gie's a peace that's steady, and breed cheep as langsyne; may a' the press-gang perish, each lass her laddie cherish: lang may the coal trade flourish upon the dingy tyne. weel may the keel row, &c. breet star o' heaton, you're ay wor darling sweet on'; may heaven's blessings leet on your lyedy, bairns, and ye! god bless the king and nation! each bravely fill his station: our canny _corporation_, lang may they sing, wi' me, weel may the keel row, &c. the sandhill monkey. a story aw's gaun for to tell, an' t' ye it may luik varry strange, it was in a shop on the sandhill, when the craw's nest was on the exchange. a monkey was each day drest soon, ahint the coonter he sat i' the shop, whe cam in an' their money laid doon, jaco straight in the till would it pop. rum ti iddity, &c. a skipper he cam in yen day, he coudent help luiking at jackey, on the coonter his money did lay, saying, 'please, sir, an ounce of rag backey!' his money jack popt in the till, the skipper kept luiking at him, a' the time on his seat he sat still, and' he luik'd at the skipper quite grim. rum ti iddity, &c. 'now pray, sir, will ye bear a hand? for aw maun be at sheels now this tide-- now pray be as sharp as ye can, for wor keel she is at the keyside;-- au'd man, are ye deef?' then he cried, an' intiv a passion he fell, on the counter lay some ready weigh'd, says he, 'smash! but aw'll help mysel!' rum ti iddity, &c. 'then he tuik up an ounce o' rag backey, but afore he cud get turn'd about, off his seat then upstarted au'd jackey, an' catch'd him hard fast by the snout; he roar'd and he shouted out 'murder!' the maister he see'd a' the fun, not wishing the joke to gan farther, straight intiv the shop then he run. rum ti iddity, &c. 'what's the matter, my canny good man?' an' he scarcely could keep in the laugh; 'take this au'd man off me--bear a hand! for aw think now that's mater aneuf:-- what's the mater, ye ax?--smash! that's funny!' (an' he still kept his eye upon jackey) 'aw paid yor grandfayther the money, but he'll not let me hae me backey. rum ti iddity, &c. 'now mind ye, maw canny good man, if ever thou cums in wor keel, for the trick thou hes play'd me the day, wor pee dee shall sobble ye weel; eh, for a' yor fine claes i'll engage, an' for a' ye're a sturdy au'd man, tho' he's nobbut twelve years of age, he shall thresh ye till ye canna gan. rum ti iddity, &c. the skipper's dream. t'other day ye mun knaw, wey aw'd had a sup beer; it ran i' maw heed, and myed me sae queer, that aw lay doon to sleep i' wor huddock sae snug, an' dreem'd sic a dreem as gar'd me scart me lug. aw dreem'd that the queerest man iver aw see'd, cam stumping alang wi' three hats on his heed; a goon on like a preest, (mind aw's telling ne lees) an' at his side there was hangin a greet bunch o' kees. he stares i' maw fyece, and says, 'how d'ye de?' 'aw's teufish,' says aw, 'canny man, how are ye?' then he says, wiv a voice gar'd me trimmle, aw's shure, 'aw's varry weel, thank ye, but yor day is nigh ower.' aw studdies awhile, then says aw, 'are ye deeth, come here for to wise oot a poor fellow's breeth?' he says, 'no, aw'm the pope, cum to try if aw can save a vile wretch like ye, fra the nasty bad man.' he said, yen st. peter gov him them great keys to let into hiven wheiver he'd please; an' if aw'd turn papish, and giv him a note, he'd send me to hiven, without ony doot. then a yel heep o' stuff he talk'd aboot sin, an' sed he'd forgi' me whativer aw'd deun; an' if that aw'd murther'd byeth fayther and muther, for a five shillin peece, wey, aw might kill me bruther. says aw, 'mister pope, gi's ne mair o' yur tauk, but oot o' wor huddock aw's beg ye to wauk; an' if ye divent get oot before aw count _nine_, byeth ye and yor keys, man, aw'll fling i' the tyne.' so aw on tiv me feet wiv a bit iv a skip, for aw ment for to give him an orangeman's grip; but aw waken'd just then in a terrible stew, an' fand it a dreem as aw've teld ye just now. the skipper's account of the orangemen's procession. wor keel it lay dry on a sand near the key, an' it happen'd as how that aw had nowt te de; the bells began ringin just when it struck ten, an' they sed that it was for the loyal orangemen. derry down, &c. aw on t' the key iv a deuce iv a hurry, an' brak byeth me shins cummin ower a whurry; but aw haddent time to mind them tho' they smarted sare, for the _purcession_ was just comin oot iv a chare. derry down, &c. aw thowt that aw'd seen bonny seets i' my time, 'mang wor lads that are reckon'd the pride o' the tyne; when they get theirsels drest i' wor heed-meetin day, wiv a band o' musicianors afore them to play. derry down, &c. but the forst seet aw see'd put maw pipe oot, aw's shure, 'twas a canny au'd mannie that mairch'd on afore; wiv a sword iv his hand, a cock'd hat on his heed, an' the bonniest new claes on that ever aw see'd. derry down, &c. there was colours, and candles, and gilt things galore, an' things that aw ne'er see'd the like on afore; an' sum douce-leukin cheps that war aw dress'd i' black, but they every yen had a cow's horn on his back. derry down, &c. the fine things they com on se thick and se fast, that aw cuddent tell what was forst or what last; an' aw see'd a queer man that the folks call'd a preest, an' four cheps swettin under a greet goolden kist. derry down, &c. aw laugh'd, an' aw gurn'd, an' aw gov a greet shoot, an' aw dang a' the bairns an' the au'd wives aboot; but maw booels were put in a dismal confloption, when aw see'd sum cheps cum wiv a bairn's bonny coffin. derry down, &c. aw was in sad consarnment, as ye may be shure, for a barryin like this, wey aw ne'er see'd afore; for the morners war drest up wiv sashes an' ribbins, an' the band play'd as thof they war gaun tiv a weddin. derry down, &c. aw says tiv a man, says aw, 'sor, if ye please, can ye tell us whe's deed?' an' he civilly says, 'whe's deed aw divent knaw, but as far as aw reckin, it's the de'il or yen pop that they hev i' thon coffin.' derry down, &c. aw met wor pee dee when aw gat tiv the jail, he says, 'let's intiv the chorch, can ye clim o'er the rail? for there's lasses wi' fine orange ribbins gaen in, an' that hatchet-fyec'd wife says they're gannin te sing. derry down, &c. aw says te the lad. 'aw's be in iv a crack!' but a cunstibbel says, 'man! yor fyece is se black, that if ye gan in--it's the truth aw declare, ye'll be taen for au'd nick, and they'll barry ye there. derry down, &c. so aw see'd ne mair, but aw hard the folks say, that they'd cum agyen on sum other day; so aw said tiv wor lad, 'wey we've seen a grand seet, an' we'll drink aw their hilths agyen setterday neet.' derry down, &c. the politicians. last setterday, as we were gannin frae newcassel, dick martin and i, we caw'd at the sign o' the cannon, because we byeth turn'd varry dry. they were tauking o' reedin the papers, 'bout cobbett and his politics, how fine he exposes the capers of government's comical tricks. he tauks o' the millions expenses browt on us by gannin te war: but he maun be a man o' greet senses, or he cuddent hae reckon'd sae far. he tauks o' the national debt, o' sinequeers, pensions, and such; wey, aw think how wor mally wad fret, if she'd awn just quarter as much. mister government mun hae greet credit, or he ne'er wad get intiv debt; but they tell yen he hez sike a spirit, aw's fish that comes intiv his net, says dick, if aw wanted a shillin, want, then, yor certain aw must; for, if yen was ever sae willin, ye divent ken where to seek trust. we expected that when it cam peace, wor sowgers and sailors reduc'd, wor burdens they quickly wad cease, but, smash! man, we've been sair seduc'd. says dicky, the taxes this year, myeks yen cry, iv a rage, devil hang them! for the backey an' yell they're sae dear-- wey, it's just a cologuin amang them. good folks! aw wad hev ye beware of some that in parliament sit; for they're not hauf sae good as they waur, sin' that taistrel they caw'd billy pitt. if ye 'loo them te de as they please, believe me a'm shure, aye, an' sartin, they'll bring us syef doon te wor knees! so ended byeth dick and jack martin. till the tide came in. while strolling down sweet sandgate-street, a man o' war's blade i chanc'd to meet; to the sign of the ship i haul'd him in, to drink a good glass till the tide came in. till the tide came in, &c. i took in tow young squinting meg, who well in the dance could shake her leg; my friend haul'd oyster mally in, and we jigg'd them about till the tide came in. till the tide came in, &c. we bows'd away till the break of day, then ask'd what shot we had to pay? you've drank, said the host, nine pints of gin; so we paid him his due--now the tide was in. now the tide was in, &c. the sandgate lassie's lament. they've prest my dear johnny, sae sprightly and bonny-- alack! i shall ne'er mair de weel, o; the kidnapping squad laid hold of my lad as he was unmooring the keel, o. o my sweet laddie, my canny keel laddie, sae handsome, sae canty, and free, o; had he staid on the tyne, ere now he'd been mine, but, oh! he's far ower the sea, o. should he fall by commotion, or sink in the ocean, (may sic tidings ne'er come to the kee, o!) i could ne'er mair be glad, for the loss of my lad wad break my poor heart, and i'd dee, o. o my sweet laddie, &c. but should my dear tar come safe from the war, what heart-bounding joy wad i feel, o! to the church we wad flee, and married be, and again he should row in his keel, o. o my sweet laddie! my canny keel laddie! sae handsome, sae canty, and free, o! though far frae the tyne, i still hope he'll be mine, and live happy as onie can be, o. hydrophobie, or the skipper & quaker. as skipper carr and markie dunn, were gannin, drunk, through sandgate-- a dog bit mark and off did run, but sair the poor sowl fand it; the skipper in a voice se rough-- aw warn'd, says he, its mad eneugh-- howay and get some doctor's stuff, for fear of hydrophobie! fal de ral, &c. the doctor dress'd the wound se wide, and left poor markie smartin-- then, for a joke, tells carr, aside, mark wad gan mad for sartin:-- noo, skipper, mind, when in yor keel, be sure that ye watch markie weel, if he begins to bark and squeel, depend it's hydrophobie! fal de ral, &c. for shields, next day, they sail'd wi' coal, and teuk on board a quaker, who wish'd to go as far's dent's hole, to see a friend call'd baker: the skipper whisper'd in his ear-- wor markie will gan mad, aw fear! he'll bite us a'--as sure's yor here, we'll get the hydrophobie! fal de ral, &c. said quack--i hope this can't be true, nay, friend, thou art mistaken; we must not fear what man can do-- yea! i will stand unshaken! the skipper, to complete the farce, said, maister quaker, what's far warse, a b----g dog bit markie's a--e, and browt on hydrophobie! fal de ral, &c. now markie overheard their talk, thinks he, aw'll try the quaker-- makes p. d. to the huddock walk, of fun to be partaker: to howl an' bark he wasn't slack, the quaker ow'rboard in a crack, with the fat skipper on his back, for fear of hydrophobie! fal de ral, &c. how p. d. laugh'd to see the two, who to be sav'd, were striving-- mark haul'd them out wi' much ado, and call'd them culls for diving:-- the quaker suen was put on shore, for he was frighten'd verry sore-- the skipper promis'd never more to mention hydrophobie! fal de ral, &c. the keelman and the grindstone. not lang since some keelmen were gaun doon to sheels, when a hoop round some froth cam alangside their keel; the skipper saw'd first, and he gov a greet shout, how, b----r, man, dick, here's a grunstan afloat, derry down, &c. dick leuk'd, and he thowt that the skipper was reet, so they'd hev her ashore, and then sell her that neet: then he jump'd on to fetch her--my eyes what a splatter! ne grunstan was there, for he fand it was water. derry down, &c. the skipper astonish'd, quite struck wi' surprise, he roar'd out to dickey when he saw him rise-- how, smash, marrow--dick, ho!--what is thou about? come here, mun, and let's hae the grunstan tyen out. derry down, &c. a grunstan! says dick--wey, ye slavering cull, wi' water maw belly and pockets are full; by the gowkey, aw'll sweer that ye're drunk, daft, or doating-- its nee grunstan at a', but sum awd iron floating. derry down, &c. newcastle wonders; _or, hackney coach customers_. since the hackneys began in newcastle to run, there's some tricks been play'd off which has myed lots o' fun: for poor folks can ride now, that ne'er rode before, the expense is se canny, its suen gettin ower. gee, ho, dobbin, &c. mang the rest o' the jokes was a lad frae the fell, where he lives wiv his feyther, his nyem's geordy bell; for hewin there's nyen can touch geordy for skill, when he comes to newcassel he gets a good gill. gee, ho, dobbin, &c. one day being cramm'd wi' fat flesh and strang beer, left some friends at the cock, and away he did steer, wiv his hat on three hairs, through wheat market did stride, when a coachman cam up, and said--sir, will ye ride? gee, ho, dobbin, &c. wey, smash noo--whe's thou, man?--how, what dis thou mean?-- i drive the best coach, sir, that ever was seen.-- to ride iv a coach! smash, says geordy, aw's willin'-- aw'll ride i' yor coach though it cost me ten shillin'! so gee, ho, dobbin, &c. then into the coach geordy claver'd wi' speed, and out at the window he popp'd his greet heed:-- pray, where shall i drive, sir--please give me the name? drive us a' the toon ower, man, an' then drive us hyem! gee, ho, dobbin, &c. then up and doon street how they rattled alang, tiv a chep wi' the news tiv aud geordy did bang, 'bout his son in the coach, and for truth, did relate, he was owther turn'd mayor, or the great magistrate! gee, ho, dobbin, &c. aud geordy did caper till myestly deun ower, when coachee, suen after, drove up to his door-- young geordy stept out, caus'd their hopes suen to stagger, said he'd paid for a ride just to cut a bit swagger. gee, ho, dobbin, &c. to ride frae newcassel mun cost ye some brass: od smash, now, says geordy, thou talks like an ass! for half-a-crown piece thou may ride to the fell-- an' for eighteen-pence mair, smash, they'll drive ye to h--ll! gee, ho, dobbin, &c. aud geordy then thowt there was comfort in store, for contrivance the coaches nyen could come before: poor men that are tied to bad wives needn't stick-- just tip coachee the brass an' they're off tiv au'd nick. gee, ho, dobbin, &c. quayside ditty, _for february_, . ah! what's yor news the day, mr. mayor, mr. mayor? ah! what's yor news the day, mr. mayor? the folks of sheels, they say, want wor custom house away, and ye canna say them nay, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, and ye canna say them nay, mr. mayor. but dinna let it gan, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, or, ye'll ruin us tiv a man, mr. mayor: they say a branch 'ill dee, but next they'll tyek the tree, and smash wor canny kee, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. and smash, &c. for ah! they're greedy dogs, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, they'd grub us up like hogs, mr. mayor: if the custom-house they touch, they wad na scruple much for to bolt wor very hutch, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. for to bolt, &c. before it be ower lang, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, then ca' up a' yor gang, mr. mayor: yor corporation chiels, they say they're deep as deils, and they hate the folk of sheels, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, and they hate, &c. ah! get wor kee-side sparks, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, wor fitters and their clerks, mr. mayor, to help to bar this stroke-- for, faicks, they are the folk that canna bide the joke, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. that canna bide, &c. and egg wor men of news, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, wor mercury and hues, mr. mayor, wi' solomon the wise, their cause to stigmatize, and trump wors to the skies, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. and trump wors, &c. how wad we grieve to see, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, the grass grow on the kee, mr. mayor? so get the weighty prayers of the porters in the chares, and the wives that sell the wares, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. and the wives, &c. a butcher's off frae sheels, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, wi' the deevil at his heels, mr. mayor: faicks, all the way to lunnin, just like a strang tide runnin, and ah he's deev'lish cunnin, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. and ah he's, &c. but nat's as deep as he, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. send him to lunnin tee, mr. mayor, he has wit, we may suppose, frev his winkers tiv his toes, since the major pull'd his nose, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. since the major, &c. and send amang the gang, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, arm--what d'ye ca' him--strang, mr. mayor, ah! send him, if ye please, the treasury to teaze, he'll tell them heaps o' lees, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. he'll tell them, &c. if the sheels folk get the day, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, ah what will eldon say, mr. mayor? if he has time to spare, he'll surely blast their prayer, for the luve of his calf chare, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. for the luve, &c. then just dee a' ye can, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, and follow up the plan, mr. mayor, else, faicks, ye'll get a spur in your corporation fur, and ye'll plant at shields wor burr!!! mr. mayor, mr. mayor, and ye'll plant at sheels wor burr!!! mr. mayor. a shields soliloquy. ah! what's to come on us a' now? (a shields gowk was heard, grumbling, to say) we now find it far ower true, that newcassel has getten the day: they'd only been gulling our folk, when they sent us down that fine letter; but aw think 'twas too much a joke, to tell us we'd getten the better. rum ti iddity, &c. was't this made our guns fire sae loud? did our bells for this ring sae merry? for this our ships swagger'd sae proud? faith, we've been in too big a hurry! but our star, they said, could de ought, and the treasury quickly would gull-- our butcher was clever, we thought; but aw think he's come hyem like a feul. rum ti iddity, &c. yet our plan we all thought was good; for we'd build them large cellars and kees; it likewise might be understood, docks and warehouses tee, if they'd please. then we try'd to set in full view, that the revenue it would increase; especially as we stood now, when we thought ourselves snugly at peace. rum ti iddity, &c. but the newcassel folk now, it seems, had sent some deep jockies te lunnin, and they suen upset all our schemes, which we thought se clever and cunnin: for big-wig, who mounts the wool-sack, said, that he plainly saw we were wrang, since it had been prov'd in a crack, by the _jockey_, whose arm they call strang. rum ti iddity, &c. but what's warse than losing our branch, is being spoil'd in our grand speculation; for 'stead of our shining se staunch, we now meet wi' nought but vexation. now certainly we must be wrang, the barbers are swearing and raving, our faces are all grown se lang, they'll double the price of our shaving!!! rum ti iddity, &c. the green-wives' lamentation. wor green-stalls on sandhill, se lang fam'd of yore, where greenwives display'd all their fresh shining store, where tubs wi' tatoes their proud crests did rear, cabbage, carrots, an' turnips wi' joy did appear. wor time on the sandhill wi' pleasure did glide, to display all wor wares and to scold was wor pride; wor noise did the greet folks of gotham engage: by the stalls of the butchers we're now to be caged. but think not the sandhill we'll tamely resign, by the l--d we will meet an' we'll kick up a shine! wor voice we'll extend, and with noise rend the sky, when from the sandhill we're compell'd to fly. with speed, haste assemble the first market-day, wor forces we'll marshal in glorious array: a leader let's choose, a virago so bold, the word let her give, and we rarely will scold. from off the sandhill ere our legions depart, we will vent all wor spleen, and ease each full heart, we will scold till no malice or rancour remain, then march off wor forces--a large warlike train. a procession we'll form, wi' wor tubs and wor swills, and move with slaw steps frae the dear-lov'd sandhill; and when the new station our forces obtain, well take a good glass and well scorn to complain. a petition _from the women of the vegetable market, to the mayor of newcastle._ when away fra the sandhill, sir, at first that we wur sent, it was wi' heavy hearts, ye ken, yur honour, that we went; but now iv the new market, sir, we're ev'ry ane admir'd, and if ye'll nobut _cover_ us, it's all that is desir'd! afore your worship judges us, now make a little _paws_, and dinna gan to say that we complain without a _caws_; for that yur honour _cover'd_ a' the country wives, yeknow, but huz, yur awn sweet townswomen, ye let neglected go. for shem, now hinny, mr. mayor, to gan & play yur rigs, an' cover a' the country girls that com to town wi' pigs; wi' butter and wi' eggs too--they are se dousely made; ah, you've _cover'd_ every ane of them, sir--iv a slated shade. now dinna let folks say that we've ne reet te complain, when they are a' se snugly plac'd, and we are i' the rain: then without ne mair fash, sir, now do yur honour say, that ye will nobut _cover_ us--and we will every pray. the fish-wives' complaint, _on their removal from the sandhill to the new fish market, on the d of january, ._ the merry day hez getten past, and we are aw myest broken hearted: ye've surely deun for us at last-- frae sandhill, noo, ye hev us parted. oh! hinnies, corporation! a! marcy, corporation! ye hev deun a shemful deed, to force us frae wor canny station. it's nee use being iv a rage, for a' wor pride noo fairly sunk is-- ye've cramm'd us in a dandy cage, like yellow-yowlies, bears, and monkies: o hinnies, &c. the cau'd east wind blaws i' wor teeth-- with iron bars we are surrounded; it's better far to suffer deeth, than thus to hev wor feelings wounded. o hinnies, &c. wor haddocks, turbot, cod, and ling, are lost tiv a' wor friends' inspection; genteelish folk from us tyek wing, for fear of catching some infection. o hinnies, &c. o, kind sir matt.--ye bonny star, gan to the king, and show this ditty-- tell him what canny folks we are, and make him free us frae this kitty. o hinnies, &c. if ye succeed, agyen we'll sing-- sweet madge, wor queen, will ever bless ye; and poor au'd jemmy tee, wor king, with a' us fishwives will caress ye. o hinnies, &c. sunderland jammy's lamentation, _december, ._ my sankers! we're all in a fine hobble now, since the cholera com tiv our river; aw wadn't hae car'd if 'twas ought that one knew, but the outlandish nyem myeks one shiver: our doctors are all in a deuce of a way. and some says they've _clannied_ to wrang us; but i think we may all curse the _daun_ o' that day, that the _block_-headed _board_ com amang us. some says that sir cuddy deserves all the blyem, for lettin the ships up the watter-- that brought ower the cholera frev its awn hyem, and some says that myed little matter; but as woman's the root of all evil, ye see, (at least, all my life aw hev thought it,) aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me, that it was one _mall airey_ (malaria) that brought it. this chol'ra's the queerest thing e'er had a nyem, if one may believe what they're talking; it sometimes gets haud o' folks when they're at hyem, and sometimes when they're out a walking: wey, my neybour of eighty, that deed t'other day, folks thought that 'twas nature that fail'd him; but a doctor chep happ'ning to come by that way, swore down thump 'twas the chol'ra that ail'd him. thur doctor cheps prent all the lees that they've tell'd; ony nonsense--they never will mis't; my cheek wi' the tuith-wark hez getten all swell'd, and aw's warn't they'll haed down i' their list: aw never was _chol'ric_, but quiet, aw's sure, tho' wi' fear aw's grown sweaty and clammy; so smoke this wi' brumston to myek all secure, aw's your servant, a sunderland jammy. the cobbler o' morpeth--(_cholera morbus._) _by john m'lellan._ the cobbler o' morpeth myeks sic noise, he frights the country round, sirs; that if yen i' the guts hez pain, by the plague they think he's doom'd, sirs. it was but just the tother day, a skipper, when at sheels, sirs, drank yell till he cou'd hardly see, or ken his head frae heels, sirs. bow, wow, wow, &c. wi' much ta dee he reach'd his hyem, but hoo, aw canna tell ye; when thunnering at the door he cries, and blubbers out 'wife nelly-- oh nell, maw guts are varra bad, aw'm sartin aw shall dee, now, for that d----d plague that's killing a', th' cobbler o' morpeth's in me, now.' bow, wow, wow, &c. 'the cobbler o' morpeth! whe is he? hez he brak frae the jail, now?'-- 'hout no, ye fule, jack russ he's caw'd, an' kills folks by wholesale, now. somehow he creeps up the back way; aye it's true as deeth, maw nelly-- for now he's dancin thro' and thro', and up and down maw belly.' bow, wow, wow, &c. tom sigh'd and moan'd, and kick'd and groan'd, wi' mony a writhe and start, sirs, and swore that for a new _lapstane_, the cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs. he blether'd 'nell, now divent ye hear his rumbling and his raking, he twists and twines maw tripes sae sair, sure o' them he's _wax-ends_ making.' bow, wow, wow, &c. now nell aff ran to doctor belch, and tell'd tom's case in fright, sirs, wha gav her stuff whilk varra seun set tommy's guts to right, sirs. and when that his sad pain was eas'd, he blam'd nyen but himsel, sirs, but swore he ne'er agyen at sheels wad drink their d----d new yell, sirs. bow, wow, wow, &c. caution. now, neighbours, divent drink to excess-- a canny sober course steer; be cleanly, and be temperate, and the cobbler o' morpeth ne'er fear. but if he should amang huz come, to th' infirm'ry we will send him; and seun they'll purge his au'd saul out, if that they cannot mend him. bow, wow, wow, &c. canny sheels. (_by john morris._) 'bout newcassel they've written sae mony fine sangs, and compar'd their bit place unti lunnun; what a shem that 'tiv sheels not a poet belangs, for to tell them they lee wi' their funnin. they may boast o' their shippin without ony doubt, for there's nyen can deny that they've plenty; but for every yen they are gobbing about, aw'm sure we can shew them, ey twenty! let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair, with their clarty bit au'd corporation; for it's varry weel knawn sheels pays her full share for to keep mister mayor iv his station. they hev a bit place where they myek a few shot, lunnun's column tiv it's like a nine-pin; and st. nicholas compar'd wi' st. paul's an' what not, wey it's a yuven compar'd tiv a limekiln. if their shot tower sae hee was plac'd on wor sand end, 'side wor light house to scraffle to glory; their journey to heaven wad suen hev an end, for by gox they'd ne'er reach the first story. let them haud, &c. they call their infirm'ry a place for a king, to be stow'd 'mang the sick, lyem, and lazy; if a sheels man had ventur'd to say sic a thing, the blind gowks wad a' said he was crazy. 'bout their custom house tee they myek a great rout, that the e'en o' the folk it diz dazzel; but if a' gans reet sheels, without ony doubt, will suen eclipse that at canny newcassel. let them haud, &c. then they brag they leuk bonny, fresh-colored and gay, and the lunnun folk a' wishey washey; but l----d put it off tiv a far distant day, that there's one on huz here leuks sae trashy. then they boast o' sir matthew--but never enquire if the foundation's good that he stood on; but if he comes up to wor canny au'd squire, then becrikes he is nowse but a good 'un. let them haud, &c. but the squire, canny man, he's gyen frae the toon, and aw'm sure on't the poor sairly miss him; for oft as aw wauk pearson's raw up and doon, aw hear the folk cry, heaven bliss him! yet aw hope, an' aw trust, he'll suen find his way hyem, and aw's sure aw'll be glad to hear tell on't; for aw've varry oft thowt--did ye ne'er think the syem, since he's gyen sheels hezzent luik't like the sel on't. let them haud, &c. then lang life to the king and wor awn noble duik, may sheels lang partake of his bounty; for newcassel, ye ken, if ye e'er read a buik, is at yence byeth a toon and a county. northumberland's duik may still shew his sel there, but his int'rest frae sheels ne'er can sever; so aw'll gie ye just now, shou'd aw ne'er see ye mair, wor duik and wor duchess for ever! let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair, wi' their this, that, and t'other sae cliver; we'll aw drink as lang's we've a penny to spare, here's success to wor awn town for ever!!! permanent yeast. jack hume one day cam into toon, and efter wandering up and doon, he bought some things, and 'mang the rest, a bottle of permanent yeast. fal de ral la, &c. now when he'd getten a' things reet, he was gaun trudging hyem at neet, when on the road he heard a crack, an' fand a bullet in his back. fal de ral la, &c. he fell directly on the spot, for jack imagin'd he was shot; some said he'd liquor in his head, and others thought that he was dead. fal de ral la, &c. but jack suen gav a greet groan out, and after that he com about, he says, o bring a doctor here! or else aw'll suen be deed, aw fear, fal de ral la, &c. o neighbours, de tyek off maw sark, and try if ye can find the mark! they leuk'd, but nought there could be seen, they wonder'd a' what it had been. fal de ral la, &c. but, howe'er, it cam to pass, out of his pocket fell some glass: now then, says jack, it is ne joke, see there's maw good yeast bottle broke! fal de ral la, &c. a fellow wiser than the rest, soon found out it had been the yeast: wi' walking jack had made it work, the bullet only was the cork. fal de ral la, &c. now jackey finding his mistake, he thought the best plan he could take was to be off--he seiz'd his hat, and ran hyem like a scadded cat. fal de ral la, &c. the pitman's ramble; _or, newcastle finery,_ ho! lizzen, aw ye neybors roun, yor clappers haud and pipes lay doon; aw've had a swagger through the toon, yen morning aw went suen ti'd. ye see, aw fand aw wasn't thrang, sae to newcassel aw wad gang: aw's lap't a' up, just like a sang, and try to put a tune ti'd. bad times they'e now, yen weel may say; aw've seen when on a market day, wiv wor toon's cheps aw'd drink away, and carry on the war, man: but now yen staups an' stares aboot, to see what's strange to carry oot; brass letters fassen'd on a cloot, a unicorn, or star, man. ye see, aw thowt they were to sell; so ax'd the chep, if he cud tell, what he wad tyek for c and l, to nail upon maw hen hoose; but he insisted, smash his crop! aw'd like a fule mistyen the shop; and bad me quickly off te hop, he'd bowt them for his awn use. he flang maw hump sae out o' joint, sae, smash! aw thowt aw'd hev a pint! but when aw gat te peterpoint, the chep that sells the candy, the folks luik'd in wiv greedy wish, he'd bonny siller in a dish; and just abuin, twee bits o' fish was sweeming, fine as can be. the tyen was like hob fewster's cowt, a' spreckled round about the snout, they flapp'd their tails aboot like owt, quite full o' gamalerie: and then the munny shin'd sae breet, the greet tom cat wad hev a peep, and paunder'd tiv he fell asleep; the silly thing was weary. sae farther up aw teuk my cruize, and luik'd amang the buits and shoes; where yen aw thowt they did ill use, it sweem'd, aye, like a daisy: says aw, how! man, what's thou aboot? weyu'cum and tyek that slipper oot; tho's flay'd away the sammun trout: says he, young man, thou's crazy! had aw not been a patient chap, aw wad hae fetch'd him sike a rap, as that which daver'd poor au'd cap:[ ] but, faith! the kitty scar'd me: sae whisht aw grew; for, efter that, iv a lairge glass bowl, byeth round and flat, aw spied a maccaroni hat, but at maw peril dar'd me. sae, efter dark, up pilgrim-street, the fine gas leeters shin'd sae breet, that if a bonny lass ye meet, ye'd ken her varry features: when pipes are laid, and a' things duen, they say newcassel, varry suen, will darken, aye, the varry muin, a' wi' thor fine gas leeters. footnote : alluding to the song call'd 'cappy, or the pitman's dog.'--see page . coaly tyne. tyne river, running rough or smooth, makes bread for me and mine; of all the rivers, north or south, there's none like coaly tyne. so here's to coaly tyne, my lads, success to coaly tyne, of all the rivers, north or south, there's none like coaly tyne. long has tyne's swelling bosom borne great riches from the mine, all by her hardy sons uptorn-- the wealth of coaly tyne. our keelmen brave, with laden keels, go sailing down in line, and with them load the fleet at shields, that sails from coaly tyne. when bonaparte the world did sway, dutch, spanish, did combine; by sea and land proud bent their way, the sons of coaly tyne. the sons of tyne, in seas of blood, trafalgar's fight did join, when led by dauntless collingwood, the hero of the tyne. with courage bold, and hearts so true, form'd in the british line; with wellington, at waterloo, hard fought the sons of tyne. when peace, who would be volunteers? or hero dandies fine? or sham hussars, or tirailleurs?-- disgrace to coaly tyne. or who would be a tyrant's guard, or shield a libertine? let tyrants meet their due reward, ye sons of coaly tyne. newcassel races. it's hae ye heard the ill that's duen? or hae ye lost? or hae ye won? or hae ye seen what mirth and fun, at fam'd newcassel races, o? the weather fine, and folks sae gay, put on their best, and bent their way to the town moor, to spend the day, at fam'd newcassel races, o. there shows of all sorts you may view; polito's grand collection too; such noise and din and lilli-bulloo, at fam'd newcassel races, o. there some on horses sat astride, and some in gigs did snugly ride, with smart young wenches by their side; look'd stilish at the races, o. a tailor chep aw chanc'd to spy, was sneekin through the crowd sae sly, for he'd tyen the darling of his eye, to swagger at the races, o. he says, my dear, we'll see the show, egad! says she, i do not know, it looks so vulgar and so low, we'd better see the races, o. one buck cries, demme, go the rig! got two smart lasses in a gig; he crack'd his whip, and look'd quite big, while swagg'rin at the races, o. but soon, alas! the gig upset, an ugly thump they each did get; some say, that he his breeches wet, for fear, when at the races, o. the one was lyem'd abuin the knee, the other freeten'd desp'rately; "this demm'd unlucky job!" says she, "has fairly spoil'd my races, o!" he gat them in, wi' some delay, and te newcassel bent his way; but oft, indeed, he curs'd the day, that e'er he'd seen the races, o. now some were singin songs so fine, and some were lying drunk like swine, some drank porter, others wine; rare drinkin at the races, o! the wanton wags in corners sat, wiv bonny lasses on their lap; and mony a yen gat tit for tat, before they left the races, o. now lads and lasses myed for toon, and in the road they oft lay doon; faith! mony a lassie spoil'd her goon, a comin frae the races, o: some gat hyem, midst outs and ins, some had black eyes and broken shins, and some lay drunk amang the whins, a comin frae the races, o: let every one his station mense, by acting like a man of sense-- 'twill save him mony a pund expense, when he gans te the races, o. kind friends, i would you all advise, good counsel ye should ne'er despise, the world's opinion always prize, when ye gan to the races, o. the quack doctors. wor laureate may sing for his cash, of laws, constitution, and proctors, contented aw'll blair for a dash at the slee understrapping quack doctors, they gob o' their physical skill, till their jaws yen might swear they wad rive, to prove what's alive they can kill, and what's dead they can suen myek alive. a' ye wi' the glanders snout-full, repair to each wondrous adviser-- for though ye were born a stark fuel, depend on't, they'll suen myek ye wiser. their physic, they say, in a trice, snaps every disease like a towt: but the best on't all is their advice-- ye can get it free gratis for nowt. wiv a kessle puff'd up to the chin, went to see yen, a strapping young doxy, he examin'd her lugs and her een, and declar'd her myest dead o' the dropsy. the lassie he therefore wad tap, at which she set up a great yell; when out popp'd a little wee chap myest as wise as the doctor's awnsel'. next they teuk him a man, whee for fancies, a' day wad sit silent and sad-- he upheld that he'd lost his reet senses, and therefore he surely was mad. but now he gies mony a roar, of the doctor's great skill to convince-- if he wasn't a madman before at least he's been yen ever since. last, in hobbled gouty sir peter, to get of his drugs a good doze-- three days he deep studied his water, ere he'd his opinion disclose. then proclaim'd that sir peet was ower fat, for the doctor was never mistyen by my faiks! but he curd him o' that-- suen sir peet left the warld, skin and byen. now, he that winn't loyally sing, may he swing like an ass in a tether, good hilth and long life to the king, to keep us in union together. the heart iv each briton he leads to rejoice i' the fall o' the quacks-- so we'll aye keep the brains i' wor heeds, and we'll ay hae the flesh on wor backs. peggy's leg. _written on seeing the leg of a beautiful female exposed by the wind on tyne bridge, march, ._ o tak't not amiss while i sing, my peggy, o tak't not amiss while i sing, how rude the wind blew, and expos'd thy neat leggy, thy knee and red garten string, my peggy, thy knee and red garten string. nor take it amiss while i tell thee, peggy, nor take it amiss while i tell, how a' my heart felt upon seeing thy leggy;-- i've never sinsyne been mysel', my peggy, i've never sinsyne been mysel'. i think the brisk gale acted right, my peggy, i think the brisk gale acted right, in shewing me, o lovely dear! thy smart leggy-- it was sic a glorious sight, my peggy, it was sic a glorious sight. in troth i'd gan monie a mile, my peggy, in troth i'd gan monie a mile, again, my dear charmer, to view thy neat leggy, and see on thy face a sweet smile, my peggy, and see on thy face a sweet smile. i'm deeply in love wi' thee a', my peggy, i'm deeply in love wi' thee a'-- and i'll think on thy face and thy smart buskit leggy, as lang as i've breath for to draw, my peggy, as lang as i've breath for to draw. bonny keel laddie. maw bonny keel laddie, maw canny keel laddie, maw bonny keel laddie for me, o! he sits in his keel, as black as the deil, and he brings the white money to me, o. hae ye seen owt o' maw canny man, and are ye sure he's weel, o? he's gyen ower land, wiv a stick in his hand, to help to moor the keel, o. the canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie, the canny keel laddie for me, o; he sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock, and brings the white money to me, o. the tyne. roll on thy way, thrice happy tyne! commerce and riches still are thine; thy sons in every art shall shine, and make thee more majestic flow. the busy crowd that throngs thy sides, and on thy dusky bosom glides, with riches swell thy flowing tides, and bless the soil where thou dost flow. thy valiant sons, in days of old, led by their chieftains, brave and bold, fought not for wealth, or shining gold, but to defend thy happy shores. so e'en as they of old have bled, and oft embrac'd a gory bed, thy modern sons, by patriots led, shall rise to shield thy peace-crown'd shores. nor art thou blest for this alone, that long thy sons in arms have shone; for every art to them is known, and science, form'd to grace the mind. art, curb'd by war in former days, has now burst forth in one bright blaze; and long shall his refulgent rays shine bright, and darkness leave behind. the muses too, with freedom crown'd, shall on thy happy shores be found, and fill the air with joyous sound, of--war and darkness' overthrow. then roll thy way, thrice happy tyne! commerce and riches still are thine! thy sons in arts and arms shall shine, and make thee still majestic flow. nanny of the tyne. whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow, extol each nymph so fair, be mine my nanny's worth to shew, her captivating air. what swain can gaze without delight on beauty there so fine? the graces all their charms unite in nanny of the tyne. far from the noise of giddy courts the lovely charmer dwells; her cot the haunt of harmless sports, in virtue she excels. with modesty, good nature join'd, to form the nymph divine; and truth, with innocence combin'd, in nanny of the tyne. flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet glide gently past her cot, 'tis peace and virtue's calm retreat-- ye great ones, envied not. and you, ye fair, whom folly leads through all her paths supine, tho' drest in pleasure's garb, exceeds not nanny of the tyne. can art to nature e'er compare, or win us to believe but that the frippery of the fair was made but to deceive. strip from the belle the dress so gay, which fashion calls divine, will she such loveliness display as nanny of the tyne. the bonny gyetsiders. tune--"bob cranky." come, marrows, we've happen'd to meet now, sae wor thropples together we'll weet now; aw've myed a new sang, and to sing ye't aw lang, for it's about the bonny gyetsiders. of a' the fine volunteer corpses, whether footmen, or ridin' on horses, 'tween the tweed and the tees, deil hae them that sees sic a corpse as the bonny gyetsiders. whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an' wheel sae? whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae? nay, for myeking a _crack_, through england aw'll back the corps of the bonny gyetsiders. when the time for parading nigh hand grows, a' wesh theirsels clean i' the sleck troughs: fling off their black duddies, leave hammers and studdies, and to drill--run the bonny gyetsiders. to newcassel, for three weeks up-stannin, on parmanent duty they're gannin; and seun i' the papers we's read a' the capers o' the corps o' the bonny gyetsiders. the newcassel chaps fancy they're clever, and are vaunting and braggin' for ever; but they'll find theirsels wrang, if they think they can bang, at sowg'rin', the bonny gyetsiders. the gen'ral shall see they can lowp dykes, or mairch thro' whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes; nay, to soom (at a pinch) through tyne, waddent flinch the corps o' the bonny gyetsiders. some think billy pitt's nobbit hummin, when he tells aboot bonnepairt cummin; but come when he may, he'll lang rue the day he first meets wi' the bonny gyetsiders: like an anchor-shank, smash! how they'll clatter 'im, and turn 'im, and skelp 'im, and batter 'im; his byens sal, by jing! like a frying-pan ring, when he meets wi' the bonny gyetsiders. let them yence get 'im into their taings weel, nae fear but they'll give him his whaings weel; and to hezlett's pond bring 'im, and there in chains hing 'im, what a seet for the bonny gyetsiders! now, marrows, to shew we're a' loyal, and that, wi' the king and blood royal, we'll a' soom or sink, quairts a-piece let us drink, to the brave and the bonny gyetsiders. the water of tyne. i cannot get to my love, if i should dee, the water of tyne runs between him and me; and here i must stand, with the tear in my e'e, both sighing and sickly my sweetheart to see. o where is the boatman? my bonny honey! o where is the boatman? bring him to me-- to ferry me over the tyne to my honey, and i will remember the boatman and thee. o bring me a boatman--i'll give any money, (and you for your trouble rewarded shall be) to ferry me over the tyne to my honey, or skull him across that rough river to me. the newcastle signs. written by cecil pitt, and sung at the theatre-royal, newcastle, by mr. scriven, june , . should the french in newcastle but dare to appear, at each sign they would meet with indifferent cheer; from the goat and the hawk, from the bell and the waggon, and the dog, they would skip, as st. george made the dragon. the billet, the highlander, cross keys, and sun, the eagle and ships too, would shew 'em some fun; the three kings and unicorn, bull's head and horse, would prove, that the farther they went they'd fare worse. at the black house, a _strong-arm_, would lay ev'ry man on, and they'd quickly go off, if they got in the cannon: the nelson and turk's head their fears would increase, and they'd run from the swan like a parcel of geese. at the york and the cumberland, cornwallis too, with our fighting cocks, sure they'd have plenty to do; the nag's head and lions would cut such an evil, and the angel would drive the whole crew to the devil. at the world, and the fountain, the bridge, crown and thistle, the bee-hive, and tuns, for a drop they might whistle; with our prince, or our crown, should they dare interpose, they'd prick their french fingers well under the rose. at the half moon, the wheat sheaf, and old barley-mow, a sup's to be got--if they could but tell how; if they call'd at the bull and the tiger to ravage, as well as the black boy, they'd find 'em quite savage. at the ark, and the anchor, pack horse, and blue posts, and the newmarket inn, they would find but rough hosts; the old star and garter, cock, anchor, and more, would prove, like the grapes, all most cursedly sour. the lion and lamb, plough, and old robin hood, with the crane house, would check these delighters in blood; from the butchers' arms quick they'd be running away, and we all know that shakespeare would shew 'em some _play_. at the white hart, three bulls' heads, the old dog and duck, if they did not get thrash'd, they'd escape by good luck: at the bird in bush, metters' arms, peacock, they'd fast, and our king's and queen's heads we'll defend till the last. may the sign of the king ever meet with respect, and our great constitution each briton protect; and may he who would humble our old british crown, be hung on a sign-post till i take him down. the wonderful gutter. since boney was sent to that place owre the sea, we've had little to talk of, but far less to dee; but now they're a' saying, we suen will get better, when yence they begin with the wonderful gutter, the great lang gutter, the wonderful gutter: success to the gutter! and prosper the plough! the way how aw ken--when aw was at the toon, aw met dicky wise near the rose and the croon; and as dicky reads papers, and talks aboot kings, wey he's like to ken weel about gutters and things; so he talk'd owre the gutter, &c. he then a lang story began for to tell, and said that it often was ca'd a can-nell; but he thowt, by a gutter, aw wad understand, that's it's cutten reet through a' the gentlemen's land. now that's caw'd a gutter, &c. now, whether the sea's owre big at the west, or scanty at sheels--wey, ye mebby ken best; for he says they can team, aye, without any bother, a sup out o' yen, a' the way to the tother, by the great lang gutter, &c. besides, there'll be bridges, and locks, and lairge keys, and shippies, to trade wiv eggs, butter, and cheese: and if they'll not sail weel, for want o' mair force, they'll myek ne mair fuss, but yoke in a strang horse, to pull through the gutter, &c. ye ken there's a deal that's lang wanted a myel, when they start wi' the gutter 'twill thicken their kyell: let wages be high, or be just what they may, it will certainly help to drive hunger away, while they work at the gutter, &c. there's wor tyne sammun tee 'ill not ken what's the matter, when they get a gobful o' briny saut watter; but if they should gan off, it's cum'd into my nob, for to myek some amends we mun catch a' the cod, that sweems down the gutter, &c. so come money and friends support willy armstrang, in vent'rin a thoosan ye canna get wrang; while we get wor breed by the sweet o' wor brow, success to the gutter! and prosper the plough! the great lang gutter, &c. the local militia-man. tune--"madam fag's gala." how! marrows, aw'se tip you a sang, if ye'll nobbit give your attention, aw've sarrow'd maw king seven years, and aw'm now luikin out for the pension. but when my adventures aw tell, an' should ye fin reason to doubt it, an' think it mair than aw deserve, aw'se just rest contented without it. rum ti idity, &c. ye mun ken, when aw first went to drill, maw gun aw flang owre maw heed, fell'd the chep that stuid close in ahint me, he lay kickin and sprawlin for deed. but when wor manuvres we lairn'd, wor cornel o' huz grew se fond, man, he match'd us gyen four smashing targets, close ower ayont heslop's pond, man. rum ti idity, &c. we mairch'd off at nine i' the mornin, and at four we were not quite duin, while a bite never enter'd our thropples: wi' hunger were fit to lie doon. but wor fellows they tuik sic an aim, ye wad thought that they shot for a wager; and yen chep, the deil pay his hide, he varra nigh shot the drum-major. rum ti idity, &c. suin efter, 'twas on the vairge day, 'bout the time that wor cornel was mayor, fra gyetshead we fir'd ower their heeds, myed the fokes in newcassel to stare. to newburn we then bore away, and embark'd just beside a great dung-hole, wi' biscuit and plenty o' yell, and wor adjutant clerk o' the bung-hole. rum ti idity, &c. wor triangular lad lowp'd first ashore, when the folks ran like cows or mad bulls; iv a jiffy they cam back to fight us, wi' pokers and three-footed stuils. when they fand he was not bonnyparty, nor nyen ov his sowgers frae france, the music then started to play, and we for to caper and dance. rum ti idity, &c. sic wark as we had efter that, wad tyek a lang day for to tell, how we fronted, an' flankt it, an' maircht through the sowgers at thropley fell, at the play-house we've shin'd mony a time, wor scaups a' besmatter-d wi' flour; but that neet it wad myed the deil gurn, to see us a' powthert wi' stour. rum ti idity, &c. yen day we were form'd in a ring, and wor cornel said this, 'at ne'er spoke ill, "ye your sarvis, my lads, mun transfer tiv a core caw'd the durham foot local." so tiv sunderland if ye'd but gan, and see us a' stand in a line, ye'd swear that a few finer fellows ne'er cam fra the wear and the tyne. rum ti idity, &c. masquerade at newcastle theatre; _or, the pitman turned critic_. as jemmy the brakesman and me was taukin 'bout sentries and drill, we saw, clagg'd agyen a yek tree, a fower-square little hand-bill. says jemmy, now halt tiv aw read her; when up cam wor canny au'd sairgan: says he, ye mun come to the teapot, on friday, and get yor dischairge, man. tol de rol, &c. we dress'd worsels smart, cam to toon, mister government paid us wor brass: then we swagger'd off to the hauf meun, to rozzel wor nobs wiv a glass. we sang, smok'd, and fuddled away, and cut mony a wonderful caper; says aw, smash! howay to the play, or, what some folks ca' a theater. tol de rol, &c. we ran, and seun fand a good plyace, aye, before they'd weel hoisted their leets; when a lyedy, wi' gauze ower her fyece, cam an' tummel'd ower twe o' the seats. aw hardly kend what for to say; but says aw, div ye fin owse the warse? says her neybeur, pop folly's the play, and maskamagrady's the farce. tol de rol, &c. the players they cam on iv dozens, wiv fine dusty buits without spurs; and they tauk'd about mothers and cousins, so did jemmy and me about wors. we had plenty o' fiddlin and fleutin, till the bugles began for to blaw; then aw thowt aw heerd wor major shootin, fa' in, my lads! stand in a raw! tol de rol, &c. we then see'd a little smart chap, went lowpin and skippin aboot; says aw, smash! thou is up to trap! for he let the fokes byeth in and out. there was fawstaff, a fat luikin fellow, wiv a miss in each airm, being drunkey; then a black lyedy, wiv a numbrella, a fiddler, a bear, and a monkey. tol de rol, &c. next cam on a swaggerin blade, he's humpt o' byeth shouthers an' legs; a blackymoor, painter by trade, and o' dancing was myekin his brags: when a collier cam on, quick as thowt, maw sarties! but he gat a pauler; says he, smash! aw'll dance thou for owt; then says aw, five to fower on kit swaller! tol de rol, &c. he danc'd the keel row to sic tune, his marrow declar'd he was bet: some yell ower kit's shouthers was slung, so they byeth had their thropples weel wet. a lyem sowger cam on wiv twee sticks, then a bussy-tail'd pinkey wee frenchman; next a chep, wiv some young lunaticks, was wanting the mad-house at bensham. tol de rol, &c. there was punch fed his bairn wiv a ladle, and ga'd some kirn milk for to lyep; then he thumpt it till he wasn't yebbel, because the poor thing cuddent gyep. some were shootin shoe-ties iv a street; lang pat, wiv his last dyin speeches, wagg'd hands wiv a lass, that, yen neet, tuik seven-pence out o' maw breeches. tol de rol, &c. then a gentleman's housey tuik feyre, as the watchman caw'd 'past ten o'clock!' the manny fell into the meyre, and the wife ran away iv her smock. the skipper that saddled the cow, and rid seven miles for the howdy, was dancing wiv jenny bawloo, that scadded her gob wiv a crowdy. tol de rol, &c. then a chep, wiv a show on his back, cam and show'd us fine pictures, se funny; he whupt it a' off in a crack, because they wad gether ne money. to end with, there cam a balloon, but some gav it's puddings a slit, man; for, afore it gat up to the meun, it emptied itsel i' the pit, man. tol de rol, &c. nancy wilkinson. at cullercoats, near to the sea, lives one i often think upon; bewitching is the lovely e'e of bonny nancy wilkinson. by tyne, or blyth, or coquet clear, no swain did ever blink upon a charmer equal to my dear, my handsome nancy wilkinson. sweet cherry cheeks, a lofty brow, bright hair, that waves in links upon a neck, white as the purest snow, has comely nancy wilkinson. by tyne, or blyth, &c. her virtues, like her beauty, rare; but terms i ne'er can think upon, fit to panegyrise my fair, my constant nancy wilkinson. by tyne, or blyth, &c. for her rich ladies i'd refuse, with all their shining tinsels on; none else can wake my slumbering muse, but lovely nancy wilkinson. by tyne, or blyth, &c. aurora, from the eastern sky, her robes the glowing tints upon, is not so viewly to mine eye as modest nancy wilkinson. by tyne, or blyth, &c. let sordid misers count their wealth, and guineas guineas clink upon; all i request of heav'n is health, and dear, dear nancy wilkinson. by tyne, or blyth, &c. green's balloon. [messrs. green ascended in their grand coronation balloon, from the nuns' field, in newcastle, four times: the first time, on wednesday, may ; second time, on whit-monday, may ; third time, on monday, may ; and the fourth time, on race-thursday, july , .] tune--"barbara bell." now just come and listen a while till aw tell, man, of a wonderful seet t'other day aw did see: as aw was gaun trudgen alang by mysel, man, aw met wi' wor skipper, aye just on the key. o skipper, says aw, mun, wye where are ye gannen? says he, come wi' me, for aw's gaun up the toon; now just come away, for we munnet stand blabbin, or we'll be ower lang for to see the balloon. right fal de, &c. the balloon, man, says aw, wey aw never heard tell on't, what kind o' thing is it? now skipper tell me: says he, it's a thing that gans up by the sel' on't, and if ye'll gan to the nuns' gate, man, ye'll see. so to the nuns' gate then we went in a hurry, and when we gat there, man, the folks stood in crowds; and aw heerd a chep say, he wad be very sorry, if it went to the meun, reet clean thro' the clouds. right fal de, &c. we stared and luik'd round us, but nought could we see, man, till a thing it went up as they fir'd a gun: cried the skipper, aw warnd that's the little pee-dee, man, gyen to tell folks above 'twill be there varry suen. then a' iv a sudden it cam ower the house-tops, man, it was like a hay-stack, and luikt just as big; wiv a boat at the tail on't, all tied tid wi' ropes, man, begox! it was just like wor awd sandgate gig. right fal de, &c. and there was two cheps that sat in the inside, man, wi' twee little things they kept poweyin her roun'; just like wor skipper when we've a bad tide, man: aw warnd they were fear'd that the thing wad come down; and still the twee cheps kept poweyin her reet man, for upwards she went, aye clean ower the toon; they powey'd till they powey'd her reet out o' seet, man, that was a' that we saw o' this grand air balloon. right fal de, &c. the skipper cam to me, tuik haud o' my hand, man, says, what do ye think o' this seet that's been given? says aw, aw can't tell, but it's a' very grand, man; aw wish the cheps byeth safely landed in heaven. 'twad be a good plan to tyek's up when we're deed, man; for which way we get there 'twill be a' the syem: and then for wor priests we'd stand little need, man: so me and wor skipper we went wor ways hyem. right fal de, &c. the newgate-street petition to mr. mayor. alack! and well-a-day! mr. mayor, mr. mayor; we are all to grief a prey, mr. mayor: they are pulling newgate down, that structure of renown, which so long hath graced our town, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. antiquarians think't a scandal, mr. mayor, mr. mayor; it would shock a goth or vandal, they declare: what! destroy the finest _lion_ that ever man set eye on! 'tis a deed all must cry fie on, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. st. andrew's parishioners, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, loud blame the gaol-commissioners, mr. mayor; to pull down a pile so splendid, shews their powers are too extended, and _the act_ must be amended, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. if _blackett-street_ they'd level, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, or with _bond-street_[ ] play the devil, who would care? but on _newgate's_ massive walls, when destruction's hammer falls, for our sympathy it calls, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. 'tis a pile of ancient standing, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, deep reverence commanding, mr. mayor: men of _note_ and _estimation_, in their course of _elevation_, have in it held a station, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. 'tis a first-rate kind of college, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, where is taught much useful knowledge, mr. mayor: when our fortunes "gang aglee," if worthy mr. gee[ ] does but on us turn his key, all's soon well, mr. mayor. in beauty, nought can match it, mr. mayor, mr. mayor: should you think we _throw the hatchet_, mr. mayor: john a----n, with ease, (in purest _portugueze_) will convince you, if you please, to consult him, mr. mayor. he'll prove t'ye, in a trice, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, 'tis a pearl of great price, mr. mayor: for of ancient wood or stone, the value--few or none can better tell than john, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. of this edifice bereft, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, to the neighbourhood what's left? mr. mayor: the _nuns' gate_, it is true, still rises to our view, but that modern babel, few much admire, mr. mayor. true, a building 'tis, _unique_, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, a charming _fancy freak_, mr. mayor: but candour doth impel us, to own that strangers tell us, the _lodge_ of our _odd fellows_, they suppos'd it, mr. mayor. still, if _newgate's_ doom'd to go, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, to the _carliol croft_--heigh-ho! mr. mayor, as sure as you're alive, (and long, sir, may you thrive,) the shock we'll ne'er survive, mr. mayor, mr. mayor. then pity our condition, mr. mayor, mr. mayor, and stop its demolition, mr. mayor; the commissioners restrain, from causing us such pain, and we'll pay and ne'er complain, the _gaol-cess_, mr. mayor. footnote : now called prudhoe street. footnote : the gaoler. burdon's address to his cavalry. _a parody._ soldiers whom newcastle's bred, view your cornel at your head, who's been call'd out of his bed to serve his country. now's the time when british tars with their owners are at wars; and they've sent for us--o mars! assist the cavalry! now, my noble sons of tyne! let your valour nobly shine; there at last has come a time to shew your bravery. but, my lads, be not alarm'd! you're to fight with men unarm'd! who in multitudes have swarm'd-- before us they must flee! then they cry out, every man, "cornel, we'll de a' we can!" so away to shields they ran: o what cavalry! but they had no call to fight, the marines had bet them quite; and the cornel's made a knight, for the victory! the collier's keek at the nation. huz colliers, for a' they can say, hae byeth heads and hearts that are sound-- and if we're but teun i' wor way, there's few better cheps above ground. tom cavers and me, fra west moor, on a kind ov a jollification, yen day myed what some folks call a tour, for a keek at the state o' the nation. we fand, ere we'd lang been on jaunt, that the world wasn't gannin sae cliver-- it had gettin a howdon-pan cant, as aw gat once at wor box-dinner. monny tyels, tee, we heard, stiff and gleg-- some laid the world straight as a die-- some crook'd as a dog's hinder leg, or, like wor fitter's nose, all a-wry. one tell'd me, my heart for to flay, (thinking aw knew nought about town) out o' my three-and-sixpence a-day, the king always gat half-a-crown. aw said they were fuels not to ken that aw gat a' the brass me awnsel'-- ga' wor peg three white shillins, and then laid the rest out on backey and yell! they blabb'd oot that aw was mistuen-- that maw brains sairly wanted _seduction_-- without _animal_ parliaments _seun_ we wad a' gan to wreck and _construction_-- that we'd wrought ower lang for wor lair-- that landlords were styen-hearted tykes-- for their houses and land only fair, to divide them and live as yen likes! to bring a' these fine things about was as easy as delving aslent is-- only get some rapscallion sought out, and to lunnin sent up to present us. thinks aw to mysel' that's weel meant-- there's wor cuddy owre laith to de good, we'll hev him to parliament sent, where he'll bray, smash his byens, for his blood. then, says aw, tommy, keep up thy pluck, we may a' live to honour wor nation-- so here's tiv au'd england, good luck! and may each be content in his station. huz colliers, for a' they can say, hae byeth heeds and hearts that are sound-- and if we're but teun i' wor way, there's few better cheps above ground. blind willie singing. ye gowks that 'bout daft handel swarm, your senses but to harrow-- steyn deaf to strains that 'myest wad charm the heart iv a wheelbarrow-- to wor keyside awhile repair, mang malls and bullies pig in, to hear encor'd, wi' monie a blair, poor au'd blind willie's singin'. to hear fine sinclair tune his pipes is hardly worth a scuddock-- it's blarney fair, and stale as swipes kept ower lang i' the huddock. byeth braham and horn behint the wa' might just as weel be swingin, for a' their squeelin's nought at a' to au'd blind willie singin'. about "_sir maffa_" lang he sung, far into high life keekin'-- till "_buy broom buzzoms_" roundly swung, he gae their lugs a sweepin'. a stave yence myed _dumb bet_ to greet, sae fine wi' cat-gut stringin'-- _bold airchy_ swore it was a treat to hear blind willie singin'. aw've heard it said, _fan welch_, one day, on pepper'd oysters messin', went in to hear him sing and play, an' get a moral lesson. she vow'd 'twas hard to haud a heel-- an' thowt (the glass while flingin) wi' clarts they should be plaister'd weel that jeer'd blind willie's singin'. it's fine to hear wor bellman talk-- it's wondrous fine and cheerin' to hear _bet watt_ and _euphy scott_ scold, fight, or bawl fresh heerin': to see the keels upon the tyne, as thick as hops a' swimmin', is fine indeed, but still mair fine to hear blind willie singin'. lang may wor tyneside lads sae true, in heart byeth blithe an' mellow, bestow the praise that's fairly due to this bluff, honest fellow-- and when he's hamper'd i' the dust, still i' wor memory springin', the times we've run till like to brust to hear blind willie singin'. but may he live to cheer the _bobs_ that skew the coals to shivers, whee like their drink to grip their gobs, and burn their varry livers. so, if ye please, aw'll myek an end, my sang ne farther dingin', lest ye may think that aw pretend to match blind willie's singin'. bold archy & blind willie's lament on the death of captain starkey. "what! is he gyen?" _bold airchy_ said, and moungin' scratch'd his head-- "o can sic waesome news be true? is captain starkey dead? aw's griev'd at heart--push round the can-- seun empty frae wor hands we'll chuck it-- for now we'll drink wor last to him, since he has fairly kick'd the bucket. my good shag hat ne mair aw'll wave, his canny fyace to see-- wor bairns' bairns will sing o' him, as gilchrist sings o' me for o! he was a lad o' wax! aw've seen him blithe, an' often mellow-- he might hae faults, but, wi' them a', we've seldom seen a better fellow. yen day they had me drown'd for fun, which myed the folks to blair; aw myest could wish, for his dear sake, that aw'd been drown'd for fair. on monny a day when cannons roar, yen loyal heart will then be missin'-- if there be yell, we'll toast his nyem-- if there be nyen, he'll get wor blissin'." _blind willie_ then strumm'd up his kit wi' monny a weary drone, which _thropler_, drunk, and _cuckoo jack_ byeth answer'd wiv a groan. "nice chep! poor chep!" blind willie said-- "my heart is pierc'd like onny riddle, to think aw've liv'd to see him dead-- aw never mair 'ill play the fiddle. his gam is up, his pipe is out, and fairly laid his craw-- his fame 'ill blaw about, just like coal dust at shiney-raw. he surely was a joker rare-- what times there'd been for a' the nation, had he but liv'd to be a mayor, the glory o' wor corporation. but he has gi'en us a' the slip, and gyen for evermore-- _au'd judy_ and _jack coxon_ tee, has gyen awhile before-- and we maun shortly follow them, an' tyek the bag, my worthy gentles-- then what 'ill poor newcassel dee, depriv'd of all her ornamentals! we'll moralize--for dowly thowts, are mair wor friends than foes-- for death, like when the tankard's out, brings a' things tiv a close. may we like him, frae grief and toil, when laid in peace beneath the hether-- upon the last eternal shore, a' happy, happy meet together!" a voyage to lunnin. lang years ower meadows, moors, and muck, i cheerly on did waddle-- so various is the chance o' luck between the grave and cradle. when wark at hyem turn'd rather scant, i thought 'twas fair humbuggin'; an' so aw even teuk a jaunt, faiks, a' the way to lunnin. _lord howick_ was my chosen ship, weel rigg'd byeth stem and quarter, the maister was a cannie chep-- they ca'd him jacky carter. wi' heart as free frae guilt as care, i pack'd up all my duddin, and shipp'd aboard--the wind blew fair-- away we sail'd for lunnin. safe ower the bar a-head we tint-- the day was fine and sunny; and seun we left afar behint, wor land o' milk and honey. but few their dowly thoughts can tyem-- may be the tears were comin'-- sair griev'd, ne doubt, to pairt wi' hyem, though gaun to keek at lunnin. fareweel, tyne brig and cannie kee, where aw've seen monny a shangy, blind willie, captain starkey tec-- bold archy and great hangy. fareweel shoe ties, jack tate, whin bob, cull billy, and jack cummin, au'd judy, jen bawloo--aw'll sob your praises all at lunnin. some such as me the hyke myed sick, and myed them rue their roamin': still forward plung'd wor gallant ship, and left the water foamin'. waes me! but 'tis a bonny seet, o land o' beef and puddin'! to see thy tars, in pluck complete, haud fair their course for lunnin! hail, tyneside lads! in collier fleets, the first in might and motion-- in sunshine days or stormy neets the lords upon the ocean. come england's foes--a countless crew-- ye'll gie their gobs a scummin', and myek them a' the day to rue, they glibb'd their jaws at lunnin. i thought mysel a sailor good, and flired while some lay sprawlin', till where the famous robin hood sends out his calms or squallin'-- 'twas there aw felt aw scarce ken how-- for a' things teuk a bummin', and myed me wish, wi' retch and spew, the ship safe moor'd at lunnin. as round by flambrough head we shot, down cam a storm upon us-- thinks aw, we're fairly gyen to pot-- o dear!--have mercy on us! ower northern plains 'twill dowly sound, and set their eyes a runnin', when they shall tell that aw was drown'd, just gannin up to lunnin. to cheer wor hearts in vain they brought the porter, grog, and toddy-- my head swam round whene'er aw thought upon a fat pan-soddy. "o what the plague fetch'd us frae hyem!" some in the glumps were glummin'; i could hae blubber'd, but thought shyem, while gaun a voyage to lunnin. cross boston deeps how we did spin, skelp'd on by noisy boreas, up yarmouth roads, and seun up swin, the water flew before us. o glorious seet! the nore's in view-- like fire and flood we're scuddin': ne mair we'll bouk wor boiley now, but seun be safe at lunnin. hail, bonny tyames! weel smon thy waves! a world might flourish bi' them-- and, faiks, they weel deserve the praise that a' the world gies ti them. o lang may commerce spread her stores, full on thy bosom dinnin'-- weel worthy thou to lave the shores o' sic a town as lunnin. seun black-wall point we left astern, far ken'd in dismal story-- and greenwich towers we now discern, au'd england's pride and glory. sure nature's sel inspir'd my staves, for i began a crunnin', and blair'd, 'britannia rule the waves!' as by we sail'd for lunnin. fornenst the tower, we made a click, where traitors gat their fairins', and where they say that hallion dick yence scumfish'd two wee bairins. hitch, step, and loup, i sprang ashore. my heart reet full o' funnin'-- and seun forgat the ocean's war, amang the joys o' lunnin. the newcassel props. oh, waes me, for wor canny toon, it canna stand it lang-- the props are tumbling one by one, the beeldin seun mun gan; for deeth o' late has no been blate, but sent some jovial souls a joggin: aw niver griev'd for jackey tate, nor even little airchy loggan. but when maw lugs was 'lectrified wiv judy downey's deeth, alang wi' heufy scott aw cried, till byeth was out o' breeth; for greet and sma', fishwives and a' luik'd up tiv her wi' veneration-- if judy's in the courts above, then for au'd nick there'll be nae 'cation. next captain starkey teuk his stick, and myed his final bow; aw wonder if he's scribblin yet, or what he's efter now; or if he's drinking gills o' yell, or axing pennies to buy bakky-- if not allow'd where starkey's gyen, aw'm sure that he'll be quite unhappy. jack coxon iv a trot went off, one morning very seun-- cull billy said, he'd better stop, but deeth cried, jackey, come! oh! few like him could lift their heel, or tell what halls were in the county: like mony a proud, black-coated chiel', jack liv'd upon the parish bounty. but cheer up, lads, and dinna droop, blind willy's to the fore, the blythest iv the motley groop, and fairly worth the score: o weel aw like to hear him sing, 'bout au'd sir mat. and dr. brummel-- if he but lives to see the king, there's nyen o' willy's friends need grummel. cull billy, tee, wor lugs to bliss, wiv news 'bout t'other warld, aw move that, when wor vicar dees, the place for him be arl'd; for aw really think, wiv half his wit, he'd myek a reet good pulpit knocker: aw'll tell ye where the birth wad fit-- he hugs sae close the parish copper. another chep, and then aw's duen, he bangs the tothers far: yor mavies wonderin whe aw mean-- ye gowks, it's tommy c--r! when lodgin's scarce, just speak to him, yor hapless case he'll surely pity. he'll 'sist upon your gannin in, to sup wi' s--tt, and see the kitty. newcassel wonders. sic wonders there happens iv wor canny toon, sae wise and sae witty newcassel has grown, that for hummin, and hoaxing, and tyekin folk in, we'll suen learn the lunneners far better things. we've wonderful knights, and wondrous hussars, wonderful noodles, and wonderful mayors; for as lang as a keel gans down river tyne, for wisdom and valour, o a----y, thou'll shine. we've r----s and v----s, a time-serving crew; but, says aw to mysel, gie the deevil his due, for ov priests and excisemen, and limbs o' the law, there's ten tiv the dozen 'ill gan down belaw. and whe wad hae thowt now that iver au'd nick, wiv wor canny toon wad hae gettin sae thick; that iv luckley's au'd house he's set up hell's kitchen, where the tyelyers and snobs find the yell se bewitchin. there's canny tom lid--l, they've myed him a lord, for learning his ploughmen to play wi' the sword; but if ony invaders should britain assail, they'll slip off their skins and run to the plough-tail. we've a captain of watchmen, he's second to nyen, he dislikes to see folks gannin quietly hyem; for if ye but mention the nyem o' tom c--r, to the care of jack s--tt, he'll yor body transfer. tim tunbelly. tune--"canny newcassel." now lay up your lugs, a' ye freemen that's poor, and aw'll rhyme without pension or hire-- come listen, ye dons that keep cows on the moor, though ye couldn't keep them iv a byre-- and a' ye non-freemen, wherever ye be, though dame fortune has myed sic objections, that you're neither o' town nor o' trinity free, to be brib'd and get drunk at elections. when aw was but little, aw mind varry weel that joe c--k was the friend o' the freemen-- aw mysel' heerd him say, his professions to seal, he wad care very little to dee, man. corporation corruptions he sair did expose, and show'd plain whee was rook and whee pigeon while el----h, the cobbler, in fury arose, and pummell'd sir m----w's religion. some sly common councilman happen'd to think that the patriots mebbies had pocket-- so they sent joe an order for wafers and ink, and the custom-house swallow'd the prophet. now if ever these worthies should happen to dee, and au'd nick scamper off wiv his booty, just imagine yorsels what reformin there'll be, if belaw there's ne _printing_ nor _duty_. but there's honest folk yet now, so dinna be flaid, though el----h and joe has desarted-- for a chep they ca' tunbelly's ta'en up the trade, and bizzy he's been sin' he started: aboot town-surveyin' he's open'd wor eyes, and put tommy gee into a pickle-- he's gi'en to jack proctor a birth i' the skies, and immortal he's render'd bob nichol. now, if ony refuse to the freemen their dues, they're far greater fules than aw thowt them-- let r----y ne mair stand godfather to cows, nor his cousin swear on--till he's bowt them. niver mind what the cheps o' the council may say, he'll seun sattle obstropolous billy-- ne mair he'll refuse for a way-leave to pay, for fear o' the ditch and tunbelly. the good that he's deun scarce a volume wad tell, but there's one thing that will be a wonder-- if tunbelly losses conceit iv his sel' till his head the green sod be laid under. but we a' hae wor likens, what for shouldn't tim? and aw'm shure he a mense to wor town is-- so fill up your glasses once mair to the brim, and drink to the newcastle junius. the keel row. weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, weel may the keel row, and better may she speed: weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, weel may the keel row, that gets the bairns their breed. we teuk wor keel up to the dyke, up to the dyke, up to the dyke, we teuk wor keel up to the dyke, and there we gat her load; then sail'd away down to shields, down to shields, down to shields, then sail'd away down to shields, and shipp'd wor coals abroad. singing--weel may the keel row, &c. then we row'd away up to the fest, up to the fest, up to the fest, we row'd away up to the fest, cheerly every man; pat by wor gear and moor'd wor keel, and moor'd wor keel, and moor'd wor keel, pat by wor gear and moor'd wor keel, then went and drank wor can, singing--weel may the keel row, &c. our canny wives, our clean fireside, our bonny bairns, their parents' pride, sweet smiles that make life smoothly glide, we find when we gan hyem: they'll work for us when we get au'd, they'll keep us frae the winter's cau'd; as life declines they'll us uphaud-- when young we uphaud them. weel may the keel row, &c. the barber's news; _or, shields in an uproar._ great was the consternation, amazement, and dismay, sir, which both in north and south shields, prevail'd the other day, sir; quite panic-struck the natives were, when told by the barber, that a terrible sea monster had got into the harbour. "have you heard the news, sir?" what news, pray, master barber? "oh a terrible sea monster has got into the harbour!" now each honest man in shields--i mean both north and south, sir, delighting in occasions to expand their eyes and mouth, sir: and, fond of seeing marv'lous sights, ne'er staid to get his beard off; but ran to view the monster, its arrival when he heard of. oh! who could think of shaving when inform'd by the barber, that a terrible sea monster had got into the harbour. each wife pursu'd her husband, and every child its mother, lads and lasses, helter skelter, scamper'd after one another; shopkeepers and mechanics too, forsook their daily labours, and ran to gape and stare among their gaping, staring neighbours. all crowded to the river side, when told by the barber, that a terrible sea monster had got into the harbour. it happens very frequently that barber's news is fiction, sir, but the wond'rous news this morning was truth, no contradiction, sir; a something sure enough was there, among the billows flouncing, now sinking in the deep profound, now on the surface bouncing. true as gazette or gospel were the tidings of the barber, that a terrible sea monster had got into the harbour. some thought it was a shark, sir; a porpus some conceiv'd it; some said it was a grampus, and some a whale believ'd it; some swore it was a sea horse, then own'd themselves mistaken, for, now they'd got a nearer view--'twas certainly a kraken. each sported his opinion from the parson to the barber, of the terrible sea monster they'd gotten in the harbour. "belay, belay!" a sailor cried, "what that, this thing a kraken! 'tis no more like one, split my jib! than it is a flitch of bacon! i've often seen a hundred such, all sporting in the nile, sir, and you may trust a sailor's word, it is a crocodile, sir." each straight to jack knocks under, from the parson to the barber, and all agreed a crocodile had got into the harbour. yet greatly jack's discovery his auditors did shock, sir, for they dreaded that the salmon would be eat up by the croc, sir: when presently the crocodile, their consternation crowning, rais'd its head above the waves, and cried, "help! o lord, i'm drowning!" heavens! how their hair, sir, stood on end, from the parson to the barber, to find a speaking crocodile had got into the harbour. this dreadful exclamation appall'd both young and old, sir in the very stoutest hearts, indeed, it made the blood run cold, sir; ev'n jack, the hero of the nile, it caus'd to quake and tremble, until an old wife, sighing, cried, "alas! 'tis stephen kemble!" heav'ns! how they all astonish'd were, from the parson to the barber, to find that stephen kemble was the monster in the harbour. straight crocodilish fears gave place to manly gen'rous strife, sir, most willingly each lent a hand to save poor stephen's life, sir; they dragg'd him gasping to the shore, impatient for his history, for how he came in that sad plight, to them was quite a mystery. tears glisten'd, sir, in every eye, from the parson to the barber, when, swoln to thrice his natural size, they dragg'd him from the harbour. now, having roll'd and rubb'd him well an hour upon the beach, sir, he got upon his legs again, and made a serious speech, sir: quoth he, "an ancient proverb says, and true it will be found, sirs, those born to prove an airy doom will surely ne'er be drown'd, sirs: for fate, sirs, has us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber, or surely i had breath'd my last this morning in the harbour. resolv'd to cross the river, sirs, a sculler did i get into, may jonah's evil luck be mine, another when i step into! just when we reach'd the deepest part, o horror! there it founders, and down went poor pilgarlick amongst the crabs and flounders! but fate, that keeps us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber, ordain'd i should not breathe my last this morning in the harbour. i've broke down many a stage coach, and many a chaise and gig, sirs; once, in passing through a trap-hole, i found myself too big, sirs; i've been circumstanc'd most oddly, while contesting a hard race, sirs, but ne'er was half so frighten'd as among the crabs and plaice, sirs. o fate, sirs, keeps us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber, or certainly i'd breath'd my last this morning in the harbour. my friends, for your exertions, my heart o'erflows with gratitude, o may it prove the last time you find me in that latitude; god knows with what mischances dire the future may abound, sirs, but i hope and trust i'm one of those not fated to be drown'd, sirs." thus ended his oration, i had it from the barber; and drippling, like some river god, he slowly left the harbour. ye men of north and south shields too, god send you all prosperity! may your commerce ever flourish, your stately ships still crowd the sea: unrivall'd in the coal trade, till doomsday may you stand, sirs, and, every hour, fresh wonders your eyes and mouth expand, sirs. and long may stephen kemble live, and never may the barber mistake him for a monster more, deep floundering in the harbour. the bonassus. tune--"jemmy joneson's whurry." let wombwell, james, and a' the pack iv yelpin' curs, beef-eaters, ne mair about bonasses crack, them queer, outlandish creturs. be dumb, ye leeing, yammering hounds, nor wi' yor clavers fash us, for seun aw'll prove wor canny town can boast its awn bonassus. it chanc'd when honest bell was mayor, and gat each poor man's blessin-- when cheps like g--e, and tommy c--r gat monny a gratis lesson; then bell refus'd to stand agyen, tir'd iv the situation, and ne awd wife wad tyek the chain iv a' wor corporation. the folks iv shields has lang begrudg'd the custom-house beside us; this was the time, they reetly judg'd, to come sae fine langside us: they had a chep, w----t was his nyem, to poor folk rather scurvy, they sent him up wor heeds to kyem, and turn us topsy turvy. he seun began to show his horns, and treat the poor like vassals-- he sent the apple-wives to mourn a month iv wor awd cassel. the _timber marchants_ will ne mair wiv ten-a-penny deave us-- they swear iv w----t's to be wor mayor, that i' the dark they'll leave us. the drapers next he gov a gleece, 'bout their unruly samples-- bound ower the clouts to keep the peace, wiv strings to the door stanchells. the tatee-market, iv a tift-- (ye heuxters a' resent it! my sarties! but that was a shift,) to the parade ground sent it. ye gowks, frae shields ye've oft slipt up, when ye had little 'casion, to see wor snobs their capers cut, or geordy's coronation; now altogether come yence mair, wor blissins shall attend ye, if ye'll but rid us o' wor mayor, iv hackney's back we'll send ye. shields chain bridge, humourously described by a pitman. now, geordy, my lad, sit as mute as a tyed, an' aw'll tell ye 'bout chain brig at's gaun to be myed; aw'll begin at the furst, an' gan on till aw cum to the end o' my story--and then aw'll be deun. some folks tell a plain, simple story at times, but aw'm nothing like them, aw tell a' things iv rhymes. smash, geordy, sit quiet--keep in thaw great toes, an' aw'll gan as straight forrat as waggoners goes. wey, ye see, the folks thought, i' gaun ower the water, 'stead o' crossing wi' boats, 'at a brig wad be better; so the gentlemen gather'd a great congregation, the syem as folks de at the heed o' the nation: then they some things brought forrat, an' some they put back, so they sattled a brig sud be built iv a crack. 'twasn't lang efter this, aw gat haud iv a paper, tell'd the size it should be, just as nice as a taper. how! says aw to mysel, but they hevent been lang, dash! a fellow like me may stite myek up a sang, or some such like thing--just to myek a bit fun: so it's ne seuner said than it's cleverly deun. folks thought me a genius when first aw was born-- but what is aw deein?--aw mun tell ye the form o' this said iron brig 'at aw's talking aboot, when aw pull up me breeches, and blaw out me snout. huge abutments o' styen, aw think they are call'd-- when aw com to that word aw was varry near pall'd; on each side o' the river yen o' thor things is myed, to fit intiv a hole they howk out wiv a spyed. frae the tops o' thor pillars to the edge o' the banks, varry strang iron chains, myed o' wrought iron links, hingin' ower the house-tops o' byeth sides o' the river, thor chains is continued frae pillar to pillar. frae the big'uns is hung some inferior in length, to the bottom of which a foundation of strength is fixt, wrought wi' iron, and cover'd wi' styen, then surmounted wi' railing--it's deun, skin and byen. now, geordy, what de ye think ov it, my lad?-- wey, speak--what's the maiter--or ye tyen varry bad? or extonishment is it that's sew'd up yor mouth? but aw divent much wonder, so aw'll tell the real truth. aw wonder wor owners disn't see into it, and myek a chain brig for to gan down wor pit. a! man, but it's cliver--it's use 'ill be great; for to what lad o' shields wad the thought not be sweet; to cross ower the water without danger or fear, as aw've monny a time deun i' gawn ower the wear. when we cross ower the water i' boats we're in danger, but the hazard is warse tiv a man 'at's a stranger. while this hang'd ugly sailing o' packets survives, were in very great danger o' losing wor lives. but it's ne use to tell the unnumber'd disasters which happen to 'prentices, workmen, and masters, on crossing the tyne i' them sma' sculler boats, or ony thing else on the water that floats. at ony rate, the chain brig is a far safer plan, and would save mony lives--contradict it whe can! besides, ye knaw, geordy, it's easier and better for the canny folks 'at leaves on the banks o' the water, to walk straight afore them 'stead o' gaun doon the street, and when they're iv a hurry running doon a' they meet; forbye being kept myest an hour in suspense, by cairts, that sometimes myek a plague of a fence, then the folks are a' stopt, tho' they be iv a hurry. now, ye blithe lads o' shields, let it be a' yor glory, to get this chain brig rear'd on high in the air, then we'll hae to soom amang steam-boats ne mair: smash their great clumsy wheels! aw like nyen o' their wark, they once cowpt me owerboard, an' aw was wet to the sark; but catch me gaun ony mair near them again-- if aw de, say aw divent belang collingwood main! the colliers' pay week, by henry robson. the baff-week is o'er--no repining-- pay-saturday's swift on the wing; at length the blithe morning comes shining, when kelter makes colliers sing. 'tis spring, and the weather is cheary, the birds carol sweet on the spray; now coal-working lads, trim and airy, to newcastle town hie away. those married jog on with their hinnies, their canny bairns go by their side; the daughters keep teazing their minnies for new cloaths to keep up their pride: they plead--easter sunday does fear them, for if they've got nothing that's new, the crow, spiteful bird, will besmear them; oh then, what a sight for to view! the young men, full blithesome and jolly, march forward, all decently clad; some lilting up "cut-and-dry, dolly," some singing "the bonny pit lad:" the pranks that were play'd at last binding engage some in humourous chat; some halt by the way-side on finding primroses to place in their hat. bob cranky, jack hogg, and dick marley, bill hewitt, luke carr, and tom brown, in one jolly squad set off early from benwell to newcastle town: such hewers as they (none need doubt it) ne'er handled a shovel or pick; in high or low seam they could suit it, in regions next door to old nick. some went to buy hats and new jackets, and others to see a bit fun; and some wanted leather and tackets, to cobble their canny pit shoon: save the ribbon dick's dear had requested, (aware he had plenty of chink) there was no other care him infested, unless 'twere his care for good drink. in the morning the dry man advances to purl-shop to toss off a gill. ne'er dreading the ills and mischances attending on those who sit still: the drink, reason's monitor quelling, inflames both the brain and the eyes; the enchantment commenc'd, there's no telling when care-drowning tipplers will rise. o malt! we acknowledge thy powers, what good and what ill dost thou brew! our good friend in moderate hours-- our enemy when we get fu': could thy vot'ries avoid the fell furies so often awaken'd by thee, we should seldom need judges or juries to send folk to tyburn tree! at length in newcastle they centre-- in hardy's,[ ] a house much renown'd, the jovial company enter, where stores of good liquor abound: as quick as the servants could fill it, (till emptied were quarts half a score) with heart-burning thirst down they swill it, and thump on the table for more. while thus in fine cue they are seated, young cock-fighting ned, from the fell,[ ] peep'd in--his "how d'ye?" repeated, and hop'd they were all very well; he swore he was pleased to see them-- one rose up to make him sit down, and join in good fellowship wi' them-- for him they would spend their last crown. the liquor beginning to warm them, in friendship the closer they knit, and tell and hear jokes--and to charm them, comes robin from denton-bourn pit; an odd, witty, comical fellow, at either a jest or a tale, especially when he was mellow with drinking stout newcastle ale. with bousing, and laughing, and smoking, the time slippeth swiftly away, and while they are ranting and joking, the church-clock proclaims it mid-day; and now for black-puddings, long measure, they go to tib trollibag's stand, and away bear the glossy rich treasure, with joy, like curl'd bugles in hand. and now a choice house they agreed on, not far from the head of the quay: where they their black puddings might feed on, and spend the remains of the day; where pipers and fiddlers resorted, to pick up the straggling pence, and where the pit-lads often sported their money at fiddle and dance. blind willie[ ] the fiddler sat scraping in corner just as they went in: some willington callants were shaking their feet to his musical din: jack vow'd he would have some fine cap'ring, as soon as their dinner was o'er, with the lassie that wore the white apron, now reeling about on the floor. their hungry stomachs being eased, and gullets well clear'd with a glass, jack rose from the table and seized the hand of the frolicsome lass. "maw hinny!" says he, "pray excuse me-- to ask thee to dance aw myek free?" she replied, "i'd be loth to refuse thee-- now fiddler play--"jigging for me." the damsel displays all her graces, the collier exerts all his power, they caper in circling paces, and _set_ at each end of the floor: he jumps, and his heels knack and rattle-- at turns of the music so sweet, he makes such a thundering brattle, the floor seems afraid of his feet. this couple being seated, rose bob up, he wish'd to make one in a jig; but a willington lad set his gob up-- o'er him there should none "run the rig;" for now 'twas his turn for a caper, and he would dance first as he'd rose; bob's passion beginning to vapour, he twisted his opponent's nose. the willington lads, for their franky, jump'd up to revenge the foul deed; and those in behalf of bob cranky sprung forward--for now there was need. bob canted the form, with a kevel, as he was exerting his strength; but he got on the lug such a nevel, that down came he, all his long length. tom brown, from behind the long table, impatient to join in the fight, made a spring, some rude foe to disable, for he was a man of some might: misfortune, alas! was attending, an accident fill'd him with fear; an old rusty nail his flesh rending, oblig'd him to slink in the rear. when sober, a mild man was marley, more apt to join friends than make foes; but rais'd by the juice of the barley, he put in some sobbling blows. and cock-fighting ned was their hector, a courageous fellow and stout-- he stood their bold friend and protector, and thump'd the opponents about. all hand-over-head, topsy-turvy, they struck with fists, elbows, and feet; a willington callant, call'd gurvy, was top-tails tost over the seat: luke carr had one eye clos'd entire, and what is a serio-farce, poor robin was cast on the fire, his breeks torn and burnt off his a--e. oh, robin! what argued thy speeches? disaster now makes thee quite mum; thy wit could not save the good breeches that mencefully cover'd thy bum: to some slop-shop now thou should be trudging, and lug out more squandering coins; for now 'tis too late to be grudging-- thou cannot go home with bare groins. how the war-faring companies parted, the muse chuseth not to proclaim; but 'tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted, they quietly went--"toddling hame." now ye collier callants, so clever, residing 'tween tyne and the wear, beware, when you fuddle together, of making too free with strong beer. . footnote : sign of the black boy, great market. footnote : gateshead fell. footnote : william purvis, a blind fiddler so called. the tyne. by the same--written in . in britain's blest island there runs a fine river, far fam'd for the ore it conveys from the mine: northumbria's pride, and that district doth sever from durham's rising hills, and 'tis called--the tyne. flow on, lovely tyne, undisturb'd be thy motion, thy sons hold the threats of proud france in disdain; as long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean, the fleets of old england will govern the main. other rivers for fame have by poets been noted in many a soft-sounding musical line; but for sailors and coals never one was yet quoted, could vie with the choicest of rivers--the tyne. flow on, lovely tyne, &c. when collingwood conquer'd our foes so completely, and gain'd a fine laurel, his brow to entwine; in order to manage the matter quite neatly, mann'd his vessel with tars from the banks of the tyne. flow on, lovely tyne, &c. thou dearest of rivers, oft-times have i wander'd thy margin along when oppress'd sore with grief, and thought of thy stream, as it onward meander'd, the murmuring melody gave me relief. flow on, lovely tyne, &c. from the fragrant wild flowers that blow on thy border, the playful zephyrus oft steals an embrace, and curling thy surface in beauteous order, the willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face. flow on, lovely tyne, &c. one favour i crave--o kind fortune befriend me! when downhill i totter, in nature's decline-- a competent income--if this thou wilt send me, i'll dwindle out life on the banks of the tyne. flow on, lovely tyne, &c. the spring. by the same.--written early in may, . now the gay feather'd train, in each bush, court their mates, and love's melody sing-- the blackbird, the linnet, and thrush, make the echoing valleys to ring. the bird with the crimson-dy'd breast, from the hamlet has made his remove, to join his love-song with the rest, and woo his fond mate in the grove. the lark, high in ether afloat, each morn, as he ushers the day, attunes his wild-warbling throat, and sings his melodious lay. yon bank lately cover'd with snow, now smiles in the spring's bloomy pride; and the sweet-scented primroses grow near the streamlet's sweet gurgling tide. to the banks of the tyne we'll away, and view the enrapturing scene, while flora, the goddess of may, with her flow'rets bespangles the green. parson malthus. by the same.--written in . tune--"ranting roaring willie." good people, if you'll pay attention, i'll tell you a comical jest; the theme i'm about now to mention alludes to one malthus, a priest-- a proud, hypocritical preacher, who feeds on tithe-pigs and good wine; but him i shall prove a false teacher-- oh, all things have but a time. some years ago, through all the nation, he publish'd a scandalous book-- an essay about "population;" but widely his text he mistook. from marriage his plan's to restrain all poor people who are in their prime, lest the earth prove too small to contain all-- such notions can last but a time. but the clergy who're plac'd in snug station, the nobles, and such like fine folks, may continue their multiplication-- what think you, my friends, of such jokes? what think you of malthus the parson, who slights each injunction divine, and laughs while he carries the farce on;-- but all things have but a time. when the poor folk of hunger are dying, he deems it no sin in the _great_, their hands to with-hold from supplying the wretched with victuals to eat! such doctrine--sure a great evil-- becomes not a christian divine; 'tis more like the speech of the devil;-- but all things have but a time. now, my friends, you will readily see malthus' argument's not worth a curse; for to starve the industrious bee, is no better than killing the goose. that he does not believe in the bible, his book is a very true sign; on sacred writ 'tis a libel-- such trash can last but for a time. place the drones on one part of our isle, the industrious class on the other; there the former may simper and smile, and bow and scrape each to his brother: they can neither plough, throw the shuttle, nor build with stone and lime; they'll then get but little to guttle, and may grow wiser in time. ye blithe british lads and ye lasses, ne'er heed this daft, whimsical priest; get sweethearts in spite of such asses-- the bible plan sure is the best: then away go in couples together, and marry while you're in your prime, and strive to agree with each other, for life only lasts a short time! peter waggy. by the same--written in . i, when a child, for trinket ware would often cry to mam and daddie: with other trifles, from the fair, dad brought me once a peter waggy. fine dolls, and many things forby, a gilded coach and little naggie; but oh, the darling of my eye, was little dancing peter waggy! love of such trifles time destroys-- at length each well-grown lass and laddie seeks to be pleas'd with other toys, some other sort of peter waggy. a lover came to me at last, in courting me he ne'er grew faggy; now he and i are buckled fast-- he is my darling peter waggy. we've got a boy of beauty rare, a credit to his mam and daddie; when i go to newcastle fair, i'll buy my child a peter waggy. bessy of blyth. "a virtuous woman is more precious than rubies." by the same.--written in . in cramlington we've bonnie lasses enow, with checks red as roses, and eyes black or blue; but bessy of blyth i love better than onie-- my heart is still there with my own dear honey. my uncle says, "robin, why sure you are mad, to slight suky swan--she's worth money, my lad!" dear uncle, says i, i'll ne'er marry for money, and none will i have but my own dear honey. her face i compare to the blush of the morn, her breath to the scent of the fresh-blossom'd thorn; for virtue and sense she's not equall'd by monie-- few, few can compare with my own dear honey. as in this world of care there is nought we approve, compar'd to the faithful good wife that we love; to sweeten life's sorrow, the gall mix with honey, i'll wed my dear bess, and a fig for their money. kelvin grove.--the lassie's answer. by the same--written in . to kelvin grove we'll go, bonnie laddie, o, where the sweetest flowers grow, bonnie laddie, o; with my true-love by my side, of a' the flowers the pride, i'd wander the warld wide, bonnie laddie, o. when the throstle hails the morn, bonnie laddie, o, we'll wander by the burn, bonnie laddie, o; and we'll rest in the alcove, in bonny kelvin grove, where first i told my love to my laddie, o. when thou leav'st thy native home, bonnie laddie, o, with thee i mean to roam, bonnie laddie, o; i'll watch thee in the fight, and guard thee day and night, that no mishap alight--on my laddie, o. in the fatal battle-field, bonnie laddie, o, shouldst thou thy spirit yield, bonnie laddie, o-- when thy een are clos'd in death, i'll sigh my latest breath, and one grave shall hold us baith, bonnie laddie, o. but kind should fortune prove, bonnie laddie, o, and spare us baith to love, bonnie laddie, o: by the stream again we'll rove, in bonny kelvin grove, and frae hame nae mair remove, dearest laddie, o. to mr. peter watson[ ], who lays powerful bats on the knaves with fire-shovel hats on. by the same.--written in . o watson! o watson! what are you about? what have you been doing to cause such a rout? 'tis said you've been giving the clergy a clout; which nobody does deny. o stop! watson, stop! o whither?--say whither directs your bold genius?--'twould seem you choose rather to hammer the parsons, instead of bend leather; at starting you were not shy. what tho' the good clergy for long time have got, at easter, fat pullets to put in their pot, and ta'en from the people full many a groat, yet why into this should you pry? of matters relating to church or to state, 'tis surely not fit you should trouble your pate; yet still you keep thumping, with spirit elate, as if you would maul the whole fry. i'd have you respect more the _lord's_ own _anointed_, who over your conscience to rule are appointed, and to whom pigs and pullets are sent to be jointed, and other good things forby. repent, then, and quick pay your easter dues, and to _guileless_ parsons give no more abuse, or spiritual comfort to you they'll refuse, and this may cause you to sigh! for things are so chang'd since you rang them a peal, that the clerk seems afraid through our parish to speel; for he's look'd on no better than one come to steal; which nobody can deny. the clerk of st. john's, that he might have good luck, employed a brave noodle, whose nick-name is _pluck_, to collect easter-pence; but the people had struck-- few, few were brought to comply. now the parsons to you attach all the blame, o watson, for saying they had no just claim! thus you've brought on yourself their _holy_ disdain; yet you'll fill a niche in the temple of fame, which nobody will deny. footnote : peter watson, of chester-le-street, shoemaker.--this person, for some time, laudably exerted himself to oppose the claims of the government clergy to what are called easter dues or offerings; and by a powerful appeal to the public, succeeded in convincing many that such claims were equally oppressive and unjust, and founded neither in the law nor the gospel.--the late worthy vicar of newcastle, mr. john smith, actuated with the generous feelings of a man and a christian, and with due deference to public opinion, restrained the clergy in his jurisdiction from collecting these exactions during the latter years of his life. to him, therefore, and to peter watson, in particular, who aroused the public attention to the subject, the inhabitants of newcastle are indebted for being relieved from this odious, unjust, and oppressive clerical tax. the newcastle subscription mill. tune--"newcastle ale."-- . while europe rejoices at bonny's defeat, and cossacks pursue him o'er plain and o'er hill, on the banks of the tyne, in a quiet retreat, i'll write you a ballad about the new mill, to be built by subscription, of famous description; ye pale-fac'd mechanics, come join in the club, whose bowels are yearning at ev'ning and morning, and you will get plenty of cheap, wholesome grub. the millers their spite have already display'd, and dusty-mouth'd meal-mongers pettish are grown, that a plan should be thought of to injure their trade, a mill that will grind for one half of the town; where, joyful, you'll hie, for wheat or for rye-- there some trusty fellow your meal-bags will fill; no mixture of chalk[ ], your intestines to caulk, but plain, honest dealing practis'd at the mill. there's puff-cake, the baker, too, cries out "alack! if this plan should succeed, i'll have customers few;" and he whinges and whines as he sets up his back to twirl his long rolling-pin over the dough: the theme he resumes, with vexation he fumes, and deems the projector a deep-scheming elf; his customers gone, he'll soon be undone, his mixture compound he may swallow himself. of gripe-grain, the corn-factor, much could be sung, and of broad-brim, the quaker, a guilt-spotted blade, who both in a halter deserve to be strung, for the thousands they've starv'd by the forestalling trade: but some future time may produce a new rhyme, wherein i propose their true features to draw; meanwhile ev'ry man give his aid to the plan, and there'll soon be a down-coming market--huzza! footnote : about the month of november, , (according to the courier newspaper) a victualler for the navy was convicted in adulterating the biscuit with chalk and portland stone, and suffered the penalty of a very heavy fine. the audacious fellow afterwards boasted, that he had cleared more money by the practice than the fine amounted to. lizzie liberty. tune--"tibby fowler i' the glen." _by the same._ sung at a meeting of reformers at the golden lion inn, bigg market, newcastle, on the liberation of henry hunt, esq. in . there lives a nymph o'er yonder lea, and o she is a winsome hizzie! her name is lizzie liberty, and monie wooers has sweet lizzie: she sings and trips along the plain, free as the wind glides o'er the water; o bonny lizzie liberty! now a' the lads wad fain be at her. the men o' france to her advance, and use all arts to gain her favour; and spaniards bold, with hearts of gold, vow, if she's to be had, they'll have her; and daft john bull, that bleth'ring cull, about the nymph sets up his chatter; o bonnie lizzie liberty! now a' the lads wad fain be at her. braw donald scot steps forth, i wot, to win the smiles of this fair lady, and irish pat has promis'd that, to woo the nymph he'll aye be steady: whole patriot bands, of foreign lands, do fyke and fistle sair about her: o bonnie lizzie liberty! nae happiness is felt without her. the new fish market. by william midford. tune--"scots come o'er the border." march! march to the dandy fish market! see what our corporation's done for you, by pillars and paling so nobly surrounded, and your stone tables all standing before you. where's there a river so fam'd in the nation? where's the bold tars that so well grace their station? coals, fish, and grindstones--we'll through the world bark it-- and now we ha'e gotten a bonny fish market, march! march, &c. oh! did the fish ken they'd be caged like a birdie, (euphy, the queen, singing, "maw canny geordie,") they'd pop out their heads then, should ye only watch them, and call on the fishermen sharply to catch them. march! march, &c. yet all isn't right, tho'--in time you may hear it; one week is past, and but one cart's come near it: the loons above stairs preconcerted the order, and hinder poor bodies to hawk through the border. march! march, &c. gan to the coast--where the fishermen's weeding-- gan to the fells--where the cuddies are feeding-- gan to hell's kitchen--should ye have occasion-- ye'll see hizzies drinking through spite and vexation. march! march, &c. where's madgie's troops that so well could shout oysters? gone to a convent or nunnery cloisters! where's the wee shop that once held jack the barber? gone to make room for the fish brought to harbour! march! march, &c. then hie to the custom-house, add to your pleasures, now you're well cover'd, so toom the new measures: it ne'er will be finish'd, i'll wager a groat, till they've cut a canal to admit five-men boats! march! march, &c. a new year's carol, _for the fishwives of newcastle._ tune--"chevy chase." god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safeties all! a woeful ditty we may sing on ev'ry fishwife's stall. good magistrates, it were a sin that we should _rail_ at you; altho' the _plaice_ you've put us in, is _grating_ to our view. if _crab_-bed looks we should put on, or _flounder_ in a pet, each fishwife's _tub_ would, very soon, be in the _kit_-ty set. sure we are not such simple _soles_, though in your legal _net_, but we will haul you _o'er the coals_, and play _hot cockles_ yet. the iron ring in which we're shut, to make the _gudgeons_ stare, will not, says ev'ry scolding slut, with _her-ring_ e'er compare. then ev'ry night, that duly falls, _fresh water_ may be seen all floating round our seats and stalls, as if we _had-ducks_ been. but thus _shell'd_ in, as now we are, within our corp'rate bounds, altho' we may not curse and swear, we still may cry, _cod-sounds_! let gentle people _carp_ their fill, at us, our sprees and pranks; for tho' we're now turn'd off the _hill_, themselves may lose their _banks_. jesmond mill. by phil. hodgson. to sing of some nymph in her cot, each bard will oft flourish his quill: i'm glad it has fall'n to my lot, to celebrate jesmond mill. when spring hither winds her career, our trees and our hedges to fill, vast oceans of verdure appear, to charm you at jesmond mill. to plant every rural delight, mere nature has lavish'd her skill; here fragrant soft breezes unite, to wanton round jesmond mill. when silence each evening here dwells, the birds in their coverts all still; no music in sweetness excels the clacking of jesmond mill. reclin'd by the verge of the stream, or stretch'd on the side of the hill, i'm never in want of a theme, while learning at jesmond mill. sure venus some plot has design'd, or why is my heart never still, whenever it pops in my mind, to wander near jesmond mill. my object, ye swains, you will guess, if ever in love you had skill; and now i will frankly confess, 'tis--jenny of jesmond mill. tommy thompson. author of 'canny newcassel,' 'jemmy joneson's whurry,' &c. by robert gilchrist. all ye whom minstrel's strains inspire, soft as the sighs of morning-- all ye who sweep the rustic lyre, your native hills adorning-- where genius bids her rays descend o'er bosoms deep and lonesome-- let every heart and hand respond the name of tommy thompson. chorus. his spirit now is soaring bright, and leaves us dark and dolesome; o luckless was the fatal night that lost us tommy thompson. the lyric harp was all his own, each mystic art combining-- which envy, with unbending frown, might hear with unrepining. the sweetest flower in summer blown, was not more blithe and joysome, than was the matchless, merry tone, which died with tommy thompson. his spirit, &c. farewell to the tyne. by the same. farewell, lovely tyne, in thy soft murmurs flowing, adieu to the shades of thy mouldering towers! and sweet be the flowers on thy wild margin growing, and sweet be the nymphs that inhabit thy bowers! and there shall be ties which no distance can sever, thou land of our fathers, the dauntless and free; tho' the charms of each change smile around me, yet never shall the sigh be inconstant that's hallow'd to thee. thy full orb of glory will blaze o'er each contest-- thy sons, e'er renown'd, be the dread of each foe-- till thy tars chill with fear in the fight or the tempest, and the pure streams of heddon have ceas'd more to flow. may commerce be thine--and from tynemouth to stella may thy dark dingy waters auspiciously roll-- and thy lads in the keels long be jovial and mellow, with faces as black as the keel or the coal. o albion! of worlds thou shalt e'er be the wonder, thy tough wooden walls, thy protection and pride, so long as the bolts of thy cloud-rending thunder are hurl'd by the lads on the banks of tyneside. northumberland free o' newcassel. composed extempore, on the duke of northumberland being presented with the freedom of newcastle. by the same. to that far-ken'd and wondrous place, newcassel town, where each thing yen lucks at surprises, wiv a head full o' fancies, and heart full o' fun, aw'd com'd in to see my lord sizes. in byeth town and country aw glowrin' beheld carousin' laird, tenant, an' vassal; on axin' the cause o' sic joy, aw was tell'd, 'twas northumberland free o' newcassel. the guns frae the cassel sent monny a peal-- my hair stood on end, a' confounded-- the folks on tyne-brig set up monny a squeel, and the banks o' tyneside a' resounded. in the mute hall, judge bayley roar'd out, "my poor head!-- gan an' tell them not to myek sic a rattle." judge wood cried out, "no--let them fire us half dead, since northumberland's free o' newcassel!" the duke e'er has been byeth wor glory an' pride, for dousely he fills up his station; may he lang live to hearten the lads o' tyneside, the glory and pride o' their nation. brave prudhoe[ ] triumphant shall plough the wide main, the hash o' the yankees he'll sattle; and ages hereefter but sarve to proclaim northumberland free o' newcassel. may it please heav'n to grant that the sweet flower o' wales,[ ] wi' northumberland's roses entwinin', may its fragrance shed forth i' celestial gales, in glory unceasin'ly shinin', in defence o' wor country, wor laws, an' wor king, may a _peercy_ still lead us to battle; an' monny a brisk lad o' the nyem may there spring fra northumberland, free o' newcassel. footnote : baron prudhoe, of the royal navy. footnote : the duchess of northumberland. the duchess and mayoress. written in september, . ye northumberland lads and ye lasses, come and see what at newcastle passes, here's a damnable rout, at a tea and turn out, and no one knows how to bring matters about. it seems, at our summer assizes, (or at least so the present surmise is) the wife of the mayor never offer'd her chair at the ball when the duchess from alnwick was there. then 'tis said, too, by way of addition, to the mayoress's turn for sediton, that, in right of her place, with her impudent face, she march'd out to tea at the head of her grace. so our vigorous young lord lieutenant, next day, when the grand jury were present, disclos'd to their view, (in enigma, 'tis true) the plot of the mayoress and all her d--d crew. when his health was propos'd as lieutenant, he bow'd to the company present; then, with tears in his eyes, and to all their surprize, "my office, (his grace said) too heavily lies. i had firmly imagin'd till now, sirs, that our county was free from all row, sirs; but what has occurr'd, though i sha'n't say a word, till the voice of yourselves and the county is heard. all at present i wish yon to know is, that my duchess and dame lady powis, have receiv'd such a blow, that thy never can go to your ball, at newcastle, while things remain so. a high rank has its weight in the nation, if you hold it in due estimation; then the duchess and i for redress must apply, tho' at present i mention no name--no, not i. all i wish is to find out your pleasures, and hope to avoid all harsh measures; yet i always foresaw this republican jaw would sooner or later produce martial law." thus ended the young lord lieutenant, when the terrified company present, cried, "name, my lord, name who's to blame--who's to blame;" but the duke said, the county must smother the flame. and the duchess and he, the next morning, fulfill'd my lord lieutenant's warning; then up before day, and to alnwick away, their faces have ne'er since been seen to this day. newcastle assizes. duchess _versus_ mayoress; _or, a struggle for precedence_. why, what's a' this about, mr. mayor, mister mayor? why, what's a' this about, mister mayor? yor worship's wife, they say, to the duchess won't give way, nor due attention pay, mister mayor! but is this true, aw pray, mister mayor, mister mayor? but is this true, aw pray, mister mayor? if it's true, as aw believe, ye'll ha'e muckle cause to grieve-- the duke yor toon will leave, mister mayor! the judge, sir william scott, mr. mayor, mister mayor! the judge, sir william scott, mr. mayor! says, yor wife is much to blame; and aw think 'twad be ne shame, to skelp her for the same, mister mayor! 'tis not the judge alane, mister mayor, mister mayor! 'tis not the judge alane, mr. mayor! but the judge and jury baith, say, she's guilty o' maw faith, an' so sir thomas saith, mr. mayor! the duke the jury towld, mister mayor, mr. mayor! the duke the jury towld, mr. mayor! he went with them to dine, and surely he did whine, 'bout his wife, mun, ow'r his wine, mr. mayor! 'twas sure ne noble deed, mister mayor, mister mayor! 'twas sure ne noble deed, mr. mayor! he shew'd ne mighty sense, at yor dame to take offence; so let his grace gan hence, mr. mayor! but there's other folk to blame, mr. mayor, mr. mayor! but there's other folk to blame, mr. mayor! yor wife has counsell'd with wor vicar, johnny smith, and he's nought, ye knaw, but pith, mr. mayor! enjoy life when ye can, mister mayor, mister mayor! enjoy life when ye can, mr. mayor! nor let the brewer knight, nor the duke, wi' a' his spite, say yor wife's no i' the right, mr. mayor! the coal trade. good people, listen while i sing the source from whence your comforts spring, and may each wind that blows still bring success unto the coal trade? who but unusual pleasure feels to see our fleets of ships and keels! newcastle, sunderland, and shields, may ever bless the coal trade. may vultures on the caitiff fly and gnaw his liver till he die, who looks with evil, jealous eye, down upon the coal trade. if that should fail, what would ensue? sure, ruin and disaster too! alas! alas! what could we do, if 'twere not for the coal trade! what is it gives us cakes of meal? what is it crams our wames sae weel with lumps of beef and draughts of ale? what is't, but just the coal trade. not davis' straits or greenland oil, nor all the wealth springs from the soil, could ever make our pots to boil, like unto our coal trade. ye sailors' wives that love a drop of stingo fra the brandy shop, how could you get one single drop, if it were not for the coal trade. ye pitmen lads, so blithe and gay, who meet to tipple each pay-day, down on your marrow bones and pray, success unto the coal trade! may wear and tyne still draw and pour their jet black treasures to the shore, and we with all our strength will roar, success unto the coal trade! ye owners, masters, sailors a', come shout till ye be like to fa'; your voices raise--huzza! huzza! we all live by the coal trade. this nation is in duty bound, to prize those who work under ground, for 'tis well known this country round is kept up by the coal trade. may wear, and tyne, and thames ne'er freeze, our ships and keels will pass with ease, then newcastle, sunderland, and shields, will still uphold the coal trade. i tell the truth, you may depend, in durham or northumberland, no trade in them could ever stand, if it were not for the coal trade. the owners know full well, 'tis true, without pitmen, keelmen, sailors too, to britain they might bid adieu, if it were not for the coal trade. so to conclude, and make an end of these few lines which i have penn'd, we'll drink a health to all those men who carry on the coal trade: to owners, pitmen, keelmen too, and sailors, who the seas do plough, without these men we could not do, nor carry on the coal trade. tom carr and waller watson; _or, tom and jerry at home._ tune--"there was a bold dragoon." o marrow, howay to the toon, what fun we will ha'e there! we needn't fear the watchmen now, let them come if they dare! we'll hev a gill and sing a sang, and through the streets we'll roar a ditty, for tom carr hez ne bizness now to put us a' neet i' the kitty. whack, fal, &c. for when he cam before me lord, he fand his sel a' wrang, for tyaken watson up yen neet for singing a wee bit sang. another chep ca'd walton te, aw own that he was rather murry, for he tell'd the watchman to be off, or else he'd give him tom and jurry, whack, fal, &c. the watchman seiz'd him by the neck, then up cam other two: says walton. 'now let go o' me, or aw'll let ye knaw just now.' then he lifted up his great lang airm, me soul he gave him sec a knoller; but the watchman kept his haud se lang, he pull'd off walton's dandy collar. whack, fal, &c. to the watch-house then they dragg'd them off, before greet captain carr: says he, 'what ha'e ye getten here, me worthy men o' war?' wye, sir, says they, here's twe greet cheps, the yen aw shure deserves a swingin; for they've roar'd and shouted thro' the streets, and wyaken'd a' the folks wi' singin. whack, fal, &c. 'aye, aye,' says carr, 'aw ken them weel, tyek them out o' my seet! away wi' them to mr. scott, and keep them there a' neet.' says walton, 'will ye hear me speak?' says tommy, 'go you to the devil!' 'wye, wye,' says walton, 'never mind, but surely this is damn'd uncivil.' whack, fal, &c. then away they went to mr. scott, and fand him varry kind: says he, 'young men, i'll treat ye weel, tho' here against your mind.' 'o sir,' said they, 'you're very good, but faith this place luiks dark and frightful!' says walton, 'what a sweet perfume!' says watson, 'lord, it's quite delightful!' whack, fal, &c. but watson myed tom carr to rue, before 'twas varry lang: he had him tried before me lord, and carr fand he was wrang. me lord tell'd carr he had ne reet to shop them, e'en had it been lyater, until he'd tyen them, first ov a', before a mister magistrater. whack, fal, &c. now tommy carr may claw his lug, th' expences he mun pay: but still there's nyen that's sorry for't; 'it sarves him reet,' they say. so howay, lads, let's off to toon, we'll a' put wor bit better hats on; and if tom carr shops us agyen, me sowl! we'll give him waller watson. johnny sc--tt and tommy c--rr. a dialogue. _sc--tt_--ah! woe's me! what shall i do, tommy c--rr, tommy c--rr? for i have most cause to rue, tommy c--rr! though your costs are very great, yet much harder is my fate-- i may shut the kitty gate, tommy c--rr! _c--rr_--i will soon be clear of mine, johnny sc--tt, johnny sc--tt! for i will myself confine, johnny sc--tt! just for three short weeks or so, up the nineteen steps i'll go, and be wash'd as white as snow, johnny sc--tt! _sc--tt_--oh! that tyrant of a judge, tommy c--rr, tommy c--rr! he has surely had some grudge, tommy c--rr! can we gain our honest bread, now when cut off in full trade, we who've been so long well fed, tommy c--rr! _c--rr_--oh! how trifling was our chance, johnny sc--tt, johnny sc--tt! oh! had scarlett been at france, johnny sc--tt! brougham's help was all we had, well he knew our case was bad; and au'd bayley frown'd like mad, johnny sc--tt! _sc--tt_--i my huckstering shop may let, tommy c--rr, tommy c--rr! no more customers we'll get, tommy c--rr! mrs. sc--tt has room to growl, there is not one hungry soul for to buy a penny roll, tommy c--rr! _c--rr_--let us curse the day and hour, johnny sc--tt, johnny sc--tt! that depriv'd us of our power, johnny sc--tt! fam'd newcastle's rattling boys will kick up a thund'ring noise, and for fun will black our eyes, johnny sc--tt! tommy c--rr in limbo. tune--"scots wha ha'e," &c. ye that like a lark or spree! ye that's iv the kitty free! now's the time for mirth and glee, for tommy is up stairs. ye that never yet went wrang-- ne'er did warse than sing a sang, ye that offen had to gan and visit mr. mayor's. now then let your joys abound-- now begin your neetly rounds, and myek the streets wi' mirth resound. since tommy is up stairs. whe before judge bayley stood, for sending watson into quod?-- whe wad grace a _frame of wood_? but honest tommy c--r. and when fou, wi' cronies dear, ye'd sally out to filly fair, whe was sure to meet ye there? but honest tommy c--r: wiv his beaver round and low, little switch, and thick surtou', like satan prowling to and fro, seeking to devour. whe was sure your sport to marr, and send ye off to cabbage square? whe was judge and jury there? but honest tommy c--r. whe wad never tyek yor word? and if to walk ye'd not afford, whe wad strap ye on a board? but honest tommy c--r. the kitty port admiral at the bench; or, dogberry in the suds. _air--"the opera hat."_ oh the devil go with you, fat tom c--r! bribe him well, he'll be your counsellor, give you courage when at the bar, and grant you a special favour: some folks thowt you were gyen to hell, and other some to derry: but sup the broth you've made yoursel', there's no one can be sorry. so the devil go with you, &c. 'tis well you leave the scorn of those you've sent unto the work-house, for, hangman-like, you'd have cash and clothes, when their friends were glad of the carcase. so the devil, &c. bad luck, say i, to your brother brimair! your crimes 'twill not half smother; so go to stuart's, in denton-chare, and prithee choose another. so the devil, &c. for if ever upon the quay again, you beg for beef and biscuit, the sailor lads will surely cry, gods! lad, you've sairly miss'd it. so the devil, &c. may the tread-mill turn to a whiskey-shop, the parrot into a monkey, and tom c--r selling fine shirt neck buttons, upon a tripe-wife's donkey, so the devil, &c. the owl. written feb. . tune--x, y, z. now run away amang the snobs, an' stangies i' the garth, man, an hear about the greet black owl, that's let on cappy's hearth, man-- of sic a breed, the deil his sell its marrow canna find in hell! it hops about wiv its slouch hat, can worry mice like wor tom-cat-- and sic a yarkin blubber heed, it bangs x, y, that famous steed, or ony thing ye like, man. oft frev its nest, in cabbage square, it flaffer'd out at neets, man, 'mang sic a flock that neetly blare, and carry crooks and leets, man-- then prowl'd wor streets in search o' prey, and if a mouse but cross'd his way, he quickly had it by the nose, and pawk'd it off to kuel its toes-- did hoo! hoo! wi' the blubber heed, that bangs x, y, that famous steed-- so, cappy, keep him tight, man. to tell how cappy gat this burd, aw wad be rather fash'd, man; some say that, of its awn accord, it went to get _white wash'd_, man. so scrub him, cap, with a' yor might, just nobbit make the lubbart white-- but if yor brushin' winna dee, there's waller watson, walton, tee, they'll scrub him as they did before, and make the bowdy-kite to roar-- if cappy keeps him tight, man. st. nich'las' bells now sweetly ring, yor music's sae bewitchin'-- ye lads in neil's[ ] now louder sing, and warble weel hell's kitchen[ ]-- for yor au'd friend is in the trap, alang wi' his awn brother, cap: then shout hurra! agyen we're free, at neets to hev a canny spree; in gannin hyem, ne mair we'll dreed the lubbart wi' the chuckle heed-- mind, cappy, keep him tight, man. footnote : a famed public-house at the head of manor-chare. footnote : the tap-room of a famed public-house, near the head of groat market. lovely delia. tune--"sleeping maggie." upon the flow'ry banks o' tyne, the rose and myrtle may entwine; but were there every sweet divine, they wadna a' be like my delia. clear beams the eye o' delia, heaven's in the smile o' delia; nor flowers that blaw, nor falling snaw, were e'er sae pure as lovely delia. gently blaw, thou whistlin' wind, along the bonny banks o' tyne, where nature every grace combin'd when she first form'd my life, my delia! clear beams the eye o' delia, heaven's in the smile o' delia; nor flower that blaws, nor winter snaws, were e'er sae pure as lovely delia. tho' a' the wee birds round me sing, to welcome back the blithefu' spring; yet a' the music they can bring is nae sae sweet's the voice o' delia. clear beams the eye o' delia, heaven's in the smile o' delia; nor flower that blaws, nor drifting snaws, were e'er sae pure as my lov'd delia. the bonny little playfu' lamb, that frisks along the verdant plain, is nae mair free fra guilty stain, than is my life, my love, my delia. clear beams the eye o' delia, heaven's in the smile o' delia; nor flowers that blaw, nor whitest snaw, were e'er sae pure as my sweet delia. the priests they tell us, all above, with angels, do delight in love; then surely angels must approve their image in my lovely delia. clear beams the eye o' delia, heaven's in the smile o' delia; nor flower that blaws, nor new-born snaws, were e'er sae pure as lovely delia. truth and kindness ever reigns, in a' her heart, through a' her veins; yet nane shall ken the pleasing pains i hae endur'd for my sweet delia. heaven's in the smile o' delia, blight's the beam in her dark eye; nor flower that blaws, nor virgin snaws, were e'er sae pure as my lov'd delia. pandon dean. tune--"banks o' doon." farewell, ye fragrant, shady groves! farewell, thou charming sylvan scene, where partial mem'ry hapless roves-- i bid adieu to pandon dean. i bid ye all a long adieu, and fare thee well, my lovely jean; thine equal i shall never view, whilst far awa' fra pandon dean. the songsters chanting on the spray, the shrubs and flowers, sae fresh and green, increase my heart's tumultuous play, which dwells on thee and pandon dean. though far awa' in foreign lands, and trackless oceans foam between, i ne'er shall break those dearest bands thou wreath'dst for me in pandon dean. these to my heart shall dearest be, when sharp afflictions pierce me keen; 'twill soothe my woes to think on thee, thou fairest flower in pandon dean. if fortune smile, i'll then return, to deck my love in silken sheen; and dwell with her just by the burn that wimples through the bonny dean. the newcastle hackneys. the londoners long for example we've chose, and imported each fashion as fast as it 'rose; but the best hit of all, in our awkward approaches, is st. nicholas' square, and the new hackney coaches. the ladies have long had advantage of man, in that easy conveyance, a walking sedan; now the tables are turn'd on the opposite side, for the ladies must walk while the gentlemen ride. when our beaux are dress'd out for a rout or a ball, they've nothing to do but a hackney to call-- consult not the weather, nor muffle their chins-- no danger of breaking, o'er scrapers, their shins. when a couple's resolv'd on a trip to the church, where a lady has sometimes been left in the lurch; to prevent a misfortune like this, for the future, pack up in a hackney your amiable suitor. when impertinent tradesmen you're likely to meet, or a bailiff descry at the end of the street-- press into your service a hackney and pair, for the devil himself would not look for you there. to many things else they'll apply, i've a notion, they'll even be found to assist your devotion; the doctors will find them most useful, no doubt on't, in peopling the world, or to send people out on't. then success to the hackneys, and long may they roll-- of balls and assemblies the life and the soul: since so useful they are, and so cheap is the fare, pray who would not ride in a carriage and pair? newcastle hackney coaches. tune--"the bold dragoon." of a' the toons that's i' the north, newcastle bangs them a', for lady folk and gentlemen, and every thing that's braw, a fig for lunnen i' the south-- but mind now, let's hae nae reproaches, for they say that lunnen's hang'd hersel, through spite at wor new hackney coaches. yep! fal der al dal, &c. wor toon has grown se big now, aw ne'er saw the like before; live ye only lang eneugh, ye'll see't join'd to tynemouth shore; we've our literinary sicties, shops cramm'd wiv plate and diamond broaches, but it's ne use telling ony mair, there's nowt gans doon but hackney coaches. yep! &c. ca-la-de-scoups were yence the rage, sedans--were all the go; but till the noise gets fairly ower, they may keep them iv a row; gang where you will, the talk is still, at tea or cards why all the rage is, "why bless me, sir! have you not seen our stylish two-horse hackney stages!" yep! &c. a bond-street lounge tee we might hev, if 't wasn't for the mud! a piccadilly we're gaun to get, and other streets as good: maw sangs! aw think we'll 'clipse them out! but faith i'd better haud me ditty, for fear, ye ken, in ganging hyem, they hackneyfy me to the kitty. yep! &c. newcastle improvements. by r. charlton. tune--"canny newcassel." what a cockneyfied toon wor newcassel hez grown-- wey aw scarce can believe me awn senses; wor canny aud customs for ever ha'e flown, and there's nowt left ahint for to mense us: the fashions fra lunnin are now a' the go, as there's nowt i' wor toon to content us-- aw'll not be surpriz'd at wor next 'lection day, if twe cockneys put up to 'present us. times ha'e been when a body's been axt out to tea, or to get a wee bit of a shiver, wor hearts were sae leet we ne'er thowt o' the cau'd, or the fear o' wet feet plagu'd us niver; but i' blanket coats now we mun get muffled up, for fear that the cold should approach us-- and to hinder a spark gettin on to wor breeks, we mun jump into fine hackney coaches. aw've seen when we've gyen iv a kind freenly way to be blithe o'er a jug o' good nappy-- the glass or the horn we shov'd round wi' the pot for then we were jovial and happy: but now we mun all hev a glass t' wor sels, which plainly appears, on reflection, we think a' wor neighbours ha'e getten the cl-p, and are frighten'd we catch the infection. the very styen pavement they'll not let alyen, for they've tuen'd up and puttin down gravel; so now, gentle folks, here's a word i' yor lugs-- mind think on't whenever you travel; if in dry dusty weather ye happen to stray, ye'll get yor een a' full o' stour, man-- or, if it be clarty, you're sure for to get weel plaister'd byeth 'hint and afore, man. if a' their improvements aw were for to tell, aw might sit here and sing--aye, for ever; there's the rum weak as watter, i'stead o' the stuff that was us'd for to burn out wor liver! aw's fair seek and tir'd o' the things that aw've sung, so aw think now aw'll myek a conclusion, by wishing the cheps iv a helter may swing, that ha'e brought us to a' this confusion. come up to the scratch! _or, the pitman haggish'd._ by r. emery. tune--"calder fair." now haud yor tongues 'bout mollinox, or ony o' the trade, ye ne'er could say that kenton ralph of e'er a chep was flay'd-- yor langans and yor springs may come to kenton toon iv flocks, wor ralph 'ill smatter a' their ribs, he is sae strang, begox! fal de ral, &c. wiv ralph and luke aw off yen neet for sandgate on a spree, and swore newcassel dandy cheps to fight and myek them flee-- we gat into the barley mow wor thropples for to wet, and sat and drank till fairly fu', alang wi' wood-legg'd bet. fal de ral, &c. we gat up, for 'twas gettin' lyet, and leaving sandgate suen, to pandon went to hev a quairt before we left the toon; some fawdon lads were in the boar, carrying on the war, wi' humpy dick and black scotch peg, a' singin' 'slush tom c--rr.' fal de ral, &c. then gannin hyem by pilgrim-street, some dandy for to catch, twe cheps, half drunk, cam up tiv us, and said, 'cum t' the scratch! here's lukey kens that aw's a man, and scartin aw disdain, but come and lick us if ye can--aw'll fight till aw be slain!' fal de ral, &c. they cramm'd a haggish on each fist, or something very like, then held them up close to wor fyece, and dar'd us for to strike: but lukey, clickin' up his claes, cried, ralphy, lad, let's run! od smash yor luggish heed, how-way--becrike it's tommy d----n! fal de ral, &c. poor lukey ran, but ralph was left, he couldn't get away, they pelted him till watchey cam and ended wor sad fray; then ralphy suen fand luke agyen; but such a seet, begox! his nose and fyece was thick o' blood--just like a bubbly jock's. fal de ral, &c. smash! how! dis thou ken tommy d----n? said ralphy in a hurry: aw seed him fightin' on the stage yen neet in 'tom and jurry;' a grocer chep aw sat beside, tell'd me his nyem in turn, wi' crib, an' gas, an' a' the rest, and cliver jemmy b----n. fal de ral, &c. that neet we had a haggish fight, 'tween b----n and d----n sae fine-- aw roar'd out, aw'll lay ony brass that jim ower tom will shine! but, wiv his haggish, tommy suen gav jemmy such a peg. he fell smack doon upon the stage--begox, he broke his leg! fal de ral, &c. the next time aw cum ti' the toon, if we fa' in togither, we'll hev a jill and drink success to b----n and d----n howsever: aw own that aw was fairly duen, an' smatter'd varry sair, but ne'er for want o' haggishes shall ralph be beaten mair. fal de ral, &c. the pitman's dream; _or, a description of the north pole_. by the same. tune--"newcastle fair." aw dream'd aw was at the north powl, it's a fine place a-back o' the muen, man-- maw sangs! captain parry will growl, for he cannot get tid half sae seun, man: there aw seed the queen, caroline, and her lass they sae badly did use, man, wi' geordy the thurd drinking wine, and the snuffy au'd dyem brushing shoes, man. rum ti iddity, &c. aw began then to swagger about, just to see castleree aw was itchin', when percival gav a greet shout, od smash, he's down stairs i' the kitchen! thowt aw, then he's just safe eneugh-- walking farther, aw meets bonapartie, alang wi' au'd blucher, sae bluff, speaking gabb'rish to poor captain starkie. rum ti iddity, &c. aw gat in to see robin hood, had twe or three quairts wi' john nipes, man; and wesley, that yence preach'd sae good, sat smokin' and praisin' the swipes, man: legs of mutton here grows on each tree, jack nipes said, and wasn't mistaken-- when rainin' there's such a bit spree, for there comes down great fat sides o' bacon. rum ti iddity, &c. brave nelson here sells wooden legs, iv a shop where aw think he'll get rich in-- just to see au'd mahomet aw begs, but, wi' thurtell, he's doom'd i' the kitchen: aw seed billy shakespeare sae prime, of plays he has written greet lots, man-- and there great john kemble does shine-- sam. johnson sups crowdies wi' scots, man. rum ti iddity, &c. how canny joe foster did stare, as he trotted past me on a donkey, 'mang lasses still wild as a hare, and he keeps jacky coxon as flonkey: ne bishops nor priests here they need, for the folks they can say their awn pray'rs, man-- but, to myek them work hard for their breed, they're sent on a mission, doon stairs, man. rum ti iddity, &c. aw agyen see'd the canny au'd king, he's a far better chep now than ever-- but, set a' yor fine kings iv a ring, i still think fourth geordy's as clever. aw've getten a pass for doon stairs, and if aw see owt there bewitchin', wey just think o' me i' yor pray'rs, and aw'll send an account o' the kitchen. rum ti iddity, &c. the pitman's dream; _or, his description of the kitchen_. by the same. tune--"hell's kitchen." the day was fine, the sun did shine, aw thowt aw was preparing to leave the powl, myed me repine-- aw scarce could keep fra blairin';-- a greet balloon was brought me seun, twe cheps wi' wings sae switchin', wiv it were sent to tyek me doon to shew me a' the kitchen. right fal de ral, &c. wiv a' my friends aw had a jill, king geordy was quite canty-- says he--now eat and drink yor fill, doon stairs good things are scanty. when deun, says aw--kind folks, fareweel' maw guides their wings are stretchin'-- in the balloon aw off did reel to see this querish kitchen. right fal de ral, &c. we doon a narrow place did rowl-- as sure as maw nyem's cranky. this is the passage in the powl that's mention'd by the yankee:[ ] as we flew on it darker grew, wi' such a noise and screechin'-- greet clouds o' fire we darted through, and landed in the kitchen. right fal de ral, &c. they use poor folks here warse than beasts-- greet lots o' turks and tartars, wi' lawyers, quakers, kings, and priests, were phizzin' in a' quarters. the jews were bowlting lumps o' pork-- mahomet, that au'd vixen, was toss'd about frae fork to fork, wi' derry in the kitchen. right fal de ral, &c. fast i' the stocks au'd neddy sat, the late newcassel bellman-- and there was honour breet, bed watt, just gaun the rig hersel', man: then farther in, upon a stuel, sat judy downey stitchin', she d--n'd me for a greet stark cull, for comin' to the kitchen. right fal de ral, &c. aw, wi' the heat and want o' drink, was swelter'd myest to deed, man-- when fairly deun and gaun to sink, aw was whupt off wi' speed, man. how aw escap'd aw's puzzled sair, 'twas like a sudden twitchin' aw, like a lairk, flew through the air, half roasted, frae the kitchen. right fal de ral, &c. as aw cam doon aw pass'd the meun, an' her greet burning mountains-- her turnpike roads aw fand out seun, strang beer runs here in fountains: to hev a sup aw was reet fain, wi' some queer cheps thrang ditchin'-- but waken'd then in percy main, a lang way frae the kitchen. right fal de ral, &c. footnote : alluding to the following extraordinary advertisement which recently made its appearance in the american journals:-- _st. louis, (missouri territory)_ _north america, april , a. d. ._ "to all the world--i declare the earth to be hollow and habitable within; containing a number of concentric spheres, one within the other, and that their poles are open or degrees. i pledge myself in support of this truth, and am ready to explore the concave, if the world will support and aid me in the undertaking. john symmes," &c. &c. famed filly fair; _or, a peep into pilgrim street_. come, geordy, an' aw'll tell ye, lad, where aw hae been, in pilgrim-street, where there's to see an' to be seen, a great many lasses, and they shew off sic fine airs, aw's sure they're all as wild as ony march hares. now, d'ye nobut gan there iv next sunday neet, about the time o' six o'clock, you'll see the fine seet; a large show of lasses fine, that drive about there, they nyem'd it but reet when they ga'd filly fair. now, one sunday neet, to the high town aw went, that aw might get the evening cannily spent: among the rabble, sure enough, aw gat there, and saw the first dresses in fam'd filly fair. there's some lasses, they say, that are so very keen, that they come to this place just for to be seen; and, on every wet sunday, they sit down to prayer, and think it provoking they're not at the fair. aw enter'd the street with a great deal of glee, where the lads and the lasses in flocks aw did see: the task wad be endless to tell a' what was there, aw mean the fine dresses in fam'd filly fair. aw look'd about all these fine dresses to see, aw glowr'd at the lasses, and they glowr'd at me: so now for a description, i will give to a hair, of all the fine things in this fam'd filly fair. there was white gowns, silk spencers, and flounces galore, and queer monkey jackets aw'd ne'er seen before; with little drakes' tails, that hing from the hair, and large ringlets a' curl'd, was in fam'd filly fair. the spencers a' carv'd, wye, with cords of a' kind, that seem'd just like soulgers afore and behind; and black silks, and stript silks, and a' silks was there, and pads, and cat backs were in fam'd filly fair. there was hats like my awn, with fine flee-behint cloaks, and queer things ahint them, like the pitmen's bait pokes; and hats myed of muslin, to let in the air, besides some wi' high crowns were in fam'd filly fair. the hats were deck'd o'er a' with ribbons and lace, and lairge cabbage nets were thrawn o'er their face: paddysoles too were there, as were monie things mair, and fine mobbed caps were in fam'd filly fair. there was scarfs of a' kinds, and of every degree; and little wee bairneys, scarce up to my knee; with beaux, arm in arm, they were driving thro' there, 'twas shameful to see them in fam'd filly fair. o, mun! just like a loadstone in this curious place, for what i hev tell'd you, aw'm sure it's the case-- it's the case of them all that walk about there, to be talk'd of by strangers in fam'd filly fair. and besides a' the tricks that i cannot explain, for this kind of rambling i'm sure i disdain: take advice, my good lasses, and don't wander there, or your character's stain'd by walking the fair. this advice now, i hope, you will readily take, and keep up your character, for your own sake; it's nought unto me if all night you walk there, but your name will be blasted by attending the fair. t----ly's best blood. a north shields song.--written in . while cartwright, and wooler, and cobbett, and all the souls of the brave attend liberty's call, j----n t----ley, the best friend of kings since the flood, is ready for slavery to spill his best blood. a press so licentious--for 'twill tell the truth-- is truly distressing to t----ley, forsooth: he's a foe to the queen, and no wonder he should, since he vows for oppressors to spill his best blood. what an excellent orator in his own way, mechanics, shoemakers, and joiners do say: but he does not remember that drones steal their food, were it not for the becs he would have no best blood. the loyalist party consumptive are grown, though time-serving t----ley the fact may disown: and it will not be long--god forbid that it should! ere reform freeze the springs of t----ley's best blood. the newcastle noodles. by james morrison. be easy, good folks, for we're all safe enough, better fortune seems now to attend us; and two canny fellows, both lusty and tough, have rais'd a new corps to defend us. men sound wind and limb, good sighted and stout, that can fight well, without being daunted; free from all diseases, such like as the gout, and can jump, or be ready when wanted. chorus. then if any invaders should dare us to fight, let it be on the shore or the river, bold archy the noodle, and tommy the knight, will guard and protect us for ever. the noodles have ne'er been at battle as yet, nor been brought down by scanty provision; so to try them whenever his worship thinks fit, he'll find them in famous condition. in all their manoeuvres there's scarcely a flaw, they're quite up to the science o' killing; for the noodle drill serjeant's a limb o' the law, and an old practis'd hand at the drilling. then if any invaders, &c. misfortunes, however, will sometimes attend, for one morning, by danger surrounded, a poor fellow splinter'd his fore-finger end, and, of course, in the service was wounded. 'tis true a sair finger's a very bad thing, but it didn't diminish his beauty; so the next day he just popp'd his arm in a sling, and, briton-like, went upon duty. then if any invaders, &c. they have all been abroad, and as far too as shields, but to walk there was no easy matter, so, for fear that their boots should go down in the heels, they took the steam boat down the watter. their warlike appearance was awfully grand, when they fired, it sounded like thunder, which put all the natives o' shields to a stand, and left them for ages to wonder. then if any invaders, &c. what a pity they cannot get medals to buy, greatly would add to their grandeur; "there's waterloo soldiers!" the strangers would cry, and think archy was great alexander. these mighty preservers if death cannot save, but send one or two of them bummin; the rest o' the noodles would fire o'er his grave, and tell the below-folks he's coming. then if any invaders, &c. british justice; _or, newcastle privy court_. come, all ye britons who delight in freedom's sacred cause, and boast the triumphs of your sires, of just and equal laws, wrung from a despot's feeble grasp, list to this tale of mine, in baseness which you cannot peer, since the days o' lang syne. to fam'd newcastle's secret court a poor unlucky wight was, for the sake of bastardy, but very lately brought: where, tortur'd most ingeniously, the rogue was made to whine, as few have been for sporting so, since the days of lang syne. in vain the culprit urg'd his cause, in eloquence of woe; in vain he urg'd his poverty, to save him from the blow: regardless of his just complaint, his judges laid the fine, so great as few poor dogs could pay, since the days of lang syne. now mark the justice of the judge, precisely at the time-- a gentleman was brought to him, just for the self same crime; to whom the judge, in alter'd tone, begg'd he would not repine, such ills are common to the rich, since the days of lang syne. suffice it, these two sinners were, tho' in the same degree of guilt, adjudg'd a fine to pay, the ratio one to three: the man of rags was made to pay three times a greater fine; and sunk in misery, sent to think on the days of lang syne. thus, britons, are your laws dispens'd, your boasted freedom's gone, laid in your predecessors' graves, or from the island flown: no longer justice holds her seat, in majesty divine, in british courts presiding now, as in days of lang syne. in vain you strive to wander back to times of peaceful joy, in vain you hope times to recall, lost in eternity; no, never shall those scenes return, no more shall britain shine, as she was wont, so splendidly, i' the days of lang syne. can then eternal justice sleep, regardless of the prayer of toiling millions sunk in debt, and driven to despair, by stern oppression's iron hand, oh! no, the power divine shall plead our cause as heretofore, in the days of lang syne. the misfortunes of roger & his wife. by j. b. tune--"calder fair." last week was wor pay-week, and aw went to the toon, alang wi' wor susy to buy her a new goon; a sixpence i' my pocket--we cuddent pass the close, but went into the robin hood and gat worsels a dose. wiv a tooral, looral, looral, &c. suen after we gat canny, and com alang the brig, an' up the bottle-bank, man, we byeth sae went the rig, wi' reelin' and wi' dancin'--"knacking heel and toe," our heads began to rattle where wor feet before did go. the half-muin lyen we com te, and that wor susy found, for ower the stanes she fell, man, that's lyen all around, a daver, a devisher agyen the metal pump, and aw, to save poor susy, got a duckin' i' the sump. ower anenst the dun cow, there is a place myed reet, as good for breaking necks, man, as ony i' the street; had e'er an inclination been for leading me astray, i'm conscious that aw'd fund maw end by coming up this way. the biggest house i' gyetshead projecting o'er the road, dis scarcely leave a footpath to pass on, if you would: were it not for the gas leet that's on the other side, mony windpipes wad be clos'd, aye, and mony open'd wide. a little farther up the street, abuin au'd jackson's chare, a neatish bit o' dournament began, as passing there, for ---- ---- a ---- wi' guise an' shop-board new, is cabbaging at pleasant ---- to patch his waterloo. but the worst of a' these evils, is their planning o' the street, aye, sic a shem an' bizen, were but decent folks te see't; for here's a hill, and there's a hill, and here they're pullin' doon, and here they're buildin' up, (who's fault?) the _only_ fuils i' toon. thus onward we were passin', thro' trouble and thro' strife, scarce caring what misfortune had roger and his wife: but ere we gan that way agyen, we'll grease our soles and heels, to scamper down by sunderland, and up by smoky sheels. newcastle theatre in an uproar, with the bear, the horses, and the dogs, as principal performers. it's ha'e ye seen how crouse and gay the lads and lasses bent their way, to see the horses act the play, at fam'd newcastle theatre? there some in silks did proudly shine, and some were dress'd in caps se fine, and some on sticks there did recline, at fam'd newcastle theatre. the belles and beaux of low degree were eager this fine sight to see; and soon as they had got their tea, they set off for the theatre. then at the gallery door they stood-- impatient, and in fretful mood; and many a one, faith, did no good by coming to the theatre. the doors being open'd, on they push'd, without distinction they were crush'd; the cry was, tumble up you must, to fam'd newcastle theatre. next direful shrieks were heard aloud, whilst heedless throng'd the busy crowd, alike the slothful and the proud were driven in the theatre. a miller chep i chanc'd to see frae out amang the crowd sae blae, was running up an entry near fam'd newcastle theatre. he'd got his coat torn cross the lap, my conscience! 'twas a sad mishap; but others still were worse than that, at fam'd newcastle theatre. there some their gowns held in their hand, and others lost their shawls se grand; and if you crush'd not you might stand, at fam'd newcastle theatre. the pretty girls, to get a seat, crush'd on, wi' hair dress'd up sae neat; but soon came back, in sic a freet, frae fam'd newcastle theatre. now some got in without their shoes, and some got in wi' mony a bruise, and some cam hyem to tell the news, at fam'd newcastle theatre. within the pit a brutish chap had hit a maiden sic a rap, 'cause she refus'd to take her hat off, in newcastle theatre. they took her home without delay, when in a fit she fainting lay; and faith she well may curse the day that e'er she saw the theatre. the boxes, too, were fill'd se fine, with all the labouring sons of tyne; and servant lasses, all divine, did beautify the theatre. the heat was so excessive great, that, not to keep the folk too late, they hurry'd on poor timour's fate, at fam'd newcastle theatre. the play was done as it struck ten, some greedy folks said, 'twas a shem; however, they all wet went hyem, from fam'd newcastle theatre. farewell, archy. written in . tune--"chapter of donkies." now, archy, my boy, drop the civical gown, for none ever fill'd it with half your renown, for wisdom and valour so glorious you shine, you're the pride, boast, and bulwark of old coaly tyne. o brave archy, miraculous archy! the pink o' the wise, and the wale o' the brave. to recount all your virtues a volume 'twould swell, so we'll just name a few, sir, in which you excel; your reign's been eventful, the times have gone mad, and well might have puzzled more brains than you had; but sufficient was archy, well able was archy, to crush the sedition and treason of tyne. sure machiavel's self was a fool to our mayor, so honest he seem'd--then he promis'd so fair, to reform all abuses, give justice to all, and regulate watchmen, blood-suckers and all. o specious archy! legitimate archy! the firm, staunch supporter of things as they are. then of the great meeting,[ ] by jove, what a jest! the rads set you down for their chairman at least; but the yeomen and specials in court you kept hid, then sent off that precious epistle to sid. o rare archy! sly old archy! archy's the boy for the word or the blow! o thou first of inditers, thou brightest of scribes, thy invention how fertile, in infamous lies! how assassin-like was it to stab in the dark, and from truth and from justice so far to depart. o serpent-like archy! o fiend-like archy! o archy! but that was a damnable deed. next you went on a voyage of discovery to shields, and got handsomely pepper'd for meddling with keels; then for refuge you fled to northumberland's arms, who till now has defended your paper from harms, else down had gone archy, thy paper, dear archy, down stairs might have gone for the public good. then, for raising a riot, and reading the act, your honour against all opponents i'll back: and to crown you with laurels, and finish my song, you're a colonel of noodles, and nine makes a man, such as archy and cabbage, canny jack dixon, and thief-taking tom. footnote : held on newcastle town moor, oct. , , relating to the manchester massacre. sir tommy made an odd fellow. _a provincial and very popular song._ i've sung o' newcassel till black o' the fyess, tyne's muse is as modest as ony; tho' oft she comes out in a comical dress-- here she goes for a lilt at sir tommy. ye've seen him, nae doubt, wi' his hat on ten hairs, then he cuts sic a wonderful caper; he has long been thought odd, for his kickmashaw airs, now he's odd baith by name and by nature. let fame canter on till she's sair i' the hips, proclaiming, frae tynemouth to stella, how the sun, moon, and stars a' went into the 'clipse, when sir tommy was made an odd fellow. there's scarce sic a man in a' newcassel toon, with the famous tyne legion outsetting: down at shields in a fray, they pick'd up sic renoon, that his nyem will nae mair be forgetten. tho' envious at valour, yet a' look asquint, what heroes in fame e'er surpass'd them? wi' sir tommy before, and the sailors behint, it was run! and the devil take the last one! let fame canter on, &c. a knight he was dubb'd for sic sarvices brave, but a knight without fee is but little: so they sent him to govern[ ] where folks rant and rave, a station he fit to a tittle. grand master of orangemen next he was call'd, bells rung till the toon was a' quaking; now most noble grand of odd fellows install'd-- faicks! it's time a straight-jacket was making. let fame canter on, &c. that sir tommy has wit i wad fain here convince, he can myek sic a thumping oration, by which he astonish'd the legion lang since, now he wants to astonish the nation. by humbug reduc'd, though his head's very lang, his brains scarce wad balance a feather: but just nominate him a parliament man,[ ] head and brains will take flight a' thegither. let fame canter on, &c. o sons o' newcassel! free burgesses a', ne'er be tempted your freedom to barter; may they hing in tatters to frighten the craws, if ye budge but an inch frae your charter. if ye send up sir tommy to london, m. p. i' the parliament house to be seated, ye may just as weel send captain starkey[ ] up tee, your glory will then be completed. let fame canter on, &c. footnote : governor general of the lunatic house. footnote : it was reported in the london papers, that sir t. b. intended putting up as a candidate to serve newcastle in parliament. footnote : an eccentric character well known in newcastle. wreckenton hiring. oh, lads and lasses, hither come to wreckenton, to see the fun, and mind ye bring your sunday shoon, there'll be rare wark wi' dancing-o. and lasses now, without a brag, bring pockets like a fiddle bag, ye'll get them cramm'd wi' mony a whag of pepper-kyek an' scranchim-o. and bess put on that bonny goon thy mother bought thou at the toon; that straw-hat wi' the ribbons broon, they'll a' be buss'd that's coming-o: put that reed ribbon round thy waist, it myeks thou luik sae full o' grace, then up the lonnen come in haste, they'll think thou's com'd frae lunnen-o. ned pat on his sunday's coat, his hat and breeches cost a note, with a new stiff'ner round his throat, he luikt the very dandy-o: he thought that he was gaun to choke, for he'd to gyep before he spoke: he met bess at the royal oak, they had baith yell and brandy-o. each lad was there wi' his sweetheart, and a' was ready for a start, when in com jack wi' fanny smart, and brought a merry scraper-o: then ned jump'd up upon his feet, and on the table myed a seat; then bounc'd the fiddler up a heet, saying, 'play and we will caper-o.' now ned and bess led off the ball, 'play smash the windows,' he did call, 'keep in yor feet,' says hitchy mall, learn'd dancers hae sic prancing-o:' now ned was nowther lyeth nor lyem, and faith he had baith bouk and byen, ye wad thought his feet was myed o' styen, he gav sic thuds wi' dancing-o. now jackey fanny's hand did seize, cry'd, 'fiddler, tune your strings to please!' play, 'kiss her weel amang the trees,' she is my darlin', bliss her-o! then off they set, wi' sic a smack, they myed the joints a' bend and crack: when duen he took her round the neck, and faith he dident miss her-o. the fiddler's elbow wagg'd a' neet, he thought he wad dropt off his seat, for deil a bit they'd let him eat, they were sae keen o' dancin'-o. some had to strip their coats for heet, and sarks and shifts were wet wi' sweet! they cramm'd their guts, for want o' meat, wi' ginger-breed and scranchim-o. now cocks had crawn an hour or more, and ower the yell-pot some did snore; but how they luikt to hear the roar of matt, the king pit caller-o! 'smash him!' says ned, 'he mun be rang, he's callin' through his sleep, aw's war'n;' then shootin' to the door he ran-- 'thou's asleep, thou rousty bawler-o!' now they danc'd agyen till it was day, and then went hyem--but, by the way, some of them had rare fun, they say, and fand it nine months after-o: such tricks are play'd by heedless youth; and though they're common, north and south, that's nae excuse for breach of truth, nor food for wit and laughter-o. suen wreckenton will bear the sway, two members they'll put in, they say; then wor taxes will be duen away, and we'll a' sing now or never-o: backey and tea will be sae cheap, wives will sit up when they sud sleep, and we'll float in yell at wor pay-week, then wreckenton for ever-o. on russell the pedestrian, who walked miles in hours, minutes, and seconds, on the th & th of july, , on the newcastle race course. men's talents vary--for wise ends design'd, _this_ man has strength of body, _that_, of mind; each his peculiar art assiduous plies, and every maxim of improvement tries, till he attain perfection by degrees, and learns to execute his task with ease. wilson,[ ] desist! and simpson,[ ] take your rest! ease and retirement now will suit ye best; your brief excursions will excite no more that admiration which they did before; though doubtless ye have both endeavour'd hard, perhaps without an adequate reward; but such laborious journies lay aside, and if ye can, instead of walking, _ride_. "hide your diminish'd heads!" nor vainly talk, among your friends, how rapidly you walk: first in the annals of pedestrian fame, historians now will enter russell's name; where he will most conspicuously shine, and long be hail'd--the hero of the tyne. upon this art he has so much refin'd, that he leaves all competitors behind. with buoyant step we've seen him tread the plain, and hope, ere long, to see him walk again. footnote : george wilson, the blackheath pedestrian, walked miles in successive hours, on the same ground, on easter monday and tuesday, . footnote : john simpson, the cumberland pedestrian, attempted to walk miles on the same ground, in the same period of time, on whit-monday, and again on the th and th of july, ; in both of which attempts he failed. on simpson the pedestrian's failure. tune--"barbary bell." sitting crush'd i' the huddock a' gobbing and talking, we were mov'd wiv a spoke frae the little pee dee; ah! skipper, he says, the auld man 'ill be walking, so we a' rose together and set off to see. when we gat to the moor, he was dodging away, man, wi' twe cheps on each side, keeping a' the folks back; and the bairns running after him, shouting hurra, man, so we just gat a gliff, for he pass'd in a crack. now barney m'mullin, his reet hand protector, with a sprig o' shilelagh preparing the way, was stopt on the road by a publican hector, who hinted that barney intended foul play. if barney mov'd forward he threaten'd to drop him, for his walking, he said, put the man off his pace; but barney concluded he'd ne right to stop him, and call'd him a big-gutted rogue to his face. every freeman, says barney, of land has a small stock, but to dunch people off is most rascally mean; then their rights were protected by bold tommy alcock, who said he'd a share of the pasture sae green. when tommy put on his election-day swagger, his genteel appearance made barney's tongue cease; his speech was sae pointed, it pierc'd like a dagger: so barney, poor soul, he departed in peace. we stopt there a' neet, till weel on i' the morning, expecting he still wad keep dodging away; but he gav us the double, without ony warning, and hodg'd off the moor, like a sheep gyen astray. when he enter'd the tent, we were a' sitting drinking, it was thought he had come to get something to eat; but now it appears the poor soul had been thinking on the best ways and means to obtain a retreat. it seems the auld man had nae notion o' stopping, but as to what ail'd him, he knaws best his sel'; for whether he fail'd in his wind, strength, or bottom, the skipper and i were baith puzzled to tell. but it's owre and deun, so what signifies talking, poor man, he must just lay his fist to the spade: let them that think fit make their living by walking, for his part he's fund it's a very bad trade. the victory; or, the captain done over. tune--"o the golden days of good queen bess." it happen'd very lately, (upon my word 'tis true, sir,) a party at the peacock supp'd, as i shall shew to you, sir; the names of those i shall disclose, who form'd this happy party, were waller watson, walton too, both honest blades and hearty; and with them were two friends of theirs, who just had come to town, sir, hedges and ingram are their names, both travellers of renown, sir. they sang and drank, and drank and sang, till time was wearing late, sir, nor ever thought a moment what that night might be their fate, sir: near eleven o'clock they sallied out, the night being rather cold, sir, ('twas on the eighth of april, as we hear the story told, sir,) they felt it not, for friendship's glass had warm'd their hearts within, sir, by drinking brandy, rum, or wine, or eke good holland's gin, sir. watson and ingram both inclin'd to be a little merry, sir, the others left--to dean-street they proceeded in a hurry, sir; when hedges he sung "fly not yet," why haste ye so away, sir? and ingram promptly answer'd him, by calling out, "oh! stay," sir. the _verges_ of the night were rous'd--demanded why such clatter, sir, what's all this hound-like noise about? come tell us what's the matter, sir. then walton said, "they're friends of mine, and strangers in the place, sir;" but this they disregarded quite, and star'd them in the face, sir. now halbert cried out, "seize them, ross!--to the watch-house they shall go, sir; and master carr will _kitty_ them, old friendship for to shew, sir." then to the watch-house they were ta'en triumphantly along, sir, for nothing, as the trial prov'd, but singing tom moor's song, sir. arriving at the watch-house, where dogberry sat in state, sir, the watchmen made false charges out, and did so glibly prate, sir; tom cried out, "what d'ye think of this? no defence will i hear, sir, _my servants_ i will listen to, they've made it plain appear, sir. off to the _kitty_ with them, watch, nor grant one short respite, sirs, but see that they're completely fast in durance all the night, sirs." ye watchmen, for the future, remember scarlett's dressing, sirs, the real sound drubbing you've receiv'd may be esteem'd a blessing, sirs: and should you e'er repeat such acts, vile tyrants as you've been, sirs, scarlett against you may appear, and trim you black and green, sirs. therefore a warning take in time, leave your infernal tricks, sirs, as you ere this must clearly find, you've kick'd against the pricks, sirs. the alarm!![ ] _or, lord fauconberg's march._ tune--"chevy chace." god prosper long our noble king, and noblemen also, who valiantly, with sword in hand, do guard us from each foe. no sooner did lord fauconberg, with heart undaunted hear, than news to gotham had been brought, which caus'd our mayor to fear, than up he rose, with eyes on fire, most dreadful to the view: "to arms! to arms!" aloud he cried, and forth his falchion drew. to arms! to arms! full long and sore the rattling drums did beat: to arms in haste each soldier flies, and scours through every street. the women shriek and wring their hands, their children weep around; while some, more wise, fast bolt their doors, and hide them under ground. the french are at our gates! they cry, and we shall all be slain; for dumourier is at their head, and that arch-traitor paine. in haste drawn up, in fair array, our yorkshire guards are seen; and mounted on a jet black steed, lord fauconberg i ween. and now he gave the word to march, and valiant foremost rode: and now he bounds from side to side-- 'twas well the streets were broad. from newgate down to the broad-chare they march'd with might and main; then gallantly they turn'd them round, and so march'd up again. now fill a bumper to the brim, and drink to gotham's mayor; and when again he hears such news, may fauconberg be there. footnote : on the commencement of the impress service, in march, , considerable riots took place at shields, which were represented, at newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been given at the mansion house, the drums of the york militia beat to arms; lord fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of rendezvous in the broad-chare, and then marched back again. the half-drowned skipper. air--"chapter of donkies." t'other day up the water aw went in a boat, aw brush'd up my trowsers, put on my new coat; we steer'd up wor boat 'lang side of a keel, and the luiks o' the skipper wad frighten'd the deil. fol de rol, &c. so thinks aw, wi' the keel we'll gan a' the way, and hear a few words that the skipper may say, for aw was sure if ought in the keel was deun wrang, the skipper wad curse, aye, and call every man. fol de rol, &c. now we'd just getten up to the fam'd skinners' burn, when the skipper bawl'd out that the keel was to turn: wye he shouted and roar'd like a man hung in chains, and swore by the keel he would knock out their brains. fol de rol, &c. the little pee-dee jump'd about on the deck, and the skipper roar'd out he wad sure smash his neck; "what for?" says the pee-dee, "can one not speak a word?"-- so he gav him a kick--knock'd him plump owerboard. fol de rol, &c. there was nyen o' the bullies e'er lost a bit time, but flung their great keel-huiks splash into the tyne; they brought up the pee-dee just like a duck'd craw, and the skipper, wi' laughin', fell smack ower an' a'. fol de rol, &c. now the keelmen being tired of their skipper se brave, not one e'er attempted his life for to save; they hoisted their sail, and we saw no more, but the half-drown'd skipper was swimming ashore. fol de rol, &c. the newcastle worthies. by wm. armstrong. air--"we've aye been provided for." the praises o' newcassel aw've lang wish'd to tell, but now then aw'm determin'd to ha'e a right good spell, an' shew what noted _kiddies_ frae newcassel town hes flit, for it's a'wis been a canny place, an' sae will it yet. a chep, they call'd him scott, he liev'd on the banks o' tyne, had a son, that i' the government he wanted to shine: by degrees the youth he rose up, now lord chancellor does sit, and he's fill'd his place reet brawly, aye an' sae will he yet. of a' the fine engravers that grace fair lunnen toon, wor tom ransom and bill harvey bang a' that's up or doon: the praises frae the 'cademy they constantly do get; for their pieces they've got medals, aye an' sae will they yet. for boxing tee, the lunnen cheps we'll thresh them i' their turns; ony see what science he has lairnt--that noted chep, jem burns: jem wallace tee, wor champion, how tommy dunn he hit, but they both good ones ever were, an' sae will they yet. a vast mair cliver cheps we ha'e, o' some aw'll let ye knaw; for a strong man, whe could beat bold airchy wi' his wondrous claw; when six men tuik him in a boat, her bottom suen he split, and the hiding that he ga'e them, they've not forgot it yet. for fiddling tee, now whe is there wor blind willie can beat? or for dancing whe before jack cockson e'er could set their feet? cull billy, only try him now, he'll cap ye wi' his wit; he's truly wond'rous, ever was, and sae will he yet. bob cruddace, ah, poor soul! he's deed--he had a cliver knack o' kepping beer, aye three yards off, when he "parish'd the pack!" and whin bob 'bout the militia constantly does swet; but by cunningness escap'd them, aye an' sae will he yet. jack nicholson, the noble soul, a deal o' breeding shows, got a patent frae the king to split sheep heads wi' his nose; the butchers fearing o' disgrace, a job he ne'er cud get-- but the honour's aye been wi' him, aye, an' sae will it yet. of fishwives tee, that's i' wor toon, up to the present day, euphy scott she is prime minister to queen madgie gray. the understrappers and descendants maintain that it was fit, she should rule the market as she lik'd, an' sae will she yet. captain starkey, pussey willie, and poor cuddy reed, lousy donald and au'd judy, poor souls! they've a' gyen deed: but, marrows, keep ye up your hearts, this is not the time to fret, for their memories hae e'er been up, aye an' say will they yet. _humanum est errare._ * * * * * old nick's visit to h----'s kitchen. tune--"the king of the cannibal islands." old nick, for pastime, took a prance, and to newcastle did advance; at grainger's buildings just did glance, and swagger'd away to h----'s kitchen. the kitchen soon was in a roar, when nick exclaim'd--i'll pay the score! so let the drink go round galore-- which soon laid numbers on the floor:-- cried swalwell pyet--old friend, what cheer! we're heartily glad to see you here-- nick smack'd the ale, and soon turn'd queer among his friends in the kitchen. chorus. then shout hurrah for ralph's good ale! o may its virtues never fail-- it made old nick to cock his tail, and stagger about in the kitchen. in midst of all the noise and din, the merry crew came tumbling in, from parlour and cock'd hat so trim, to join their friend in the kitchen:-- first ramsay jack, the brokers' hack, with g---- and e---- upon his back-- great doctor flash came in a crack!-- brave noodle w----n join'd the pack; and from the vestry, like a rose, came m----ty with the brandy nose, and b----m dress'd in dandy clothes, to welcome nick to the kitchen. then shout hurrah, &c. fam'd h----p acted crook-back'd dick, and sung a song to please old nick; jim w----n smoak'd till s----t turn'd sick, and they bundled them out of the kitchen. old s----y, too, that gallant tar, said when on board a man of war, he conquer'd yankee and lascar, and knew all countries near and far: old nick then gave a dreadful roar, with voice just like the grizzly boar, brave s----y ran towards the door, and fled half-dead from the kitchen! then shout hurrah, &c. old wash c---- with his dirty paws, sat rubbing up his grim old jaws, and scandalizing without cause, his dearest friend in the kitchen. jim colvin and ned mushel smart, were guzzling beer down by the quart! old snuffy tom well play'd his part, he swigg'd away with all his heart. old nick cried, is my uncle here? i long to taste of his good cheer!-- a lump of beef did soon appear, and they gobbled it up in the kitchen! then shout hurrah, &c. o hark! cried nick, the clock strikes one! so midnight's past--i must be gone; when i remount my brimstone throne, i'll oftentimes think of the kitchen. ralph d----d said, before we part-- come, let us have another quart! bob c----r swears 'twill break his heart, to think you should so soon desert! but nick still more impatient grew-- at last he bellow'd out--adieu! and, in a moment, off he flew, 'mid thund'ring chears from the kitchen! then shout hurrah, &c. on george the fourth's coronation. invitation to the mansion-house dinner in honour of the coronation. air--"scots wha ha'e wi' wallace bled." men who have with mayors fed; men whom oft the mace hath led; welcome to your beef and bread, come and feast to-day. see yon ox's buttocks lower; see yon bags of pudding flour; shew your masticating power, teeth and loyalty. who can't eat is sure a knave; send the scoundrel to his grave; who can't drink should be a slave; such we ne'er will be. who for king and country's law will cut away and stuff his maw, cans will drain, and corks will draw, brothers, come with me. by what's worse than slavery's chains, empty stomachs, gripes, and pains, we'll eat and drink, until our veins swoln like bladders be. see yon lumps of beef laid low, puddings fall at every blow! wine in bumpers round shall flow: brothers, look to me! the newcastle swineherd's proclamation o yes! ye swinish multitude! to our newcastle sties repair: two whole fat beeves are barbecu'd, so go and cram your gorges there. your mouths will water at the sight; the oose your unshav'd chops run down; your dirty sleeves away will dight the slobber of tobacco brown. with cart-grease basted, dredg'd with dust, the outsides burnt, the insides raw, next to some tit bit carrion must delight a hog's voracious maw. hey! to the pants, where dribbling wine and brewer's rot-gut beer distil; with speed let every greedy swine swig what he can--aye, swig his fill. then to your grov'ling nature true, return to wallow in the mire; and let the corporate body view the consummation they require. swineherds expect the brutes that run to guzzle at their garbage feast, should compensate, and make them fun; so hogs come on and play the beast! "and grunt, ye pigs, with savage joy, while stuffing full your craving maws, nor care if staves your skulls annoy, but quickly move your greedy jaws. while guzzling down your wishy-wash, squeak loud with _make-believe_ affection; and in the puddle kick and splash, nor shew one sign of disaffection. then, all ye lordly herds laugh loud, and shake your portly paunches fine; shew to your dames the rabble crowd-- and having pray'd, retire to dine. then tell how the voracious pigs, with greedy spite press'd to the _trow_, and gave each other loyal digs, nor car'd for e'er a waddling sow. next sagely argue o'er your wine, this crew, debas'd beyond compare, in fact and reason are true swine, unlike corinthian pillars fair."[ ] _pigstye court, sandhill, th july, ._ footnote : the rich were called the "corinthian pillars of society" by the pensioner burke; while he termed the industrious classes the "swinish multitude." the golden horns; _or, the general invitation_. come, neighbours, to robson's let's all hie away, to see the ox crown'd with ribbons so gay: his horns are well gilded, his head bright does shine, we'll soon get a slice and a horn full of wine. some come from afar, as did wise men of old, to see our king's head branch'd out thus with gold. success, then, to horns, when they're gilded so clever; may the ... wear horns, and wear them for ever. in praise then of horns let all newcastle sing; for he who scorns horns despises his ... let them boast of their garters, and boast of their stars, but horns are far better than honours or scars. never blush for your horns, then, though low be your station, since horns are the pride of the _chief_ of our nation. let them make lords and dukes, crown an _ass_, if they will, the order of horns let it be my theme still. loyal festivities; _or, novel scenes at newcastle_. a popular song in the new farce of the coronation, as it was performed at newcastle upon tyne, on thursday, july th, . sung by the "swinish multitude," in full chorus. the castle guns were fir'd, and loud the bells rang in the morning, to wake the "swinish multitude," and give the public warning: that, "as in duty bound," the mayor, and loyal corporation, would celebrate, in civic state, the day of coronation! with matchless liberality, the sums of money voted, that loyalty might be thereby among the herd promoted: a feast would loyalize the brutes, upon this great occasion, and make them sing, god save the king! at george's coronation. three royal fountains running beer, and one to dribble wine, o, would make them flock from far and near, to grunt like loyal swine, o. two bullocks roasted whole, 'twas thought, would be a grand donation, to toss among the "rabble rout," at george's coronation! 'twas done--the bullocks roasted were, the fountains set a flowing; while butchers round, upon the ground, huge lumps of beef were throwing: the loyal swineherds looking on, in anxious expectation, to see each beast enjoy the feast at george's coronation! but what was their surprize to find the swinish herd refuse it; how strange! their tastes were so refin'd, no hog of sense would use it! our gentry now, the loyal few, beheld, with consternation, the scanty stock of loyalty at george's coronation! they saw, with grief, the roasted beef by saucy swine neglected! no grateful beast extoll'd the feast, nor loyalty respected! their swinish nature sure is chang'd-- o what an alteration! time was when pigs would grunt and squeel, to grace a coronation! but ah! the brutes display, at last, the faculty of reason! "the age of chivalry is past!" (reflection most unpleasing!) and, sad to tell, with that is gone "othello's occupation!" all servile reverence for a throne, and priestly domination! then why display this make-believe affection and profusion? ye can no longer swine deceive, they see through the delusion. what then avails this pageantry, and useless ostentation? what signifies your loyalty at george's coronation! had derry-down been on the spot, and view'd the scene before him, while beef, and bones, and bricks, like shot, were flying _in terrorem_; he would have star'd, with wild affright, at such a consummation, and loudly damn'd the useless farce of george's coronation! learn hence, ye legislators wise, ye guardians of our treasures! the "swinish multitude" despise your inconsistent measures: think not that bayonets will gain the people's admiration; or fix a monarch on the throne, by a mock coronation! picture of newcastle; _or, george the fourth's coronation_. by william midford. tune--"arthur m'bride." the firing of guns, and the ringing of bells, rous'd me from my dreams about magical spells; so i'll draw you a sketch, as we're now by oursel's, by way of an illustration: the roads to newcastle were cover'd almost, as if radical thunder[ ] had summon'd its host, or an enemy's fleet had been seen off the coast, on george the fourth's coronation. in the streets what a buz among sweethearts and wives, and children who ne'er rose so soon in their lives; all higgledy piggledy through other drives, to view what was in preparation. the oxen are roasting--outsides a mere crust; they're stuff'd wi' potatoes, and dredg'd well with dust, while the turnspits were set as if working o' trust, on george the fourth's coronation. i next went to view a boat-race on the tyne, for a blue silken flag skill and labour combine; gold sovereigns the prizes--to start about nine, from walker, with precipitation. the greyhound came first, the old sandgate-shore gig, which went as if chasing a hare, through the brig. no doubt but the wives and the lasses were big, on george the fourth's coronation. then the gentlemen walk'd in procession to church; not even dissenters did lag in the porch, but boldly push'd on, amid ruffles and starch, to praise and to pray with the nation. the service being ended, the anthems are sung, the burnt sacrifice from each service is swung, when the fountains with wine and strong ale 'gan to run on george the fourth's coronation. then a female procession, to heighten the scene, paraded the streets, with a bust of the queen; when her title was plac'd where a crown should have been-- upon the crane-top was its station. then the ox was beheaded, and held up to view, as if he'd done something of cato-street hue: a soldier that made his appearance did rue, on george the fourth's coronation. then with squeezing and tearing began the dispute; some held by the pant, and some grappled the spout, till as drunk as a lord, and as wise as a brute, at this swine-feeding jollification. they drank out of hats and old shoes, very keen, the fights they went round, quite amusing the scene; while some, in mistake, drank "success to the queen!" on george the fourth's coronation. the battle grew hot, as they flung round the beef, disgusted, they sought no commander in chief; the fires they demolish'd, while brick-bats and beef flew like rockets, in mad desperation. the butchers, now thinking their lives very sweet, soon threw down their gullies, and beat a retreat; not wishing to die, just like dogs, in the street, on george the fourth's coronation. upon the sandhill, where the fountain ran wine, the keelmen, quite eager to taste of the vine, had the crown taken down, which was thrown in the tyne, so fix'd was their determination. there one, tho' stripp'd naked, so great was his drouth, made a new-fashion'd sun-dial, pointing due south, when the ladies at five of the clock set their mouth, on george the fourth's coronation. among the arrivals at mansion-house gates, were the bones of the oxen, the spits, and the grates, with a keelman, in petticoats, scratching his pate, for a suit from our rich corporation. had the _den_[ ] been but open, the people might say, for kill-pudding joe, and the burdies of prey,[ ] this sunshine would brought a fine "harvest of hay," on george the fourth's coronation. footnote : referring to the public meeting on the town moor, on the th oct. , where it was supposed, , were assembled, to take into consideration the proceedings at manchester. footnote : the house of correction. footnote : police officers. newcastle in an uproar; _or, george the fourth's coronation._ air--"come under my plaidie." o jockey, my friend, mun, how last you this evening? come in, crook your hough, and let's hear all your news; it appears to me you have been tramping this morning, i see by the dust that's so thick on your shoes. i have been a tramping, i've been at newcastle, all the things i have seen there my memory can't bring; the folks from all parts have rais'd such a noration, about the coronation of geordy the king. the first thing i saw was two fires for the bullocks-- they hung them both down as it struck twelve at night; but lang ere day-light was come in on the morning, both stuffing and 'tatoes were burnt in their kites. they turn'd them on spite until burnt like two cinders, and cut them both up about twelve of the day; as they lay on the stages, they smok'd just like tinder, and look'd like two muck-heaps, the people did say. then the carvers set to with knives cutting and scraping, and lumps of fat beef with such vengeance were strew'd, i dare say they thought that the folks were all gaping, and believ'd they were feeding a swine multitude. but the stuff they threw out put the folks in a fury, both stones and brick-bats they snatch'd up in a rage; and a radical troop, thus equipp'd in a hurry, with vengeance bang'd carvers and beef off the stage. for the folks being determin'd, the beef would not handle, nor gobble it up like a stye full of swine; for their conscience did whisper it would be a scandal: so the stuff was refus'd by the sons of the tyne. the next thing i saw was a british young sailor, he pull'd the crown down from the top of the crane; although with brick bats he got many a nailor, yet he stuck up a label concerning the queen. this bill being put up set the crowd in a motion, they gave three times three when first it was seen; and loudly did praise the brave tars of the ocean, who fought in defence of their much injur'd queen. these things being done, it rais'd such a durdem, the stones and the brick-bats flew up like a cloud: a poor tyne cossack, that belong'd to tom burdon, was near crush'd to death as he fought with the crowd. that day in the town was heard no sound of bugles, and bold archy, he too was ne'er seen iv a'; for if that but once he had brought down the noodles, they'd been trod under foot like a bundle of straw. for so bold are the men about canny newcassel, no injustice they'll suffer when assembled a': if the king had been there he'd ne'er worn his gold tassel, and as to being crown'd, that would ne'er done iv a'. the things that were flying appear'd like a battle; so, afraid of being fell'd, as i stood by the folks, i on shankie nagie away straight did rattle, to drag down the street the black bones of the ox. when i came to the sandhill my eyes i got open'd, i saw something standing which brightly did shine; a large wooden pant, and a crown on the top o't: when i came to look close it was running red wine, the folk that were round it appear'd to be growling and fighting amongst it like so many cats; while others i saw among mud and dirt rolling, and drinking the wine out of old lousy hats. thinks i to myself, this is all botheration, it is but a pretext, i know by their scheme, to pump out what's left of the wealth of the nation, to swell the fat bags of the clergy and king. the next thing i saw that took up my attention, was a keelman quite nak'd! he'd no breeches iv a'; some said he, for fighting, deserv'd well a pension, but i think that he ought to've been tried by the law. the wives that were running fell o'er, tappy lappy, town serjeants the keelmen did pelt well with glare; and swore, if they could but catch tripy and cappy, they would tear them to rags at the end of the war. then i by this time nigh got into a quarrel; i argued, but could not the battle decide; so dreading some person might tear my apparel, i took my departure unto the quayside. in going down the quay there was such a crushing-- i met with a man of the name of tom dale, he said, into sandgate the folks were all pushing, for the pant on the hill there was running strong ale. when i got to sandgate i could not help laughing, the lasses were running about with the swipes; and old wives that fell in the gutter were scruffling, ne'er minded, but smok'd on their old cutty pipes. i next took my journey as for as the 'spital, to see if ought curious was there to be seen; but i think that from sandgate it differed little, for the folks were all drinking the health of the queen. i went to an alehouse, and nearly got fuddled, for by walking about sae my legs were quite lame; so on my old pins then away i straight toddled, and ne'er look'd behind me, but tramp'd away hame. at newcastle there have been both horse and boat races, i have droll things to tell you, if i had but time; but having to call at some more bits of places, on some other day i will finish my rhyme. coronation day at newcastle. upon the nineteenth of july the castle guns did rend the sky, st. nicholas' bells did briskly ring, and george the fourth was crown'd our king; but those possess'd of feelings fine will ne'er forget that day on tyne. for days, within the 'spital green, in ribbands deck'd were bullocks seen, and on their horns a royal crown, to mock some cuckold of renown: and all, whose thoughts agree with mine, will say he's nearer thames than tyne. humanity, with pitying gaze, beheld the victims fondly graze round the infernal furnace pile, where one was shortly doom'd to broil, purpos'd to feed the humble swine that dwelt upon the banks of tyne. blush, ye great rulers of the town, behold your nauseous, loathsome boon! see men, with manners more discreet, disgusted, spurn your beastly treat! and know, all you who term us swine, that reason rules the sons of tyne. give heed to this, worshipful mayor, though we're reduc'd by taxes bare, our british bosoms still contain hearts sound as his with golden chain! may freedom's rays, which brighter shine, adorn each manly breast on tyne. it adds but little to your praise, to see your lavish, wasteful ways, to see a keelman, from his huddock, within your wine-trough wash his buttock, which ne'er before was drench'd in wine, but often plung'd in coaly tyne. what did your wilful waste avail? your fountains running wine and ale? the bronzed dome, the glitt'ring crown, torn by an enrag'd people down? who cheering hail'd queen caroline, borne by the blooming fair on tyne. what would an untaught heathen said, to see such brutal scenes display'd? is this the land, he would reply, that teaches christianity? such might suit yon wild shores of mine, but shame great britain and the tyne. the money wasted on the ground, had it been wisely dealt around amongst the needy poor, half-starv'd-- a thousand pounds would thousands serv'd; extravagance was their design, who rul'd newcastle upon tyne. coronation thursday--july , . being the third[ ] epistle from bob fudge to his cousin bob in the country. dear bob--a sad outlaw at length i'm become, the tories despise me; the whigs glump and gloom, and scowl as they pass, which is something uncivil, and the radicals treat me as i would the devil; and threaten, the next time i make my appearance, to scourge me completely, with christian forbearance. this threat from a party, who ever would bawl for liberal discussion, is worst of them all; as my writings, i'm sure, must be wond'rous offences, when such men are talking about consequences. but whether the head of the noodles appear, or lambton, or typo, with sword or with spear, to blunt their sharp edges at once on my nob, i'm determin'd to write to my own dearest bob. the pedlar's descendant[ ] may boast in the field, and the earl of the north with reluctancy yield, while cartwright an excess of freedom may claim-- perhaps they're all right, since they all are to blame. the radicals want more than reason would crave, they all would be kings, without ever a slave; and that, my dear bob, you know never can be-- and as for the whigs, they love stones more than me. i dare not maliciously think of the tory, no envy his pudding, the englishman's glory-- he's in, and he's right, and his place is worth keeping, no wonder he wishes john still to be sleeping;-- and though from stage coffers his wages be taken, he'd better be paid than the office forsaken. without kings and clergy, and commons and peers, together the people would be by the ears; equal rights, equal liberties, who would not brave, lest an excess of freedom prove liberty's grave. we've the use of our fingers, our tongues, and our eyes, how then are we fetter'd? the good tory cries; and as for the taxes, judge bayley can prove they're the source of our welfare, the things we should love. since the days of king solomon, that wise man of yore, all kings have had wisdom and riches in store: and britain, sublimely renowned in story, has become of the world th' admiration and glory, by the help of our kings, and prime minister pitt, whose names are a match for the radicals yet. but stop--to amuse thee i'll give a relation of the sights i beheld at the king's coronation; which partly convinc'd me that infidels reign, since the head of the church met such hoggish disdain. the morning was fine when the boats came in sight, and cannons re-echoed the tories' delight-- sandgate heroes huzza'd, till the news, so provoking, convinc'd them the watermen only were joking. "what a d--n'd shame! (cried archy) such prizes, and never a man lying breathless, or drown'd in the river! no squabbling, no fighting, no boats sunk--damnation! they're fit men to row at a king's coronation!" then from the quayside to the sandhill i wander'd, and smil'd to behold money foolishly squander'd: a pant rising splendidly, gilded and crown'd, to run with good wine, in the centre was found, and fronting st. nicholas a black roasted beast, and another in spital-field, bespoke a grand feast. three pants to run ale--'twas a glorious sight! two cranes and two scaffolds--the butchers' delight. from church now the mayor and his company ride, and bab with the queen, at the foot of the side, hoisted high on a pole, with a crown on her head-- (and her effigy more than the devil they dread) the crowd was so dense, and the shouts so astounding, and nothing but radical whiskers surrounding; which made it becoming to bow to the queen, though a damnable blot on their loyalty, i ween! releas'd, they drove gently, their plans to fulfill, by drinking the king's health upon the sandhill. but, to their misfortune, round where it was plac'd, the crowd was so furious, no tory could face't; and high on the gilded dome stood a rude fellow, with the crown on his head!--people said he was mellow; but i took him to be some base radical body, who wish'd folk to think that the king was a noddy, for at the mock gestures of kingly demeanour, the people bawl'd loudly, and bow'd to his honour; while many among them cried, pull the knave down! such a bad drunken fellow's not fit for a crown! he's as good, quoth a keelman, and blew like a porpus, as the london mogul, who can drink, wh--e, and rob us. so near was the danger, the mayor swoon'd away; but archy, more bold as they pranc'd round the fray, to his comrades cried softly, (but not till past catching) "what treasonable stuff those damn'd radicals are hatching! d'ye see what a mess they have made of the crown, go call out the soldiers to pull yon knave down." "drive on," quoth the mayor, by this time come about, "there's no time to talk while the philistines are out." more furious grew archy, as nearer he drew the den of corruption, with th' noodles in view. "fetch the soldiers, i say--let the streets swim with blood! see the crown is insulted, and all that is good, when erected this morn, what a sight to behold! 'twas velvet and ermine, and cover'd with gold! 'tis sacrilege! treason! hell groans at the sight! fetch the soldiers, and put the mad rabble to flight: we crown'd it, and form'd it to dribble with wine, that the king's health, when drank, might be cheer'd by the swine; and shall we be bet while we've soldiers to guard us? no, call them out quickly--the king will reward us." as he finish'd the sentence, the crown got a fall, and rapt'rous delight animated them all. what savage barbarians those english are grown, to laugh at the fall of a beautiful crown! 'twas time for the mayor and poor archy to fly from the radical scene to the loyal pig-stye. to st. nicholas' square then i posted away, where typo's high window peep'd over the fray; and such an ox roasting was there to be seen! 'twas a bad loyal meeting for all but the queen. the crowd was immense, and their spirits were high, to honour his majesty no one durst try. the scaffold with tipstaves and botchers was clad, who blarnied poor folks what fine morsels they had; and holding the head up, began to huzza, but a volley of hisses and groans drown'd their _jaw_: though, thistlewood like, it was something uncivil, for the head wearing horns was as black as the devil. st. nicholas peal'd out as the hisses began, and seem'd to say, "loyal bucks, do what you can!" as fast as the butchers the collops threw out, the people return'd them with many a shout; and many a fat lump loyal whiskers besmear'd, till brick-bats and fat chops the slaughter stage clear'd. a crown that look'd lovely, and honoured the crane, call'd forth, beyond measure, the public disdain; the brick-flying tempest redoubled its terror, and many a poor tory's heart trembled with horror. an officer[ ] vent'ring imprudently near, receiv'd the same fate as the coach in the rear; so high was the radical sentiment tow'ring, that public expression was past all enduring. in vain flew the bricks, save to knock people down, for the tories were fled, and too fast was the crown; at length a bold tar, in the midst of the fray, mounted swiftly, and tore the gilt bauble away; and put in its place, which was fair to be seen, "the queen that jack lov'd," and cried, "god save the queen!" then off went their hats, and abroad went the roar, and shook the glass windows along the tyne shore. the mangled black carrion was knock'd from the stage, and dragg'd round the town with republican rage, till deposited safely i' th' mansion-house yard, where archy mac syc. is the master black-guard; from whence, in accordance with archibald's wish, it was sunk in the tyne--to make broth for the fish. so that radical bodies were highly to blame, when they sung their pig sonnets, and cried out, "for shame!" a few drunken fellows the ale-pants surrounded, and fought for the _wish-wash_ till nearly half-drowned. but when the wine dribbled beneath the exchange, the people were furious, and sought for revenge, by drinking "the queen!" with astounding delight, while the fine folks above them grew pale at the sight. but to see a nak'd man holding fast by the spout, made the sanctified ladies huzza, clap, and shout. "fight away, pigs, (quoth archy) you make us fine fun!" but when the pant suffer'd he alter'd his tune. in spital-field loyalty had no more boast, for the queen rul'd the heart, and the people the roast. poor anvil[ ] disgrac'd himself, some people say, to ask the mayor leave on the race-ground to pray; in fact, after such a deed i should not wonder but they'll sneak and ask leave, till oblig'd to knock under. what a "punch"-loving people! in less than an hour, to see lambton's horse, they were all on the moor; but vex'd that their favourite's courser should lose, they car'd not to stay till the races might close. returning at length, like a tempest they came, which bursts upon cheviot, and sets it on flame and levell'd the pants with the spoil of the day, while a radical gave them a touch of his lay. in vain the peace-officers handled their staves, and entreated the crowd to submit like good slaves; 'twas the head of the church who created the day, and salvation attended a loyal display! but passive obedience was basely rejected, and the head of the church very little respected; which made archy again for the horse soldiers shout, so anxious he seem'd for a manchester rout: but, thank their good stars, they go free from the labour of drawing their whittles to hamstring a neighbour. in its socket was sinking the radical taper, ere snugly the mighty ones sat down to supper. it cost them two thousand, i mean th' corporation! what a round sum, dear bob, for a king's coronation! but surely i need not the money begrudge, for the sight charm'd the heart of thy cousin, bob fudge. footnote : the first epistle, "radical monday," a satirical description of the town moor great meeting on the th oct. .--the second epistle (unpublished) "radical thursday and whig wednesday," on the public meetings held in newcastle, on those days, for addressing the queen, &c. footnote : lord castlereagh. footnote : a military officer on horseback in the crowd at the time the mail coach passed, decorated in honour of the coronation, was, together with the coach, pelted by the populace. footnote : an independent methodist preacher, who, forgetting the commission of his divine master to preach the gospel, even on the highways and hedges, applied in vain to the mayor, for leave for himself and brethren to hold a camp meeting on the town moor. the worthy magistrate objected, on the ground of injuring the _interests_ of the "church as by law established;" or, more properly speaking, the interests of the established clergy. anvil is also celebrated by bob fudge, in his first epistle, entitled "radical monday," as one of the orators at the town moor great meeting on the th october, . bob fudge's postscript _to his account of the great town moor meeting, on monday, th october, ._ since the meeting, dear bob, many things have come out, which in gotham have made a most damnable rout: mister mayor at a trifle does not seem to stick, with the rads[ ] he's been playing _sir archy mac syc._-- while sidmouth he cramm'd with some _green bag supplies_, which--alas! for his worship--have turn'd out _all lies_! _a stark staring parson_,[ ] to add to the store, a budget has sent to the noble strathmore; and some other arch wag, whom all grace has forsook, a _thumper_ has palm'd on a great northern duke! sir matt, too, so lately the pride of the tyne, against poor old gotham did also combine; by supporting _bold archy's_ most libellous letter, he has added another strong link to the fetter! the rivet he's clos'd, which no mortal can sever, and set now's the "_bright star of heaton_" for ever! but let him beware--for "_a rod is in pickle_," which, sooner or later, "_his toby will tickle!_" both the houses have rung with the direful alarms, of the rads on the tyne and the wear being in arms; 'tis all a sly hoax--the _alarmists alarming_, for there's not the least symptom of _rising_ or _arming_! footnote : the radicals, or real reformers. footnote : parson bl--k--n. blind willy's flight. tune--"betsey baker." a whirlwind, of a serious kind, did o'er newcastle blow, sir, which gen'ral consternation spread about a month ago, sir: it caught blind willy in the street, he mounted like a feather; his friends, alarm'd, cried out, alas! poor soul! he's gone for ever! fal de ral, &c. but soon our minstrel gay was seen, by thousands of the people, in rapid flight, swift as the kite bound o'er saint nich'las' steeple; he pass'd the shot tower like a dart, turn'd round by askew's key, sir, and down the tyne he glided fine, and bolted off to sea, sir. fal de ral, &c. 'tis said that he to london got, but was forc'd back to shields, sir, and up to swalwell, quick as thought, was carried o'er the fields, sir. round axwell park our roving spark was borne amidst the squall, sir, and swiftly passing elswick house, reach'd cock-o-lorum hall, sir. fal de ral, &c. thus tempest-toss'd, to blagdon cross'd, and hail'd fam'd heaton's star, sir-- then mounting high, did rapid fly as far as prestwick car, sir. newcastle next he hover'd o'er, quite calmly in the air, sir, and landing at the mansion house, he din'd with mr. mayor, sir. fal de ral, &c. the new markets. tune--"canny newcassel." wey, hinnies, but this is a wonderful scene, like some change that yen's seen iv a play-house; whe ever wad thowt that the awd major's dean wad hae myed sic a capital weyhouse: where the brass hez a' cum fra nebody can tell, some says yen thing and some says another-- but whe ever lent grainger't aw knaw very well, that they mun have at least had a fother. about lunnen then divent ye myek sic a rout, for there's nowt there maw winkers ti dazzell; for a bell or a market there isent a doubt we can bang them at canny newcassel. wor gratitude grainger or somebody's arl'd, yet still, mun, it mykes yen a' shuther, to see sic a crowd luiking after this warld where the nuns us'd ti luik for the tother. but see yor awn interest, dinna be blind, tyek a shop there whatever yor trade is; genteeler company where can ye find than wor butchers, green wives, and tripe ladies? about lunnen, &c. ti see the wires haggle about tripe and sheep-heads, or washing their greens at a fountain, where the bonny nuns us'd to be telling their beads, and had nowt but their sins ti be counting; there the talented lords o' the cleaver and steel may be heard on that classical grund, sir, loudly chaunting the praise o' their mutton an' veal, though they're losing a happney a pund, sir. about lunnen, &c. when them queer cockney folk cum stravagin this way (though aw've lang thowt we'd getten aboon them) they'll certainly now hae the mense just to say, that we've clapt an extinguisher on them: it's ne use contending, they just may shut up, for it's us can astonish the stranger; they may brag o' their lords an' their awd king ti boot, what's the use on't?--they haven't a grainger. about lunnen, &c. the changes on the tyne. tune--"mitford galloway." i'll sing you a bit of a ditty, i hope you will not think it lang, at least if it tires your patience, i'll verra suin shorten my sang; it's all about comical changes, and new-fangled things on the tyne, i've witness'd since aw was a skipper, and that isn't verra lang syne. chorus. these are the days of improvement, we're a' gettin wiser, you see, the skuilmaister's getting abroad, and he'll finish us off to a tee. baith sides of the tyne, aw remember, were cover'd wi' bonny green fields, but now there is nought but big furnaces down frae newcastle to shields; and what wi' their sulphur and brimstone, their vapour, their smoke, and their steam, the grass is all gaen, and the farmers can nowther get butter or cream. these are the days, &c. for making their salts and their soda, they formerly us'd a kail-pot, with an awd-fashion'd bit of a chimley they were quite satisfied wi' their lot; but now anty clapham, the quaker, has fill'd a' the folks wi' surprise, for he's lately built up a lang chimley, within a few feet o' the skies! these are the days, &c. there's losh's big chimley at walker, its very awn height makes it shake, and if cookson's again tumble ower, it will make a new quay for the slake; to talk of your fine foreign pillars, it's enough for to make a man sick, the great tower of _babble_ compar'd wi' wor chimleys is nowt but a stick. these are the days, &c. for three-pence to shields aw remember in a wherry the folk us'd to gan, and that was consider'd by many a very respectable plan; but now we've got sixpenny steamers, a stylish conveyance, i'm sure, for there you've a tune on the fiddle, and a lie on the sands for an hour. these are the days, &c. then ower the land we'd a whiskey, which went twice or thrice in the day, which us'd to take all the fine gentry, and quite in an elegant way; but now the awd whiskey's neglected, and nothing but coaches suit us, lord help us! there's nothing gans now but a hyke in the new omnibus. these are the days, &c. at one time wor ships were all loaded sae canny and snug by the keels, and then a' wor maisters made money, and keelmen were a' happy chiels; but now your fine drops de the business! lord bless us! aw never saw such, though some of wor owners aw's freeten'd hev getten a _drop_ ower much. these are the days, &c. and then an aud horse brought a waggon a' the way frae the pits to the staith, but now it appears pretty certain, they'll verra suin dee without baith, for now their fine steam locomotives a' other inventions excels, aw've only to huik on the waggons, and they'll bring a ship-load down their sels. these are the days, &c. new rail-roads now spring up like mushrooms, aw never, maw soul! saw the like, we'll turn every thing topsy-turvy, and leave ourselves not a turnpike; then horses will live without working, and never more trot in a team, and instead of carrying their maisters, they'll get themsels carried by steam. these are the days, &c. wor ballast-hills now are grown handsome, and what they call quite pictoresk, ne poet can de them half justice if he writes all his life at his desk; they're hilly, and howley, and lofty, presenting fresh views every turn, and they'd luik like vesuvius or etna, if we could only get them to burn. these are the days, &c. and as for aud canny newcastle, it's now quite a wonderful place, its new market, nothing can match it in elegance, beauty, and grace; could our forefathers only just see it, my eye! they would start wi' surprise, i fancy i just hear them saying-- "what's come of the buggy pigsties?" these are the days, &c. and this is a' duin by one grainger-- a perfect goliah in bricks, he beats billy purvis quite hollow in what ye ca' slight of hand tricks; he's only to say, "cock-o-lorum, fly jack, presto, quick and be gane," and new houses spring up in an instant-- of the audins you can't see a stane. these are the days, &c. in sculler-boats, not very lang syne, the shields folk cross'd ower the tyne, but now we have got a big steamer, and cuts quite a wonderful shine; and one that we've got down at scotland, delights a' the folks with a ride, for it gans back and forward sae rapid, that it just makes a trip in a tide. these are the days, &c. i think i've now told you, my hinnies, the whole of the changes i've seen, at least a' the whirligig fashions that i have been able to glean; so the next time we meet a' together, some other improvements i'll get, and then we shall make worsels happy, and try a' wor cares to forget. these are the days, &c. =on the attempt to remove the custom house from newcastle to shields, in .= the custom house branch. tynesiders, give ear, and you quickly shall hear a strange and a wonderful story, of a dreadful uproar upon fam'd gotham's shore, where we've brush'd all to heighten our glory. on the quayside, so spruce, stands a great custom house, of newcastle the pride and birth-right; now the sons of gotham had sworn o'er a dram, that to gotham it soon should take flight. a townsman they sent, on great deeds fully bent, a son of the knife and the steel, sirs; and one learn'd in the laws, to argue their cause, the covenants to sign and to seal, sirs. to london they came, through the high road to fame, their hearts were both merry and staunch: of success confident, to the treasury they went, and demanded they might have a branch! false report (only guess) brought to gotham success, rejoicing, they blaz'd, without doubt; 'great rome,' they now say, 'was not built in one day; 'we've the branch, and we'll soon have the root!' while their thoughts were thus big, over newcastle brig the mail came one day, in a hurry: 'what's the news?' say the folk; quick a briton up spoke, 'no branch!--so newcastle be merry.' 'no branch!' was the cry, re-echoed the sky, and sent down to gotham a volley; where the prospect is bad, 'for 'tis fear'd they'll run mad, or relapse into sad melancholy. so gotham beware, and no more lay a snare, nor think that newcastle you'll bend; call your advocates home, your cause to bemoan, and let each his own calling attend. the custom house tree, &c. tune--"the quayside shaver." ye folks of newcassel, so gen'rous, advance, and listen awhile to my humourous strain; 'tis not the fag end of a fairy romance, nor yet the effect of a crack in the brain: 'tis a custom-house tree, that was planted with care, and with newcassel int'rest well dung'd was the root; and that all water fowls might partake of a share, they were kindly permitted to taste of the fruit. the sea gulls of shields sought a branch, so applied to a stately old drake, of the fresh water breed: he flutter'd his wings, then he bade them provide a memorial, to send off to london with speed. his pow'rful opinion was soon put in force, and messengers chose, who, without more delay, took flight; while blind ignorance guided their course, and they roosted, i'm told, about ratcliffe highway. meanwhile, with impatience, a gull took his glass, and with anxious concern took a squint to the south; if i don't now behold (may you prove me an ass) a gull flying back with a branch in his mouth. the news quickly spread; they, in wild consternation, burnt tar-barrels, bells ringing, dancing for joy; a person was sent for to plan the foundation, while others drank mrs. carr's wine-cellar dry. there was one, half seas over, sang 'little tom horner,' while some in the streets, on their bellies lay flat; another, 'pon turning the library corner, ran foul of a quaker, and knock'd off his hat. a full brandy bottle came smack through a window, and hit on the temple a canty old wife; "don't murmur," say they, "were you burnt to a cinder, "we're able to grant you a pension for life." their gull-eye at london, o'er pudding and roast, would bet heavy odds he should fortunate be; and then after dinner propos'd, as a toast, "that grass might soon grow upon newcassel kee." but the treas'ry decision laid vap'ring aside; "no branch!" was the cry, so away the gulls slunk: should a twig be lopp'd off, it can ne'er be deny'd, but the roots would soon dry, and thus wither its trunk. so now i've a scheme, if your fancy i hit, 'twill suit crazy folks, after dancing mad reels; instead of a custom-house branch, 'twould be fit that a branch from the mad-house be rear'd in north shields. we'll laugh at the joke, while experience may learn the gulls, for the future, in peace to remain. by what you have heard, you may also discern, that premature joy's the forerunner of pain. the custom house branch. tune--"yo heave o." the joyous men of north shields their church bells set a ringing sweet, and tar-barrels blaz'd, their high rapture for to shew; like bears some fell a dancing, like ravens some were singing sweet, 'poor jack,' 'rule britannia' and 'yo heave o.' some grog were freely quaffing, like horses some were laughing; their matchless powers in bellowing all eager seem'd to shew; the branch, they cried, we've got, and with it, well we wot, fitters, bankers, merchants, soon will follow in a row. the newcastle deputation, no doubt on't, swagger'd much, sir, expecting our pilgarlicks soon foiled would have been; but too hard for them all prov'd the diplomatic butcher, whose tongue, like his gully-knife, is marvellously keen, spite of wheedling and of sneering, bamboozling and queering, he to his purpose stuck so firm, so true, and so staunch, the town clerk and his chums, stood whistling on their thumbs, astonish'd, whilst triumphantly he bore away the branch. and now since the custom house we thus have got translated, why longer should the _county courts_ newcastle proudly grace? we wise-ones of north shields, tho' reckon'd _addle-pated_, for this pile so magnificent will find a fitter place. yon space[ ] which----'s skill, seems destin'd ne'er to fill with structures worthy athens' or corinth's proudest day; yon space! o is it not the very, very spot where the county courts their splendour so massive should display? if once our gen'ral committee determine, in full quorum, the removal of our courts, the result will fully shew, that the lords of the treasury, and custos rotulorum, (our high displeasure dreading) will not dare to whisper no. and when the whim impells, to eclipse the dardanelles; the old castle of its ancient sight shall straightway take its leave, to brave the billow's shocks, on the dread black midden rocks, however for its transit antiquarians sore may grieve. then comes the grand finale, for which our souls we'd barter now; the regent and his ministers we'll pester night and day, till tranferr'd to us newcastle sees her revenues and charter too, and from heddon streams to tynemouth bar, tyne owns our sovereign sway. o when our town so famous is, big as hippopotamuses, we'll strut about the bank-top quite semi-divine; the neighbouring coasters all, our greatness shall appall, and their topsails straight they'll lower to the lords of the tyne. 'twas thus with idle rumours poor gentlemen delighted, the honest men of north shields to fancy gave the rein; sad proof that when ambition with folly is united, astonishing chimeras oft occupy the brain. but soon their joy was banish'd, soon each illusion vanish'd, for news arriv'd the butcher the branch could not obtain. deep, deep in the dumps, (after playing all his trumps) just as branchless as he went he was 'toddling hyem' again, newcastle, thou dear canny town! o ever thus defeated be every hostile effort thy prosperity to shake; long grumbling to thy custom-house, in gigs and coaches seated, may the honest men of north shields their daily journies take, and, mounted on their _hacks_, long, long too, may the _jacks_ continue their equestrian skill on shields road to display; tho' oft their tits may stumble, and o'er the _bows_ they tumble, unhurt, still bold, may they remount, and onward bowl away. newcastle men, rejoice! o haste, on this occasion, with many a jovial bumper our whistles let us wet, lord eldon, with sir william scott, and all our deputation, to toast, with acclamations due, o let us not forget: to them our thanks be tender'd, good services they've render'd-- and let us hope in after times, should branch wars rage again, in newcastle 'twill be found, such men do then abound, the commercial pre-eminence still boldly to maintain. footnote : the new market place. the mechanics' procession; _or, a trip to south shields_. tune--"the bold dragoon." let gowks about odd fellows brag, and foresters se fine-- unrivall'd the mechanics stand, and long will o'er them shine;-- with belts of blue, and hearts so true, they far outrival every order-- their praise is sung by every tongue, frae lunnin toon reet ow'r the border. whack, row de dow, &c. o had you seen our nelson lads when nunn[ ] brought up the news he said, let us be off to shields, our brothers' hearts to rouse; our tiler drew his sword, and cried, let banners wave and loud drums rattle-- whene'er mechanics are oppress'd, they'll find us first to fight their battle! whack, row de dow, &c. three cheers we gave, when nunn replied, our albion lads do crave, to join the tyne and collingwood, all danger they would brave; and each i. g. wad let them see, their hearts and souls were in the action, they'd crush a foe at ev'ry blow, until that they had satisfaction. whack, row de dow, &c. the ardour spread from lodge to lodge, each brother's heart beat high, and down the tyne, in steamers fine, on rapid wings they fly;-- 'mid cannon's roar along the shore, our band struck up our tunes se merry-- so blythe a crew there's been but few, since famous jemmy johnson's wherry. whack, row de dow, &c. at shields we join'd their splendid band, and march'd in fine array-- throughout the town, we gain'd renown, for such a grand display:-- we smack'd their yell, and wish'd success to each mechanic's lodge se clever, and as we left the brothers cried-- o may our order live for ever! whack, row de dow, &c. let's drink to all mechanics true, upon both sides of tyne may peace and plenty bless their homes, and round them long entwine;-- to simpson te, so kind and free, let's give three cheers as loud as thunder-- till echo'd back from pole to pole, and all the world admire and wonder! whack, row de dow, &c. footnote : thomas nunn, i. g. of the albion lodge. a gipsy's song. here awhile we'll cease from roaming-- pitch the tents among the broom-- turn the asses on the common, and enjoy the afternoon. merry shall we be to-day: what is life devoid of pleasure? care from us keep far away, while mirth pursues his sprightly measure. place all things in decent order, budgets, boxes, mugger-ware, and here encamp'd, on england's border, we'll remain till whitsun fair. ease the brutes of panniers' load-- let them browse among the heather; light a fire, and dress some food, and frankly we shall feast together. and allan,[ ] thou shall screw thy drone, and play up 'maggie lauder' sweetly, or 'money musk' or 'dorrington,' and we will frisk and foot it neatly. crowd[ ] gain'd applause for many a tune-- few peer'd him in the high or lawlan'; but neither he nor sandy brown[ ] could trill a note like jemmy allan. e'en blaw-loud willy's[ ] border airs, nor gay nor daft could please the dancer; but aye to allan's lilts, at fairs, the very feet themselves would answer. each lad shall take his fav'rite lass, and dance with her till she be weary, and warm her with the whisky glass, and kiss and hug his nut-brown deary. and when of mirth we've had our will, upon the sward love shall entwine us; our plighted vows we'll then fulfill, without a canting priest to join us. and when we go our country rounds, some trinkets selling, fortunes telling-- some tink'ring, cooping, casting spoons, we'll still obtain the ready shilling. unto the farm-steads we can hie, whene'er our stock of food grows scanty, and from the hen-roost, bin, or sty, we'll aye get fresh supplies in plenty. and when the shepherd goes to sleep, and on the fell remains the flock, we'll steal abroad among the sheep, and take a choice one from the stock. the clergy take the tenth of swine, potatoes, poultry, corn, and hay-- why should not gipsies, when they dine, have a tithe-pig as well as they? we wish not for great store of wealth, nor pomp, nor pride, nor costly dainty; while blest with liberty and health, and competence--then we have plenty. merry shall we be to-day: what is life devoid of pleasure? care from us keep far away, while mirth pursues his sprightly measure. h. r. footnote : james allan, the celebrated northumberland bagpiper. footnote : a vagrant piper, who often travelled with gipsies. footnote : about years ago, a poem appeared in a kelso newspaper, wherein this person was respectfully noticed, as follows:-- "they brought the piper, sandy brown, frae jedburgh to lochmaben town; though whaisling sair and broken down auld sandy seem'd, his chanter for a pleasing sound was still esteem'd." footnote : an unskilful performer on the bagpipes, who attended the different fairs held in northumberland. verses written for the burns' club, held at mr. wallace's, nag's head, newcastle, jan. . the rolling year at length brings forth the day that gave our poet birth: o burns! to testify thy worth, we're hither met-- nae genius i' the south, or north can match thee yet. of ither's rhymes we have enow, but sic as thine are rare and few-- for aye to nature thou wert true, thou bard divine! nae poet scotia ever knew could sing sae fine. with rapture, each returning spring, i'll follow thee, on fancy's wing, to where the lively linnets sing in hawthorn shade; here oft thy muse, deep pondering, sweet sonnets made. with thee i'll stray by streamlet's side, and view the bonnie wimpling tide o'er polish'd pebbles smoothly glide, wi' murm'ring sound, while nature, in her rustic pride, smiles all around. or to the fells i'll follow thee, where o'er the thistle bums the bee, and meek-eyed gowans modestly their charms disclose, and where, upon its 'thorney tree,' blows the wild rose. or to the heath, where fairies meet in mystic dance with nimble feet, by moonlight--there the elves i'll greet, and join their revels; or on a 'rag-weed nag', sae fleet, fly wi' the devils! through fields of beans, with rich perfume, and o'er the braes o' yellow broom that gilds the bonny banks o' doon, wi' thee i'll rove, where thou, when blest in youthful bloom, stray'd with thy love. when thunder-storms the heav'ns do rend, unto benlomond's top i'll wend, and view the clouds electric vend the forked flash! and hear the pouring rains descend wi' dreadful clash! a fig for meikle bags o' wealth, if i hae food, and claes, and health, and thy sweet sangs upon my shelf, i'll gaily trudge it through life, and freely quit the pelf for robin's budget. and when distracting moments teaze me, or fell oppressions grapples seize me, a lesson frae thy book may ease me, sae i may bear misfortune's wipes, till death release me frae canker'd care. h. r. a parody, _written on hearing a report that the newcastle and northumberland yeomanry cavalry were to be disbanded._ tune--"the soldier's tear." upon newcastle moor, poor matthew cast a look, when he thought on the coming hour, when his brave noodle troop would lay their arms down, no longer them to bear-- the brave defenders of the town-- he wip'd away a tear. beside the fatal spot, where poor jane did end her strife, he said that he would cut his throat, and end his wretched life-- a life so press'd with care, no longer could he bear-- so wildly then he tore his hair, and wip'd away a tear. he turn'd and left the ground, where oft his red, red plume, had spread its warlike beauty round, to the sound of fife and drum;-- but now his glory's fled-- no longer it he'll wear, but take it quietly from his head, and wipe away a tear. no more the tory ranks will glitter in the sun nor play at e'en their childish pranks, with blunderbuss or gun; for now the doleful knell has toll'd their last career, and, horror-struck, poor matty bell, who wip'd away a tear. wm. greig. _newcastle on tyne, may twenty-nine._ thomas whittell, his humourous letter to good master moody, razor-setter. good master moody, my beard being cloudy, my cheeks, chin, and lips, like moon i' the 'clipse for want of a wipe-- i send you a razor, if you'll be at leisure to grind her, and set her, and make her cut better, you'll e'en light my pipe.[ ] dear sir, you know little, the case of poor whittell: i'm courting, tantivy, if you will believe me-- now mark what i say: i'm frank in my proffers, and when i make offers to kiss the sweet creature, my lips cannot meet her, my beard stops the way. you've heard my condition, and now i petition, that, without omission, with all expedition you'll give it a strike, and send it by tony, he'll pay you the money-- i'll shave and look bonny, and go to my honey, as snod as you like. if you do not you'll hip me, my sweetheart will slip me, and if i should smart for't, and break my brave heart for't, are you not to blame? but if you'll oblige me, as gratitude guides me, i'll still be your servant, obedient and fervent, whilst whittell's my name. footnote : this phrase means, the conferring of a favour. the natural philosopher; _or, the downfall of the learned humbugs!_ tune--"canny newcassel." oh! hae ye not heard o' this wonderful man, perpetual motion's inventor! the sun, muin, and stars are a' doon iv his plan, but take time till it comes frae the prenter! the last time he lectur'd he tell'd such a tale 'bout vibration, air, and such matter; he can prove that a washing-tub is not a pail, and all isaac newton's brains batter! chorus. then come, great and sma', and hear the downfa'-- for a fa' down it will be for certain-- of a' the wiseacres and gon'rals, an' a' that dare to oppose the great martin; he'll settle their hash! their necks he will smash, a' the college-bred gowks he will dazzel; ne mair shall false teachers o'er him cut a dash! they are banish'd frae canny newcassel. he can prove that a turkey-cock is not a turk! that a 'tatie is not a pine-apple; he likewise can prove that boil'd goose is not pork, and a black horse is not a grey dapple. a' what he can prove--a' what he can do, and bother the gon'rals--the wad-be's; he likewise can prove that a boot's not a shoe, and his cane's not a sausage frae _mawbey's_![ ] then come, great and sma', &c. his poems are sublime, tho' nyen o' them rhyme-- why, he pays no attention to _morrow_;[ ] ne matter for that, still he makes them a' chyme, for he hasn't his phrases to borrow! then proceed, mighty man, propagating thy plan, to enlighten this dark age of reason! may it spread like a blaze, with thy eloquence fann'd-- to doubt it, i hold it sheer treason. then come, great and sma', &c. footnote : a late famed sausage-maker in the old flesh market. footnote : murray's grammar. the gateshead rads. to an old tune. t'other day aw was saunt'ring down the new street, and had turn'd to gan back, when whe should aw meet, reet plump i' the face, but sage tommy rav-ly, just come frae the council, and looking most gravely. wi' tommy, says aw, what can be the matter? your plawd is aw dirt, and your teeth in a chatter; has your colleagues in office been using a broom, and _sooping the dirt all out of the room_? now, james, he replied, pray don't be prosy, or sure as you're there, i'll make you quite _nosey_; i've gotten enough to make me look blue, without being bother'd with plebeians like you. just think, when the last time in council we met, we propos'd and appointed our _yellow-hair'd pet_ to be justice's clerk, and pocket the fees, for which he came almost plump down on his knees. but no sooner did we our backs fairly turn, than they (devil take them!) appointed swinburne, and laugh'd in their sleeves to think how we'd stare; but james, you must know, they had better beware. now, tommy, says aw, just keep yoursel' aisy, for at present aw'm sure that ye look very crazy; _make the quaker your purser, and he'll put ye right, for aw'm sure that the strings he will keep verra tight._ a sixpence he'll make gan as far as a pound, so that will be nineteen and sixpence ye've found; just leave all to him and w. h. b., and no doubt ye will prosper, as shortly ye'll see. now come, let's away to the bonny _blue bell_, and there we will drink a quart o' yor yell, and then aw will tell ye what next ye maun de-- but mind ye say nowse 'bout it coming frae me. he then made a start, but nowt did he say, ('tween councillor and plebeian, that's may be the way,) till into the house we fairly did stumble, when, "go cab my lug," he was then verra humble. now, tommy, maw man, aw see nowse that ye've done, but aw hope ye intend to commence verra soon; a market we maun hae, an' at the brig-end-- a place that old _jacky_ oft dis recommend-- to save us the fash, and aiblins the pain, of ganging right o'er unto the high-crane; and mind what i say, if we want ony peace during sermon, on sunday, oppose the police. at that he did open his eyes verra wide-- ah, beggar! aw thought aw'd offended his pride; but nought o' the sort, for he held out his loof-- now, james, my good fellow, you've said quite enough. my int'rest, aw'm sure, you always shall hae, and a job aw will get you on the sabbath-day; for some one at the council this day did propose, that we the dog-fights in green's field should oppose. and usher was told for to seek out three men, to assist him on sundays, and thou shalt be ane; and 'bout what thou wert saying a motion aw'll bring, for, doubtless, 'twill prove a _necessary_ thing. we thank ye, says aw, but d'ye think that ye're right, in trying to stop us frae seeing a dog-fight; for maw thoughts about liberty it fairly clogs, yet--_we've barking enough wi' twe-fooled dogs_. gateshead, march , . y. s. the election day. tune--"there's nae luck about the house." ye freemen all, with heart and voice your banners wide display-- bring hodgson forth, your man of choice, upon th' election-day. then fill your glasses, drink your fill, drink deeply while you may-- with right good-will, we'll drink and swill upon th' election-day. but politics are not the stuff that we care much about-- nor care, so we get drink enough, who's in, or who is out. then fill your glasses, drink your fill-- fill and drink away, and ev'ry one enjoy the fun upon th' election-day. brave vulcan is our leader bold, the pride of all good fellows-- he swears the iron shall ne'er grow cold, while he can blow the bellows. then fill your glasses, what's the toast, to drive dull care away?-- 'may ev'ry man be at his post upon th' election-day.' the landlord next appears in view, our second in command, encouraging the jovial crew to drink while they can stand. then charge your glasses, noble souls, the toast without delay-- 'may thirsty souls have flowing bowls upon th' election-day.' then hodgson's name aloud proclaim victoriously that day; while he, in honour of his fame, will all expences pay. then fill your glasses, what's the toast? fill and drink away-- 'may ev'ry man drink all he can upon th' election-day.' w. watson mary drue. by the late t. houston[ ] on a pleasant april morning, wand'ring tyne's sweet banks along, spring with flow'rs the fields adorning, woods and groves with birds of song-- pensive stray'd i; none was nigh me, when a maid appear'd in view-- slow she came, or seem'd to fly me-- heav'ns! 'twas charming mary drue. long my mary's charms i gaz'd on, long i view'd that nymph complete-- her bright eyes no form were rais'd on, but were downcast at her feet: in her hand a violet blooming kiss'd the breeze that gently blew, and one robe, with folds presuming, hid the breast of mary drue. onward drew the modest maiden, heav'nly was her gait and air-- brighter ne'er that meadow stray'd in, never tyne saw form so fair: in my breast my heart, wild beating, with redoubled ardour flew; from my tongue all speech retreating, left me scarce--"dear mary drue." henry, henry! have i found you? (thus the maid her words address'd,) and with solitude around you, can my henry here be bless'd? woods and streams may yield a pleasure, but my bliss--'tis all in you-- love beyond all bounds and measure-- lov'd at last by mary drue! told this morn of your disorder, (love for me the cause believ'd,) soon i sought this river's border, where 'tis said you oft have griev'd: on the river's brink i find you-- pensive, sad, i find you too; leave the world and wealth behind you-- thou art worlds to mary drue! sweet as notes from lutes ascending, to my ear these accents came, smiles and looks of love attending, touch'd my soul with gen'rous flame: o'er her charms, disorder'd, stooping-- rapt'rous sight! divinely new!-- on my breast her head lay drooping, while i clasp'd sweet mary drue. footnote : thomas houston died about the year , or . he was the author of a play, entitled "the term-day, or unjust steward," and of several poems, among which were, "the progress of madness," and "a race to hell." in the latter piece were given the portraitures of two notorious corn-factors of that day, belonging to this town.--houston was a native of ireland, and by trade a brass-founder. opening of the new markets. fill up the cup till the ruby o'erflows it, drown ev'ry care in the nectar's rich stream-- if joy's in the goblet, this day will disclose it, when trade, worth, and beauty, by turns are our theme. what is, i ask, the toast, deepest drunk, honour'd most, drunk most devoutly, most honour'd to-day? what is the pledge that we hail first, with three times three? "success to our market!"--huzza and huzza! no longer let london and liverpool tell us, their towns boast of markets so spacious & grand; we answer, "we pray you, be quiet, good fellows, we, too, have a market--the first in the land!" fish, flesh, and garden fruits, oranges, apples, roots, there you will find them all, seek what you may; honest the dealers, too, drink, then, i pray of you-- "success to the dealers!"--huzza and huzza! the structure--but why should we speak of its merit? enough that we mention the architect's name; and long may the building, begun with such spirit, a monument stand of his talents and fame. proofs of a master mind, talents and taste combin'd, are they not every where visible--say? the architect's pride and boast, then be our hearty toast-- "mr. r. grainger!"--huzza and huzza! wreathe the bowl, wreathe it with wit's brightest flow'rs-- fill, fill it up till the nectar o'erflows; never was burgundy brighter than ours, never were eye-beams more sparkling than those. surrounded by beauty's train, captives in willing chains, to eyes that beam witchery, and smiles that betray, low at the shrine we bow-- love claims the homage due-- "the ladies!--the ladies!"--huzza and huzza! if spirit, by cost nor by trouble dismay'd-- if bounty unmeted, and free as the dew; if courtesy, kindness to each one display'd, may claim our applause, it is owing here now. oft in the festive scene, courteous and kind he's been, but never more courteous, more kind than to-day: fill then the cup again-- drain--to the bottom drain-- "his worship, the mayor!"--huzza and huzza! the new markets; _or, newcastle improvements_. believe me now, good foke, what i say is not a joke: behold, says cousin isabel, improvement now is visible, new buildings you espy, airy, spacious, and high, and trading chaps are moving round to sell or buy. when trade was at a stand, and the river chok'd wi' sand, caus'd the bodies to assemble, the poor to employ; then johnny off packt, up to lunnon for an act, and the manager for market-building, dick's the boy! chorus. then starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead, jack coxan and cull billy, judy dowling, and blind willy; let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae bywell tom, take a view o' wor new city, drink, and then return. when colossus he arose, with his jachin and his boaz, his plans of such utility, of splendour and gentility, condemn'd was tommy gee, and confirm'd was tommy b., and the measure seem'd to reconcile both friends and foes: even butchers' crabbed luiks, wi' their meat on silver huiks, drop all former animosities, and strut about wi' joy; for the temple of king solomon, for grandeur, can't follow, man-- all europe now may shout aloud, that dick's the boy! then starkey, &c. old houses now beware, how you spoil a street or square, whatever ground you bide upon, your fate is soon decided on; for tumble down you must, like a lump of mouldy crust, and the major bell will toll your fate, when all is done; for the rich have found it out, that a camel, without doubt, through a needle-eye can't pass without a pilot or a foy; the money, though conservative, will find a good preservative-- the knight of leazes terrace, hinnies, dick's the boy! then starkey, &c. fine rows of paphian bowers, for the fruits, and herbs, and flowers, the baskets stand, so pretty looking--feet and tripe, a' fit for cooking-- fountains fine and pure, that a cripple they may cure, and babies may get baptism, for ought you know; there's a clock to tell the time--but i now must stop my rhime, for the feasting has begun, and each heart seems big with joy; then come, enjoy the treat, wi' your legs upon your feet, take off your hats, and shout aloud--brave dick's the boy! then starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead, jack coxon, and cull billy, judy dowling, and blind willy; let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae bywell tom, view newcassel's famous city, drink, and then go home. wm. mitford. more innovations! newcastle's sore transmogrified, as every one may see, but what they've done is nought to that they still intend to dee: there still remain some sonsy spots, pure relics of our ancient features, o' which our canny town shall brag, while bonny gateshead boasts sand-beaters. the scrudg'd up foot of pilgrim-street, they surely will not mind, 'tis such a curiosity--a street without an end; should they extend it to the quay, and show off all saints' church so neatly, it might look fine, but i'm afraid 'twould spoil the butcher-bank completely! of pulling down the butcher-bank it grieves one's heart to speak, from it down every quayside-chare there's such a glorious keek; the shambles, too, a bonny sight, the horse and foot-ways nice and narrow-- say what they will, seek through the world, the butcher-bank is bad to marrow. our fishwives, too, might well complain, forc'd off the hill to move, where they so long had squall'd in peace, good fellowship, and love: the brightest day will have an end, and here the sandhill's glory closes, now flies and fumes no more will make the gentles stop their ears and noses. 'tis said they mean to clear away the houses in the side, to set off old st. nich'las church, so long our greatest pride; but where's the use of making things so very grand and so amazing, to bring daft gowks from far and near, to plague us with their gob and gazing. the middle-street's to come down next, and give us better air, and room to make to hold at once the market and the fair; well may newcastle grieve for this, because in hot or rainy weather, it look'd so well to see the folks all swelter'd in a hole together. the tyne's to run out east and west; and, 'stead of solway boats, our greenland ships at carlisle call, and not at johnny groat's; dull we may be at such a change--eh, certies, lads, haul down your colours!-- 'twould be no wonder now to see chain-bridges ruin all the scullers. r. gilchrist. the humble petition of the old house in the shield-field _to john clayton, esq._ to fall ne'er enter'd in my head, so staunch is all my station-- as little dreamt i ere to dread the ills of innovation. who can deny my dignity, tho i put little state on, outshining sham benignity, my canny mr. clayton? long since my roof has rung to song, and smil'd on gay carouses, newcastle then--though now so throng-- was somewhat scant of houses: i've stood so long, nor bourne nor brand my days can place a date on, so even spare me still to stand, my canny mr. clayton. newcastle now, like greece or rome, gives all the world a _mazer_, and mister grainger has become more like nebuchadnezzar: build houses till ye touch the sun, aye work both soon and late on, but do not try on me such fun, my canny mister clayton. yon villas fine--with all their sneers-- time will not have to hallow, ere they have seen one-tenth my years, their sites will lie in fallow; so do not think i envy them, though pompously they prate on: they're sprigs, but i'm a sober stem, my canny mister clayton. then say the word, my lease renew, and win a wreath of glory-- a bard of tyne will sing of you, all in my upper story. who lays disporting hands on me, all ills may pour his pate on, so be advis'd, and let me be, my canny mister clayton. r. gilchrist. euphy's coronation. tune--"arthur m'bride." to the fish-market we are ganning--the queen is proclaim'd! and euphy's their choice, for beauty lang fam'd-- they've geen her full pow'r, now she's justly ordain'd; so they've gyen to crown honest aud euphy! the market was crowded the queen for to view-- euphy sat for promotion, drest up wi' new; the procession appear'd, bearing the flag--a true blue! and then they surrounded aud euphy. the procession was headed by barbara bell, he was follow'd by chuckle-head chancellor kell-- mally ogle appear'd, wi' a barrel o' yell, to drink to the health of aud euphy. honest blind willie, tee, gaw them a call-- there was great bouncing bet, billy hush, and rag sall, the babe o' the wood, with putty-mouth mall, a' went to crown honest aud euphy. there was a grand invitation for byeth great and sma'-- her subjects assembled, did loudly hurra!-- she was nobly supported by bauld dolly raw, at the crowning of honest aud euphy; but ralphy the hawk was in prey for a job, wiv his small quarter-staff, wish'd to silence the mob-- he was silenc'd when he gat the beer-barrel tiv his gob, at the crowning of honest aud euphy. euphy and madge were the gaze i' the show, they were lang loudly cheer'd by the famous jin bo;-- to preserve peace and order there was barrel-bagg'd joe, at the crowning of honest aud euphy. to make an oration was the chancellor's wish, while his turbot-head sweel'd like a smoking het dish; bauld dolly raw stopt his gob wi' a cod fish, at the crowning of honest aud euphy. by great billy hush, euphy queen was declar'd! to move frae the market her subjects prepar'd; to the auld custom-house the procession repair'd, to drink at the cost of aud euphy. fine barbara bell grand music did play, which elevated the spirits of young bella g--y, 'keep your tail up!' she wad sing a' the way, at the crowning of honest aud euphy. to lead off the ball, for the queen they did cry, to please all her people, she was there to comply; peggy grundy would follow, wi' big bob and x y, to assist in the dance wi' queen euphy. the dancing was ended, down to dine they a' sat; roast beef and pig-cheek--a good swig follow'd that; the fragments were reserv'd in chancellor kell's hat, at the crowning of honest aud euphy. the chancellor's gob was beginning to swet, he swill'd it away till he gat ower wet, he was led to the tower by young beagle bet, frae the crowning of honest aud euphy: bella roy was beginning to produce all her slack-- she was tuen hyem on a barrow, by wise basket jack; the sport was weel relish'd by billy the black, at the crowning of honest aud euphy. a speech was now myed frae the queen, i' the chair-- to study their good she would take a great care; they aw had her blessing--what could she say mair? god bless the queen, honest aud euphy! wi' cheers for the queen, the house oft did ring-- by their humble request she the 'keel-row' did sing; they a' happy retir'd, wi' 'god save the king!' frae the crowning of honest aud euphy. thomas marshall. sandgate wife's nurse song. tune--"a sailor's wife has nought to dee." a, u, a, my bonny bairn, a, u, a, upon my airm, a, u, a--thou suin may learn to say dada se canny: aw wish thy daddy may be weel, he's lang i' coming frae the keel; tho' his black fyesce be like the de'il, aw like a kiss frae johnny. a, u, a, &c, thou really hast thy daddy's chin, thou art like him leg and wing, and aw wi' pleasure can thee sing, since thou belangs my johnny. johnny is a clever lad-- last neet he fuddled aw he had, this morn he wasn't very bad-- he luik'd as blithe as ony. tho' thou's the first, thou's not the last; aw mean to hae my bairns fast-- and when this happy time is past, aw still will love my johnny; for his hair is brown, and see is thine, your eyes are grey, and se are mine, thy nose is taper'd off se fine-- thou's like thy daddy johnny. thy canny doup is fat and round, and, like thy dad, thou's plump and sound, thou's worth to me a thousand pound, thou's a' together bonny. when daddy's drunk, he'll tyek a knife, and threaten sair to tyek my life: whe wad not be a keelman's wife, to have a man like johnny. but yonder's daddy coming now, he links the best amang the crew; they're a' gaun to the barley-mow, my canny, good-like johnny. come, let's go get the bacon fried, and let us make a clean fireside, then on his knee he will thee ride, when he comes hyem to mammy. bold jack of the journal. [written on reading mr. larkin's "letter to the protestants of newcastle," on the subject of "maria monk's awful disclosures."] bold jack of the _journal_-- from regions infernal!-- the catholic clergy would hang or would burn all! this insolent tory is now in his glory, and currency gives to miss monk's lying story. for his blust'rin' and barkin', and fulsome remarking brave, honest charles larkin has gi'en him a yarkin'. _newcastle, sept, ._ steam soup; _or, cuckoo jack's petition._ tune--"x y z." let cocknies brag o' turtle-soup, and frenchmen o' their frogs, man-- newcastle soup, such famous stuff, it feeds us fat as hogs man! yor callipee and callipash, compar'd tiv it, is nobbit trash-- strang knees and houghs stew'd down to mush, are gobbled up by every slush; wi' pluck an' taties folks are duen, for smoking soup in crowds they run, and sup till they are fu', man! fal de ral, &c. a skipper and his wife sat down, to give a quairt a try, man, when something stuck in mally's throat, and choak'd her very nigh, man: poor mally blair'd, and turn'd quite pale--and out she pull'd a great rat's tail! says jack, aw'll off to mr. mayor, and tell the story tiv a hair-- aw think it is a shameful joke, to sell such stuff wor mall to choke-- it's warse than tatie stew, man! fal de ral, &c. whe knaws but these fine dandy cooks hire resurrection faws, man, to stock them with forbidden flesh, agyen our famous laws, man: a cook in france, now understand, as sure's the sun inleets wor land, did kidnap bairns, an' mince them down, and myed sic pies, that a' the town wad eat nowt else--thowt nowt se fine; they fand him out--then, what a shine!-- they hang'd him on a tree, man! fal de ral, &c. o willy, man, wor canny king, ye knaw best how to feed us-- ye ken what we can de at sea, at ony time ye need us; cram a' their necks into a loop, that try to cross wor breed wi' soup; or gar them pay a heavy fine, that dare unnerve yor tars of tyne; then in the fight we'll loudly cheer, when we're restor'd to flesh and beer-- hurra! for england's king, man! fal de ral, &c. r. emery. the sandgate lass on the ropery banks. tune--"the skipper's wedding." on the ropery-banks jenny was sitting-- she had on a bed-gown just new, and blithely the lassie was knitting wi' yarn of a bonny sky-blue. the strings of her cap they were hinging, se lang, on her shoulders se fine, and hearty i heard this lass singing-- my bonny keel lad shall be mine. o wad the keel come down the river, that i my dear laddie could see, he whistles and dances se clever, my bonny keel laddie for me. last neet, in amang these green dockings, he fed me wi' gingerbread spice-- i promis'd to knit him his stockings, he cuddled and kiss'd me se nice; he ca'd me his jewel and hinney, he ca'd me his pet and his bride, and he swore that i should be his jenny, to lie at neets down by his side. o wad the keel, &c. that morning forget i will never, when first i saw him on the kee, the 'keel-row' he whistled se clever, he won my affections frae me; his drawers on his doup luik'd se canny, his keel-hat was cock'd on his head, and if i'd not getten my jimmy, faith by this time i wad hae been dead. o wad the keel, &c. the first time i spoke to my jimmy-- now mind ye, it isn't a lee-- my mother had gi'en me a penny, to get her a penn'orth o' tea; when a lad i' the street cried out, 'bessy!' says i, 'hinny, that's not my nyem.' 'becrike! never mind,' he said, 'lassie, 'to-neet i will see thee safe hyem.' o wad the keel, &c. since then i have been his true-lover, and lov'd him as dear as my life, and in spite o' baith father and mother, i'll suin be my keel-laddie's wife; how happy we'll be then together, when he brings hyem his wages to me, wiv his bonny bit bairn crying 'father,' and another be lying o' my knee. o wad the keel, &c. an old and curious song, _on the late mr. r. clayton being made an alderman._ tune--"the vicar and moses." my good mr. pun, we know you like fun, and also to crack a good joke; 'tis well known in the nation, that our corporation has long lain under a cloak. fal lal de ral, &c. but after your year, how strange 'twill appear, (pray heaven it prove for your good,) to all the whole nation, that our corporation will then crouch under a _hood_.[ ] now, we poor folks, who're not us'd to jokes, but with the sweets take the bitters-- the folks in our station think our corporation has long been outfitted by fitters. oh, watty! oh, watty![ ] shouldst thou now see _natty_, and his clan, how thickly they lay't on; you'd say, in their order, mayor, commons, recorder, are all now outwitted by _cl----n_. from the days of good _walters_, to his who makes halters,[ ] such changes have here taken place, that from its high station, our poor corporation has sunk into abject disgrace. when the alderman's gown was hawk'd about town, and none would be found for to lay't on, up stepp'd brother bob, and settled the job, and he was dubb'd alderman _c----n_. yet think not, that though such, he'll quit the town's hutch, or any thing there let miscarry; still there he'll give law, rule by his _cat's paw_, the ever obliging _old harry_. ye honest electors, our faithful protectors, in you there can never be blame; as by following the mayor. and supporting the chair, we always must vote for the same. ye scum of the bowl, in vain you may growl, like the swinish group in a storm, nat will rule the roast, and still make a boast, that danger lies not in reform.[ ] footnote : alderman hood. footnote : ald. blackett. footnote : ald. cramlington. footnote : a few copies of the above song were printed by mrs. angus about the year . it was said to have been written by the late mr. james davidson, attorney, author of a poem entitled, "despair in love, an imprecatory prayer;" which was also printed by mrs. angus--sir matthew white ridley resigned his office of magistrate about this time, observing, that "clayton _up_ stairs, and clayton _down_ stairs will never do." newcastle landlords.-- . kind friends and acquaintance, attention i claim, while a few jolly landlord, in this town, i name; in alphabet order my song it is penn'd, and i hope, for joke's sake, it will never offend. chorus. then hey for good drinking, it keeps us from thinking, we all love a drop in our turn. _a_ stands for armfield, a good hearty blade, tho' he's left the nag's head, still follows his trade; at the foot of the market you'll find his new shop, where many an old friend still calls in for a drop. _b_ stands for burns, of the theatre-square; she's an orderly woman--good drink is sold there; if i wanted a wife, i should readily choose this amiable widow to govern my house. _c_ stands for cant, sign of the blue bell, who keeps a good house, and good porter doth sell: quarrelling or fighting is there seldom seen,-- she's a canty old widow, but rather too keen. _d_ for dixon, who once kept the unicorn--ho! and _d_ stands for dixon, white hart, you well know; then there's dixon, quayside, just a little way down-- were the three fattest landlords in all the whole town. _e_ stands for eggleton, fighting cocks inn, tho' old, took a young wife, and thought it no sin; _f_ for finlay, his shop's corner of pudding-chare, and good wine and spirits you'll always get there. _g_ for gibson, the blue-posts, in pilgrim-street, where a few jolly souls oft for harmony meet; _h_ for hackworth, in cowgate, grey bull is the sign-- only taste his good ale--faith, you'll say it's divine. _h_ stands for heron, the sign of the cock; _h_ for hall, near nuns' gate--keeps a snug oyster-shop; _h_ stands for horn, and he's done very weal, since he bother-d the heart of sly mrs. neil. _i_ stands for inns--we've the best in the north-- there's the king's head, the queen's head, the george, and the turf, the old crown and thistle, and miller's, half moon, well known to the trav'lers who frequent the town. _k_ stands for kitchen, hell's kitchen 'twas nam'd, and long for good ale and good spree has been fam'd; in each parlour, in vestry, or kitchen you'll find the beer-drawer, mary, obliging and kind. _l_ stands for larkin--he's left the black boy, once fam'd for _patlanders_ and true irish joy; on the scotchwood new road a house he has ta'en, where i hope the old soul will get forward again. _m_ stands for mitford--he kept the north pole, just over the leazes--a dull-looking hole; now our favourite poet lives at head of the side-- here's success to his muse--long may she preside. _n_ stands for newton, sign of the dolphin, who the old house pull'd down, built it up like an inn; they say he found gold--how much i can't tell; but never mind that, he's done wonderful well. _o_ stands for orton--he keeps the burnt house, once fam'd for the knights of the thimble and goose; and _o_ stands for ormston, at pandon--o rare!-- temptation enough for young men that go there! _p_ stands for pace, sign of the white swan, who, for to oblige, will do all that he can; a convenient house, when you marketing make, to pop in and indulge yourself with a beef-steak. _r_ stands for ridley and reed, you all know, and _r_ stands for richardson, all in a row; first, three tuns, the sun, and the old rose & crown, and their ale's good as any at that part of town. _s_ for sayer's, nag's head, he keeps good mountain-dew,-- only taste it, you'll find what i tell you is true; _s_ for stokoe, wine-merchant, foot of st. john's lane; for good stuff and good measure we'll never complain. _t_ for teasdale, the phoenix, a house fam'd for flip-- _t_ for teasdale who once kept the sign of the ship; and _w_ for wylam, a place more fam'd still-- sure you all know the custom-house on the sandhill. robin hood, dog and cannon, and tiger for me, the peacock, well known to the clerks on the quay; the old beggar's opera for _stowrie_, my pet, mrs. richardson's was, and she cannot be bet. there's the black bull and grey bull, well known to a few, black, white, and grey horse, and flying horse too; the black house, the white house, the hole-in-the-wall, and the seven stars, pandon, if you dare call. there's the turk's head, nag's head, and old barley mow, the bay horse, the pack horse, and teasdale's dun cow, the ship, and the keel, the half moon, and the sun-- but i think, my good friends, it is time to be done. then each landlord and landlady, wish them success, town and trade of the tyne, too--we cannot do less; and let this be the toast, when we meet to regale-- "may we ne'er want a bumper of newcastle ale." w. watson. a new song for barge-day, . _sung on board of the steward's steam-boat._ it well may grieve one's heart full sore, to be in such a movement-- upon the river, as on shore, the rage is all improvement: once blithe as grigs, our merriment is chang'd to meditation, how we these ills may circumvent-- o what a corporation! the quayside always was too big, as scullers have attested; tant ships, that come with rampant rig, against its sides are rested. still to extend it in a tift, they're making preparation, and sandgate-midden is to shift-- o what a corporation! at tyne-main once there was a caunch, and famous sport was found there; so long it stood--so high and staunch-- all vessels took the ground there; but, somehow, it has crept away, by flood or excavation, and time there you need not delay-- o what a corporation! they think to move bill-point--a spot so lovely and romantic-- which has sent many ships to pot, and set some seamen frantic; then many a gowk will run to see, and stare with admiration, from snowdon's hole to wincomlee-- o what a corporation! how silent once was wallsend-shore-- its dulness was a wonder; now, from the staiths, full waggons pour their coals like distant thunder; to have restor'd its wonted peace, in vain our supplication,-- the trade, they say, it will increase-- o what a corporation! where tynemouth-bar, i understand, a rock from side to side is, how well would look a bank of sand, not higher than the tide is; but this, it seems, is not to be-- in spite of my oration, the tyne is still to join the sea-- o what a corporation! o would the tyne but cease to flow, or, like a small burn, bubble, there would not be a barge-day now, nor we have all this trouble; but here, alas! we sailing roam about its conservation, instead of sleeping safe at home-- o what a corporation! the moral. as patriots in public cause, we never once have swerv'd yet, and if we have not gain'd applause, we know we've well deserv'd it: who thinks we care for feasting, he must be a stupid noddy-- we're, like the herbage-committee, an ill-requited body. robert gilchrist. st. nicholas' church. o bonny church! ye've studden lang, to mence our canny town; but i believe ye are sae strang, ye never will fa' down: the architects, wi' a' their wit, may say that ye will fa'; but let them talk--i'll match ye yet against the churches a'. chorus. of a' the churches in our land, let them be e'er sae braw, st. nicholas', of newcastle town, yet fairly bangs them a'. lang have ye stood ilk bitter blast, but langer yet ye'll stand; and ye have been for ages past, a pattern for our land: your bonny steeple looks sae grand-- the whole world speaks o' ye, been a' the crack, for cent'ries back, and will be when i dee. 'tis true they've patch'd ye all about with iron, stone, and wood; but let them patch--i have a doubt, they'll do ye little good; but, to be sure, its making work-- there's plenty lives by ye-- not only tradesmen and our clerk, but the greedy black-coats, tee. your bonny bells there's nane excels, in a' the country round; they ring so sweet, they are a treat when they play heartsome tunes; and when all's dark, the people mark ye with your fiery eye, that tells the travellers in the street the time, as they pass by. o that king william wad come down, to see his subjects here, and view the buildings of our town-- he'd crack o' them, i swear; but when he saw our canny church, i think how he'd admire, to see the arch sprung from each side that bears the middle spire. now, to conclude my little song, that simple, vocal theme-- i trust, that if i've said aught wrong, that i will be forgi'en: then lang may fam'd st. nicholas' stand, before it does come down, that, when we dee, our bairns may see the beauties of our town. paganini, the fiddler; _or, the pitman's frolic_. tune--"the kebbuckstane wedding." come, lay up your lugs, and aw'll sing you a sang, it's nyen o' the best, but it's braw new and funny-- in these weary times, when we're not very thrang, a stave cheers wor hearts, tho' it brings us ne money: aw left shiney raw, for newcassel did steer, wi' three or four mair of our neighbours se canny, determin'd to gan to the play-house to hear the king o' the fiddlers, the great baggy nanny. right fal, &c. we reach'd the arcade, rather drouthy and sair-- it's a house full of pastry-cooks, bankers, and drapers-- at the fine fancy fair, how my marrows did stare, on the muffs, hats, and beavers, se fam'd in the papers; at beasley's, where liquor's se cheap and se prime, a bottle aw purchas'd for maw sweetheart, fanny, we drank nowt but brandy--and, when it was time, we stagger'd away to see great baggy nanny. we gat t' the door, 'mang the crowd we did crush, halfway up the stairs i was carried se handy; the lassie ahint us cried, push, hinny, push-- till they squeez'd me as sma' and as smart as a dandy; we reach'd the stair-heed, nearly smuther'd, indeed-- the gas letters glitter'd, the paintings look'd canny-- aw clapt mysel' down side a lass o' reet breed, maw hinny, says aw, hae ye seen baggy nanny. the lassie she twitter'd, and look'd rather queer, and said, in this house there is mony a dozen, they're planted so thick, that there's no sitting here, they smell so confounded o' cat-gut and rosin; the curtain flew up, and a lady did squall, to fine music play'd by a cockney bit mannie, then frae the front seats i suen heard my friends bawl, off hats, smash yor brains, here comes great baggy nanny. an outlandish chep suen appear'd on the stage, and cut as odd capers as wor maister's flonkey, he skipp'd and he fiddled, as if in a rage-- if he had but a tail, he might pass for a monkey! deil smash a good tune could this bowdy-kite play-- his fiddle wad hardly e'en please my aud grannie-- so aw suen join'd my marrows and toddled away, and wish'd a good neet to the great baggy nanny. on crossing tyne-brig, how wor lads ran the rig, at being se silly duen out o' their money,-- odd bother maw wig, had he play'd us a jig, we might tell'd them at hyem, we'd seen something quite funny; but, law be it spoke, and depend it's ne joke-- yen and a' did agree he was something uncanny, though, dark o'er each tree, he before us did flee, and fiddled us hyem did this great baggy nanny. r. emery. the oyster-wife's petition, _on the removal of the oyster-tub from the quay_. tune--"the bold dragoon." oh! mister mayor, it grieves me sair-- alas! what mun aw dee? wor oyter-tub[ ] is doom'd ne mair to grace newcassel kee! wor bonny lamp that brunt se breet, and cheer'd each wintry neet se dreary, is gyen, and lots o' canny folks will miss it sair when cawd and weary! whack, row de dow, &c. now, for the sake of her that's gyen, just speak the cheering word, and say, that to wor ancient burth, aw suen will be restor'd. the news wor town wad 'lectrify, and gar yor nyem to live for ever-- in efter times yor deeds wad shine, and 'clipse the nyem o' wor tyne river. whack, row de dow, &c. had charley brandling, bliss his nyem, been spar'd to seen this day, he'd shown the great respect he had for poor aud madgie gray; alas! he's gyen;--close to yorsel' aw'll stick until aw's satisfied, sir; when ye look on this good-like fyece, maw wishes ne'er can be denied, sir. whack, row de dow, &c. frae summer-hill down to the kee, fo'ks kenn'd poor madgie weel,-- aw's very sure wor magistrates for maw condition feel; the cellar's ow'r confin'd and damp,-- restore us to wor canny station, and bliesings great will leet upon wor canny toon and corporation. whack, row de dow, &c. r. emery. footnote : the oyster-tub alluded to stood on the quay, nearly opposite to the foot of grinding-chare. it formed rather an interesting feature in the winter nights, being accompanied by a large blazing lamp, at which sat the owner, attended by several loungers. on the death of old margery gray, which took place about october, , this tub was removed, lest the long occupancy of the place should become a freehold, like the little barber's shop which stood at the east end of the _maison de dieu_, and which had originally been only a stall. _august, ._ broom busoms. if ye want a busom[ ] for to sweep your house, come to me, my lasses--ye may hae your choose. buy broom busoms, buy them when they're new-- buy broom busoms--better never grew. if i had a horse, i would have a cart; if i had a wife, she would take my part. buy broom, &c. had i but a wife--i care not who she be; if she be a woman, that's enough for me. buy broom, &c. if she lik'd a drop, her and i'd agree; if she did not like it, there's the more for me. buy broom, &c. * * * * * _the following verses, in addition to the above, were often sung by the late blind willie, of newcastle:--_ up the butcher-bank, and down byker-chare, there you'll see the lasses selling brown ware. buy broom, &c. along the quayside, stop at russell's entry: there you'll see the beer-drawer, she is standing sentry. buy broom, &c. if you want an oyster for to taste your mouth, call at handy walker's--he's a bonny youth. buy broom, &c. call at mr. loggie's--he does sell good wine; there you'll see the beer-drawer--she is very fine. buy broom, &c. if you want an orange, ripe and full of juice, gan to hannah black, there you'll get your choose. buy broom, &c. call at mr. turner's, at the queen's head-- he'll not set you away without a piece of bread. buy broom, &c. down the river's side, as far as dent's hole, there you'll see the cuckolds working at the coal. buy broom, &c. footnote : besom. thumping luck. air--"gang nae mair to yon town." here's thumping luck to yon town, let's have a hearty drink upon't,-- o the days i've spent in yon town, my heart still warms to think upon't; for monie a happy day i've seen, with monie a lass so kind and true,-- with hearty chields i've canty been, and danc'd away till a' was blue. here's thumping luck to yon town, let's have a hearty drink upon't,-- o the days i've spent in yon town, my heart still warms to think upon't. there's famous ale in yon town, will make your lips to smack again, and many a one leaves yon town, oft wishes they were back again; well shelter'd from the northern blast, its spires and turrets proudly rise, and boats and keels all sailing past with coals, that half the world supplies. here's thumping luck, &c. there's native bards in yon town, for wit and humour seldom bet and they sang sae sweet in yon town, good faith, i think i hear them yet: such fun in thompson's voyage to shields, in jimmy johnson's wherry fine-- such shaking heels, and dancing reels, when sailing on the coaly tyne. here's thumping luck, &c. amang the rest in yon town, one shiels was fam'd for ready wit-- his "lord size" half drown'd in yon town, good faith i think i hear it yet: then mitford's muse is seldom wrong, when once he gives the jade a ca', and gilchrist, too, for comic song, though last, he's not the least of a'. here's thumping luck, &c. may the sun shine bright on yon town, may its trade and commerce still increase,-- and may all that dwells in yon town be blest with fond, domestic peace; for, let me wander east or west, north, south, or even o'er the sea, my native town i'll still love best-- newcastle is the place for me. here's thumping luck, &c. w. watson. dance to thy daddy. tune--"the little fishy." come here, my little jackey, now i've smok'd my backey, let's have a bit crackey till the boat comes in. dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy, dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing; thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy, thou shalt have a fishy when the boat comes in. here's thy mother humming, like a canny woman, yonder comes thy father, drunk, he cannot stand. dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy, dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing; thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy, thou shalt have a haddock when the boat comes in. our tommy's always fuddling, he's so fond of ale,-- but he's kind to me-- i hope he'll never fail. dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy, dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing; thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy, thou shalt have a codling when the boat comes in. i like a drop mysel', when i can get it sly, and thou, my bonny bairn, will lik't as well as i. dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy, dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing; thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy, thou shalt have a mack'rel when the boat comes in. may we get a drop oft as we stand in need, and weel may the keel row that brings the bairns their bread. dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy, dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing; thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy, thou shalt have a salmon, when the boat comes in. w. watson. the friar and the nun, _a midnight colloquy of the nuns' field_. said the ghost of a nun to a friar grey-- "dear brother, what changes we've seen! there's here to be built a new market, they say, which was once, you know, our bleaching green." such were the sounds that smote on my ear, as i stray'd in the nuns' field one night,-- and i sat down beneath an old elm-tree to hear, though my hair stood on end at the sight. "there's nought," quoth the friar, "but heaps of stones, where oft i have stray'd as a sinner; the bell that once warn'd us to vespers and nones, now warns grainger's workmen of dinner. alack! sister anne, a heretic race, with aprons of blue, or of tartan,-- red night-caps for hoods, will soon take our place-- but they all will be d----d for certain." "dear brother," said she, "only think on this spot, where our portion was penance and stripes, old men will be crying, 'hot pies here, all hot,' and women, 'black-puddings and tripes.' where we walk'd so devoutly, soon those who succeed us, in all worldly pride will soon strut on,-- where we utter'd our mournful _aves_ and _credos_, will hang rounds of beef and fat mutton." "yes, sister," said he, "where we chaunted _te deum_, and sighed our prayer to the breeze,-- where we us'd to confess, ere long will we see 'em a chaunting lewd ditties and glees; the ground where we stand will be strew'd soon with buyers, pursuing their ways so mistaken; extinct is the race now of holy friars, save those who are fryers of bacon. in spite of sir andrew, these sinful elves will still buy and sell on a sunday; but soon they'll be wandering ghosts, like ourselves-- _sic transit gloria mundi_." a low'ring black cloud--most dismal to see-- now hid the soft moon-beams so bright; and i rose from beneath an old elm-tree, for the ghosts had vanish'd from sight. st. nicholas' great bell. oh, have you seen the mighty bell, that none in england can excel,-- the tom of lincoln's but a shell to the great bell of saint nicholas. oh, such rare things ne'er was before-- to hear it strike eight miles, or more, to wake the workmen, when they snore-- ay, this great bell of saint nicholas. (_spoken_)--i say, patrick, have you been after seeing the great bell that's just gone up to that great lump of a protestant church?--a big bell, do they call it? by the saints, i thought it was an extinguisher for the light at its ugly mug--a great bell, indeed; by the powers! you know yourself it's only like a skull-cap to my great grandmother's praty pot, that she used to boil kail-cannon in at the harvest.--you are right, patrick, but still we'll drink success to this bell--ding, dong-- that'll wake the folks in country and town, and their maids to milk their cows in the morn, the great bell of saint nicholas. lord, how the people they did run, when they heard the small bells ring like fun, shouting, there's something to be done at the old church of saint nicholas. the shopkeepers out of their doors did stare at such a thing, so great and rare, and the flags were waving in the air, o'er the great bell of saint nicholas. (spoken.)--well, i suppose they will christen it--hout, man, they christened it yesterday at the foundery, down at hawks'.--well, then, they'll have to consecrate it now.--ay, horses and all--what! consecrate horses, you foolish man! ay, then they'll be most fit for hearses and mourning coaches. drink success to this bell, &c. and after all the noisy storm, we've liv'd to see real church reform-- six horses standing snug and warm, in the old church of saint nicholas. you should have been at the church, to have seen the horses in the porch,-- the devil will say--i'm in the lurch, no use for me at saint nicholas. (spoken.)--i say, geordy, did you ever see such a great thing as that before?--where is it gan' te?--why, to the church; it's the great bell that was bequeathed by major anderson, to flay away the rooks and craws frae the town--to hinder them from building either on churches or exchanges. ay, ay, but i think it wad ha'e been far better if they'd myed it to flay away poverty frae wor doors, and cast it as a boiler for soup. what say you, geordy?--it wad, as ye say--but i'll drink success, &c. a drunken cobbler made a vow, in the major he would make a shoe,-- and he work'd away till all was blue in the great bell of saint nicholas. the shoe being made, to the man of leather the people cried--well done! o clever,-- you should have a grant to work for ever in the great bell of saint nicholas. drink success to this bell, &c. lukey's dream. tune--"caller fair." the other neet aw went to bed, being weary wi' maw wark, man; aw dreamt that billy scott was deed-- it's curious to remark, man aw thought aw saw his buryin' fair, and knew the comp'ny a', man-- for a' poor billy's friends were there, to see him levelled law, man. blind willie slowly led the band, as beagle, on the way, man; a staff he carried in his hand, and shook his head se grey, man; at his reet hand was buggy jack, with his hat-brim se broad, man; and on his left was bill the black, ti lead him on his road, man. big bob, x. y. and other two, that leeves upon the deed, man-- they bore his corpse before the crew, expecting to be fee'd, man; his nyemsyek, euphy scott, was there, her bonny geordy, tee, man, distress'd--they cried, (this happy pair,) ne mair we will him see, man! bold jocker was amang them, tee, brave cuckoo jack and a', man; and hairy tom, the keelman's son, and bonny dolly raw, man; and bella roy, and tatie bet, they cried till out o' breath, man-- for sair these twosome did regret for canny billy's deeth, man. but hangy luickt above them a', he is se sma' and lang, man-- and bobby knox, the dog-bank ox, was sobbin' i' the thrang, man; and coiner, wi' his swill and shull, was squeakin' like a bairn, man, and knack-knee'd mat, that drucken fyul, like a monkey he did gairn, man. tally-i-o, that dirty wretch, was then the next i saw, man-- and peggy powell, step-and-fetch, was haddin' up her jaw, man-- and frae the close was bobby hush, wi' his greet gob se wide, man-- alang wi' him was push-peg-push, lamentin' by his side, man. and roguish ralph, and busy bruce, that leeves upon their prey, man, did not neglect, but did protect their friends upon the way, man; and jimmy liddle, drest in black, behint them a' did droop, man; he had a coat on like the quak's, that feeds us a' wi' soup, man. now, when they got him tiv his grave, he then began to shout, man; for billy being but in a trance, bi this time cam about, man: then jocker, wi' a sandy styen, the coffin split wi' speed, man-- they a' rejoic'd to see agyen poor bill they thought was deed, man. when a' his friends that round him stood, had gettin' him put reet, man, they a' went tiv the robin hood, to spend a jovial neet, man; ne mair for billy they did weep, but happy they did seem, man;-- just then aw waken'd frae my sleep, and fand it was a dream, man. jocker. tune--"o, gin i had her." hae ye seen my jocker, hae ye seen my jocker, hae ye' seen my jocker comin' up the kee? wiv his short blue jacket, wiv his short blue jacket, wiv his short blue jacket, and his hat agee! (spoken.)--jin. a! lyucka, noo, at clarty nan, there!--what's she singin' at? nan.--what is aw singin' at! what's that ti ye? what it aw singin' at! ah, wey, noo!--hev aw ti give ower singin' for ye? ah! wey, noo! there's a platter-fyeced bunter for ye!--there's a smother-bairn w----! there's a pink amang the pissy-beds! ah! wey, noo!... ye'd mair need gan hyem, and get the dust wesht off ye. ah! wey, noo--what's that! o, maw hinny, jocker, o, maw hinny, jocker, o, maw hinny, jocker-- jocker's the lad for me! jocker was a keelman, jocker was a keelman, jocker was a keelman, when he follow'd me. (spoken.)--but he's exalted now--o, bliss him, aye!--for he's a porter-pokeman, he's a porter-pokeman, he's a porter-pokeman, workin' on the kee. (spoken.)--nan. assa, jin--hae ye seen owt o' wor jocker doon the kee, there? jin.--ay, aw saw him and hairy tom just gan into the low crane, there. nan.--the low crane, ye clarty fa'--whe are ye myekin' yor gam on? jin.--noo, call me a clarty fa', and aw'll plaister yor gob wi' clarts. ah, wey, noo! whe are ye calling a clarty fa'? nan.--ay! bliss us a', jin, what are ye gettin' intiv a rage about? jin.--wey, didn't ye ax me if aw'd seen owt o' jocker doon the kee, there--and aw teld ye the truth, and ye wadn't believe me. nan.--wey, is he there? jin.--ti be sure he is. nan.--wey, aw'll sit down here till he comes out--then-- o, maw hinny, jocker, &c. jocker was a rover, jocker was a rover, jocker was a rover, when he courted me: but, noo, his tricks are over, but, noo, his tricks are over, but, noo, his tricks are over, he tykes me on his knee. (spoken.) nan.--ay! here he's comin'; here's maw jewel comin';--come into my airms, my tracle dumplin', and give us a kiss! where hae ye been? aw been luikin' for ye all ower. jocker.--where hev aw been!--aw've been walkin' up and down the kee here. where hae ye been?--aw think ye've been i' the sun. nan.--wey, maw jewel, aw've just been i' the custom-house, getting a glass, and aw've com'd down the key to seek ye, to gan hyem thegither. assa, jocker, divent lie se far off is as ye did last neet, for when aw waken'd, aw was a' starving o' caud. o, maw hinny, jocker, &c. the corn market. _a lament._ tune--"the bold dragoon." o hinney grainger, haud thy hand, thou'll turn us upside doon, or faith aw'll send for mr. brand, to claw thy curly croon; for what thou's myed the major's dean, wor thenks are due, and thou shalt hae them; but noo the law toon folk complain, thou wants to tyek their egypt frae them. whack, row de dow, &c. most folk like the better half, but thou wad swalley all, poor-house or jail may tyek the rest, gie thou but elswick hall. wor cooncil's cliver, there's ne doot, but they'll find out, tho' rather late on, how cool the devil walks about, in the smooth shape of j----y c----n. thou's getten aw the butcher-meat, the taties, tripe, and greens, and, not content with this, thou wants to tyek wor corn, it seems; for mosley-street and mercy's sake, sic wicked thowts at once abandon, or else wor canny awd law toon, it winna hev a leg to stand on. the wheel o' fortune will stand still, the bees forsyek the hive, there'll be ne wark for sinton's mill, the white horse winna drive, poor mrs. f----h and temperance h----l ne mair need recommend their diet, the farmers will forget to call, h-ll's kitchen's very sel' turn quiet. the chronicle may doze in peace,--lord grainger says, "sleep on--" the bugs may tyek another lease, their race is not yet run; awd nichol still may fairly say, frae hepple's up to humble's house end, he feeds a lively host each day, aw'll say, at least, a hundred thousand. the white swan seun 'ill be agrund, the black boy turn quite pale, the black bull wi' the blow be stunn'd, the lion hang his tail, tom h----n's cock 'ill craw ne mair, the awd blue bell be dumb for ever,-- and', just to myek the kee-side stare, thou'd better send doon for the river. whack, row de dow, &c. the skipper's account of the mechanics' procession. by r. emery, of the nelson lodge, newcastle. tune--"_newcastle fair._" cried mally, come, jacky, get ready-- the morning is looking se fine, man; the bells i' the town are a' ringing, and the sun it se bonny does shine, man; the lads and the lasses are runnin', to se the mechanics so gay, man,-- to meet the procession, wi' mally, aw suen cut my stick, and away, man. rom ti iddity, &c. we reach'd the tyne brig in a crack, 'mang croods, like worsels, out o' breeth, man-- the splendor aw cannot describe, nor forget till the day o' my deeth, man: a fine silken banner appear'd, as big as wor geordy's keel-sails, man, a' cover'd wi' doves, ark, and croons, an' greet hairy men without tails, man. rom ti iddity, &c. a chep like a duke follow'd next, surrounded wi' nobles se fine, man, weel dress'd up in silk robes an' tassels, an' goold that did glitter and shine, man-- says aw, that's prince albert, aw'll sweer-- an' was just gawn to give him three chears, man, when mally cried--de'il stop yor din!-- becrike! it's the dey of algiers, man. rom ti iddity, &c. the members were toss'd off in stile, in colours of pink, white, and blue, man,-- a tight little chep frae the ranks, cried, jack, hinny, how d'ye do, man?-- what, newton! says aw, now, what cheer! aw thowt ye some 'squire makin' fun, man,-- there's armstrang, as trig as a peer, but how's my awd friend, bobby nunn, man? rom ti iddity, &c. the hawk, the northumberland star, an' the magdalen's banners wav'd sweet, man; but the chieftain astonish'd them all, with his braw highland lads dress'd sae neat, man; the nelson appear'd in true blue, (there canny host simpson belangs, man,) an' petrie walk'd close alangside o' the chep that writes newcassel sangs, man. rom ti iddity, &c. to describe the flags, music, an' stars, wad take me to doomsday for sartin; let foresters brag as they like, but it's all in my eye, betty martin. wor lads were se pleas'd wi' the seet, mechanics they'll be before lang, man,-- so aw's gannin to simpson's to-neet, to sing them this canny bit sang, man. _whit-monday, ._ drucken bella roy, o! tune--"duncan m'callaghan." when bella's comin' hyem at neet, and as she's walking doon the street, the bairns cry out, whe pawn'd the sheet? wey, drucken bella roy, o! then styens to them gans rattlin', rattlin', they set off a gallopin', gallopin', legs an' arms gan' wallopin', wallopin', for fear o' bella roy, o! now, when she gans through the chares, each bairn begins, and shouts and blairs, and cries, as she gans up the stairs, where's drucken bella roy, o! then styens, &c. now, if she's had a sup o' beer, she sets ti wark to curse and swear, and myeks them run away, for fear, frae drucken bella roy, o! then styens, &c. believe me, friends, these are her words: she says--get hyem, ye w----'s birds, else aw'll bray ye as flat as t----s, cries drucken bella roy, o! then styens, &c. she says--ye have a w----e at hyem, and if ye'll not let me alyen, maw faith, aw'll break your rumple byen, says drucken bella roy, o! then styens, &c. she'll myek the place like thunner ring, and down the stairs her things will fling, and cry--get out, yor ---- thing-- cries drucken bella roy, o! then styens, &c. then in the house she sits and chats, the bairns, then, hit her door such bats-- she calls them a' the hellish cats, dis drucken bella roy, o! then styens, &c. she shouts until she hurts her head, and then she's forc'd to gan' ti bed, which is a piece of straw, down spread for drucken bella roy, o! fal, lal, lal, &c. the bonny clock fyece. tune--"the coal-hole." o dick, what's kept ye a' this time? aw've fretted sair about ye-- aw thought that ye'd fa'n in the tyne, then what wad aw duen without ye? o, hinny, dolly, sit thee down, and hear the news aw've brought frae toon: the newcassel folks hev catch'd a meun, and myed it a bonny clock-fyece! thou knaws saint nicholas' church, maw pet, where we were tied tigither,-- that place, aw knaw, thou'll not forget-- forget it aw will never: 'twas there, then, jewel, aw saw the seet, as aw cam staggering through the street,-- aw thought it queer, at pick dark neet, ti see a fiery clock-fyece. the folks they stood in flocks about-- aw cried--how! what's the matter? aw glower'd--at last aw gav a shout, for them to fetch some water. the church is a-fire, and very suen that bonny place will be brunt down. ye fyul, says a chep, it's a bonny meun they've catch'd, and myed it a clock-fyece! on monday, when aw gan to wark, aw'll shurely tell our banksman, if we had such a leet at dark, we never wad break our shanks, man; maw marrows and aw'll gan ti the toon, ti see if we can catch a muen;-- if we can only coax one doon, we'll myek't a bonny clock-fyece. then if we get it down the pit, we'll hed stuck on a pole, man; 'twill tell us hoo wor time gans on, likewise to hew wor coal, man. so noo, maw pet, let's gan ti bed, and not forget the neet we were wed; ti-morn we'll tell our uncle, ned, about the bonny clock-fyece. the music hall. old bards have sung how they could boast of places that's renown'd, for bloody battles won and lost, and royal monarchs crown'd; but all those deeds this place exceeds-- they in the shade must fall, some have declar'd, if but compar'd to our fam'd music hall. here zealots join in warm debate, and for their rites contend-- here lark-wing spouts on church and state, his popery to defend; with bigot zeal, his country's weal he vows to have at heart-- yet 'tis well known, throughout the town, he plays a knavish part. now, from hibernia's fertile shore the thund'ring champion comes, his country's wrongs for to deplore, with trumpets, fife, and drums; he tells them, too, he is most true, their firm, unshaken friend, while life shall last, he will stand fast, and all their rights defend. then champions of another grade-- i mean, of fistic lore-- deaf burke, the bouncing gasconade, struts o'er the spacious floor, who, with great art, performs his part, in teaching self-defence; yet plain i saw, he meant to draw fools' shillings, pounds, and pence. next comes a man of fangles new-- of worlds, and moons, and stars-- who said, sir isaac never knew the ple-i-ades from mars the folks throng'd round from all the town, and some pronounc'd him clever, yet, i've been told, both young and old return'd as wise as ever. apollo, too, his court here keeps, with sirens in his train-- each trembling note of music sweeps transport through every vein: when orpheus play'd within the shade, he made the woods resound; the list'ning beasts forsook the mead, and stood, like statues, round. a graver scene my muse has caught, where sages, in a row-- men, by the holy spirit taught the gospel truths t' avow-- those who have trod, to serve their god, the shores of foreign land, at his command, now boldly stand t' implore a helping hand. and not unfrequent, as we stray this wond'rous place to see, we find it fill'd with ladies gay, to take a cup of tea; and many a gent, who is content with such domestic fare, has often sat, in social chat, and join'd in many a prayer. of many more there is one class, which merits some attention-- not bacchanalians, alas! for such i would not mention-- but men of brains, the smell of grains would strike with detestation, who'd keep us dry, and thus decry all liquors in the nation. nay, come what will of good or ill, just only make a trial-- if you the owner's pockets fill, you'll meet with no denial; and men, i hear, from far and near, have given attestation, so strong a place they cannot trace in any other nation. the tyne. tune--"banks and braes o' bonny doon." clear crystal tyne, sweet smiling stream, gay be the flow'rs thy banks along, for there the darling of my theme oft sports thy verdant meads among. flow on, sweet tyne, and gently glide, and pour thy commerce o'er the main, may plenty o'er thy banks preside, to bless thee with her smiling train. green be thy fields, britannia dear, with plenty flowing o'er thy land, but chief the banks of tyne, for there i'll often rove, at love's command,-- there meet my lass upon the green, and flow'ry garlands for her twine, while smiling pleasure glads the scene, upon the blooming banks of tyne. j. wilson the newcastle old country gentleman. air--"old country gentleman." from wand'ring in a distant land, an exile had return'd, and when he saw his own dear stream, his heart with pleasure burn'd; the days departed, and their joys, came bounding to his breast, and thus the feelings of his heart in native strains confess'd:-- tune--"the keel row." flow on, majestic river, thy rolling course for ever,-- forget thee will i never, whatever fate be mine: oft on thy banks i've wander'd, and on thy beauties ponder'd, oh! many an hour i've squander'd on thy banks, o bonny tyne! flow on, &c. o tyne! in thy bright flowing, there's magic joy bestowing; i feel thy breezes blowing-- their perfume is divine. flow on, &c. i've sought thee in the morning, when crimson clouds are burning, and thy green hills adorning-- the hills o' bonny tyne. flow on, &c. when stormy seas were round me, and distant nations bound me, in memory still i found thee a ray of hope divine. flow on, &c. thy valleys lie before me, thy trees are waving o'er me, my home thou dost restore me on thy bonny banks, o tyne! flow on, &c. walker pits. tune--"off she goes." if i had another penny, i would have another gill-- i would make the fiddler play "the bonny lads of byker-hill." byker-hill and walker-shore, collier lads for evermore! byker-hill and walker-shore, collier lads for evermore! when aw cam to walker wark, aw had ne coat, nor ne pit sark; but now aw've getten twe or three-- walker pit's deun weel for me. byker-hill and walker-shore, collier lads for evermore! byker-hill and walker-shore, collier lads for evermore! beggar's wedding. air--"quayside shaver." when timber-legg'd harry crook'd jenny did marry in fam'd gateshead town--and, not thinking of blows, three ragmen did quarrel about their apparel, which oft-times affrighted both small birds and crows; this resolute prial, fought on battle royal, till jenny spoke this, with hump back and sharp shins: "be loving as brothers, as well as the others, then we shall get orders for needles and pins!" the bride-maid, full breasted, she vow'd and protested, she never saw men at a wedding so rude; old madge, with her matches, top full of her catches, swore she would be tipsy e'er they did conclude; the supper being ended, some part still contended for wholesome malt liquor to fill up each skin; jack tar, in his jacket, sat close to doll flacket, and swore he'd drink nothing but grog and clear gin. black jack with his fiddle they fix'd in the middle, who had not been wash'd since the second of june-- old sandy, the piper, told ned he would stripe her, if she wouldn't dance while his pipe was in tune: they play'd them such touches, with wood-legs and crutches-- old rag-pokes and matches, old songs flew about; poor jack being a stranger, thought his scratch in danger, he tenderly begg'd they would give up the rout. jack being thus ill-treated, he begg'd to be seated upon an old cupboard the landlord had got,-- like madmen enchanted, they tippled and ranted, till down came the fiddler, as if he'd been shot. they drank gin by noggins, and strong beer by flaggons, till they had sufficiently loosen'd each hide, then those that were able, retir'd to the stable, and slept with their nose in each other's backs--e. do li a. _sung in newcastle about the years - - ._ fresh i'm come frae sandgate-street, do li, do li, my best friends here to meet, do li a. do li th' dil len dol--do li, do li, do li th' dil len dol--do li a. the black-cuffs are gawn away, do li, do li, and that will be a crying day, do li a, &c. dolly coxon's pawn'd her sark, do li, do li, to ride upon the baggage-cart, do li a, &c. the green-cuffs are coming in, do li, do li, an' that 'll make the lasses sing, do li a, &c. a south shields song. the sailors are all at the bar, they cannot get up to newcastle,-- the sailors are all at the bar, they cannot get up to newcastle. up with smoaky shields, and hey for bonny newcastle; up with smoaky shields, and hey for bonny newcastle. a north shields song. we'll all away to the law lights, and there we'll see the sailors come in; we'll all away to the law lights, and there we'll see the sailors come in. there clap your hands and give a shout, and you'll see the sailors go out; clap your hands, and dance and sing, and you'll see your laddie come in. commit no nonsense. an aud chep that had spent a' his life i' the keels, taking coals down the river to load ships at shields, had some business, yen day, in newcastle to do, and, when there, he'd stop and see a' that was new. he view'd wor new streets, and was weel pleas'd, no doubt, he gap'd and he star'd, as he wander'd about; but still, as he star'd, there was yen thing seem'd queer, whilk was plac'd on the walls--"commit no nuisance here." the aud boy was not very learned, you see, and, when young, he had got off his great a, b, c, and some words he could spell, tho' not sartinly clear, and his skill made it out--"commit ne nonsense here." he knew very little of tee-total rules, but thought they might dee very weel amang feuls; in his wand'ring he thought about getting some beer. and often he read--"commit ne nonsense here." a few pints of beer brought this chep to a stand, for nature, o'ercharg'd, wanted ease at his hand,-- for this purpose he enter'd a yard,--but, se queer, just saw, 'buin his head--"commit ne nonsense here." the gurgling stream from the old fellow flow'd, his ease he enjoy'd myed a notable flood; but, just in the nick, when he thought a' was clear, a policeman cries--"commit no nuisance here." "kind sir," says the man--for to speak he scarce durst-- "when aw com in here, aw was ready to burst." "that's nought," says the policeman, "din't ye see clear, daub'd upon the wall--'commit no nuisance here.'" the poor soul his flap button'd up in a fright, the policeman swore that he wad him indite; but he teuk to his heels, for, says he, aw see clear, if aw stop onie langer there'll be nonsense here. a new nursery rhyme. this is the _arcade_ that grainger built. this is the _blade_, whose only trade, is to keep the arcade that grainger built. these are the _boys_ who, making a noise, are kick'd by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the arcade that grainger built. this is the _horde_ of attorneys, who, bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the arcade that grainger built. this is the _hat_, all cock'd and lac'd--a hat according to briggs's taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the arcade that grainger built. this is _peregrine_, pragmatic and prim, who scouted the hat without any brim--the hat that was all cock'd and lac'd, according to briggs' peculiar taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the arcade that grainger built. this is _mister briggs_, who makes trowsers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without any brim; for briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the arcade that grainger built. this is _chinaman reed_, who said briggs was right, and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without any brim; for briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the arcade that grainger built. this is _mister stable_, who did all he was able to bully poor reed, who said briggs was right, and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without any brim; for briggs deck'd the hat so cock'd and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the arcade that grainger built. this is _mister seymour_, an attorney of note, who--alas! for the hat--gave the casting vote, and agreed with stable, who did all he was able to bully poor reed, who said briggs was right, and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, who scouted the hat without any brim--the unfortunate hat, all cock'd and lac'd, after briggs's own peculiar taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the noise of the rascally boys, kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the arcade that grainger built. cookson's alkali. now haud yor tongues, i'll try my lungs, and de my best forbye; my sang is choice, but maw sweet voice is spoil'd by alkali. chorus. then let us all, byeth great and small, set up a hue and cry; else shields will suin be a' duin broon by cookson's alkali. wor fields are bare, they'll grow ne mair of barley, wheat, or rye: a famine now, and pest'lence, too, is caus'd by alkali. wor gardens grow just nothing now, the crops won't multiply; wor mouths, it's thowt, will suin hev nowt but cookson's alkali. wor ships hev got a sad dry rot, in spite of "anti-dry;" for kyan's wash, and such like trash, can't cope wiv alkali. then suin there'll be a shipless sea-- no sail will meet the eye; wor masts and spars, and jolly tars will strike to alkali. wor houses soon will tummel doon, and flat as fluicks they'll lie-- they'll cut their sticks, as sure as bricks, wi' this sad alkali. a man, i swear't, is now half marr'd wi' smoke, he's got sae dry; he's lost his sap, and ruin'd, peer chap, by cookson's alkali. it's true, indeed, wor wives still breed,-- but, see their tiny fry!-- they're nowt, peer things, but legs and wings, and all from alkali. for dandy blades, and dapper maids, de nought but sob and sigh; they're forc'd to pad, their shape's sae bad, and all wi' alkali. wor wither'd crops, and lantern chops, are proofs nyen can deny, that we are cuik'd, and fairly buik'd, by cookson's alkali. so, now, farewell to swipes and yell, and breed and beef, good bye! we'll get nae mair awd english fare, for this d----d alkali. and when we're gyen, beneath a styen wor cawd remains will lie, a prey, alas! to acid gas, produc'd by alkali. the pitman's ramble. tune--"the kebbuckstane wedding." by r. emery. wor pit was laid in, and but little ti de, says aw, neighbour dicky, let's off to newcassel, their grand alterations aw's langin' to see,-- hey say, they're se fine, that they'll gar wor een dazzel. we reach'd the _black house_, and we call'd for some beer, when whe should pop in but the landlord, se handy-- he wish'd us se kindly a happy new year, and he rosin'd wor gobs with a glass o' french brandy. we left wor good friend, an' got down to the _shop_ that has some fine lasses frae lunnin se clivver,-- astonish'd, aw star'd till near like for to drop, at their great panes o' glass that wad cover tyne river! says dick, it's been myed for greet folk like lord 'size-- it belangs to broad brim that myed brass at the _corner_; at poor folks like us, now, he'll cock up his eyes, as he sits at the end, there, like little jack horner. we wheel'd reet about--spied a far finer seet, as we went to the grocer's, to get some rag backy-- lairge goold cups an' watches, se bonny and breet, an' fine _fardin pants_ runnin' whisky and jacky! aw wish'd aw could get mi gob fair at the spout, aw'd pay for a sook o' this liquor se funny,-- says dick, the door's bolted to keep the crowd out-- it's a place made to glow'r at, but not to take money. we down to the _doctor's_ that lives in the side, who cures folks o' hairy-legg'd monsters, like donkies! cull cheps for his worm cakes frae far an' near ride-- poor pitmen, an' farmers, an' keelmen, an' flonkies; a chep at the window did offer to swear, for truth, that this doctor, se clivver an' cunnin', did take frae his sister, the very last year, a worm that wad reach frae newcassel to lunnin!!! at last to the play-house aw swagger'd wi' dick,-- they've us'd the king's airms an' the paintings most shocking, yen said, since the house had been kept by _awd nick_, wi' humbugs an' lees he'd newcassel been mocking. says aw--canny man, dis awd nick manage here! that cunnin' black fiend that gav eve the bad apple!! us ranters will suen frae this place make him sheer, an' we'll preach in't worsels, then we'll bang brunswick chapel! the worthy rector. sung at a farewell dinner, given, by his parishioners, to the rev. j. collinson, rector of gateshead, previous to his removal to the parish of boldou. sec changes now there diz tyek place in ivry life and station, things noo is a' turn'd upside doon, for little or ne occasion,-- yen meets wi' acts yen luik'd not for, that drives yen into sorrow: we hev a case in point to meet in this wor canny borro-- singing, fal, lal, &c. last cursmas time whe wad ha'e thowt that wor awd priest wad leave us, and cause sec dowly thowts to cum, se very much to grieve us? we sartly thowt we had him fix'd, and fassen'd here till death, sors; unless he had been prebendized by dean-and-chapter breeth, sors. his toils an' labours noo we'll loss:-- his sarmons for to syev us will all be chang'd, an' varry suin, for wor new rector's, davis. aw oney hope an' pray we'll not forget our late protector,-- for thorty yeers he's led our "train," an' been wor _sowl_ director. for warks an' deeds amang the poor, for charity an' boonties, his match, aw think, ye'll not weel find in this or other coonties: he's fed the hungry, heal'd the sick, wivoot yor grete display, sors; he wiv his wealth did gyude by stealth-- lang life to him! aw say, sors. yeers creeps upon us a' my frinds, and he'll suin be an ould un; and his move frae here, though its not far, aw'm sure ye'll think a _bowld-un_. aw trust, at times, we'll see his fyece at church and parish dinners; for he's a man that loves the saints, yet hates not the poor sinners. this plate we've gi'en him here to-day, wiv a' its shining glister,-- the yen tureen was made by reid, the other made by lister,-- lang may he live to see them shine, like bright and true reflectors, reminding priests how laymen prize upreet, kind-hearted rectors. noo, fare ye weel, maw canny man, yor wife an' a' yor childer; the score ye hev wad frighten some-- their senses quite bewilder. lang may ye live a happy life, when ye frae gyetside sivver: there's hundreds here will pray to god to bless ye noo and ivvur. battle of spitaloo. on the thirtieth day of july the chartists did combine, that they would hold a meeting at newcastle upon tyne; in spite of mayor or magistrates, they would come up to a man, but when the police them attack'd, they took to their heels and ran. chorus. at the battle of spitaloo, my boys, at the battle of spitaloo-- the chartists' colours were taken at the battle of spitaloo. they mairch'd in full procession, through most streets of the town, and they declar'd the magistrates should never put them down; but of all their boasted courage about what they would do, the police took their colours at the battle of spitaloo. with music, flags, and banners, and all their empty pride, the procession of the chartists was soon put to a side; the worthy mayor and magistrates did let the chartists know that they were masters of the town, at the battle of spitaloo. the chartists, to the forth that night, turn'd very boldly out,-- but soon they were dispersed, and all put to the rout: they laid the failure of their cause upon the red and blue, because they came against them at the battle of spitaloo. the chartists and their leaders are no more allow'd to meet, their threat'ning combinations have got the grand defeat,-- the national convention has got the overthrow, and the chartists' colours taken at the battle of spitaloo. battle on the shields railway, _between a town councillor and an architect, and the pollis._ tune--"cappy's the dog." i' the toon of newcassel james archbold dis dwell-- he's a slater te trade, and thinks ne small beer on hissel', and in gallowgate, just aside the darn crook, stands his house amang smells that wad make a horse puke. i' the same toon a chep leeves, of varry great fame, for building fine houses--john dobson's his nyem;-- his awn stands in new bridge street, by way of example,-- blaw me if aw think it's a varry good sample. it happen'd on ----, the ---- of november-- a day these two worthies will ever remember; for dobson was varry nigh kill'd, i suppose, and poor mr. archbold spoilt all his best clothes. the twesome to dine with john sadler had been at whitehill-point house, which is weel to be seen, a ye gan down to shields; but aw'll begin my narration with the row that tuik place at the howden-pan station. efter dinner, when each yen his belly had fill'd, and some of jack sadler's wine had been swill'd, to gan hyem te newcassel they left whitehill-house; but, before they gat hyem, they gat a vast of abuse. the station they reach'd ere the train had got there, and they each tuik a ticket, and each paid his fare; the train it came up, and dobson gat in, and was just gawn to start when the row did begin. noo, yen of the pollismen placed at the station, with lang jemmy archbold had some altercation-- "your ticket, sir, i must now have from you?" "not before i get in--i'll be d----d if you do." upon this the pollisman gave jemmy a push, and into the station-house all made a rush, and dobson, noo seeing his friend in such guise, jump'd out of the carriage, and went in likewise. but he gat a blow from a wooden hand, that made him quite sick, and he could not stand, and then cam another sic skelp on the hede, had his sconce not been thick he wad hae been dede, now, dobson at yen time was very handy, and at schule he payed tinley of shields, the great dandy, and although he now had come to such skaith, cried, "lay by your wood hands and i'll lick ye baith." but the pollismen said, "ye baith prisoners are, and to shields ye mun gan, as it's not varry far;" and though now they began to be sick of the lark, to shields they teun were, though it was efter dark. there they saw mr. cruddas and inspector scott, the hede of the pollis, wha pitied their lot, and releas'd and sent them hyem somewhat muddy-- poor dobson the warst--he was baith sair and bloody. the next day, each yen to his 'torney went, the yen to parce fenwick, the other the sargent, crowner stoker, whe's spectacles myeks him far-seeted-- he's a h-ll of a fellow for getting folk reeted. a summons they gat--the men cuddent be seen, the directors detarmin'd the villains to screen, and what was still warse, and to save their mutton, young tinley tell'd jackson, they had gone a shutten. noo, as the summons cuddent be sarv'd, and the pollismen punish'd as they deserv'd, a warran was getten, and newton, allan, and all were suin in the cellars beneath the moot-hall. noo the justices sat, to hear what they had to say, and twe cam frae shields, for to see fair play; and william branlen sat on the bench, besides sandy ildertan, whe still likes a w--ch. there was doctors, and lawyers, and pollismen too, and of railway directors there was not a few, including dick spoor, whe yence din'd with the queen-- sic a crew in the jury-room never was seen. noo the crowner began, and he made a good speech, call'd archbold and dobson, and, lastly, the leech, whe bound dobson's hede, yen mr. john lang, not "the family surgeon," but a rhyme for my sang. when archbold was called, he said, with much grace, that newton held the lanthorn reet in his fyece, and spoke in a manner baith rude and absord to the town-councillor for st. andrew's west ward. next dobson appears with his bloody claes, his hede all bund up, luiking pale, and he says, as how nyen o' them had getten ower much drink, as torney tinley wanted the justice to think. now the crowner being ended, t'other side did begin, and tinley he vapour'd, and they swore thick and thin; but aw'll say ne mair, lest you should be bor'd, but merely relate, that jack tinley was floor'd. and the justices said, 'twas a shem the directors should set twe sic blackguards on the line for inspectors, and, addressing them byeth, said unto the men, yer byeth fined--allan five pounds, and you, newton, ten. noo, when aw seed the way the thing went, thinks aw, the directors are surely content, and will myek the cheps 'mends, from the way they've been tret, but the warst of my story it is to come yet. ne suiner was't knawn what the verdict was, than the railway attorney, he out with the brass, and, flinging it doon, said, "much good may it do yee! gie me a resait, and set wor pollismen free." noo sic wark as this, it is varry shocken, folks canna gan te shields without hevin their hedes brocken, and aw've myed up ma mind, if aw's not in a hurry, te gan in mitchell's fine boats, or johnson's fam'd whurry. _folly wharf, nov. , ._ blind willie's death.[ ] tune--"jemmy joneson's whurry." as aw was gannin' up the side, aw met wi' drucken bella; she wrung her hands, and sair she cried, he's gyen at last, poor fellow! o, hinny bella! whe is't that's gyen? ye gar my blood run chilly. wey, hinny, deeth has stopt the breath o' canny awd blind willie. god keep us, bella, is that true! ye shurely are mistaken? o, no! aw've left him just a-now, and he's as deed as bacon. aw tied his chaffs, and laid him out-- his flesh just like a jelly-- and sair, sair aw was put about for canny awd blind willie. then off went aw as fast as owt, ti see poor willie lyin';-- when aw gat there, maw heart was sair, ti see his friends a' sighin'. around his bed they hung their heeds, just like the droopin' lily; and aw, with them, did dee the syem for canny awd blind willie. ne mair, said aw, we'll hear him sing, ne mair he'll play the fiddle; ne mair we'll hear him praise the king-- no! no! cried jimmy liddle. the days are past--he's gyen, at last, beside his frind, sir billy, that parish chiel', that preach'd se weel-- we'll mourn for him and willie. his bonny corpse crowds cam to see, which myed the room luik dowly; and whe was there amang them, tee, but noisy yella yowley; she through the crowd did crush her way-- wi' drink she seem'd quite silly-- and on her knees began to pray for canny awd blind willie. they tell'd us a' to gang away, which myed us varry sorry; but beagle bet wad kiss his lips, before they did him bury. he's buried now--he's out o' seet-- then on his grave se hilly, let them that feel take their fareweel o' canny awd blind willie. footnote : died july , . geordy's disaster. sum time since a ship that was tyken in coal, at a place at north shields they ca' peggy's hole, and the keels a' the neet wad lie alangside, to be ready next morn to gan up wi' the tide. fal, lal, &c. noo yen o' the skippers had sie fish-huiks o' claws, that deil a bit rope cud be kept frae his paws; for as sune as the men were a' gyen to sleep, then on board o' the ship wor geordy wad creep. fal, lal, &c. and devil a thing could be left on the deck, but geordy, as sure as a gun, wad it neck, and into the huddock wad stow it away, and gan off to the rope-shop, and sell it next day. fal, lal, &c. noo the mate o' the ship was determin'd to watch, to see if he cuddent the thievish rogue catch,-- so to hev a bit fun, an' to give him a freet, he swore he wad sit up the whole o' that neet. fal, lal, &c. so he gat a lang gun, and for to begin, a greet clot o' blud and sum poother pat in; noo he dident wait lang, for sune ower the bows i' the muinleet he saw him creep up like a moose. fal, lal, &c. he click'd up a bucket, and was gawn wiv his prize, when the mate he let flee reet between his twe eyes. when the skipper found blud all over his fyece, "aw's deed!" out he roars, and dropp'd down in the place. fal, lal, &c. noo the pee-dee he heard the crack o' the gun, so he speal'd up the side, and tiv geordy he run: "oh, geordy! oh geordy! just haud up thy heed, an' tell us, maw hinny, if thou hez gyen deed!" fal, lal, &c. the skipper he groan'd, and kick'd up his heels, "gude bye, canny pee-dee! gude bye tiv maw keels! aw'll never see mally nor bairns ony mair, for if aw's not deed, aw's speechless, aw'll swear!" fal, lal, &c. wiv a greet deal to de they gat him to rise; but when he gat up, what was his surprise, when he sought for the hole where the bullet had gyen, but sought it in vain, for he cuddent find yen. fal, lal, &c. "by gock!" out he roars, "aw ken how it's been-- sic a comical trick, aw's sure, never was seen; faix, bad as it is, it might hev been warse, it's come in at maw gob, and gyen out at----." fal, lal, &c. jossy's nag's head. tune--"a rampant lion is my sign." all you who've got an hour to spare, and wish to spend it merry, go not to houses of ill-fame, nor sport with tom and jerry: direct your course to armfield's house, where none the least alarm feels, where mirth and fun reign uncontroll'd, all in josiah armfield's. chorus. then drink about and merry be, let each one fill his station, and ne'er despise a flowing pot, when bent on recreation. in winter, when the weather's cold, the pinching frost may starve you, you'll find a fire to your desire, a buxom lass to serve you: her smiles are like the flowers in may, her conversation charms weel: far be the fellow takes her in, while selling drink at armfield's. then drink about, &c. now should you know the art of war, the news may lead your mind there; or if inclin'd to grace the bar, some of your cloth you'll find there: mock trials, hot debates go on, yet seldom any harm feel, the counsellors plead your cause for nought, law's cheap at jossy armfield's. then drink about, &c. next in the tap-room take a peep, there's eggs and pie-folk dealing; some try their luck at single toss, and other some are stealing: the bakky smoke ascends in clouds, yet none will say he harm feels; you'd swear you were near etna's mount, instead of jossy armfield's. then drink about, &c. the sailors sing their dangers o'er, when sailing on the high seas; says donald frae fife, "i've left the north, where parry wad lost his ideas." "come, d--n!" says durham lad, "leet my pipe, and give us nyen o' your yarn reels; but pay the quart--ise be the next, we'll hev a spree at armfield's." then drink about, &c. there's baggie will, he sings all fours; and faith he sings it rarely; there's castle dean plagues canny pit sark, and sings, he's lost her fairly; the teazer he provokes the flame, till a' the house quite warm feels: the cobbler chaunts the cuddy sang, half-cock'd, in jossy armfield's. then drink about, &c. box number one's a tennis court, for those of fistic valour; and should you want to grace the ring, must enter as a scholar. the hackney drivers stand about, until their dowps they warm feel; then drink their purl, and march away-- huzza! for jossy armfield. then drink about, &c. the april gowk; or, the lovers alarmed. a castle-garth ditty. tune--"jenny choak'd the bairn." ye worthy friends of april gowk, that like a bit o' spree, pray lay your jargon a' aside, and listen unto me; for love's intrigues disturb the wigs of most o' men on earth; and so, of late, it caught the pate of pious parson garth. this worthy man went soon to bed, upon the last o' march, and what his mind was running on, 'tis needless now to search; his rib asleep, down stairs he'd creep-- when lo! to his surprise, a pair of boots, below the seat, stood right before his eyes. he went to rouse his darling spouse, and said, "you plainly see there's some one here that wants to make an april gowk o' me. oh! dress yoursel', do take the bell, your petticoat put on: they're now in quod--i hope to god it's not my brother john." he took a stick, and follow'd quick unto the lasses' room: come out! says she; come out! says he, the kitty is your doom! while on the bell she did play knell, poor johnny, pale, came forth, all in dismay, like potters' clay, stood pious parson garth! a chamber council there was held, all in this naked plight; the dire alarm had brought a swarm o' guardians o' the night: in vain they strove to gain his love, his wrath for to appease, he swore he'd have their boxes search'd, and cried--produce the keys! they nothing found that he could own-- his heart more callous grew, he tore their caps, destroy'd their hats-- them on the floor he threw: like pilgrims setting out, unshod, to prison they were sent, to dread their penance, like the sweep, until they should repent. to free the girls from guilt and shame, and have the matter clear'd, those sweetly serenading "two- foot carpenters"[ ] appear'd. tho' willy cannot get his boots, for them he does not care-- they won the day!--"none but the brave deserve to win the fair." should you not know this worthy man-- a man of steady gait, a pensive look affects as tho' he'd something in his pate: ambition and presumption too in him have taken birth, and fix'd a stigma on his name-- "the hydra of the garth!" footnote : cloggers. the skipper's mistake. tune--"the chapter of accidents." two jovial souls, two skippers bold, for shields did sail one morning, in their awd keel, black as the deil, all fear and danger scorning. the sky look'd bright, which prophesied a fair and glorious day, man; but such a thick scotch mist cam on, they could not see their way, man. fal, lal, &c. they pull'd about, frae reet to left, not kennin what to dee, man, when poor pee-dee began to fret, lest they should drive to sea, man. says geordy, should wor voyage be lang, we've little for our guts, man; there's nowt belaw but half a loaf, some tripe, and a nowt's foot, man. fal, lal, &c. they drove as far as jarrow slake, when geordy bawl'd aloud, man smash! marrow, ye hae been at skuel, come find our latitude, man; gan down into the huddock, jack, fetch up the reading-easy-- if we should be far off at sea, i doubt it winna please ye. fal, lal, &c. they studied hard, byeth lang and sair, though nyen o' them could read, man, when geordy on a sudden cries, aw hev 'er in my heed, man. come, let us pray to be kept free frae danger and mischance, man; we're ower the bar!--there's nowt for us but holland, spain, or france, man! fal, lal, &c. at length the day began to clear, the sun peep'd through the dew, man, when lo! awd-fashion'd jarrow kirk stood fair within their view, man. they laugh'd and crack'd about the joke which lately gar'd them quake, man: they lay, instead of spain or france, quite snug at jarrow slake, man. fal, lal, &c. may wealth and commerce still increase, and bless our native isle, man, and make each thriving family in happiness to smile, man. may vict'ry round britannia's brow her laurels still entwine, man, the coal-trade flourish more and more upon the dingy tyne, man. fal, lal, &c. newcastle beer versus spaw water; _or, the pitman and temperance society_. by r. emery. tune--"mr. frost." as cousin jack and i, last pay-day, cam to toon, we gat to robin hood's, wor worldly cares to droon-- and there we spent the day--their yell's byeth cheap and strang-- it's reet to soak yen's clay--hang them that thinks it wrang. romti bomti bom, &c. in stagg'rin' hyem at neet, an' bent upon a spree, a broad-brim'd chep cam up, and seem'd to talk quite free;-- he said, to drink small beer or brandy was a curse, it stole away wor brains, an' drain'd each poor man's purse. romti bomti bom, &c. he talk'd 'bout temp'rance clubs, that now are a' the go, and said, if we wad join, we'd ne'er ken want or woe. we quickly gav consent, wor friend then led the way, reet up to wilkie's went, amang his cronies gay. romti bomti bom, &c. there some wer fair and fat, some nowt but skin and byen, and at a tyebble sat a man near twenty styen-- he roar'd out for some drink, which very suen was browt, and said, my lads, fall tee, and fill yor bags for nowt. romti bomti bom, &c. aw tried, but smash a drop wad down me weasen gan, but broad-brim said, quite slee, come, drink, friend, if thou can 'twill purge the body clean, and make ye wond'rous wise, and, efter ye are deed, ye'll mount abuen the skies. romti bomti, &c. suen efter this grand speech aw quietly toddled hyem, and cramm'd some o' their drink into wor canny dyem; but scarcely had she drunk this liquor so divine, till she began to bowk, and sair her jaws did twine. romti bomti, &c. a doctor suen was brought frae canny benwell toon, while peggy, maw poor lass, was work'd byeth up an' doon; he fund, when he did tyest, this queer, mischievous stuff, to be spaw water pure, so peg was safe eneugh. romti bomti bom, &c. when aw gan back to toon, aw'll tell them what aw think-- aw'll warn wor neighbours round 'gyen their outlandish drink: let quakers gan to heav'n, an' fill their kites wi' spaw, give me newcassel beer, content aw'll stay belaw. romti bomti bom, &c. the pitman's pay; _or, a night's discharge to care_. i sing not here of warriors bold-- of battles lost or victories won-- of cities sack'd, or nations sold, or any deeds by tyrants done. i sing the pitman's plagues and cares-- their labour hard and lowly cot-- their homely joys and humble fares-- their _pay-night_ o'er a foaming pot. their week's work done, the coaly craft-- these horny-handed sons of toil require a "right gude willie-waught," the creaking wheels of life to oil. see _hewers_, _putters_, _drivers_ too, with pleasure hail this happy day-- all clean _wash'd up_, their way pursue to drink, and crack, and get their _pay_. the _buck_, the _black horse_, and the _keys_, have witness'd many a comic scene, where's yell to cheer and mirth to please, and drollery that would cure the spleen. with parched tongues and gyzen'd throats they reach the place, where barleycorn soon down the dusty cavern floats, from pewter-pot or homely horn. the dust wash'd down, then comes the care to find that all is rightly bill'd; and each to get his hard-earn'd share from some one in division skill'd. the money-matters thus decided, they push the pot more briskly round; with hearts elate and hobbies strided, their cares are all in nappie drown'd. "here, lass," says jack, "help this agyen, it's better yell than's in the toun; but then the road's se het it's tyen, it fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun." thus many a foaming pot's requir'd to quench the dry and dusky spark; when ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd, wags on about their wives and wark. the famous feats done in their youth, at _bowling_, _ball_, and _clubby-shaw_-- _camp-meetings_, _ranters_, _gospel-truth_, _religion_, _politics_, and _law_. with such variety of matter, opinions, too, as various quite, we need not wonder at the clatter, when ev'ry tongue wags--wrong or right. the gifted few in lungs and lair at length, insensibly, divide 'em: and from a three-legg'd stool or chare each draws his favour'd few beside him. now let us ev'ry face survey, which seems as big with grave debate, as if each word they had to say was pregnant with impending fate. mark those in that secluded place set snug around the stool of oak, labouring at some knotty case, envelop'd in tobacco smoke. these are the pious, faithful few, who pierce the dark decrees of fate-- they've read the "pilgrim's progress" through, as well as "boston's four-fold state." they'll point you out the day and hour when they experienc'd sin forgiven-- convince you that they're quite secure, they'll die in peace, and go to heaven. the moral road's too far about, they like a surer, shorter _cut_, which frees the _end_ from every doubt, and saves them many a weary foot. the _first's_ commensurate with our years, and must be travell'd day by day; and to the new-born few appears a very dull and tedious way. the _other's_ length solely depends upon the time when we begin _it_; get but set out--before life ends-- for all's set _right_ when once we're _in_ it. they're now debating which is best-- the _short-cut_ votes the _others_ double; for this good reason, 'mongst the rest, _it_ really saves a world of trouble. he that from goodness farthest strays, becomes a saint of first degree; and ranter jeremiah says, "let bad ones _only_ come to me." old _earth-worm_ soon obeys the call, conscious, perhaps, he wanted mending, for some few flaws from adam's fall, gloss'd o'er by cant and sheer pretending. still stick to him afield or home, the methodistic _brush_ defying, so that the ranter's _curry-comb_ is now the only means worth trying. in habits form'd since sixty years, the hopes of change won't weigh a feather-- their power so o'er him domineers, that they and life must end together. see on their right a gambling few, whose every word and look display a desperate, dark, designing crew, intent upon each others' _pay_. they're _racers, cockers, carders_ keen, as ever o'er a tankard met, or ever bowl'd a match between the _popplin well_ and _mawvin's yett_. on _cock-fight_, _dog-fight_, _cuddy-race_, or _pitch_ and _toss_, _trippet_ and _coit_, or on a _soap-tail'd grunter's chase_, they'll risk the last remaining doit. they're now at cards, and gibby gripe is peeping into harry's hand; and ev'ry puff blown from his pipe his party easily understand. some for the odd trick pushing hard--' some that they lose it pale with fear-- some betting on the turn-up card-- some drawing cuts for pints of beer. whilst others brawl about _jack's_ brock, that all the chowden dogs can bang; or praise "_lang wilson's_" piley cock, or _dixon's_ feats upon the swang. here _tom_, the pink of bowlers, gain'd himself a never-dying name, by deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd, which neither _age_ nor _toil_ could tame. for labour done, and o'er his dose, tom took his place upon the hill; and at the very evening's close you faintly saw him bowling still. all this display of pith and zeal was so completely habit grown, that many an hour from sleep he'd steal to bowl upon the hill alone. the night wears late--the wives drop in to take a peep at what is doing; for many would not care a pin to lose at cards a fortnight's hewing. poor will had just his plagues dismiss'd, and had "begone, dull care" begun, with _face_ as grave as methodist, and _voice_ most sadly out of tune; but soon as e'er he nelly saw, with brows a dreadful storm portending, he dropt at once his under jaw, as if his mortal race was ending;-- for had the grim destroyer stood, in all his ghastliness before him, it could not more have froze his blood, nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him. his better half, all fire and tow, call'd him a slush--his comrades raff-- swore that he could a brewing stow, and after that sipe all the draff. will gather'd up his scatter'd powers-- drew up his fallen chops again-- seiz'd nell, and push'd her out of doors, then broke forth in this piteous strain:-- "o! nell, thou's rung me mony a peal, nyen, but mysel, could bide thy yammer; thy tongue runs like wor pully-wheel, and dirls my lug like wor smith's hammer. thou'll drive me daft, aw often dread, for now aw's nobbet verra silly, just like a geuss cut i' the head, like _jemmy muin_ or _preacher willy_. aw thought wor nell, when nelly dale, the verra thing to myek me happy; she curl'd ma hair, or tied ma tail, and clapt and stroakt ma little cappy. but suin as e'er the knot was tied, and we were yok'd for life together; when nell had laugh'd, and minny cried, and a' was fairly i' the tether;-- then fierce as fire she seiz'd the breeks, and round maw heed flew stuils and chairs; ma tail hung lowse like candle weeks,-- an awd pit ended cappy's cares. just like wor maisters when we're bun', if men and lads be varra scant, they wheedle us wi' yell and fun, and coax us into what they want. but myek yor mark, then snuffs and sneers suin slop yor gob and lay yor braggin'; when yence yor feet are i' the geers, ma soul! they'll keep your painches waggin. aw toil ma byens, till through ma clay they peep, to please ma dowly cavel; aw's at the coal wall a' the day, and nightly i' the waiter level-- aw hammer on till efternuin, wi' weary byens and empty wyem; nay, varra oft the pit's just duin before aw weel get wannel'd hyem. but this is a' of little use, for what aw dee is never reet; she's like a larm-bell i' the house, ding-donging at me day and neet. if aw sud get ma wark owre suin, she's flaid to deeth aw've left some byet; and if aw's till the efternuin, aw's drunk because aw is se lyet. feed us and cleed us weel she may, as she gets a'ways money plenty: for every day, for mony a pay, aw've hew'd and putten twee-and-twenty. 'tis true aw sometimes get a gill-- but then she a'ways gets her grog; and if aw din't her bottle fill, aw's then a skin-flint, snock-drawn dog. she buys me, te, the warst o' meat, bad bullock's liver--houghs and knees tough stinking tripe, and awd cow's feet-- shanks full o' mawks, and half nought cheese. of sic she feeds the bairns and me, the tyesty bits she tyeks hersel'; in whilk ne share nor lot have we, excepting sometimes i' the smell. the crowdy is wor daily dish, but varra different is their minny's; for she gets a' her heart can wish in strang lyac'd tea and singin' hinnies. ma canny bairns luik pale and wan, their bits and brats are varra scant; their mother's feasts rob them o' scran-- for wilfu' waste makes woefu' want. she peels the taties wi' her teeth, and spreads the butter wi' her thoom; she blaws the kail wi' stinking breeth, where mawks and caterpillars soom! she's just a gannin' heap o' muck, where _durts_ of a' description muster; for _dishclout_ serves her _apron nuik_ as weel as _snotter clout_ and _duster_! she lays out punds in _manadge_ things, like mony a thriftless, thoughtless bein'; yet bairns and me, as if we'd wings, are a' in rags an' tatters fleein'. just mark wor _dress_--a _lapless coat_, with byeth the _elbows_ sticking through-- a _hat_ that never cost a _groat_-- a _neckless shirt_--a _clog_ and _shoe_. she chalks up _scores_ at a' the shops wherever we've a twelvemonth staid; and when we flit, the landlord stops ma _sticks_ till a' the rent be paid. aw's ca'd a hen-pick'd, pluckless calf, for letting her the breeches wear; and tell'd aw dinna thresh her half-- wi' mony a bitter jibe and jeer. 'aw think,' says dick, 'aw wad her towen, and verra suin her courage cuil: aw'd dook her in wor engine powen, then clap her on repentance stuil. if that should not her tantrums check, aw'd _peel_ her to the varra _sark_: then 'noint her wi' a _twig o' yeck_, and efter make her _eat_ the bark.' enough like this aw've heard thro' life; for every body has a plan to guide a rackle ram-stam wife, except the poor tormented man." will could not now his feelings stay-- the tear roll'd down his care-worn cheek: he thrimmell'd out what he'd to pay, and sobbing said, "my heart will break!" here nanny, modest, mild, and shy, took neddy gently by the sleeve; "aw just luik'd in as aw went by-- is it not, thinks te, time to leave?" "now, nan, what myeks th' fash me here, gan hyem and get the bairns to bed; thou knaws thou promis'd me ma beer the verra neet before we wed." "hout, hinny, had th' blabbin jaw, thou's full o' nought but fun and lees; at sic a _kittle time_, ye knaw, yen tells ye ony thing to please. besides, thou's had enough o' drink, and mair wad ony myek th' bad; aw see thy een begin to blink-- gan wi' me, like a canny lad." "o, nan! thou hez a witching way o' myekin' me de what thou will; thou needs but speak, and aw obey, yet there's ne doubt aw's maister still. but tyest the yell and stop a bit-- here tyek a seat upon ma knee-- for 'mang the hewers in wor pit there's nyen hez sic a wife as me. for if ma top comes badly down, or ought else keeps me lang away, she cheers me wi' the weel-knawn soun'-- 'thou's had a lang and weary day.' if aw be naggy, nanny's smile suin myeks me blithe as ony lark; and fit to loup a yett or stile-- ma varra byens forget to wark. ma nan--ma bairns--ma happy hyem-- set ower hard labour's bitter pill-- o providence! but spare me them-- the warld may then wag as it will. she waits upon me hand and foot-- aw want for nought that she can gie me-- she fills ma pipe wi patten cut-- leets it, and hands it kindly to me. she tells me a' her bits o' news, pick'd up the time aw've been away; and fra ma mouth the cuttie pous when sleep o'ercomes ma weary clay. sae weel she ettles what aw get-- sae far she a'ways gars it gan-- that nyen can say we are i' debt, or want for owther claes or scran. then drink about, whe minds a jot-- let's drown wor cares i' barleycorn-- here, lass, come bring another pot, the _cawler_ dissent _call_ to morn." "nay, hinny ned, ne langer stay-- we mun be hyem to little neddy-- he's just a twel'munth awd to-day, and will be crying for his deddy. aw'll tyek thee hyem a pot o' beer, a nice clean pipe and backy te-- thou knaws aw like to hae thee near-- come, hinny, come, gan hyem wi' me." like music's soft and soothing powers these honey'd sounds drop on his ear: or like the warm and fertile showers that leave the face of nature dear. here was the power of woman shown, when women use it properly-- he threw his pipe and reck'ning down-- "aw will--aw will gan hyem wi' thee." at home arriv'd, right cheerfully she set him in his easy chair-- clapt little neddy on his knee, and bid him see his image there. the mother pleas'd--the father glad, swore neddy had twee bonny een-- "there ne'er was, ned, a finer lad; and, then, he's like thee as a bean. aw've luck'd for _wilson_ a' this day, to cut th' pig down 'fore it's dark; but he'll be guzzling at the pay, and winden on about his wark. what lengths aw've often heard him gan, sweering--and he's not fond of fibbin 'he'll turn his back on ne'er a man for owther killin pigs or libbin.' still _jack's_ an honest, canty cock, as ever drain'd the juice of barley; aw've knawn him sit myest roun' the clock swatt'ling and clatt'ring on wi' _charley_. now, deddy, let me ease yor arm; gi'e me the bairn, lay down yor pipe, and get the supper when it's warm-- it's just a bit o' gissy's tripe. then come to me, ma little lammy-- come, thou apple o' ma e'e-- come, ma neddy, t' the mammy-- come, ma darlin'--come to me!" here, see a woman truly blest beyond the reach of pomp and pride; her _infant_ happy at her breast-- her _husband_ happy by her side. then take a lesson, pamper'd wealth, and learn how little it requires to make us happy when we've health-- content--and moderate desires. "tha father, ned, is far frae weel, he lucks, poor body, varra bad; a' ower he hez a cawdrife feel, but thinks it but a waff o' cawd. aw've just been ower wi' something warm, to try to ease the weary coff, which baffles byeth the _drugs_ and _charm_! and threatens oft to tyek him off. he says, 'o nan, ma life thou's spar'd-- the good it's duin me's past beleevin'-- the lord will richly thee rewaird-- the care o' me will win thee heeven.' now as his bottle's nearly tuim, mind think me on, when at the town, to get the drop black beer and rum, as little else will now gan down. we mebby may be awd worsel's, when poverty's cawd blast is blawin'; and want a frien' when nature fyels, and life her last few threeds is drawin'. besides, the bits o' good we dee the verra happiest moments gie us; and mun, aw think, still help a wee, at last, frae awfu' skaith to free us. let cant and rant then rave at will agyen a' warks--aw here declare it-- we'll still the hungry belly fill, se lang as ever we can spare it." here, then, we'll leave this happy pair their "home affairs" to con and settle; their "ways and means" with frugal care, for marketing next day to ettle. the newcastle blunderbuss! or, travelling extraordinary. by r. emery. tune--"calder fair." ne mair o' grand inventions brag, 'bout steamers and chain brigs, man-- newcassel's sel' still bears the bell, an' bothers a' their wigs, man: 'bout gleediscowpies, silly things, ne langer make a fuss, man-- e'en silk balloons mun bend their croons to reidie's blunderbuss,[ ] man. fal, de ral, &c. as geordy fash and dolly raw cam stagg'rin up the kee, man, wi' teasdale's beer, an' sic like cheer, they'd rather myed ow'r free, man-- into this blunderbuss they gat, 'side two outlandish chiels, man, but ere they'd time to leet their pipes, they fand theirsels i' shields, man! fal, de ral, &c. each day on wor sandhill it stands-- if in tid ye should pop, man, an' close yor winkers half an hour, clean ow'r the sea ye'll hop, man! the kee-side jarvies now may run, an' barbers' clerks se gay, man-- 'twad be a spree if, fra' wor kee, they'd cut to bot'ny bay, man! fal, de ral, &c. this grand machine wor tyne will clean, an' make it's sand-banks flee, man, like corby craws ow'r marsden rock, into the german sea, man!-- wor canny mayor ne pains will spare, he'll back it out an' out, man, till ev'ry nuisance in wor toon for shields shall take the route, man. fal, de ral, &c. footnote : omnibusses commenced running between newcastle and shields every hour, (from eight o'clock in the morning till eight at night,) nov. , . a pitman's visit to newcastle on valentine's day. tune--"newcastle fair." od smash! marra, where hast thou been, aw been luiken for ye a yel hour; for to tell of a seet aw hae seen, sic a seet as aw ne'er saw before: aw straight to newcassel did gan, and gat in just as it struck ten; then through the streets aw quickly ran, for to get heame suin agyen. rum ti idity, &c. just as aw was runnin amain! aw comes alangside of a shop, wi' papers clagg'd on every pane-- to see them aw thought aw wad stop. but oh! sic reed flames an' sic darts! and sae mony lovers together; and sic bonny arrows and hearts-- od zounds! they were painted quite clever. rum ti idity, &c. says aw, to a buck in the street, (you may guess he was drest very fine,) "what's that thing that's painted complete?" says he, "it is a valentine." says aw, "do ye knaw what they're for, that they are painted sae smart?" then he humm'd and he haw'd like a boar, and said, "to send to your sweetheart." rum ti idity, &c. then thinks aw to masell, aw'll hae yen, to send to my awn dearest hinny: aw bowls into the shop like a styen, when out pops a man very skinny: says he, "sir, pray what do you want?" says aw, "yen o' them things that's bonny;" when in comes a chep that did cant, and said, "aw want one, my dear honey." rum ti idity, &c. that the fellow was irish i knew, as suin as to speak he began, he luik'd at valentines not a few, but could not find one to suit nan: says he, "mind, aw will hev the prattiest." says aw, "ye must knaw that you shan't." did he think aw'd be content wi' the dirtiest? ma sang! aw did both swear and rant. rum ti idity, &c. when he brought me a clout o' the lug, he did it sae frisky and gaily, says he, "you must know, mr. mug, that i'm a stout bit of shillelah." aw brought him another as tough, it made a' his cheeks for to rattle; says he, "i have got quite enough:" sae thus we gave ower the brattle. rum ti idity, &c. we went to a yell-house just nigh, for to get a wee sup o' strang yell; and then we came back, by and by, and to luikin at valentines fell. and then got as great as could be, and bought valentines for to fit, man: but aw say, without telling a lee, he met wiv his match in a pitman. rum ti idity, &c. the skipper in the mist. tune--"derry down." some time since there cam on a very thick fog, in lunnin some folks were near lost in a bog;-- a bog, you will say, that's an irish name-- they got knee deep in mud, and that's just all the same. derry down, &c. now, during the fog, sir, a newcassel keel was sailing down tyne to a ship lying at shields, the fog cam se thick, skipper off wig and roar'd-- "aw mun lay by my swape--geordy, lay by yor oar! derry down, &c. now, hinnies, my marrows! come tell's what to dee, aw's frighten'd wor keel will soon drive out to sea!" so the men an' their skipper, each sat on his buttock, an' a council they held, wi' their legs down the huddock. derry down, &c. says geordy, "we canna be very far down, with the wash o' my oar, aw hev just touch'd the grund; cheer up, my awd skipper, put on yor awd wig, we're between the king's meadows an' newcassel brig!" derry down, &c. the skipper, enrag'd, then declar'd he kend better, for at the same time he had smelt the salt water; "and there's marsden rock, just within a styen thraw, aw can see't through the mist, aw'll swear by my reet paw. derry down, &c. the anchor let's drop till the weather it clears, for fear we be nabb'd by the french privateers!" the anchor was dropt: when the weather clear'd up, they soon moor'd their keel at the awd javil group. derry down, &c. the skipper was vex'd, and he curs'd and he swore, that his nose had ne'er led him se far wrang before! but what most of all did surprise these four people was, marsden rock chang'd into gateshead church steeple! derry down, &c. the miraculous well; or, newcastle spaw water.[ ] by r. emery. tune--"rory o'more." a fig for quack doctors, their pills and their stuff, our neighbours of them have been tir'd long enough; e'en dinsdale and croft their pretensions withdraw, and harrowgate bends to our newcassel spaw: the halt and the blind, and the grave and the gay, to drink of the water, in crowds haste away; and gouty old bachelors thither repair, with jews, turks, and tailors, its virtues to share. hurrah for newcassel!--newcassel for me! where ale is so prime, and the lasses so free: your lumps, bumps, and rheumatics vanish like snaw, by one mighty draught of this wonderful spaw! one day cuddy willy sat down by the spring, and fiddled and sang till he made the dean ring; then said to the crowd--my lads, as to the spaw, good whisky improves it, aw verra weel knaw!-- but, if you'll be seated, you'll soon hear me sing the magical cures that's performed by this spring:-- he cut an odd caper, and thus he began-- first drinking a quart from a rusty tin-can. hurrah for newcassel! &c. awd humpy-back'd dick, and two or three mair, fra shiney raw pit to the well did repair; he drank of the spaw, when the hump, in a crack, dissolv'd and soon vanish'd frae poor dicky's back! lord bliss us! cried timber-toed tee-total peg, if it banishes humps, it might bring forth a leg! she got to the well, with the spaw she made free, and very soon after poor peggy had three!!! hurrah for newcassel! &c. pure sanctified betty scarce knew what to think-- hard might be her fate if she ventur'd to drink-- for most of the lasses that live in lang raw, have getten the dropsy by tasting the spaw! the doctors declare, that at forty weeks' end, 'twill be in their arms, and the dropsy will mend; the howdies are wishing the time was well o'er, for surely such water was ne'er known before. hurrah for newcassel! &c. a bumper, cried cuddy, and toasted the queen,-- which soon was responded by all on the green,-- may she have a son soon as big's johnny fa'-- (there's virtue in wishing while drinking the spaw). so now, my good lasses, gan hyem to your wark-- there's danger in wand'ring the dean in the dark 'mang trees and awd quarries--i'd have ye beware, remember poor peggy was caught in the snare. hurrah for newcassel! &c. footnote : some years ago, a spring of water was observed to ooze from the bank at the foot of sandyford dean, to which some people attributed medicinal qualities; but it was not generally noticed till the spring of , when its fame spread abroad, and drew the attention of multitudes of people to the spot, many of whom being afflicted with complaints of long standing, after drinking freely of this water, declared themselves cured; and some of the faculty proving its qualities by analyzation, gave it a more favourable report, which caused still greater numbers of invalids, &c. to visit the spring--some with casks and cans, others with jugs and bottles, anxiously waiting for a turn. whether the benefits said to have been received from this water were real or imaginary, time, the test of all things, will assuredly prove. the skipper's fright. tune--"skipper carr and marky dunn." as aw was gannen out yen neet,-- it happen'd in the dark, man,-- a chep cam up ga' me a freet, 'twas little skipper clark, man: his fyece was white as ony clout, says aw, what hae ye been about? he gyep'd at me, and gav a shout, o dick, i've seen the deil, man! awd nick had twee great goggle eyes, and horns upon his heed, man, he had a gob,--aye, sic a size, it flay'd me near to deed, man! his eyes were like twee burning coals, his mouth like one o' wor pit-holes, his horns were like twee crooked poles,-- aw'm sure it was the deil, man! aw'd often heard wor preacher tell that awd nick had twee club-feet,-- thinks aw, aw'll ken the neet mysel', whether wor preacher's wrang or reet: with that aw gav a luik about-- the club-feet was there without a doubt; and just wi' that he gav a shout-- and aw'm sure it was the deil, man. od smash! says aw, aw've often heard about this mighty deil, man,-- shew me the place where he appear'd, for aw'd like to see him weel, man? then dick he tuik me to the place, where he had seen his awful fyece-- and still he swore it was the case, that he had seen the deil, man. alang wi' dick aw hitch'd about to see this mighty deil, man, when just with that dick gav a shout-- luik there! thou'll see him weel, man; but when of him aw'd got a view, aw laugh'd till aw was black and blue, for it was nought but a great black cow that dick tuik for the deil, man. j. n. sandgate pant; or, jane jemieson's ghost. by r. emery. tune--"i'd be a butterfly." the bell of st. ann's toll'd two in the morning, as brave skipper johnson was gawn to the keel-- from the juice of the barley his poor brain was burning-- in search of relief he through sandgate did reel; the city was hush, save the keel-bullies' snoring-- the moon faintly gleam'd through the sable-clad sky-- when lo! a poor female her hard fate deploring, appear'd near the pant, and thus loudly did cry:-- ripe chenee oranges, four for a penny! cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try! o listen, ye hero of sandgate and stella, jin jemieson kens that yor courage is trig, go tell billy elli to meet me, brave fellow-- aw'll wait yor return on newcassel tyne brig!-- oh, marcy! cried johnson, yor looks gar me shiver! maw canny lass, jin, let me fetch him next tide; the spectre then frown'd--and he vanish'd for ever, while sandgate did ring as she vengefully cried-- fine chenee oranges, four for a penny! cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try! she waits for her lover, each night at this station, and calls her ripe fruit with a voice loud and clear; the keel-bullies listen in great consternation-- tho' snug in their huddocks, they tremble with fear! she sports round the pant till the cock, in the morning, announces the day--then away she does fly till midnight's dread hour--thus each maiden's peace scorning, they start from their couch as they hear her loud cry-- fine chenee oranges, four for a penny! cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try! the birth-day of queen victoria: a new song, intended to be sung on board the stewards' barge on ascension day, may th, . thomas emerson headlam, esq., mayor. john carr, esq., sheriff. hurrah for old england, her queen, and her laws! hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause! hurrah for newcastle! hurrah for the mayor! hurrah for the tyne--its banks bustling and fair! hurrah for the freemen, that rouse at each call! hurrah for the stewards, the spirits of all! hurrah for the many bright days we have seen! hurrah for a bumper--good health to the queen! our port to keep famous, may commerce prevail, and many ships sail with a prosperous gale; and while the wide stream from sweet hedwin is roll'd, may true conservators each landmark uphold. the herbage committee, with hearts light and gay, have leisure from toil to be merry to-day-- each countenance beaming, in mind all serene, to drink in a bumper--good health to the queen. while foes vainly threaten, and faction may rave, our union flag still in triumph shall wave; and whether as few or as many we be, like true honest freemen we still will be free. the fam'd corporation of our good old town, unsullied, still onward shall bear its renown; in loyalty ever the foremost we've been, to drink in a bumper--good health to the queen. hurrah for old england, her queen, and her laws! hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause! hurrah for newcastle! hurrah for the mayor! hurrah for the tyne--its banks bustling and fair! hurrah for the freemen, that rouse at each call! hurrah for the stewards, the spirit of all! hurrah for the many bright days we have seen! hurrah for a bumper--long life to the queen! _god save the queen!_ r. gilchrist. donocht-head.[ ] by the late george pickering, of newcastle. keen blaws the wind o'er donocht-head, the snaw drives snelly through the dale, the gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck, and shivering tells his waefu' tale:-- "cauld is the night, o let me in, and dinna let your minstrel fa'! and dinna let his winding-sheet be naething but a wreath o' snaw. full ninety winters hae i seen, and pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, and mony a day i've danc'd, i ween, to lilts which from my drone i blew." my eppie wak'd, and soon she cried, "get up, gudeman, and let him in; for weel ye ken the winter night was short when he began his din." my eppie's voice, o wow it's sweet, ev'n though she bans and scaulds a wee; but when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, o, haith it's doubly dear to me. come in, auld carl, i'll steer my fire, i'll make it bleeze a bonny flame; your blood is thin, ye've tint the gait, ye should na stray sae far frae hame. "nae hame have i, the minstrel said, sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha'; and, weeping at the eve of life, i wander through a wreath o' snaw." footnote : this song comes highly recommended to public notice by the warm commendation of the poet burns, who, in a letter to his friend, mr. thompson, writes--"donocht-head is not mine--i would give ten pounds it were. it appeared first in the edinburgh herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the newcastle post-mark on it." and dr. currie says, respecting this song, that "the author need not have been ashamed to own himself, as it is worthy of the pen of burns or macnell." the herbage committee[ ], (that is, the jewel of a committee). by r. gilchrist. _not composed over the midnight oil, but amid the noon-day broil of the barge-day, may , ._ addressed to the chairman. while others of great deeds may dream, yet still commend to me, sir, a subject rare, and prouder theme, the herbage committee, sir: this committee a jewel was, from truth that never swerv'd sir, and gain'd much glory and applause, and well they both deserv'd, sir. the time has been when bread and cheese was wont to be their fare, sir, what think ye now of turkeys, geese, a partridge, or a hare, sir! well i remind their many joys, and many happy days, sir, for o they were the bonny boys for getting up surveys, sir. i have seen gallant mister woods, and mr grainger, too, sir, approach us--though dress'd in our duds-- with an obsequeous bow, sir; for martin, miekle, and maggall, calbreath, friend charles, and me, sir, wanless and angus, garrett--all were in the committee, sir! who then wad wish to be a mayor, recorder, or town clerk, sir? to serve in office, send me there, to hear each sage remark, sir; and o, indeed, i fear it much, their like there never will be, sir-- no, never, never more be such an herbage committee, sir. footnote: the committee were--william martin, william miekle, william maggall, james calbreath, charles stephenson, the author, william wanless, william angus, and william garrett. their activity and unanimity were proverbial. the bear club. good dinners to our noble queen, and many may she see, sir, and much i wish she could have seen the bear-club committee, sir: her cooks, no doubt, with skill refin'd, have cater'd long with care, sir, but much, i doubt, they ever din'd her majesty of bears, sir. 'tis said the kings of india can eat some pretty things, sir; you need not go so far away to see the _indian kings_, sir: the landlord there can at his call serve up some pleasant fare, sir-- _mac_ now has clean eclipsed them all, and made us eat a bear, sir. some talk about the esquimaux, and tell of cherokees, sir, hottentots and marathas, and folks in the south seas, sir; 'tis said they sometimes cut a swell in dishes odd and rare, sir, but we from them will bear the bell, for we have eat a bear, sir. all times have had their men of taste, each passing age adorning, who, rather than good stuff should waste, would eat from night till morning: to us they must knock under now-- we've given them a scare, sir; they all could eat a sheep or so, but we can eat a bear, sir. now as you chance to walk the street, how every dog will run, sir, lest you should roast him for a treat, and eat him up in fun, sir; the quayside horses, loaded well, will scamper off like hares, sir, to see, not bears all eating men, but men all eating bears, sir. the next time, sir, you eat a bear, grant this my supplication-- invite to dine our canny mayor, and hungry corporation; in seeking for a friend like you, they're looking lean and spare, sir, so in compassion send them now the fragments of the bear, sir. _r. gilchrist._ the lass of wincomblee. tune--"nae luck about the house." now all ye lilies hang your heeds, ye roses bloom nae mair, ye tulips all, put on your weeds, all, posies may despair. for not a lass on all tyneside, frae stella to the sea, can marrow moll the evergreen of bonny wincomblee. for not a lass, &c. her een shine like a davy-lamp, or like a summer's day-- her voice sae like the after-damp, near teuk my breath away her cherry cheeks like sugar sweet, or honey frae the bee; but sweeter far than byeth o' these is moll of wincomblee. her feet are like twe bits ov cork, when running iv a reel-- tiv "shiver the rags" and "off she goes," she can cut an' shuffle weel; like a lady fine, on sunday neets she'll tyek a walk wi' me, call at scrogg house, round byker fields, and back by walker kee. when jinny pit it has full wark, we settled for te wed-- the fiddle sal play frae break o' day, till we get snug in bed; wi' backy and yell ye's hae your fill, singin hinnies to your tea-- wiv a dance we'll finish the merriest neet ere was seen at wincomblee. tho' time rolls on, and so it may, as tyne rolls to the sea, fresh as an evergreen is moll of bonny wincomblee. on the death of bold archy. bold archy's dead! and long for him will poor newcastle fret, her sun of glory has gone down, her brightest star is set: from the _blue stone_ to _cawsey bridge_, from _tynemouth bar_ and round by _stella_, not one remains to fill the seat left vacant by this honest fellow. the funeral flag hung drooping low as he was carried by, and many gaz'd, and many a tear was wip'd from many an eye; and all did then the truth record;--warm was the heart now still and caller-- so lay him softly in the sod, fam'd man of might, and prince of valour! farewell! farewell! my local harp i'll bury with the brave, and sadly plant my local wreath to flourish on his grave! both english and outlandish names must one day pass oblivion's portal, but archy's shall survive them all, and well deserves to be immortal. r. gilchrist. _may , ._ blind willie's epitaph. newcastle's now a dowly place--all things seem sore aclite, for here at last blind willie lies, an honest, harmless wight; nor wealth nor power now look with scorn on this lone spot of one departed, for fashion's gay and glaring sun ne'er beam'd on one more happy hearted. he was the poorest of the poor, yet ne'er complain'd of want, he neither carried purse nor scrip, and yet was never scant; storms thunder'd o'er his hatless head, yet he ne'er once their rage lamented, his was the lot too few have known--to live content, and die contented. the bard who sung of starkey's death, in tearful strains and true, and planted on bold archy's grave the wreath ta'en from his brow; his local reed in dust he lays--farewell!--there trill'd its final shiver,-- it has been tun'd in willie's praise, it now with him lies mute for ever. _r. gilchrist._ acrostic _on the death of a celebrated eccentric character of newcastle upon tyne._ =b=lithe minstrel of the banks of tyne, =l=o! o'er thy bier, for "auld langsyne," =i=n silent groups, each rolling year, =n=orthumbria's sons will drop a tear! =d=eath cut thee down--the tyrant scream'd, =w=hen thy bright spirit o'er him beam'd! =i=n vengeful mood he view'd his claim, =l=ost in the triumph of thy name.-- =l=et tyne's fam'd sons proclaim afar-- =y=ou shall outlive the morning star! r. e. william purvis, more generally known by the name of blind willy, died on friday, the th july, , aged years. illustration musa pedestris three centuries of canting songs and slang rhymes [ - ] collected and annotated by john s. farmer contents index to titles index to authors forewords notes appendix "a beggar i'll be" (anon-- ) "a gage of ben rom-bouse" (middleton and dekker-- ) "a hundred stretches hence" (g. w. matsell-- ) 'arry at a political picnic (t. milliken-- ) beggar's curse, the (thomas dekker-- ) "bing out, bien morts" (thomas dekker-- ) black procession, the (anon-- ) blooming Æsthetic (anon-- ) bobby and his mary (anon-- ) bould yeoman, the (pierce egan-- ) bridle-cull and his little pop-gun (pierce egan-- ) budg and snudg song, a (anon-- ) banter's christening, the (g. parker-- ) by-blow of the jug, the (pierce egan-- ) cadger's ball, the (anon-- ) canter's serenade, the (anon-- ) chickaleary cove, the (vance-- ) "come all you buffers gay" (anon-- ) coster's serenade, the (a. chevalier-- ) culture in the slums (w. e. henley-- ) dashy splashy . . . little stringer, the (leman rede-- ) "dear-bill--this stone jug" (anon-- ) double cross, the (w. h. ainsworth-- ) faker's new toast, the (bon gualtier-- ) flashey joe (r. morley-- ) flashman of st. giles, the (anon-- ) frisky moll's song (j. harper-- ) game of high toby, the (w. h. ainsworth-- ) happy pair, the (g. parker-- ) high pad's boast, the (j. fletcher-- ) high pad's frolic, the (leman rede-- ) housebreaker's song, the (g. w. m. reynolds-- ) jack flashman (pierce egan-- ) lag's lament, the (h. t. r.-- ) leary man, the (ducange anglicus-- ?) leary mot, a (anon-- ) masqueraders, the (g. parker-- ) maunder's initiation, the (j. fletcher-- ) maunder's praise of his strowling mort, the (anon-- ) maunder's wooing, the (s. rowlands-- ) merry beggars, the (r. brome-- ) milling match, the (t. moore-- ) miss dolly trull (pierce egan-- ) mort's drinking song, a (r. brome-- ) my mother (bon gualtier-- ) my mugging maid (j. bruton-- ) "nix my doll, pals, fake away" (w. harrison ainsworth-- ) nutty blowen, the (bon gualtier-- ) oath of the canting crew, the (r. goadby-- ) on the prigging lay (h. t. r.-- ) our little nipper (a. chevalier-- ) pickpocket's chaunt, the (w. maginn-- ) plank-bed ballad, a (g. r. sims-- ) poor luddy (t. dibdin-- ) potato man, the (anon-- ) "retoure my dear dell" (anon-- ) rhyme of the rusher (doss chiderdoss-- ) rhymes of the canting crew (r. copland-- ) rondeau of the knock, the (g. r. sims-- ) "rum coves that relieve us" (h. baumann-- ) rum-mort's praise of her faithless maunder, the (anon-- ) sandman's wedding, the (g. parker-- ) slang pastoral, a (r. tomlinson-- ) song of the beggar, the (anon-- ) song of the young prig, the (anon-- - ) sonnets for the fancy: i. education. ii. progress. iii. triumph (pierce egan-- ) "the faking boy to the crap is gone" (bon gualtier-- ) the night before larry was stretched (w. maher-- ) thieves' chaunt, the (w. h. smith-- ) tottie (g. r. sims-- ) "towre out, ben morts" (s. rowlands-- ) true bottom'd boxer, the (j. jones-- ) vain dreamer, the (anon-- ) villon's good night (w. e. henley-- ) villon's straight tip (w. e. henley-- ) "when my dimber dell i courted" (anon-- ) "wot cher" (a. chevalier-- ) "ye scamps, ye pads, ye divers" (messink-- ) "ya-hip, my hearties!" (gregson-- ) index to authors ainsworth, w. harrison anonymous baumann, heinrich bon gualtier brome, richard bruton, james chevalier, albert copland, robert dekker, thomas dibdin, thomas doss chiderdoss ducange anglicus egan, pierce fletcher, john goadby, robert gregson harper, j. henley, w. ernest h. t. r. jones, j. maginn, william maher, will matsell, g. w. messink middleton, thomas milliken, t. moore, thomas morley, r. parker, george rede, leman reynolds, g. w. m. rowlands, samuel sims, g. r. smith, w. h. tomlinson, r. vance forewords when harrison ainsworth, in his preface to _rookwood,_ claimed tobe "the first to write a purely flash song" he was very wide of themark. as a matter of fact, "nix my doll, pals, fake away!" had beenanticipated, in its treatment of canting phraseology, by nearly three centuries, and subsequently, by authors whose names stand high, in other respects, in english literature. the mistake, however, was not altogether unpardonable; few, indeed, would have even guessed that the appearance of utter neglect which surrounded the use of cant and slang in english song, ballad, or verse--its rich and racy character notwithstanding--was anything but of the surface. the _chanson d'argot_ of france and the _romance di germania_ of spain, not to mention other forms of the musa pedestris had long held popular sway, but there was to all appearance nothing to correspond with them on this side the silver streak. it must be confessed, however, that the field of english slang verse and canting song, though not altogether barren, has yet small claim to the idiomatic and plastic treatment that obtains in many an _argot- song_ and _germania-romance;_ in truth, with a few notable exceptions, there is little in the present collection that can claim literary rank. those exceptions, however, are alone held to be ample justification for such an anthology as that here presented. moreover these "rhymes and songs", gathered from up and down the years, exhibit, _en masse_, points of interest to the student and scholar that, in isolation, were either wanting altogether, or were buried and lost sight of midst a mass of more (or less) valuable matter. as regards the vulgar tongue itself--though exhaustive disquisition obviously lies outside the scope of necessarily brief forewords--it may be pointed out that its origin in england is confessedly obscure. prior to the second half of the th century, there was little trace of that flood of unorthodox speech which, in this year of grace eighteen hundred and ninety-six, requires six quarto double-columned volumes duly to chronicle--verily a vast and motley crowd! as to the distinction to be drawn between cant and slang it is somewhat difficult to speak. cant we know; its limits and place in the world of philology are well defined. in slang, however, we have a veritable proteus, ever shifting, and for the most part defying exact definition and orderly derivation. few, save scholars and such-like folk, even distinguish between the two, though the line of demarcation is sharply enough defined. in the first place, slang is universal, whilst cant is restricted in usage to certain classes of the community: thieves, vagrom men, and-- well, their associates. one thing, indeed, both have in common; each are derived from a correct normal use of language. there, however, all similarity ends. slang boasts a quasi-respectability denied to cant, though cant is frequently more enduring, its use continuing without variation of meaning for many generations. with slang this is the exception; present in force to-day, it is either altogether forgotten to-morrow, or has shaded off into some new meaning--a creation of chance and circumstance. both cant and slang, but slang to a more determinate degree, are mirrors in which those who look may see reflected a picture of the age, with its failings, foibles, and idiosyncrasies. they reflect the social life of the people, the mirror rarely being held to truth so faithfully--hence the present interest, and may be future value, of these songs and rhymes. for the rest the book will speak for itself. musa pedestris rhymes of the canting crew. [notes] [c. ] [from "_the hye-way to the spyttel-hons"_ by robert copland (hazlitt, _early popular poetry of england, iv_.) robert copland and the porter of st. bartholomew's hospital _loquitor_]. _copland._ come none of these pedlers this way also, with pak on bak with their bousy speche [ ] jagged and ragged with broken hose and breche? _porter._ inow, ynow; with bousy coue maimed nace,[ ] teare the patryng coue in the darkeman cace docked the dell for a coper meke; his watch shall feng a prounces nob-chete, cyarum, by salmon, and thou shall pek my jere in thy gan, for my watch it is nace gere for the bene bouse my watch hath a coyn. and thus they babble tyll their thryft is thin i wote not what with their pedlyng frenche. [ crapulous] [ notes] the beggar's curse [ ] [from _lanthorne and candlelight_, by thomas dekker, ed. grosart ( ), iii, :--"a canting song, wherein you may learn, how _this_ cursed _generation_ pray, or (to speake truth) curse such officers as punish them"]. [notes] i the ruffin cly the nab of the harmanbeck, if we mawnd pannam, lap, or ruff-peck, or poplars of yarum: he cuts, bing to the ruffmans, or els he sweares by the light-mans, to put our stamps in the harmans, the ruffian cly the ghost of the harmanbeck if we heaue a booth we cly the lerk. [the devil take the constable's head! if we beg bread, drink, bacon, or milk porridge, he says: "be off to the hedges" or swears, in the morning to clap our feet in the stocks. the devil take the constable's ghost if we rob a house we are flogged.] ii if we niggle, or mill a bowzing ken, or nip a boung that has but a win, or dup the giger of a gentry cores ken, to the quier cuffing we bing; and then to the quier ken, to scowre the cramp-ring, and then to the trin'de on the chates, in the light-mans, the bube &. ruffian cly the harmanbeck & harmans. [if we fornicate, or thieve in an alehouse, rob a purse with only a penny in it. or break into a gentleman's house, to the magistrate we go; then to gaol to be shackled, whence to be hanged on the gallows in the morning, the pox and the devil take the constable and his stocks.] "owre out ben morts" [ ] [by samuel rowlands in _"martin mark-all, beadle of bridewell: his defence and answere to the belman of london"_]. i towre out ben morts & towre,[ ] looke out ben morts & towre, for all the rome coues are budgd a beake,[ ] and the quire coves tippe the lowre.[ ] ii the quire coues are budgd to the bowsing ken,[ ] as romely as a ball,[ ] but if we be spid we shall be clyd,[ ] and carried to the quirken hall.[ ] iii out budgd the coue of the ken,[ ] with a ben filtch in his quarr'me[ ] that did the prigg good that bingd in the kisome,[ ] to towre the coue budge alar'me. [ : look-out, good women;] [ : all the rome-coves [notes] have run away [notes]] [ : queer-coves taken the money] [ : have sneaked to the ale-house] [ : nimbly] [ : whipped] [ : taken to gaol.] [ : crept; master of the house] [: staff; hand.] [ : went to search for the man who had given the alarm.] the maunder's wooing [notes] [ ] [by samuel rowlands in _martin mark-all, beadle of bridewell: his defence and answere to the belman of london_:--"i will shew you what i heard at _knock-vergos_, drinking there a pot of english ale, two maunders borne and bred vp rogues wooing in their natiue language"]. i o ben mort wilt thou pad with me,[ ] one ben slate shall serue both thee and me,[ ] my caster and commission shall serue vs both to maund,[ ] my bong, my lowre & fambling cheates[ ] shall be at thy command. ii o ben coue that may not be, [ ] for thou hast an autem mort who euer that is she,[ ] if that she were dead & bingd to his long tibb,[ ] then would i pad and maund with thee,[ ] and wap and fon the fibb.[ ] iii o ben mort castle out & towre,[ ] where all the roome coues slopne that we may tip the lowre,[ ] whe_ [*]we haue tipt the lowre & fenc't away the duds[ ] then binge we to the bowzing ken,[ ] thats cut the robin hood.[ ] iv but o ben coue what if we be clyd, [ ] long we cannot foist & nip at last we shall be spyed, [ ] if that we be spied, o then begins our woe, with the harman beake out and alas, [ ] to wittington we goe. [ ] v stow your whids & plant, and whid no more of that [ ] budg a beak the crackmas & tip lowr with thy prat [ ] if treyning thou dost feare, thou ner wilt foist a ian, [ ] then mill, and wap and treine for me, [ ] a gere peck in thy gan. [ ] as they were thus after a strange maner a wooing, in comes by chance a clapper-dudgeon [ ] for a pinte of ale, who as soone as he was spied, they left off their roguish poetry, and fell to mocke of the poor maunder thus. vi the clapper dugeon lies in the skipper, [ ] he dares not come out for shame, but when he binges out he dus budg to the gigger, [ ] tip in my skew good dame. [ : good woman, tramp] [ : sheet] [ : cloak; shirt; beg] [ : purse; money; rings] [ : good man] [ : wife] [ : gone to her longhome] [ : tramp and beg] [ : notes] [ : find out] [ : thieves; congregate; get money] [ : sold the swag] [ : go to the alehouse] [ : called the "robin hood."] [ : arrested?] [ : cheat and steal] [ : magistrate] [ : newgate] [ : hold your jaw! hide, and say no more] [ : notes] [ : hanging; pick a purse] [ : rob; whore; hang] [ : notes] [ : notes] [ : beggar; barn] [ : comes out; goes to people's doors--"put something in my wallet."] "a gage of ben rom-bouse" [notes] [ ] [by middleton and dekker in "_the roaring girl_" v, . sung by _moll-cut-purse_ and _tearcat_ a bullying rogue.] _moll_. come you rogue, sing with me:-- a gage of ben rom-bouse,[ ] in a bousing-ken of rom-vile[ ] _tearcat_. is benar than a caster,[ ] peck, pennam, lap, or popler,[ ] which we mill in deuse a vile.[ ] _moll_. oh, i wud lib all the lightmans,[ ] oh, i woud lib all the darkemans,[ ] by the salomon, under the ruffemans[ ] by the salomon in the hartmans[ ] _tearcat_. and scoure the queer cramp ring[ ] and couch till a palliard dock'd my dell,[ ] so my bousy nab might skew rome bouse well[ ] avast to the pad, let us bing;[ ] avast to the pad, let us bing. [ a pot of strong ale (or wine)] [ london ale-house] [ better than a cloak] [ meat, bread, drink, or porridge] [ steal on the country-side.] [ lie all day] [ night] [ by the mass! in the woods] [ stocks] [ in fetters] [ notes] [ addle-pate may swill strong drink] [ let us be off on the road.] "bing out, bien morts" [notes] [ ] [from _o per se o_, by thomas dekker]. bing out, bien morts, and toure, and toure,[ ] bing out, bien morts, and toure;[ ] for all your duds are bingd awaste,[ ] the bien coue hath the loure.[ ] * * * * * i i met a dell, i viewde her well,[ ] she was benship to my watch; [ ] so she and i, did stall and cloy,[ ] whateuer we could catch. [ ] ii this doxie dell, can cut bien whids, [ ] and wap well for a win; [ ] and prig and cloy so benshiply, [ ] all the dewsea-vile within. [ ] iii the boyle was vp, wee had good lucke,[ ] in frost, for and in snow;[ ] when they did seeke, then we did creepe,[ ] and plant in ruffe-mans low.[ ] iv to stawling kenne the mort bings then,[ ] to fetch loure for her cheates;[ ] duds and ruff-pecke, ruinboild by harmanbecke,[ ] and won by mawnder's feates.[ ] v you mawnders all, stow what you stall,[ ] to rome coues watch so quire;[ ] and wapping dell that niggles well,[ ] and takes loure for her hire.[ ] vi and jvbe well ierkt, tick rome-comfeck,[ ] for backe by glimmar to mawnd,[ ] to mill each ken, let coue bing then,[ ] through ruffemans, lague or launde.[ ] vii till cramprings quier, tip coue his hire,[ ] and quier-kens doe them catch;[ ] a canniken, mill quier cuffen,[ ] so quier to ben coue's watch.[ ] viii bein darkmans then, bouse, mort, and ken [ ] the bien coue's bingd awast; [ ] on chates to trine, by rome-coues dine [ ] for his long lib at last. [ ] * * * * * bingd out bien morts, and toure, and toure,[ ] bing out of the rome-vile; [ ] and toure the coue, that cloyde your duds,[ ] upon the chates to trine.[ ] [ go abroad, good women,] [ and look about you;] [ for all your clothes are stolen;] [ and a good fellow (a clever thief) has the money.] [ i met a wench and summed her up,] [ she suited me very well] [ so (joining company) she watched while i stole] [ whatever came our way.] [ this young whore can lie like truth,] [ fornicate vigorously for a penny] [ and steal very cleverly] [ on the countryside] [ when the house was alarmed we had good luck] [ in spite of frost and snow] [ when they sought us we hid] [ in the woods.] [ to a thieves' receiving house the woman goes] [ to get money for the swag--] [ notes] [ got by a rogue's dexterity.] [ ye rogues do not brag of your booty] [ to rogues who are not straight] [ or trust a mistress, who though she [notes]] [ does so for hire.] [ with a counterfeit license and forged signatures [notes]] [ as to losses by fire] [ to rob each house let a man go] [ thro' hedge, ditch and field] [ till fetters are his desserts] [ and a prison is his fate] [ a plague take the magistrate!] [ who is so hard on a clever rogue] [ a good-night then to drink, wench, and ale-house--] [ the poor fellow is gone] [ on the gallows to hang by rogues betray'd] [ to his long sleep.] [ so go, my good woman] [ out of london] [ and see the man who stole your clothes] [ upon the gallows hanging.] the song of the beggar [notes] [ ] [from _"a description of love"_ th ed. ( )]. i i am rogue and a stout one, a most courageous drinker, i doe excell, 'tis knowne full well, the ratter, tom, and tinker. still doe i cry, good your worship good sir, bestow one small denire, sir [ ] and brauely at the bousing ken [ ] he bouse it all in beere, sir. [ ] ii if a bung be got by the hie law, [ ] then straight i doe attend them, for if hue and crie doe follow, i a wrong way soone doe send them. still doe i cry, etc. iii ten miles vnto a market. i runne to meet a miser, then in a throng, i nip his bung, [ ] and the partie ne'er the wiser. still doe i cry, etc. iv my dainty dals, my doxis, [ ] whene'er they see me lacking, without delay, poore wretches they will set their duds a packing. [ ] still doe i cry, etc. v i pay for what i call for, and so perforce it must be, for as yet i can, not know the man, nor oastis that will trust me. still doe i cry, etc. vi if any giue me lodging, a courteous knaue they find me, for in their bed, aliue or dead, i leave some lice behind me. still doe i cry, etc. vii if a gentry coue be comming, [ ] then straight it is our fashion, my legge i tie, close to my thigh, to moue him to compassion. still doe i cry, etc. viii my doublet sleeue hangs emptie, and for to begge the bolder, for meate and drinke mine arme i shrinke, vp close vnto my shoulder. still doe i cry, etc. ix if a coach i heere be rumbling, to my crutches then i hie me, for being lame, it is a shame, such gallants should denie me. still doe i cry, etc. x with a seeming bursten belly, i looke like one half dead, sir, or else i beg with a woodden legge, and a night-cap on me head, sir, still doe i cry, etc. xi in winter time starke naked i come into some citie, then euery man that spare them can, will giue me clothes for pittie. still doe i cry, etc. xii if from out the low-countrie, [ ] i heare a captaines name, sir, then strait i swere i have bin there; and so in fight came lame, sir. still doe i cry, etc. xiii my dogge in a string doth lead me, when in the towne i goe, sir, for to the blind, all men are kind, and will their almes bestow, sir, still doe i cry, etc. xiv with switches sometimes stand i, in the bottom of a hill, sir, there those men which doe want a switch, some monie give me still, sir. still doe i cry, etc. xv come buy, come buy a horne-booke, who buys my pins or needles? in cities i these things doe crie, oft times to scape the beadles. still doe i cry, etc. xvi in pauls church by a pillar; [ ] sometimes you see me stand, sir, with a writ that showes, what care and woes i past by sea and land, sir. still doe i cry, etc. xvii now blame me not for boasting, and bragging thus alone, sir, for my selfe i will be praying still, for neighbours have i none, sir. which makes me cry, etc. [ : penny] [ : ale-house] [ : drink] [ : purse; notes] [ : steal his purse] [ : girls; whores] [ : pawn their clothes] [ : gentleman] [ : notes] [ : notes] * * * * * the maunder's initiation [notes] [ ] [from _the beggars bush_ by john fletcher; also in _the new canting dict_:--"sung on the electing of a new dimber damber, or king of the gypsies"]. i cast your nabs and cares away, this is maunder's holiday: [ ] in the world look out and see, where so blest a king as he _(pointing to the newly-elected prince.)_ ii at the crowning of our king, thus we ever dance and sing: where's the nation lives so free, and so merrily as we? iii be it peace, or be it war, here at liberty we are: hang all harmanbecks we cry, [ ] we the cuffins quere defy. [ ] iv we enjoy our ease and rest, to the fields we are not pressed: and when taxes are increased, we are not a penny 'sessed. v nor will any go to law, with a maunder for a straw, all which happiness he brags, is only owing to his rags. "now swear him"-- i crown thy nab with a gage of ben bouse,[ ] and stall thee by the salmon into clowes,[ ] to maund on the pad, and strike all the cheats, [ ] to mill from the ruffmans, commission, and slates, [ ] twang dells i' th' stiromel, and let the quire cuffin and harman beck strine and trine to the ruffin. [ ] [ : beggar] [ : constables] [ : magistrates] [ : i pour on thy pate a pot of good ale] [ : and install thee, by oath, a rogue] [ : to beg by the way, steal from all,] [ : rob hedge of shirt and sheet,] [ : to lie with wenches on the straw, so let all magistrates and constables go to the devil and be hanged!] the high pad's boast [_b_. ] [attributed to john fletcher--a song from a collection of black-letter broadside ballads. also in _new canting dict_. .] i i keep my horse; i keep my whore; i take no rents; yet am not poor; i travel all the land about, and yet was born to ne'er a foot. ii with partridge plump, and woodcock fine, at midnight, i do often dine: and if my whore be not in case, [ ] my hostess' daughter has her place. iii the maids sit up, and watch their turns; if i stay long, the tapster mourns; nor has the cookmaid mind to sin, tho' tempted by the chamberlain. iv but when i knock, o how they bustle; the hostler yawns, the geldings justle: if the maid be sleepy, o how they curse her; and all this comes, of, _deliver your purse, sir._ [ : in the house] the merry beggars [notes] [ ] [from _a jovial crew_, by richard brome. the beggars discovered at their feast. after they have scrambled awhile at their victuals: this song]. i here safe in our skipper let's cly off our peck, [ ] and bowse in defiance o' the harman beck. [ ] here's pannam and lap, and good poplars of yarrum, [ ] to fill up the crib, and to comfort the quarron. [ ] now bowse a round health to the go-well and corn-well, [ ] of cisley bumtrincket that lies in the strummel; [ ] ii here's ruffpeck and casson, and all of the best, [ ] and scrape of the dainties of gentry cofe's feast [ ] here's grunter and bleater, with tib-of-the-buttry, [ ] and margery prater, all dress'd without sluttry. [ ] for all this bene cribbing and peck let us then, [ ] bowse a health to the gentry cofe of the ken. [ ] now bowse a round health to the go-well and corn-well [ ] of cisley bumtrincket that lies in the strummel. [ ] [ : safe in our barn let's eat] [ : and drink without fear of the constable!] [ : here's bread, drink, and milk-porridge] [ : to fill the belly, and comfort the body.] [ : drink a good health [notes]] [ : to cisley bumtrincket lying in the straw] [ : here's bacon and cheese] [ : and scraps from the gentleman's table] [ : here's pork, mutton, goose,] [ : and chicken, all well-cooked.] [ : for this good food and meat let us] [ : drink the gentleman's health and] [ : then drink a bumper] [ : to cisley bumtrincket.] a mort's drinking song [notes] [ ] [from _a jovial crew_, by richard brome: enter patrico with his old wife with a wooden bowle of drink. she is drunk. she sings:--] i this is bien bowse, this is bien bowse, [ ] too little is my skew. [ ] i bowse no lage, but a whole gage [ ] of this i'll bowse to you. ii this bowse is better than rom-bowse, [ ] it sets the gan a-gigling, [ ] the autum-mort finds better sport [ ] in bowsing than in nigling. [ ] this is bien bowse, etc. [_she tosses off her bowle, falls back and is carried out_.] [ : strong ale] [ : cup or platter] [ : water; pot] [ : wine] [ : mouth] [ : wife] [ : fornicating] "a beggar i'll be" [notes] [ -- ] [a black-letter broadside ballad] i a beggar, a beggar, a beggar i'll be, there's none leads a life more jocund than he; a beggar i was, and a beggar i am, a beggar i'll be, from a beggar i came; if, as it begins, our trading do fall, we, in the conclusion, shall beggars be all. tradesmen are unfortunate in their affairs, and few men are thriving but courtiers and play'rs. ii a craver my father, a maunder my mother, [ ] a filer my sister, a filcher my brother, a canter my uncle, that car'd not for pelf, a lifter my aunt, and a beggar myself; in white wheaten straw, when their bellies were full, then was i got between a tinker and a trull. and therefore a beggar, a beggar i'll be, for there's none lives a life more jocund than he iii for such pretty pledges, as lullies from hedges. [ ] we are not in fear to be drawn upon sledges, but sometimes the whip doth make us to skip and then we from tything to tything do trip; but when in a poor boozing-can we do bib it, [ ] we stand more in dread of the stocks than the gibbet and therefore a merry mad beggar i'll be for when it is night in the barn tumbles he. iv we throw down no altar, nor never do falter, so much as to change a gold-chain for a halter; though some men do flout us, and others do doubt us, we commonly bear forty pieces about us; but many good fellows are fine and look fiercer, and owe for their cloaths to the taylor and mercer: and if from the harmans i keep out my feet, [ ] i fear not the compter, king's bench, nor the fleet. [ ] v sometimes i do frame myself to be lame, and when a coach comes, i hop to my game; we seldom miscarry, or never do marry, by the gown, common-prayer, or cloak-directory; but simon and susan, like birds of a feather they kiss, and they laugh, and so jumble together; [ ] like pigs in the pea-straw, intangled they lie, till there they beget such a bold rogue as i. vi when boys do come to us, and their intent is to follow our calling, we ne'er bind 'em 'prentice; soon as they come to 't, we teach them to do 't, and give them a staff and a wallet to boot; we teach them their lingua, to crave and to cant, [ ] the devil is in them if then they can want. and he or she, that a beggar will be, without any indentures they shall be made free. vii we beg for our bread, yet sometimes it happens we fast it with pig, pullet, coney, and capons the church's affairs, we are no men-slayers, we have no religion, yet live by our prayers; but if when we beg, men will not draw their purses, we charge, and give fire, with a volley of curses; the devil confound your good worship, we cry, and such a bold brazen-fac'd beggar am i. viii we do things in season, and have so much reason, we raise no rebellion, nor never talk treason; we bill all our mates at very low rates, while some keep their quarters as high as the fates; with shinkin-ap-morgan, with blue-cap, or teague, [ ] we into no covenant enter, nor league. and therefore a bonny bold beggar i'll be, for none lives a life more merry than he. [ notes] [ wet linen] [ ale-house] [ stocks] [ notes] [ notes] [ beggar's patter] [ notes] a budg and snudg song [notes] [ and ] [from _a warning for housekeepers_... by one who was a prisoner in newgate . the second version from the _triumph of wit_ ( )]. i the budge it is a delicate trade, [ ] and a delicate trade of fame; for when that we have bit the bloe,[ ] we carry away the game: but if the cully nap us, [ ] and the lurries from us take, [ ] o then {they rub}{he rubs} us to the whitt [ ] {and it is hardly }{though we are not} worth a make [ ] ii {but}{and} when we come to the whitt our darbies to behold, [ ] and for to (take our penitency)(do out penance there) {and}{we} boose the water cold. [ ] but when that we come out agen [and the merry hick we meet] [ ] we (bite the cully of; file off with) his cole [ ] as (we walk; he pikes) along the street. iii [and when that we have fil'd him [ ] perhaps of half a job; [ ] then every man to the boozin ken [ ] o there to fence his hog; [ ] but if the cully nap us, and once again we get into the cramping rings], [ ] (but we are rubbed into; to scoure them in) the whitt. iv and when that we come (to; unto) the whitt, for garnish they do cry; [ ] (mary, faugh, you son of a whore; we promise our lusty comrogues) (ye; they) shall have it by and bye [then, every man with his mort in his hand, [ ] does booze off his can and part, with a kiss we part, and westward stand, to the nubbing cheat in a cart]. [ ] v {but/and} when {that/---} we come to {tyburn/the nubbing cheat} for {going upon/running on} the budge, there stands {jack catch/jack ketch}, that son of a {whore/bitch}, [ ] that owes us all a grudge. {and/for} when that he hath {noosed/nubbed} us, [ ] and our friends {tips/tip} him no cole, [ ] {o then he throws us in the cart/he takes his chive and cuts us down}, [ ] and {tumbles/tips} us into {the/a} hole. [an additional stanza is given in _bacchus and venus_ ( ), a version which moreover contains many verbal variations]. [ ] vi but if we have a friend stand by, six and eight pence for to pay, then they may have our bodies back, and carry us quite away: for at st giles's or st martin's, a burying place is still; and there's an end of a darkman's budge, and the whoreson hath his will. [ : sneaking into houses and stealing anything to hand] [ : accomplished the theft] [ : fellow catches] [ swag [properly money]] [ : take us to newgate; [notes]] [ : halfpenny] [ : fetters] [ : drink] [ : countryman] [ : steal his money] [ : robbed] [ : half a guinea] [ : ale-house] [ : spend a shilling] [ : handcuffs and leg-shackles] [ : "footing"] [ : whore] [ : gallows] [ : notes] [ : hung] [ : give no money] [ : knife] [ : notes] the maunder's praise of his strowling mort [notes] [ ] [from _the triumph of wit_, by j. shirley: "the king of the gypsies's song, made upon his beloved doxy, or mistress;" also in _new canting diet_. ( )]. i doxy, oh! thy glaziers shine [ ] as glimmar; by the salomon! [ ] no gentry mort hath prats like thine, [ ] no cove e'er wap'd with such a one. [ ] ii white thy fambles, red thy gan, [ ] and thy quarrons dainty is; [ ] couch a hogshead with me then, [ ] and in the darkmans clip and kiss. [ ] iii what though i no togeman wear, [ ] nor commission, mish, or slate; [ ] store of strammel we'll have here, [ ] and ith' skipper lib in state. [ ] iv wapping thou i know does love, [ ] else the ruffin cly the mort; [ ] from thy stampers then remove, [ ] thy drawers, and let's prig in sport. [ ] v when the lightman up does call, [ ] margery prater from her nest, [ ] and her cackling cheats withal, [ ] in a boozing ken we'll feast. [ ] vi there if lour we want; i'll mill [ ] a gage, or nip for thee a bung; [ ] rum booze thou shalt booze thy fill, [ ] and crash a grunting cheat that's young. [ ] [ mistress; eyes] [ fire; mass] [ lady; [notes]] [ [notes]] [ hand; mouth] [ body] [ sleep] [ night; [notes]] [ cloak] [ shirt or sheet] [ straw] [ in the barn; lie] [ notes] [ the devil take the woman otherwise] [ feet] [ stockings; revel] [ daylight] [ hen] [ chickens] [ ale-house] [ money; steal] [ pot; steal a purse] [ wine; drink] [ eat; pig] the rum-mort's praise of her faithless maunder [notes] [ ] [from _the triumph of wit_, by j. shirley: also in _new canting dict._]. i now my kinching-cove is gone, [ ] by the rum-pad maundeth none, [ ] quarrons both for stump and bone, [ ] like my clapperdogeon. [ ] ii dimber damber fare thee well, [ ] palliards all thou didst excel, [ ] and thy jockum bore the bell, [ ] glimmer on it never fell. [ ] iii thou the cramprings ne'er did scowre, [ ] harmans had on thee no power, [ ] harmanbecks did never toure;	[ ] for thee, the drawers still had loure. [ ] iv duds and cheats thou oft hast won, [ ] yet the cuffin quire couldst shun; [ ] and the deuseaville didst run, [ ] else the chates had thee undone. [ ] v crank and dommerar thou couldst play, [ ] or rum-maunder in one day, and like an abram-cove couldst pray, yet pass with gybes well jerk'd away. vi when the darkmans have been wet, [ ] thou the crackmans down didst beat [ ] for glimmer, whilst a quaking cheat, [ ] or tib-o'-th'-buttry was our meat. [ ] vii red shanks then i could not lack, [ ] ruff peck still hung on my back, [ ] grannam ever fill'd my sack [ ] with lap and poplars held i tack. [ ] viii to thy bugher and thy skew, [ ] filch and gybes i bid adieu, [ ] though thy togeman was not new, [ ] in it the rogue to me was true. [ : little man] [ : highway; beggeth] [ : body] [ : notes] [ : notes] [ : notes] [ : notes] [ : notes] [ : fetters; wear] [ : stocks] [ : constables, look] [ : pockets; money] [ : clothes; general plunder] [ : magistrate] [ : country] [ : gallows] [ : notes] [ : night] [ : hedge] [ : fire, duck] [ : goose] [ : turkey] [ : bacon] [ : corn] [ : any potable; porridge] [ : dog; wooden dish] [ : hook; counterfeit pass] [ : cloak] the black procession [notes] [ ] [from _the triumph of wit_, by j. shirley:--"the twenty craftsmen, described by the notorious thief-taker jonathan wild"]. good people, give ear, whilst a story i tell, of twenty black tradesmen who were brought up in hell, on purpose poor people to rob of their due; there's none shall be nooz'd if you find but one true. [ ] the first was a coiner, that stampt in a mould; the second a voucher to put off his gold, [ ] toure you well; hark you well, see [ ] where they are rubb'd, [ ] up to the nubbing cheat where they are nubb'd. [ ] ii the third was a padder, that fell to decay, [ ] who used for to plunder upon the highway; the fourth was a mill-ken to crack up a door, [ ] he'd venture to rob both the rich and the poor, the fifth was a glazier who when he creeps in, [ ] to pinch all the lurry he thinks it no sin. [ ] toure you well, etc. iii the sixth is a file-cly that not one cully spares,[ ] the seventh a budge to track softly upstairs; [ ] the eighth is a bulk, that can bulk any hick, [ ] if the master be nabbed, then the bulk he is sick, the ninth is an angler, to lift up a grate [ ] if he sees but the lurry his hooks he will bait. toure you well, etc. iv the tenth is a shop-lift that carries a bob, when he ranges the city, the shops for to rob. the eleventh a bubber, much used of late; who goes to the ale house, and steals all their plate, the twelfth is a beau-trap, if a cull he does meet he nips all his cole, and turns him into the street. toure you well, etc. v the thirteenth a famble, false rings for to sell, [ ] when a mob, he has bit his cole he will tell; the fourteenth a gamester, if he sees the cull sweet [ ] he presently drops down a cog in the street; [ ] the fifteenth a prancer, whose courage is small, [ ] if they catch him horse-coursing, he's nooz'd once for all. [ ] toure you well, etc. vi the sixteenth a sheep-napper, whose trade is so deep, [ ] if he's caught in the corn, he's marked for a sheep [ ] the seventeenth a dunaker, that stoutly makes vows, [ ] to go in the country and steal all the cows; the eighteenth a kid-napper, who spirits young men, tho' he tips them a pike, they oft nap him again. toure you well, etc. vii the nineteenth's a prigger of cacklers who harms, [ ] the poor country higlers, and plunders the farms; [ ] he steals all their poultry, and thinks it no sin, when into the hen-roost, in the night, he gets in; the twentieth's a thief-catcher, so we him call, who if he be nabb'd will be made pay for all. toure you well, etc. [in _bacchus and venus_ ( ) an additional stanza is given:--] viii there's many more craftsmen whom here i could name, [ ] who use such-like trades, abandon'd of shame; to the number of more than three-score on the whole, who endanger their body, and hazard their soul; and yet; though good workmen, are seldom made free, till they ride in a cart, and be noozed on a tree. toure you well, hark you well, see where they are rubb'd, up to the nubbing cheat, where they are nubb'd. [ : hung] [ : passer of base coin] [ : look! be on your guard] [ : taken] [ : gallows: hung] [ : tramp or foot-pad.] [ : housebreaker] [ : window thief] [ : valuables] [ : pickpocket; man or silly fop] [ : sneaking-thief] [ : accomplice who jostles whilst another robs: countryman] [ : thief who hooks goods from shop-windows] [ : public-house thief] [ : confidence-trick man; good-natured fool] [ : steals all his money] [ : notes] [ : an easy dupe] [ : a lure] [ : horse-thief] [ : hung] [ : sheep-stealer] [ : as a duffer] [ : cattle-lifter] [ : poultry-thief] [ : bumpkins] [ : members of the canting crew] frisky moll's song [ ] [by j. harper, and sung by frisky moll in john thurmond's _harlequin sheppard_ produced at drury lane theatre]. i from priggs that snaffle the prancers strong, [ ] to you of the _peter_ lay, [ ] i pray now listen a while to my song, how my _boman_ he kick'd away. [ ] ii he broke thro' all rubbs in the whitt, [ ] and chiv'd his darbies in twain; [ ] but fileing of a rumbo ken, [ ] my _boman_ is snabbled again. [ ] iii i _frisky moll_, with my rum coll, [ ] wou'd grub in a bowzing ken; [ ] but ere for the scran he had tipt the cole, [ ] the _harman_ he came in. [ ] iv a famble, a tattle, and two popps, [ ] had my _boman_ when he was ta'en; but had he not bouz'd in the diddle shops, [ ] he'd still been in drury-lane. [ : steal horses] [ : carriage thieves] [ : fancy man or sweetheart] [ : obstacles; newgate] [ : cut fetters] [ : breaking into a pawn-broker's] [ : imprisoned] [ : good man] [ : eat; ale-house] [ : refreshments; paid] [ : constable] [ ring; watch; pistols] [ gin-shops] the canter's serenade [notes] [ ] [from _the new canting dictionary_:--"sung early in the morning, at the barn doors where their doxies have reposed during the night"]. i ye morts and ye dells [ ] come out of your cells, and charm all the palliards about ye; [ ] here birds of all feathers, through deep roads and all weathers, are gathered together to toute ye. ii with faces of wallnut, and bladder and smallgut, we're come scraping and singing to rouse ye; rise, shake off your straw, and prepare you each maw [ ] to kiss, eat, and drink till you're bouzy. [ ] [ : women; girls] [ : beggars [notes]] [ : mouth] [ : drunk,] "retoure my dear dell" [notes] [ ] [from _the new canting dictionary_] i each darkmans i pass in an old shady grove, [ ] and live not the lightmans i toute not my love, [ ] i surtoute every walk, which we used to pass, [ ] and couch me down weeping, and kiss the cold grass: [ ] i cry out on my mort to pity my pain, and all our vagaries remember again. ii didst thou know, my dear doxy, but half of the smart [ ] which has seized on my panter, since thou didst depart; [ ] didst thou hear but my sighs, my complaining and groans, thou'dst surely retoure, and pity my moans: [ ] thou'dst give me new pleasure for all my past pain, and i should rejoice in thy glaziers again. [ ] iii but alas! 'tis my fear that the false _patri-coe_ [ ] is reaping those transports are only my due: retoure, my dear doxy, oh, once more retoure, and i'll do all to please thee that lies in my power: then be kind, my dear dell, and pity my pain, and let me once more toute thy glaziers again iv on redshanks and tibs thou shalt every day dine, [ ] and if it should e'er be my hard fate to trine, [ ] i never will whiddle, i never will squeek, [ ] nor to save my colquarron endanger thy neck, [ ] then once more, my doxy, be kind and retoure, and thou shalt want nothing that lies in my power. [ : night] [ : day; see] [ : know well] [ : lie] [ : mistress] [ : heart] [ : return] [ : eyes] [ : hedge-priest] [ : turkey; geese] [ : hang] [ : speak] [ : neck] the vain dreamer. [notes] [ ] [from _the new canting dictionary_]. i yest darkmans dream'd i of my dell, [ ] when sleep did overtake her; it was a dimber drowsy mort, [ ] she slept, i durst not wake her. ii her gans were like to coral red, [ ] a thousand times i kiss'd 'em; a thousand more i might have filch'd' [ ] she never could have miss'd 'em. iii her strammel, curl'd, like threads of gold, [ ] hung dangling o'er the pillow; great pity 'twas that one so prim, should ever wear the willow. iv i turned down the lilly slat, [ ] methought she fell a screaming, this startled me; i straight awak'd, and found myself but dreaming. [ : evening] [ : pretty] [ : lips] [ : stolen] [ : hair] [ : white sheet] "when my dimber dell i courted" [notes] [ ] [from _the new canting dictionary_], i when my dimber dell i courted [ ] she had youth and beauty too, wanton joys my heart transported, and her wap was ever new. [ ] but conquering time doth now deceive her, which her pleasures did uphold; all her wapping now must leave her, for, alas! my dell's grown old. ii her wanton motions which invited, now, alas! no longer charm, her glaziers too are quite benighted, [ ] nor can any prig-star charm. for conquering time, alas! deceives her which her triumphs did uphold, and every moving beauty leaves her alas! my dimber dell's grown old. iii there was a time no cull could toute her, [ ] but was sure to be undone: nor could th' uprightman live without her, [ ] she triumph'd over every one. but conquering time does now deceive her, which her sporting us'd t' uphold, all her am'rous dambers leave her, for, alas! the dell's grown old. iv all thy comfort, dimber dell, is, now, since thou hast lost thy prime, that every cull can witness well, thou hast not misus'd thy time. there's not a prig or palliard living, who has not been thy slave inroll'd. then cheer thy mind, and cease thy grieving; thou'st had thy time, tho' now grown old. [ : pretty wench] [ : notes] [ : eyes] [ : man; look at] [ : notes] the oath of the canting crew [notes] [ ] [from _the life of bampfylde moore carew_, by robert goadby]. i, crank cuffin, swear to be [ ] true to this fraternity; that i will in all obey rule and order of the lay. never blow the gab or squeak; [ ] never snitch to bum or beak; [ ] but religiously maintain authority of those who reign over stop hole abbey green, [ ] be their tawny king, or queen. in their cause alone will fight; think what they think, wrong or right; serve them truly, and no other, and be faithful to my brother; suffer none, from far or near, with their rights to interfere; no strange abram, ruffler crack, [ ] hooker of another pack, rogue or rascal, frater, maunderer, [ ] irish toyle, or other wanderer; [ ] no dimber, dambler, angler, dancer, prig of cackler, prig of prancer; no swigman, swaddler, clapper-dudgeon; cadge-gloak, curtal, or curmudgeon; no whip-jack, palliard, patrico; no jarkman, be he high or low; no dummerar, or romany; no member of the family; no ballad-basket, bouncing buffer, nor any other, will i suffer; but stall-off now and for ever all outtiers whatsoever; and as i keep to the foregone, so may help me salamon! [by the mass!] [ : notes] [ : reveal secrets] [ : betray to bailif or magistrate] [ : notes] [ : notes] [ : notes; beggar] [ : notes] come all you buffers gay [notes] [ ] [from _the humourist_ .... a choice collection o£ songs. 'a new flash song', p. ]. i come all you buffers gay, [ ] that rumly do pad the city, [ ] come listen to what i do say, and it will make you wond'rous wity. ii the praps are at drury lane, and at covent garden also, therefore i tell you plain, it will not be safe for to go. iii but if after a rum cull you pad [ ] pray follow him brave and bold; for many a buffer has been grab'd, for fear, as i've been told. iv let your pal that follows behind, tip your bulk pretty soon; and to slap his whip in time, [ ] for fear the cull should be down. [ ] v for if the cull should be down. and catch you a fileing his bag, [ ] then at the old bailey you're found, and d--m you, he'll tip you the lag. [ ] vi but if you should slape his staunch wipe [ ] then away to the fence you may go, [ ] from thence to the ken of one t-- [ ] where you in full bumpers may flow. vii but now i have finish'd my rhime, and of you all must take my leave; i would have you to leave off in time, or they will make your poor hearts to bleed. [ : rogue or horse-thief] [ : prowl about] [ : well-dressed victim; walk] [ : give signal to confederate] [ : notes] [ : robbing] [ : get you transported] [ : steal; handkerchief] [ : receiver of stolen property] [ : house] the potato man [notes] [ ] [from _the ranelaugh concert_...a choice collection of the newest songs sung at all the public places of entertainment]. i i am a saucy rolling blade, [ ] i fear not wet nor dry, i keep a jack ass for my trade, and thro' the streets do cry _chorus_. and they all rare potatoes be! and they're, etc. ii a moll i keep that sells fine fruit, [ ] there's no one brings more cly; [ ] she has all things the seasons suit, while i my potatoes cry. _chorus_. and they all, etc. iii a link boy once i stood the gag, [ ] at charing cross did ply, here's light your honor for a mag, [ ] but now my potatoes cry. _chorus._ and they all, etc. iv with a blue bird's eye about my squeeg, [ ] and a check shirt on my back, [ ] a pair of large wedges in my hoofs, and an oil skin round my hat. _chorus._ and they all, etc. v i'll bait a bull or fight a cock, or pigeons i will fly; i'm up to all your knowing rigs [ ] whilst i my potatoes cry. _chorus._ and they all, etc. vi there's five pounds two-pence honest weight your own scales take and try; for nibbing culls i always hate, [ ] and i in safety cry. _chorus._ and they all, etc. [ : fellow] [ : mistress] [ : money; notes] [ : cry out] [ : halfpenny] [ : handkerchief] [ : notes; neck.] [ : smart tricks] [ : cheating dealers] a slang pastoral [notes] [ ] [by r. tomlinson:--a parody on a poem by dr. byrom, "my time, o ye muses, was happily spent"]. i my time, o ye kiddies, was happily spent, [ ] when nancy trigg'd with me wherever i went; [ ] ten thousand sweet joys ev'ry night did we prove; sure never poor fellow like me was in love! but since she is nabb'd, and has left me behind, [ ] what a marvellous change on a sudden i find! when the constable held her as fast as could be, i thought 'twas bet spriggins; but damme 'twas she. ii with such a companion, a green-stall to keep, to swig porter all day, on a flock-bed to sleep, [ ] i was so good-natur'd, so bobbish and gay, [ ] and i still was as smart as a carrot all day: but now i so saucy and churlish am grown, so ragged and greasy, as never was known; my nancy is gone, and my joys are all fled, and my arse hangs behind me, as heavy as lead. iii the kennel, that's wont to run swiftly along, and dance to soft murmurs dead kittens among, thou know'st, little buckhorse, if nancy was there, 'twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: but now that she's off, i can see it run past, and still as it murmurs do nothing but blast. must you be so cheerful, while i go in pain? stop your clack, and be damn'd t'ye, and hear me complain. iv when the bugs in swarms round me wou'd oftentimes play, and nancy and i were as frisky as they, we laugh'd at their biting, and kiss'd all the time, for the spring of her beauty was just in its prime! but now for their frolics i never can sleep, so i crack 'em by dozens, as o'er me they creep: curse blight you! i cry, while i'm all over smart, for i'm bit by the arse, while i'm stung to the heart. v the barber i ever was pleased to see, with his paigtail come scraping to nancy and me; and nancy was pleas'd too, and to the man said, come hither, young fellow, and frizzle my head: but now when he's bowing, i up with my stick, cry, blast you, you scoundrel! and give him a kick-- and i'll lend him another, for why should not john be as dull as poor dermot, when nancy is gone? vi when sitting with nancy, what sights have i seen! how white was the turnep, the col'wart how green! what a lovely appearance, while under the shade, the carrot, the parsnip, the cauliflow'r made! but now she mills doll, tho' the greens are still there, [ ] they none of 'em half so delightful appear: it was not the board that was nail'd to the wall, made so many customers visit our stall. vii sweet music went with us both all the town thro', to bagnigge, white conduit, and sadler's-wells too; [ ] soft murmur'd the kennels, the beau-pots how sweet, and crack went the cherry-stones under our feet: but now she to bridewell has punch'd it along, [ ] my eye, betty martin! on music a song: 'twas her voice crying mack'rel, as now i have found, gave ev'ry-thing else its agreeable sound. viii gin! what is become of thy heart-chearing fire, and where is the beauty of calvert's intire? does aught of its taste double gloucester beguile, that ham, those potatoes, why do they not smile, ah! rot ye, i see what it was you were at, why you knocked up your froth, why you flash'd off your fat: to roll in her ivory, to pleasure her eye, to be tipt by her tongue, on her stomach to lie. ix how slack is the crop till my nancy return! no duds in my pocket, no sea-coal to burn! [ ] methinks if i knew where the watchman wou'd tread, i wou'd follow, and lend him a punch o' the head. fly swiftly, good watchman, bring hither my dear, and, blast me! i'll tip ye a gallon of beer. [ ] ah, sink him! the watchman is full of delay, nor will budge one foot faster for all i can say. x will no blood-hunting foot-pad, that hears me complain, stop the wind of that nabbing-cull, constable payne? [ ] if he does, he'll to tyburn next sessions be dragg'd, and what kiddy's so rum as to get himself scragg'd? [ ] no! blinky, discharge her, and let her return; for ne'er was poor fellow so sadly forlorn. zounds! what shall i do? i shall die in a ditch; take warning by me how you're leagu'd with a bitch. [ : companions] [ : accompanied] [ : jailed] [ : drink] [ : light-hearted] [ : picks oakum] [ : notes] [ : gone] [ : money] [ : treat] [ : note] [ : foolish] ye scamps, ye pads, ye divers [notes] [ ] [from _the choice of harlequin_: or _the indian chief_ by mr. messink, and sung by john edwin as "the keeper of bridewell"]. i ye scamps, ye pads, ye divers, and all upon the lay, [ ] in tothill-fields gay sheepwalk, like lambs ye sport and play; [ ] rattling up your darbies, come hither at my call; i'm jigger dubber here, and you are welcome to mill doll. [ ] with my tow row, etc. ii at your insurance office the flats you've taken in, the game they've play'd, my kiddy, you're always sure to win; first you touch the shiners--the number up--you break, [ ] with your insuring-policy, i'd not insure your neck. with my tow row, etc. iii the french, with trotters nimble, could fly from english blows, [ ] and they've got nimble daddles, as monsieur plainly shews; [ ] be thus the foes of britain bang'd, ay, thump away, monsieur, the hemp you're beating now will make your solitaire. with my tow row, etc. iv my peepers! who've we here now? why this is sure black-moll: [ ] my ma'am, you're of the fair sex, so welcome to mill doll; the cull with you who'd venture into a snoozing-ken, [ ] like blackamore othello, should "put out the light--and then." with my tow row, etc. v i think my flashy coachman, that you'll take better care, nor for a little bub come the slang upon your fare; [ ] your jazy pays the garnish, unless the fees you tip, [ ] though you're a flashy coachman, here the gagger holds the whip, with my tow row, etc. _chorus omnes_ we're scamps, we're pads, we're divers, we're all upon the lay, in tothill-fields gay sheepwalk, like lambs we sport and play; rattling up our darbies, we're hither at your call, you're jigger dubber here, and we're forc'd for to mill doll. with my tow row, etc. [ : footpads; pick pockets; notes] [ : tothill-fields prison] [ : warder, pick oakum] [ : money] [ : feet] [ : fist] [ : eyes] [ : common lodging-house][notes] [ : drink; abuse] [ : wig; "footing"] the sandman's wedding [b. ] [a cantata by g. parker (?)]. _recitative_. as joe the sandman drove his noble team of raw-rump'd jennies, "sand-ho!" was his theme: just as he turned the corner of the drum, [ ] his dear lov'd bess, the bunter, chanc'd to come; [ ] with joy cry'd "woa", did turn his quid and stare, first suck'd her jole, then thus addressed the fair. [ ] _air_. i forgive me if i praise those charms thy glaziers bright, lips, neck, and arms [ ] thy snowy bubbies e'er appear like two small hills of sand, my dear: thy beauties, bet, from top to toe have stole the heart of sandman joe. ii come wed, my dear, and let's agree, then of the booze-ken you'll be free; [ ] no sneer from cully, mot, or froe [ ] dare then reproach my bess for joe; for he's the kiddy rum and queer, [ ] that all st. giles's boys do fear _recitative_. with daylights flashing, bess at length reply'd, [ ] must joey proffer this, and be deny'd? no, no, my joe shall have his heart delight and we'll be wedded ere we dorse this night; [ ] "well lipp'd," quoth joe, "no more you need to say"--[ ] "gee-up! gallows, do you want my sand to-day?" _air_. i joe sold his sand, and cly'd his cole, sir, [ ] while bess got a basket of rags, then up to st. giles's they roll'd, sir, to every bunter bess brags: then into a booze-ken they pike it, [ ] where bess was admitted we hear; for none of the coves dare but like it, as joey, her kiddy, was there. ii full of glee, until ten that they started, for supper joe sent out a win; a hog's maw between them was parted, and after they sluic'd it with gin: it was on an old leather trunk, sir, they married were, never to part; but bessy, she being blind drunk, sir, joe drove her away in his cart. [ : street] [ : rag-gatherer] [ : kissed her] [ : eyes] [ : ale-house] [ : fellow, girl, or wife] [ : brave and cute] [ : eyes] [ : sleep] [ : spoken] [ : pocketed his money] [ : go] the happy pair. [ ] [by george parker in _life's painter of variegated characters_]. _joe_. ye slang-boys all, since wedlock's nooze, together fast has tied moll blabbermums and rowling joe, each other's joy and pride; your broomsticks and tin kettles bring, with cannisters and stones: ye butchers bring your cleavers too, likewise your marrow-bones; for ne'er a brace in marriage hitch'd, by no one can be found, that's half so blest as joe and moll, search all st. giles's round. _moll_. though fancy queer-gamm'd smutty muns was once my fav'rite man, though rugged-muzzle tink'ring tom for me left maw-mouth'd nan: though padding jack and diving ned, [ ] with blink-ey'd buzzing sam, [ ] have made me drunk with hot, and stood [ ] the racket for a dram; though scamp the ballad-singing kid, call'd me his darling frow, [ ] i've tip'd them all the double, for [ ] the sake of rowling joe. _chorus_. therefore, in jolly chorus now, let's chaunt it altogether, and let each cull's and doxy's heart [ ] be lighter than a feather; and as the kelter runs quite flush, [ ] like _natty_ shining _kiddies_, to treat the coaxing, giggling brims, [ ] with spunk let's post our _neddies_; [ ] then we'll all roll in _bub_ and _grub_, [ ] till from this ken we go, [ ] since rowling joe's tuck'd up with moll, and moll's tuck'd up with joe. [ : tramping; pick-pocket] [ : pickpocket] [ : paid for] [ : woman, girl] [ : jilted] [ : man; woman] [ : money] [ : whores] [ : spirit; spend our guineas] [ : drink; food] [ : drinking-house] the bunter's christening. [notes] [ ] [by george parker in _life's painter of variegated characters_]. i bess tatter, of hedge-lane, to ragman joey's joy, the cull with whom she snooz'd [ ] brought forth a chopping boy: which was, as one might say, the moral of his dad, sir; and at the christ'ning oft, a merry bout they had, sir. ii for, when 'twas four weeks old, long ned, and dust-cart chloe, to give the kid a name, invited were by joey; with whom came muzzy tom, [ ] and sneaking snip, the boozer, [ ] bag-picking, blear-ey'd ciss, and squinting jack, the bruiser. [ ] iii likewise came bullying sam, with cat's-and-dog's-meat nelly, young smut, the chimney-sweep, and smiling snick-snack willy; peg swig and jenny gog, the brims, with birdlime fingers, [ ] brought warbling, seedy dick, the prince of ballad-singers. iv the guests now being met, the first thing that was done, sir, was handling round the kid, that all might smack his muns, sir; [ ] a _flash of lightning_ next, [ ] bess tipt each cull and frow, sir, [ ] ere they to church did pad, [ ] to have it christen'd joe, sir. v away they then did trudge; but such a queer procession, of seedy brims and kids, is far beyond expression. the christ'ning being o'er, they back again soon pik't it, [ ] to have a dish of lap, [ ] prepar'd for those who lik't it. vi bung all come back once more they slobber'd little joey; [ ] then, with some civil jaw, [ ] part squatted, to drink bohea, and part swig'd barley swipes, [ ] as short-cut they were smoaking, [ ] while some their patter flash'd [ ] in gallows fun and joking. [ ] vii for supper, joey stood, to treat these curious cronies; a bullock's melt, hog's maw sheep's heads, and stale polonies: and then they swill'd gin-hot, until blind drunk as chloe, at twelve, all bundled from the christ'ning of young joey. [ : man] [ : muddled] [ : drunkard] [ : pugilist] [ : harlots; thievish] [ : kiss him] [ : drop of gin] [ : gave; man; woman] [ : walk] [ : went] [ : tea] [ : kissed] [ : words] [ : drank beer] [ : tobacco] [ : talked] [ : screaming] the masqueraders: or, the world as it wags [notes] [ ] [by george parker in _life's painter of variegated characters_]. i ye flats, sharps, and rum ones, who make up this pother; who gape and stare, just like stuck pigs at each other, as mirrors, wherein, at full length do appear, your follies reflected so apish and queer tol de rol, etc. ii attend while i _sings,_ how, in ev'ry station, masquerading is practised throughout ev'ry nation: some mask for mere pleasure, but many we know, to lick in the _rhino,_ false faces will show. [ ] tol de rol, etc. iii twig counsellors jabb'ring 'bout justice and law, cease greasing their fist and they'll soon cease their jaw; [ ] and patriots, 'bout freedom will kick up a riot, till their ends are all gain'd, and their jaws then are quiet. tol de rol, etc. iv twig methodist phizzes, with mask sanctimonious, [ ] their rigs prove to judge that their phiz is erroneous. [ ] twig lank-jaws, the miser, that skin-flint old elf, from his long meagre phiz, who'd think he'd the pelf. 	tol de rol, etc. v twig levées, they're made up of time-_sarving_ faces, with fawning and flatt'ring for int'rest and places; and ladies appear too at court and elsewhere, in borrow'd complexions, false shapes, and false hair. tol de rol, etc. vi twig clergyman--but as there needs no more proof my chaunt i _concludes_, and shall now pad the hoof; [ ] so nobles and gents, lug your counterfeits out, i'll take brums or cut ones, and thank you to boot. tol de rol, etc. [ money] [ bribing] [ see] [ methods] [ walk away] the flash man of st. giles [notes] [b. ] [from _the busy bee_]. i was a flash man of st. giles, [ ] and i fell in love with nelly stiles; and i padded the hoof for many miles [ ] to show the strength of my flame: in the strand, and at the admiralty, she pick'd up the flats as they pass'd by, [ ] and i mill'd their wipes from their side clye, [ ] and then sung fal de ral tit, tit fal de ral, tit fal de ree, and then sung fal de ral tit! ii the first time i saw the flaming mot, [ ] was at the sign of the porter pot, i call'd for some purl, and we had it hot, with gin and bitters too! we threw off our slang at high and low, [ ] and we were resolv'd to breed a row for we both got as drunk as david's sow, [ ] and then sung fal de ral tit, etc. iii as we were roaring forth a catch, ('twas twelve o'clock) we wak'd the watch, i at his jazy made a snatch, [ ] and try'd for to nab his rattle! [ ] but i miss'd my aim and down i fell, and then he charg'd both me and nell, and bundled us both to st. martin's cell where we sung fal de ral tit, etc. iv we pass'd the night in love away, and 'fore justice h-- we went next day, and because we could not three hog pay, [ ] why we were sent to quod! [ ] in quod we lay three dismal weeks, till nell with crying swell'd her cheeks, and i damn'd the quorum all for sneaks and then sung fal de ral tit, etc. v from bridewell bars we now are free, and nell and i so well agree, that we live in perfect harmony, and grub and bub our fill! [ ] for we have mill'd a precious go [ ] and queer'd the flats at thrums, e, o, every night in titmouse row, where we sing fal de ral tit, etc. vi all you who live at your wit's end, unto this maxim pray attend, never despair to find a friend, while flats have bit aboard! for nell and i now keep a gig, and look so grand, so flash and big, we roll in every knowing rig [ ] while we sing fal de ral tit, etc. [ : notes] [ : walked] [ : victims] [ : stole handkerchiefs; side pocket] [ : girl, whore] [ : talking noisily] [ : notes] [ : wig] [ : steal] [ : shilling] [ : prison] [ : eat and drink] [ : made a rich haul] [ : are up to every move] a leary mot [notes] [_c_. ] [a broadside ballad]. i rum old mog was a leary flash mot, and she was round and fat, [ ] with twangs in her shoes, a wheelbarrow too, and an oilskin round her hat; a blue bird's-eye o'er dairies fine-- as she mizzled through temple bar, [ ] of vich side of the way, i cannot say, but she boned it from a tar-- [ ] singing, tol-lol-lol-lido. ii now moll's flash com-pan-ion was a chick-lane gill, and he garter'd below his knee, [ ] he had twice been pull'd, and nearly lagg'd, [ ] but got off by going to sea; with his pipe and quid, and chaunting voice, "potatoes!" he would cry; for he valued neither cove nor swell, for he had wedge snug in his cly [ ] singing, tol-lol-lol-lido. iii one night they went to a cock-and-hen club, [ ] at the sign of the mare and stallion, but such a sight was never seen as mog and her flash com-pan-ion; her covey was an am'rous blade, and he buss'd young bet on the sly, [ ] when mog up with her daddle, bang-up to the mark, [ ] and she black'd the bunter's eye. [ ] singing, tol-lol-lol-lido. iv now this brought on a general fight, lord, what a gallows row-- [ ] with whacks and thumps throughout the night, till "drunk as david's sow"-- [ ] milling up and down--with cut heads, and lots of broken ribs, [ ] but the lark being over--they ginned themselves at jolly tom cribb's. singing, tol-lol-lol-lido. [ : woman or harlot] [ : silk-handkerchief; notes; paps; went] [ : stole] [ : sweetheart] [ : gaoled; transported] [ : money; pocket] [ : notes] [ : kissed] [ : fist; straight to the spot] [ : rag-gatherer] [ : great shindy] [ : notes] [ : fighting] "the night before larry was stretched" [notes] [c; ] i the night before larry was stretch'd, the boys they all paid him a visit; a bit in their sacks, too, they fetch'd-- they sweated their duds till they riz it; [ ] for larry was always the lad, when a friend was condemn'd to the squeezer, [ ] but he'd pawn, all the togs that he had,	[ ] just to help the poor boy to a sneezer, [ ] and moisten his gob 'fore he died. ii ''pon my conscience, dear larry', says i, 'i'm sorry to see you in trouble, and your life's cheerful noggin run dry, and yourself going off like its bubble!' 'hould your tongue in that matter,' says he; 'for the neckcloth i don't care a button, [ ] and by this time to-morrow you'll see your larry will be dead as mutton: all for what? 'kase his courage was good!' iii the boys they came crowding in fast; they drew their stools close round about him, six glims round his coffin they placed-- [ ] he couldn't be well waked without 'em, i ax'd if he was fit to die, without having duly repented? says larry, 'that's all in my eye, and all by the clargy invented, to make a fat bit for themselves. iv then the cards being called for, they play'd, till larry found one of them cheated; quick he made a hard rap at his head-- the lad being easily heated, 'so ye chates me bekase i'm in grief! o! is that, by the holy, the rason? soon i'll give you to know you d--d thief! that you're cracking your jokes out of sason, and scuttle your nob with my fist'. v then in came the priest with his book he spoke him so smooth and so civil; larry tipp'd him a kilmainham look, [ ] and pitch'd his big wig to the devil. then raising a little his head, to get a sweet drop of the bottle, and pitiful sighing he said, 'o! the hemp will be soon round my throttle, and choke my poor windpipe to death!' vi so mournful these last words he spoke, we all vented our tears in a shower; for my part, i thought my heart broke to see him cut down like a flower! on his travels we watch'd him next day, o, the hangman i thought i could kill him! not one word did our poor larry say, nor chang'd till he came to king william; [ ] och, my dear! then his colour turned white. vii when he came to the nubbing-cheat, he was tack'd up so neat and so pretty; the rambler jugg'd off from his feet, [ ] and he died with his face to the city. he kick'd too, but that was all pride, for soon you might see 'twas all over; and as soon as the nooze was untied, then at darkey we waked him in clover, [ ] and sent him to take a ground-sweat. [ ] [ : pawned their clothes] [ : gallows or rope] [ : clothes] [ : drink] [ : halter] [ : candles] [ : notes] [ : notes] [ : cart] [ : night] [ : buried him] the song of the young prig [notes] [_c_. ] my mother she dwelt in dyot's isle, [ ] one of the canting crew, sirs; [ ] and if you'd know my father's style, he was the lord-knows-who, sirs! i first held horses in the street, but being found defaulter, turned rumbler's flunkey for my meat, [ ] so was brought up to the halter. frisk the cly, and fork the rag, [ ] draw the fogies plummy, [ ] speak to the rattles, bag the swag, [ ] and finely hunt the dummy. [ ] ii my name they say is young birdlime, my fingers are fish-hooks, sirs; and i my reading learnt betime, [ ] from studying pocket-books, sirs; i have a sweet eye for a plant, [ ] and graceful as i amble, finedraw a coat-tail sure i can't so kiddy is my famble. [ ] _chorus_. frisk the cly, etc. iii a night bird oft i'm in the cage, [ ] but my rum-chants ne'er fail, sirs; the dubsman's senses to engage, [ ] while i tip him leg-bail, sirs; [ ] there's not, for picking, to be had, a lad so light and larky, [ ] the cleanest angler on the pad [ ] in daylight or the darkey. [ ] _chorus_. frisk the cly, etc. iv and though i don't work capital, [ ] and do not weigh my weight, sirs; who knows but that in time i shall, for there's no queering fate, sirs. [ ] if i'm not lagged to virgin-nee, [ ] i may a tyburn show be, [ ] perhaps a tip-top cracksman be, [ ] or go on the high toby. [ ] _chorus_. frisk the cly, etc. [ : notes] [ : beggars] [ : hackney-coach] [ : pick a pocket; lay hold of notes or money] [ : steal handkerchiefs dextrously] [ : steal a watch, pocket the plunder] [ : steal pocket-books] [ : notes] [ : an intended robbery] [ : skilful is my hand] [ : lock-up] [ : gaoler] [ : run away] [ : frolicsome] [ : expert pickpocket] [ : night] [ : notes] [ : getting the better of] [ : transported [notes]] [ : be hanged] [ : housebreaker] [ : become a highwayman] the milling-match [notes] [ ] [by thomas moore in _tom crib's memorial to congress_:--"account of the milling-match between entellus and dares, translated from the fifth book of the aeneid by one of the fancy"]. with daddles high upraised, and nob held back, [ ] in awful prescience of the impending thwack, both kiddies stood--and with prelusive spar, [ ] and light manoeuvring, kindled up the war! the one, in bloom of youth--a light-weight blade-- the other, vast, gigantic, as if made, express, by nature, for the hammering trade; [ ] but aged, slow, with stiff limbs, tottering much, and lungs, that lack'd the bellows-mender's touch. yet, sprightly to the scratch, both buffers came, [ ] while ribbers rung from each resounding frame, and divers digs, and many a ponderous pelt, were on their broad bread-baskets heard and felt. [ ] with roving aim, but aim that rarely miss'd round lugs and ogles flew the frequent fist; [ ] while showers of facers told so deadly well, that the crush'd jaw-bones crackled as they fell! but firmly stood entellus--and still bright, though bent by age, with all the fancy's light, [ ] stopp'd with a skill, and rallied with a fire the immortal fancy could alone inspire! while dares, shifting round, with looks of thought. an opening to the cove's huge carcass sought (like general preston, in that awful hour, when on one leg he hopp'd to--take the tower!), and here, and there, explored with active fin, and skilful feint, some guardless pass to win, and prove a boring guest when once let in. and now entellus, with an eye that plann'd punishing deeds, high raised his heavy hand; but ere the sledge came down, young dares spied its shadow o'er his brow, and slipped aside-- so nimbly slipp'd, that the vain nobber pass'd through empty air; and he, so high, so vast, who dealt the stroke, came thundering to the ground!-- not b-ck--gh-m himself, with balkier sound, uprooted from the field of whiggist glories, fell souse, of late, among the astonish'd tories! instant the ring was broke, and shouts and yells from trojan flashmen and sicilian swells fill'd the wide heaven--while, touch'd with grief to see his pall, well-known through many a lark and spree, [ ] thus rumly floor'd, the kind ascestes ran, [ ] and pitying rais'd from earth the game old man. uncow'd, undamaged to the sport he came, his limbs all muscle, and his soul all flame. the memory of his milling glories past, [ ] the shame that aught but death should see him grass'd. all fired the veteran's pluck--with fury flush'd, full on his light-limb'd customer he rush'd,-- and hammering right and left, with ponderous swing [ ] ruffian'd the reeling youngster round the ring-- nor rest, nor pause, nor breathing-time was given but, rapid as the rattling hail from heaven beats on the house-top, showers of randall's shot around the trojan's lugs fell peppering hot! 'till now aeneas, fill'd with anxious dread, rush'd in between them, and, with words well-bred, preserved alike the peace and dares' head, both which the veteran much inclined to break-- then kindly thus the punish'd youth bespake: "poor johnny raw! what madness could impel so rum a flat to face so prime a swell? see'st thou not, boy, the fancy, heavenly maid, herself descends to this great hammerer's aid, and, singling him from all her flash adorers, shines in his hits, and thunders in his floorers? then, yield thee, youth,--nor such a spooney be, to think mere man can mill a deity!" thus spoke the chief--and now, the scrimmage o'er, his faithful pals the done-up dares bore back to his home, with tottering gams, sunk heart, and muns and noddle pink'd in every part. while from his gob the guggling claret gush'd [ ] and lots of grinders, from their sockets crush'd [ ] forth with the crimson tide in rattling fragments rush'd! [ : hands; head] [ : fellows, usually young fellows] [ : pugilism] [ : men] [ : stomachs] [ : ears and eyes] [ : [notes]] [ : friend; frolic] [ : heavily] [ : fighting] [ : dealing blows] [ : blood] [ : teeth] ya-hip, my hearties! [ ] [from moore's _tom crib's memorial to congress_:--"sung by jack holmes, the coachman, at a late masquerade in st giles's, in the character of lord c--st--e--on ... this song which was written for him by mr. gregson, etc."]. i i first was hired to _peg a hack_ [ ] they call "the erin" sometime back, where soon i learned to _patter flash_, [ ] to curb the tits, and tip the lash-- [ ] which pleased _the master of_ the crown so much, he had me up to town, and gave me _lots_ of _quids_ a year, [ ] to _tool_ "the constitutions" here. [ ] so, ya-hip, hearties, here am i that drive the constitution fly. ii some wonder how the fly holds out, so rotten 'tis, within, without; so loaded too, through thick and thin, and with such _heavy_ creturs in. but, lord, 't will last our time--or if the wheels should, now and then, get stiff, oil of palm's the thing that, flowing, [ ] sets the naves and felloes going. so ya-hip, _hearties_! etc. iii some wonder, too, the _tits_ that pull this _rum concern_ along, so full, should never _back_ or _bolt_, or kick the load and driver to old nick. but, never fear, the breed, though british, is now no longer _game_ or skittish; except sometimes about their corn, tamer _houghnhums_ ne'er were born. so ya-hip, _hearties_, etc. iv and then so sociably we ride!-- while some have places, snug, inside, some hoping to be there anon. through many a dirty road _hang on_. and when we reach a filthy spot (plenty of which there are, god wot), you'd laugh to see with what an air we _take_ the spatter--each his share. so ya-hip, _hearties_! etc. [ : drive a hackney-coach] [ : talk slang] [ : horses; whip] [ : money] [ : drive] [ : money] sonnets for the fancy: after the manner of petrarch [notes] [_c._ ] [from _boxiana_, iii. . ]. _education._ a link-boy once, dick hellfinch stood the grin, at charing cross he long his toil apply'd; "here light, here light! your honours for a win," [ ] to every cull and drab he loudly cried. [ ] in leicester fields, as most the story know, "come black your worship for a single mag," [ ] and while he shin'd his nelly suck'd the bag, [ ] and thus they sometimes stagg'd a precious go. [ ] in smithfield, too, where graziers' flats resort, he loiter'd there to take in men of cash, with cards and dice was up to ev'ry sport, and at saltpetre bank would cut a dash; a very knowing rig in ev'ry gang, [ ] dick hellfinch was the pick of all the slang. [ ] _progress._ his nell sat on newgate steps, and scratch'd her poll, her eyes suffus'd with tears, and bung'd with gin; the session's sentence wrung her to the soul, nor could she lounge the gag to shule a win; the knowing bench had tipp'd her buzer queer, [ ] for dick had beat the hoof upon the pad, of field, or chick-lane--was the boldest lad that ever mill'd the cly, or roll'd the leer. [ ] and with nell he kept a lock, to fence, and tuz, and while his flaming mot was on the lay, with rolling kiddies, dick would dive and buz, and cracking kens concluded ev'ry day; [ ] but fortune fickle, ever on the wheel, turn'd up a rubber, for these smarts to feel. _triumph._ both'ring the flats assembled round the quod, [ ] the queerum queerly smear'd with dirty black; [ ] the dolman sounding, while the sheriff's nod, prepare the switcher to dead book the whack, while in a rattle sit two blowens flash, [ ] salt tears fast streaming from each bungy eye; to nail the ticker, or to mill the cly [ ] through thick and thin their busy muzzlers splash, the mots lament for tyburn's merry roam, that bubbl'd prigs must at the new drop fall, [ ] and from the start the scamps are cropp'd at home; all in the sheriff's picture frame the call [ ] exalted high, dick parted with his flame, and all his comrades swore that he dy'd game. [ : penny] [ : man; woman] [ : half-penny] [ : spent the money] [ : made a lot of money] [ : cute fellow] [ : i.e. fraternity] [ : sentenced the pick-pocket] [ : picked pockets] [ : burgling] [ : goal] [ : gallows] [ : coach; women] [ : steal a watch; pick a pocket] [ : newgate] [ : hangman's noose] the true bottom'd boxer [ ] [by j. jones in _universal songster_, ii. ]. air: "_oh! nothing in life can sadden us._" i spring's the boy for a moulsey-hurst rig, my lads, shaking a flipper, and milling a pate; fibbing a nob is most excellent gig, my lads, kneading the dough is a turn-out in state. tapping the claret to him is delighting, belly-go-firsters and clicks of the gob; for where are such joys to be found as in fighting, and measuring mugs for a chancery job: with flipping and milling, and fobbing and nobbing, with belly-go-firsters and kneading the dough, with tapping of claret, and clipping and gobbing, say just what you please, you must own he's the go. ii spring's the boy for flooring and flushing it, hitting and stopping, advance and retreat, for taking and giving, for sparring and rushing it, and will ne'er say enough, till he's down right dead beat; no crossing for him, true courage and bottom all, you'll find him a rum un, try on if you can; you shy-cocks, he shows 'em no favour, 'od rot 'em all, when he fights he trys to accomplish his man; with giving and taking, and flooring and flushing, with hitting and stopping, huzza to the ring, with chancery suiting, and sparring and rushing, he's the champion of fame, and of manhood the spring. iii spring's the boy for rum going and coming it, smashing and dashing, and tipping it prime, eastward and westward, and sometimes back-slumming it, he's for the scratch, and come up too in time; for the victualling-office no favor he'll ask it, for smeller and ogles he feels just the same; at the pipkin to point, or upset the bread-basket, he's always in twig, and bang-up for the game; with going and tipping, and priming and timing 'till groggy and queery, straight-forwards the rig; with ogles and smellers, no piping and chiming, you'll own he's the boy that is always in twig. bobby and his mary [notes] [ ] [from _universal songster_, iii. ]. tune--_dulce domum_. in dyot-street a booze-ken stood, [ ] oft sought by foot-pads weary, and long had been the blest abode of bobby, and his mary. for her he'd nightly pad the hoof, [ ] and gravel tax collect [ ] for her he never shammed the snite. though traps tried to detect him; [ ] when darkey came he sought his home while she, distracted blowen [ ] she hailed his sight, and, ev'ry night the booze-ken rung as they sung, o, bobby and his mary. ii but soon this scene of cozey fuss was changed to prospects queering the blunt ran shy, and bobby brush'd, [ ] to get more rag not fearing; [ ] to islington he quickly hied, a traveller there he dropped on; the traps were fly, his rig they spied [ ] and ruffles soon they popped on. [ ] when evening came, he sought not home, while she, poor stupid woman, got lushed that night, [ ] oh, saw his sprite, then heard the knell that bids farewell! then heard the knell of st. pulchre's bell! [ ] now he dangles on the common. [ : notes; ale-house] [ : walk around] [ : rob passers-by] [ : police] [ : girl] [ : money; went off] [ : notes or gold] [ : object] [ : handcuffs] [ : drunk] [ : notes] flashey joe [notes] [ ] [by r. morley in _universal songster_, ii. ]. i as flashey joe one day did pass through london streets, so jolly, a crying fish, he spied a lass 'twas tothill's pride, sweet molly! he wip'd his mug with bird's-eye blue [ ] he cried,--"come, buss your own dear joe"; [ ] she turned aside, alas! 'tis true and bawled out--"here's live mackerel, o! four a shilling, mackerel, o! all alive, o! new mackerel, o." ii says i,--"miss moll, don't tip this gam, [ ] you knows as how it will not do; for you i milled flash dustman sam [ ] who made your peepers black and blue. [ ] vhy, then you swore you would be kind but you have queer'd so much of late, [ ] and always changing like the wind, so now i'll brush and sell my skate." [ ] buy my skate, etc. iii she blubb'd--"now, joe, vhy treat me ill? you know i love you as my life! when i forsook both sam and will, and promised to become your wife, you molled it up with brick-dust sall [ ] and went to live with her in quod! [ ] so i'll pike off with my mack'ral [ ] and you may bolt with your salt cod." here's mack'rel, etc. iv i could not part with her, d'ye see so i tells moll to stop her snivel; [ ] "your panting bubs and glist'ning eye [ ] just make me love you like the divil." "vhy, then," says she, "come tip's your dad, [ ] and let us take a drap of gin, and may i choke with hard-roed shad if i forsake my joe herring." four a shilling, etc. [ : mouth; silk handkerchief] [ : kiss] [ : talk like that] [ : fought] [ : eyes] [ : acted strangely] [ : be off] [ : took as a mistress] [ : gaol] [ : walk] [ : crying] [ : paps] [ : shake hands] my mugging maid [notes] [ ] [by james bruton. _universal songster_, iii. ]. i why lie ye in that ditch, so snug, with s-- and filth bewrayed [ ] with hair all dangling down thy lug [ ] my mugging maid? ii say, mugging moll, why that red-rag [ ] which oft hath me dismayed why is it now so mute in mag, [ ] my mugging maid? ii why steals the booze down through thy snout, [ ] with mulberry's blue arrayed, and why from throat steals hiccough out my mugging maid? iv why is thy mug so wan and blue, [ ] in mud and muck you're laid; say, what's the matter now with you my mugging maid? v the flask that in her fam appeared [ ] the snore her conk betrayed, [ ] told me, that hodge's max had queered [ ] my mugging maid. [ : notes] [ : ear] [ : tongue] [ : speech] [ : drink] [ : mouth] [ : hand] [ : nose] [ : notes; got the better of] poor luddy [notes] [b. ] [by t. dibdin. _universal songster_, vol. iii]. as i was walking down the strand, luddy, luddy, ah, poor luddy, i. o. as i was walking down the strand, the traps they nabbed me out of hand [ ] luddy, luddy, ah, poor luddy, i. o. as i was walking, etc. said i, kind justice, pardon me, luddy, luddy, ah, poor luddy, i. o. said i, kind justice, pardon me, or botany-bay i soon shall see luddy, luddy, ah, poor luddy, i. o. said i, kind justice, etc. sessions and 'sizes are drawing nigh, luddy, luddy, ah, poor luddy, i. o. sessions and 'sizes are drawing nigh, i'd rather you was hung than i. luddy, luddy, ah, poor luddy, i. o. sessions and 'sizes, etc. [ : police; arrested] the pickpocket's chaunt [notes] [ ] [by w. maginn: being a translation of vidocq's song, "en roulant de vergne en vergne"]. i as from ken to ken i was going, [ ] doing a bit on the prigging lay, [ ] who should i meet but a jolly blowen, [ ] tol lol, lol lol, tol dirol lay; who should i meet but a jolly blowen, who was fly to the time of day. [ ] ii who should i meet but a jolly blowen, who was fly to the time of day, i pattered in flash like a covey knowing, [ ] tol, lol, etc. 'ay, bub or grubby, i say?' [ ] iii i pattered in flash like a covey knowing, 'ay, bub or grubby, i say?" 'lots of gatter,' says she, is flowing [ ] tol lol, etc. lend me a lift in the family way. [ ] iv lots of gatter, says she, is flowing lend me a lift in the family way. you may have a crib to stow in. tol lol, etc. welcome, my pal, as the flowers in may. v you may have a crib to stow in, welcome, my pal, as the flowers in may. to her ken at once i go in tol lol, etc. where in a corner out of the way, vi to her ken at once i go in. where in a corner out of the way with his smeller a trumpet blowing [ ] tol lol, etc. a regular swell cove lushy lay. [ ] vii with his smeller a trumpet blowing a regular swell cove lushy lay, to his clies my hooks i throw in [ ] tol lol, etc. and collar his dragons clear away. [ ] viii to his clies my hooks i throw in, and collar his dragons clear away then his ticker i set agoing, [ ] tol lol, etc. and his onions, chain, and key. [ ] ix then his ticker i set a going and his onions, chain, and key next slipt off his bottom clo'ing, tol lol, etc. and his ginger head topper gay. [ ] x next slipt off his bottom clo'ing and his ginger head topper gay. then his other toggery stowing, [ ] tol lol, etc. all with the swag i sneak away. [ ] xi then his other toggery stowing all with the swag i sneak away. tramp it, tramp it, my jolly blowen, tol lol, etc. or be grabbed by the beaks we may. [ ] xii tramp it, tramp it, my jolly blowen or be grabbed by the beaks we may. and we shall caper a-heel and toeing, tol lol, etc. a newgate hornpipe some fine day. [ ] xiii and we shall caper a-heel and toeing a newgate hornpipe some fine day with the mots their ogles throwing [ ] tol lol, etc. and old cotton humming his pray. [ ] xiv with the mots their ogles throwing and old cotton humming his pray, and the fogle hunters doing tol lol, etc. their morning fake in the prigging lay. [ : shop; house] [ : thieving] [ : girl, strumpet, sweetheart] [ : 'cute in business] [ : spoke in slang] [ : drink and food] [ : porter, beer] [ : family = fraternity of thieves] [ : nose] [ : gentleman; drunk] [ : pockets; fingers] [ : take his sovereigns] [ : watch] [ : seals] [ : hat] [ : clothes] [ : plunder] [ : taken; police] [ : hanging] [ : girl's; eyes] [ : notes] on the prigging lay [notes] [ ] [by h. t. r....: a translation of a french slang song ("un jour à la croix rouge") in vidocq's _memoirs_, - , vols.] i ten or a dozen "cocks of the game," [ ] on the prigging lay to the flash-house came, [ ] lushing blue ruin and heavy wet [ ] till the darkey, when the downy set. [ ] all toddled and begun the hunt for readers, tattlers, fogies, or blunt. [ ] ii whatever swag we chance for to get, [ ] all is fish that comes to net: mind your eye, and draw the yokel, don't disturb or use the folk ill. keep a look out, if the beaks are nigh, [ ] and cut your stick, before they're fly. [ ] iii as i vas a crossing st james's park i met a swell, a well-togg'd spark. [ ] i stops a bit: then toddled quicker, for i'd prigged his reader, drawn his ticker; [ ] then he calls--"stop thief!" thinks i, my master, that's a hint to me to mizzle faster. [ ] iv when twelve bells chimed, the prigs returned, [ ] and rapped at the ken of uncle ----: [ ] "uncle, open the door of your crib if you'd share the swag, or have one dib. [ ] quickly draw the bolt of your ken, or we'll not shell out a mag, old ----." [ ] v then says uncle, says he, to his blowen, [ ] "d'ye twig these coves, my mot so knowing? [ ] are they out-and-outers, dearie? [ ] are they fogle-hunters, or cracksmen leary? [ ] are they coves of the ken, d'ye know? [ ] shall i let 'em in, or tell 'em to go?" vi "oh! i knows 'em now; hand over my breeches-- i always look out for business--vich is a reason vy a man should rouse at any hour for the good of his house, the top o' the morning, gemmen all, [ ] and for vot you vants, i begs you'll call." vii but now the beaks are on the scene, [ ] and watched by moonlight where we went:-- stagged us a toddling into the ken, [ ] and were down upon us all; and then who should i spy but the slap-up spark [ ] what i eased of the swag in st james's park. [ ] viii there's a time, says king sol, to dance and sing; i know there's a time for another thing: there's a time to pipe, and a time to snivel-- i wish all charlies and beaks at the divel: [ ] for they grabbed me on the prigging lay, and i know i'm booked for bot'ny bay. [ ] [ : pickpockets] [ : thieving game; thieves' rendezvous] [ : drinking gin; porter] [ : evening; sun] [ : pocket-books; watches; handkerchiefs; money] [ : plunder] [ : police] [ : run; before they see you] [ : well-dressed] [ : stolen his pocketbook and watch] [ : run] [ : thieves] [ : house] [ : plunder; coin] [ : give you a half-penny] [ : woman] [ : known; men; mistress] [ : safe to trust] [ : pickpockets; burglers] [ : of our band] [ : a cheery greeting] [ : police] [ : saw us going] [ : dandy] [ : robbed of the plunder] [ : police and magistrates] [ : transported] the lag's lament [ ] [by h. t. r. in _vidocq's memoirs_, vol iii. ]. i happy the days when i vorked away, in my usual line in the prigging lay, [ ] making from this, and that, and t'other, a tidy living without any bother: when my little crib was stored with swag, [ ] and my cly vas a veil-lined money bag, [ ] jolly vas i, for i feared no evil, funked at naught, and pitched care to the devil. ii i had, beside my blunt, my blowen, [ ] 'so gay, so nutty and so knowing' [ ] on the wery best of grub we lived, [ ] and sixpence a quartern for gin i gived; my toggs was the sportingst blunt could buy, [ ] and a slap-up out-and-outer was i. vith my mot on my arm, and my tile on my head, [ ] 'that ere's a gemman' every von said. iii a-coming avay from wauxhall von night, i cleared out a muzzy cove quite; [ ] he'd been a strutting avay like a king, and on his digit he sported a ring, a di'mond sparkler, flash and knowing, thinks i, i'll vatch the vay he's going, and fleece my gemman neat and clever, so, at least i'll try my best endeavour. iv a'ter, the singing and fire-vorks vas ended, i follows my gemman the vay he tended; in a dark corner i trips up his heels, then for his tattler and reader i feels, [ ] i pouches his blunt, and i draws his ring, [ ] prigged his buckles and every thing, and saying, "i thinks as you can't follow, man," i pikes me off to ikey soloman. [ ] v then it happened, d'ye see, that my mot, yellow a-bit about the swag that i'd got, thinking that i should jeer and laugh, although i never tips no chaff [ ] tries her hand at the downy trick, and prigs in a shop, but precious quick "stop thief!" was the cry, and she vas taken i cuts and runs and saves my bacon. vi "then," says he, says sir richard birnie, [ ] "i adwise you to nose on your pals, and turn the [ ] snitch on the gang, that'll be the best vay [ ] to save your scrag." then, without delay, [ ] he so prewailed on the treach'rous varmint that she was noodled by the bow st. sarmint [ ] then the beaks they grabbed me, and to prison i vas dragged [ ] and for fourteen years of my life i vas lagged. [ ] vii my mot must now be growing old, and so am i if the truth be told; but the only vay to get on in the vorld, is to go with the stream, and however ve're twirld, to bear all rubs; and ven ve suffer to hope for the smooth ven ve feels the rougher, though very hard, i confess it appears, to be lagged, for a lark, for fourteen years. [ : picking pockets] [ : plunder] [ : pocket] [ : money; mistress] [ : notes] [ : food] [ : clothes; money] [ : hat] [ : drunken] [ : watch; pocketbook] [ : pockets his money] [ : ran off] [ : indulge in banter] [ : notes] [ : inform] [ : betray] [ : neck] [ : persuaded] [ : police; arrested] [ : transported] "nix my doll, pals, fake away" [notes] [ ] [by w. harrison ainsworth, being jerry juniper's chaunt in _rookwood_.] in a box of the stone jug i was born, [ ] of a hempen widow the kid forlorn, [ ] fake away! [ ] and my father, as i've heard say, was a merchant of capers gay, [ ] who cut his last fling with great applause. nix my doll, pals, fake away! [ ] to the time of hearty choke with caper sauce. [ ] fake away! the knucks in quod did my schoolmen play, [ ] fake away! and put me up to the time of day, [ ] until at last there was none so knowing, no such sneaksman or buzgloak going, [ ] fake away! fogles and fawnies soon went their way, [ ] fake away! to the spout with the sneezers in grand array, [ ] no dummy hunter had forks so fly, [ ] no knuckler so deftly, could fake a cly, [ ] fake away! no slourd hoxter my snipes could stay, [ ] fake away! none knap a reader like me in the lay. [ ] soon then i mounted in swell street-high, nix my doll, pals, fake away! soon then i mounted in swell street-high. and sported my flashest toggery, [ ] fake away! fainly resolved i would make my hay, fake away! while mercury's star shed a single ray; and ne'er was there seen such a dashing prig, with my strummel faked in the newest twig, [ ] fake away! with my fawnied famms and my onions gay, [ ] fake away! my thimble of ridge and my driz kemesa, [ ] all my togs were so niblike and plash. [ ] readily the queer screens i then could smash. [ ] fake away! but my nuttiest blowen one fine day, [ ] fake away! to the beaks did her fancy-man betray, [ ] and thus was i bowled at last, and into the jug for a lag was cast, fake away! but i slipped my darbies one morn in may, [ ] and gave to the dubsman a holiday, [ ] and here i am, pals, merry and free, a regular rollicking romany. [ ] [ : cell; newgate] [ : woman whose husband has been hanged; child] [ : work away!] [ : dancing master] [ : never mind, friends] [ : hanging] [ : thieves; prison] [ : taught me thieving] [ : shoplifter; pickpocket] [ : silk handkerchiefs; rings] [ : pawnbrokers; snuffboxes] [ : pocket-book; nimble fingers] [ : pickpocket; steal] [ : inside pocket buttoned up] [ : steal a pocketbook] [ : best made clothes] [ : hair dressed; fashion] [ : hands bejewelled; seals] [ : gold watch; lace-frilled shirt] [ : clothes; fashionable; fine] [ : forged notes; pass] [ : favorite girl] [ : magistrates; sweetheart] [ : handcuffs] [ : warder] [ : gypsy] the game of high toby [notes] [ ] [by w. harrison ainsworth in _rookwood_]. i now oliver puts his black night-cap on, [ ] and every star its glim is hiding, [ ] and forth to the heath is the scampsman gone, [ ] his matchless cherry-black prancer riding; [ ] merrily over the common, he flies, fast and free as the rush of rocket, his crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes, his tol by his side and his pops in his pocket. [ ] _chorus_. then who can name so merry a game, as the game of all games--high-toby? [ ] ii the traveller hears him, away! away! over the wide, wide heath he scurries; he heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay, but ever the faster and faster he hurries, but what daisy-cutter can match that black tit? [ ] he is caught--he must 'stand and deliver'; then out with the dummy, and off with the bit, [ ] oh! the game of high-toby for ever! _chorus_. then who can name so merry a game as the game of all games--high-toby? iii believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys, to compare with the game of high-toby; no rapture can equal the tobyman's joys, [ ] to blue devils, blue plumbs give the go-by; [ ] and what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap! [ ] even rack punch has _some_ bitter in it, for the mare-with-three-legs, boys, i care not a rap, [ ] 'twill be over in less than a minute! _chorus_. then hip, hurrah! fling care away! hurrah for the game of high-toby! [ : the moon] [ : light] [ : highwayman] [ : black horse] [ : sword; pistols] [ : high-way robbery] [ : fleet horse; horse] [ : pocketbook] [ : highwayman] [ : bullets] [ : gallows] [ : gallows] the double cross [notes] [ ] [by w. harrison ainsworth, in _rookwood_] i though all of us have heard of crost fights, and certain gains, by certain lost fights; i rather fancies that its news, how in a mill, both men should lose; [ ] for vere the odds are thus made even, it plays the dickens with the steven: [ ] besides, against all rule they're sinning, vere neither has no chance of vinning. ri, tol, lol, etc. ii two milling coves, each vide awake, vere backed to fight for heavy stake; but in the mean time, so it vos, both kids agreed to play a cross; bold came each buffer to the scratch, [ ] to make it look a tightish match; they peeled in style, and bets were making, [ ] 'tvos six to four, but few were taking. ri, tol, lol, etc. iii quite cautiously the mill began, for neither knew the other's plan: each cull completely in the dark, [ ] of vot might be his neighbour's mark; resolved his fibbing not to mind, [ ] nor yet to pay him back in kind; so on each other kept they tout, and sparred a bit, and dodged about. ri, tol, lol, etc. iv vith mawleys raised, tom bent his back, [ ] as if to place a heavy thwack; vile jem, with neat left handed stopper, straight threatened tommy with a topper; 'tis all my eye! no claret flows, [ ] no facers sound--no smashing blows, five minutes pass, yet not a hit, how can it end, pals ?--vait a bit. ri, tol, lol, etc. v. each cove vos teared with double duty, to please his backers, yet play booty, [ ] ven, luckily for jem, a teller vos planted right upon his smeller [ ] down dropped he, stunned; ven time was called seconds in vain the seconds bawled; the mill is o'er, the crosser crost, the losers von, the vinners lost. [ : fight] [ : money] [ : man] [ : stripped] [ : fellow] [ : notes] [ : hands] [ : blood] [ : deceive them] [ : nose] the thieves' chaunt [notes] [ ] (by w. h. smith in _the individual_) i there is a nook in the boozing ken, [ ] where many a mug i fog, [ ] and the smoke curls gently, while cousin ben keeps filling the pots again and again, if the coves have stump'd their hog. [ ] ii the liquors around are diamond bright, and the diddle is best of all; [ ] but i never in liquors took delight, for liquors i think is all a bite, [ ] so for heavy wet i call. [ ] iii the heavy wet in a pewter quart, as brown as a badger's hue, more than bristol milk or gin, [ ] brandy or rum, i tipple in, with my darling blowen, sue. [ ] iv oh! grunting peck in its eating [ ] is a richly soft and savoury thing; a norfolk capon is jolly grub [ ] when you wash it down with strength of bub: [ ] but dearer to me sue's kisses far, than grunting peck or other grub are, and i never funks the lambskin men, [ ] when i sits with her in the boozing ken. v her duds are bob--she's a kinchin crack, [ ] and i hopes as how she'll never back; for she never lushes dog's-soup or lap, [ ] but she loves my cousin the bluffer's tap. [ ] she's wide-awake, and her prating cheat, [ ] for humming a cove was never beat; [ ] but because she lately nimm'd some tin, [ ] they have sent her to lodge at the king's head inn. [ ] [ : public house] [ : pipe; smoke] [ : paid a shilling ] [ : gin] [ : humbug] [ : porter] [ : sherry] [ : mistress] [ : pork] [ : red-herring] [ : lots of beer] [ : judges] [ : clothes; neat; fine young woman] [ : drinks water or tea] [ : inn-keeper] [ : tongue] [ : fooling a man] [ : stole; money] [ : newgate; notes] the house breaker's song [notes] [c. ] [by g. w. m. reynolds in _pickwick abroad_]. i i ne'er was a nose, for the reg'lars came [ ] whenever a pannie was done:-- [ ] oh! who would chirp to dishonour his name, and betrays his pals in a nibsome game [ ] to the traps?--not i for one! [ ] let nobs in the fur trade hold their jaw, [ ] and let the jug be free:-- [ ] let davy's dust and a well-faked claw [ ] for fancy coves be the only law, [ ] and a double-tongued squib to keep in awe [ ] the chaps that flout at me! ii from morn till night we'll booze a ken, [ ] and we'll pass the bingo round; [ ] at dusk we'll make our lucky, and then, [ ] with our nags so fresh, and our merry men, we'll scour the lonely ground. and if the swell resist our "stand!" we'll squib without a joke; [ ] for i'm snigger'd if we will be trepanned [ ] by the blarneying jaw of a knowing hand, and thus be lagged to a foreign land, or die by an artichoke. [ ] iii but should the traps be on the sly, for a change we'll have a crack; [ ] the richest cribs shall our wants supply-- [ ] or we'll knap a fogle with fingers fly, [ ] when the swell one turns his back. [ ] the flimsies we can smash as well, [ ] or a ticker deftly prig:-- [ ] but if ever a pal in limbo fell, [ ] he'd sooner be scragg'd at once than tell; [ ] though the hum-box patterer talked of hell, [ ] and the beak wore his nattiest wig. [ ] [ : police spy; share of the booty] [ : house was burgled] [ : gentlemanly] [ : police-officers] [ : old bailey pleaders] [ : prison] [ : gunpowder, hand dextrous at thieving] [ : thieves] [ : double-barrelled gun] [ : drink freely] [ : brandy] [ : depart] [ : fire] [ : transported] [ : hanging [hearty choke]] [ : burglary] [ : houses] [ : steal; handkerchief] [ : skilful] [ : pass false notes] [ : watch] [ : prison] [ : parson] [ : magistrate; handsomest] "the faking boy to the crap is gone" [notes] [ ] [by bon gaultier in _tait's edinburgh magazine_]. i the faking boy to the crap is gone, [ ] at the nubbing-cheat you'll find him; [ ] the hempen cord they have girded on, and his elbows pinned behind him. "smash my glim," cries the reg'lar card, [ ] "though the girl you love betrays you, don't split, but die both game and hard, and grateful pals shall praise you." ii the bolt it fell,--a jerk, a strain! the sheriff's fled asunder; the faking-boy ne'er spoke again, for they pulled his legs from under. and there he dangles on the tree, that sort of love and bravery! oh, that such men should victims be of law, and law's vile knavery. [ : pickpocket; gallows] [ : gallows] [ : blast my eyes!] the nutty blowen [notes] [ ] [by bon gaultier in _taits edinburgh magazine_]. i she wore a rouge like roses, the night when first we met, her lovely mug was smiling o'er mugs of heavy wet; [ ] her red lips had the fullness, her voice the husky tone, that told her drink was of a kind where water is unknown. i saw her but a moment, yet methinks i see her now, with the bloom of borrowed flowers upon her cheek and brow. ii a pair of iron darbies, when next we met, she wore, [ ] the expression of her features was more thoughtful than before; and, standing by her side, was he who strove with might and main to soothe her leaving that dear land she ne'er might see again. i saw her but a moment, yet methinks i see her now, as she dropped the judge a curtsey, and he made her a bow. iii and once again i see that brow no idle rouge is there, the dubsman's ruthless hand has cropped her once luxurious hair; [ ] she teases hemp in solitude, and there is no one near, to press her hand within his own, and call for ginger-beer. i saw her but a moment, yet methinks i see her now, with the card and heckle in her hand, a-teasing of that tow. [ : face; porter] [ : handcuffs] [ : gaoler's] the faker's new toast [notes] [ ] [by bon gaultier ("nimming ned") in _tait's edinburgh magazine_] i come, all ye jolly covies, vot faking do admire, [ ] and pledge them british authors who to our line aspire; who, if they were not gemmen born, like us had kicked at trade, and every one had turned him out a genuine fancy blade, [ ] and a trump. ii 'tis them's the boys as knows the vorld, 'tis them as knows mankind, and vould have picked his pocket too, if fortune (vot is blind) had not to spite their genius, stuck them in a false position, vere they can only write about, not execute their mission, like a trump. iii if they goes on as they're begun, things soon will come about, and ve shall be the upper class, and turn the others out; their laws ve'll execute ourselves, and raise their hevelation, that's tit for tat, for they'd make that the only recreation of a trump. iv but ketch us! only vait a bit, and ve shall be their betters; for vitch our varmest thanks is due unto the men of letters, who, good 'uns all, have showed us up in our own proper light, and proved ve prigs for glory, and all becos it's right [ ] in a trump. v 'tis ve as sets the fashion: jack sheppard is the go [ ] and every word of 'nix my dolls' the finest ladies know; and ven a man his vortin'd make, vy, vot d'ye think's his vay? he does vot ve vere used to do--he goes to botany bay like a trump. vi then fill your glasses, dolly palls, vy should they be neglected, as does their best to helewate the line as ve's selected? to them as makes the crackman's life, the subject of their story, [ ] to ainsworth, and to bullvig, and to reynolds be the glory, [ ] jolly trumps. [ : fellows; stealing] [ : pickpocket] [ : steal] [ : fashion] [ : burglar's] [ : notes] my mother [notes] [ ] [by bon gaultier in _tait's edinburgh magazine_]. i who, when a baby, lank and thin, i called for pap and made a din, lulled me with draughts of british gin?-- my mother. ii when i've been out upon the spree, and not come home till two or three, who was it then would wallop me?-- my mother. iii who, when she met a heavy swell, [ ] would ease him of his wipe so well, [ ] and kiss me not to go and tell ?-- my mother. iv who took me from my infant play, and taught me how to fake away. and put me up to the time of day?-- [ ] my mother. v who'd watch me sleeping in my chair, and slily to my fob repair, [ ] and leave me not a mopus there?-- [ ] my mother. vi who, as beneath her care i grew, taught my young mind a thing or two, especially the flats to do?-- [ ] my mother. vii i'm blessed if ever i did see, so regular a trump as she: i own my virtues all to thee,-- my mother. viii so hand, my pals, the drink about, my story and my glass are out, a bumper, boys, and with me shout-- my mother. [ : well-dressed man] [ : handkerchief] [ : made me cunning] [ : pocket] [ : penny] [ : stupid ones] the high-pads frolic [notes] [ ] [by leman rede, being kit's and adelgitha's duet in _sixteen string jack_]. _ade._ crissy odsbuds, i'll on with my duds, [ ] and over the water we'll flare; _kit._ coaches and prads, lasses and lads, [ ] and fiddlers will be there. _ade._ there beauty blushes bright, _kit._ the punch is hot and strong, _both._and there we'll whisk it, frisk it, whisk it, skip it, and trip it along! ii _ade._ there's charley rattan, and natty jack rann, and giant-like giles mcghee; there's sidle so slim, and flare-away tim, and all of them doat on me. _kit._ hadelgitha--platonically, christopher! _ade._ but charley, and jack, and tim, in vain may exert their wit. for still i'll dance it, prance it, dance it, flaring away with kit! ii _kit._ there's frollicking kate, and rollicking bet, and slammerkin sall so tall, and leary-eyed poll, and blue-eyed moll-- blow me, i love them all! christopher--platonically, hadelgitha! but winny, not jenny, nor sue, shall wean this heart from thee-- so thus i'll trip it, lip it, trip it, trip it with hadelgitha! iv _kit._ the morning may dawn as sure as you're born, _ade._ will find us dancing alone _kit._ i'll get a hack, be off in a crack, [ ] _ade._ an elegant darby and joan! how'll the vulgarians stare as they see you sportingly! _both._for none can splash it, dash it, splash it, _crissy addy_ little you and i. [ : clothes] [ : horses] [ : instant] the dashy, splashy.... little stringer [notes] [ ] [by leman rede, being kit's song in _sixteen-string jack_]. i a cloudy night, and pretty hard it blow'd, the dashy, splashy, leary little stringer, [ ] mounted his roan, and took the road-- phililoo! "my lord cashall's on the road to-night, down with the lads, make my lord alight-- ran dan row de dow, on we go!" _chorus_.--ran, dan, etc. ii "you horrid wretch," said my lord to rann-- the dashy, splashy, leary little stringer-- "how dare you rob a gentleman?" phililoo! says jack, says he, with his knowing phiz, [ ] "i ain't very pertic'lar who it is! ran dan row de dow, on we go!" _chorus_.--ran, dan, etc. iii ve collar'd the blunt, started off for town, [ ] with the dashy, splashy, leary little stringer, horses knock'd up, men knock'd down-- phililoo! a lady's carriage we next espied, i collar'd the blunt, jack jumped inside, ran dan row de dow, on we go! _chorus_.--ran, dan, etc. iv jack took off his hat, with a jaunty air-- the dashy, splashy, leary little stringer-- and he kiss'd the lips of the lady fair-- phililoo! she sigh'd a sigh, and her looks said plain, i don't care much if i'm robb'd again! ran dan row de dow, on we go! _chorus_.--ran, dan, etc. [ : spirited horse] [ : wink] [ : money] the bould yeoman [notes] [ ] [by pierce egan in _captain macheath_]. i a chant i'll tip to you about a high-pad pal so down, [ ] with his pops, and high-bred prad which brought to him renown; [ ] on the road he cut a dash, to him 'twas delight! and if culls would not surrender, he shewed the kiddies fight! [ ] with his pops so bright and airy, and his prad just like a fairy, he went out to nab the gold! [ ] derry down, down, derry down, ii he met a bould yeoman, and bid him for to stand; "if i do, i'm damn'd!" said he, "although you cut it grand. i'm an old english farmer, and do not me provoke i've a cudgel, look ye here, it's a prime tough bit of oak! and i'll give you some gravy, [ ] of that i'll take my davy, [ ] if you try to prig my gold [ ] derry down." iii then the high-toby gloque drew his cutlass so fine; says he to the farmer, "you or i for the shine!" and to it they went both, like two grecians of old, cutting, slashing, up and down, and all for the gold! 'twas cut for cut while it did last, thrashing, licking, hard and fast, hard milling for the gold. [ ] derry down. iv the high-pad quickly cut the farmer's towel in twain-- [ ] pulled out his barking-iron to send daylight through his brain; [ ] but said he i will not down you, if you will but disburse your rowdy with me, yeoman--i'm content to whack your purse! [ ] down with the dust, and save your life, [ ] your consent will end our strife, ain't your life worth more than gold? derry down. v hand up the pewter, farmer, you shall have a share [ ] a kindness, for a toby gloque, you must say is rare; that's right--tip up the kelter, it will make my bones amends, [ ] and wherever we may meet, farmer, we'll be the best of friends! so mount your trotter and away, [ ] and if you ever come this way, take better care of your gold! derry down. vi now listen to me, lads, and always you'll do well, empty every clie of duke, commoner, or swell; [ ] but if you stop a game cove, who has little else than pluck, [ ] do not clean him out, and you'll never want for luck. [ ] so high-pads drink my toast, let honour be our boast, and never pluck a poor cull of his gold. derry down. the bridle-cull and his little pop-gun [notes] [ ] [by pierce egan in _captain macheath_]. i my brave brother troopers, slap-up in the abode, come listen unto me while i chant about "the road"; oh prick up your list'ners if you are fond of fun [ ] a bridle-cull's the hero, and his little pop-gun. [ ] fal, de, rol! lal! lal! la! ii one morning early he went, this rollicking blade, [ ] to pick the blunt up, and he met a nice young maid; [ ] "i'll not rob you," said he, "and so you needn't bunk: [ ] but she lammas'd off in style, of his pop-gun afunk [ ] fal, de, rol! lal! lal! la!" iii then up came a stage-coach, and thus the gloque did say, [ ] i'm sorry for to stop you, but you must hear my lay; "come, stand and deliver! if not, sure as the sun, your journey i will stop with my little pop-gun." fal, de, rol! lol! lol! iv "tis by these little lays a high-padsman he thrives, [ ] "oh take all our rhino, but pray spare our lives!" [ ] cry the passengers who anxious all are for to run, frightened nigh to death by his little pop-gun." fol, de, rol. then, my blades, when you're bush'd, and must have the swag, [ ] walk into tattlers, shiners, and never fear the lag; [ ] then patter to all spicey, and tip 'em lots of fun, [ ] and blunt you'll never want while you've got a pop-gun. [ ] fol, de, rol! la! [ : ears] [ : highwayman] [ : fellow] [ : money] [ : run away] [ : went off; afraid] [ : highwayman] [ : highwayman] [ : money] [ : companions; out of luck; plunder] [ : watches; money; transportation] [ : talk; civilly; give] [ : money] jack flashman	[notes] [ ] [by pierce egan in _captain macheath_]. i jack flashman was a prig so bold, who sighed for nothen but the gold; for sounding, frisking any clie, [ ] jack was the lad, and never shy. fol, de, rol. ii jack long was on the town, a teazer; [ ] a spicy blade for wedge or sneezer; [ ] could turn his fives to anything [ ] nap a reader, or filch a ring. [ ] fol, de, rol. iii jack was all game, and never slack, [ ] in the darky tried the crack; [ ] frisk'd the lobby and the swag; "i'm fly to every move," his brag. [ ] fol, de, rol. iv but jack, at last, got too knowen-- was made a flat by his blowen! [ ] she peached, so got him into trouble. [ ] and then, tipp'd poor jack the double! [ ] fol, de, rol. v jack left the jug right mer-ri-ly, [ ] and vent and black'd his doxy's eye! [ ] saying--look, marm, when next you split, i'll finish you with a rummy hit! fol, de, rol. vi my blades, before my chaunt i end, [ ] here the rag-sauce of a friend; [ ] ne'er trust to any fancy jade, for all their chaff is only trade! fol, de, rol. vii let all their gammon be resisted; vithout you vishes to get twisted! [ ] and never nose upon yourself-- [ ] you then are sure to keep your pelf. fol, de, riddle. [ : robbing; pocket] [ : clever fellow] [ : silver plate; snuffbox] [ : hands] [ : pocket-book; steal a ring] [ : bold] [ : evening; burglary] [ : aware of] [ : betrayed by his mistress] [ : gave information] [ : deserted] [ : prison] [ : sweetheart] [ : men] [ : advice] [ : hung] [ : talk about] miss dolly trull [notes] [ ] [by pierce egan in _captain macheath_]. i of all the mots in this here jug, [ ] there's none like saucy dolly; and but to view her dimber mug [ ] is e'er excuse for folly. she runs such precious cranky rigs with pinching wedge and lockets [ ] yet she's the toast of all the prigs though stealing hearts and pockets. ii just twig miss dolly at a hop-- [ ] she tries to come the graces! [ ] to gain her end she will not stop and all the swells she chases. she ogles, nods, and patters flash [ ] to ev'ry flatty cully [ ] until she frisks him, at a splash [ ] of rhino, wedge, and tully. [ ] [ : women; prison] [ : pretty face] [ : stealing plate] [ : see; dance] [ : act] [ : talks slang] [ : susceptible fellow] [ : robs; entirely] [ : money] the by-blow of the jug [notes] [ ] [by pierce egan in _captain macheath_]. i in newgate jail the jolly kid was born-- [ ] infamy he suck'd without any scorn! his mammy his father did not know, but that's no odds--jack was a by-blow! foddy, loddy, high o. ii scarcely had jack got on his young pins, [ ] when his mammy put him up to some very bad sins, and she taught him soon to swear and lie, and to have a finger in every pie. foddy, loddy, high o. iii his mammy was downy to every rig,-- [ ] before he could read she made him a prig; [ ] very soon she larn'd jack to make a speak and he toddled out on the morning sneak [ ] foddy, loddy, high o. iv jack had a sharp-looking eye to ogle, [ ] and soon he began to nap the fogle! [ ] and ever anxious to get his whack-- when scarcely ripe, he went on the crack. [ ] foddy, loddy, high o. v "now, my chick," says she, "you must take the road 'tis richer than the finest abode, for watches, purses, and lots of the gold-- a scampsman, you know, must always be bold." [ ] foddy, loddy, high o. vi his mother then did give jack some advice, to her son a thief, who was not o'er nice; says she--"fight your way, jack, and stand the brunt, you're of no use, my child, without the blunt, [ ] foddy, loddy, high o." vii "then keep it up, jack, with rare lots of fun. a short life, perhaps, but a merry one; your highway dodges may then live in fame, cheat miss-fortune, and be sure to die game." foddy, loddy, high o. viii "in spite of bad luck, don't be a grumbler; if you are finished off from a tumbler! [ ] but to the end of your life, cut a shine, you're not the first man got into a line." foddy, loddy, high o. [ : child] [ : feet] [ : accomplished;] [ : thief] [ : round for theft] [ : leer] [ : steal; handkerchief] [ : housebreaking] [ : highwayman] [ : money] [ : cart; notes] the cadger's ball [notes] [ ] [from john labern's _popular comic song book_. tune--_joe buggins._]. i oh, what a spicy flare-up, tear-up, festival terpsickory, was guv'd by the genteel cadgers in the famous rookery. as soon as it got vind, however, old st giles's vos to fall-- they all declar'd, so help their never, they'd vind up vith a stunnin' ball! tol, lol lol, etc. ii jack flipflap took the affair in hand, sirs-- who understood the thing complete-- he'd often danced afore the public, on the boards, about the streets. old mother swankey, she consented to lend her lodging-house for nix-- [ ] say's she, 'the crib comes down to-morrow, so, go it, just like beans and bricks.' [ ] tol, lol lol, etc. iii the night arrived for trotter-shaking-- [ ] to mother swankey's snoozing-crib; [ ] each downy cadger was seen taking his bit of muslin, or his rib. [ ] twelve candles vos stuck into turnips, suspended from the ceiling queer-- bunn's blaze of triumph was all pickles to this wegetable shandileer. tol, lol lol, etc. iv ragged jack, wot chalks 'starvation !' look'd quite fat and swellish there-- while dick, wot 'dumbs it' round the nation, had all the jaw among the fair. limping ned wot brought his duchess, at home had left his wooden pegs-- and jim, wot cadges it on crutches, vos the nimblest covey on his legs. tol, lol lol, etc. v the next arrival was old joe burn, wot does the fits to natur chuff-- and fogg, and fogg, wot's blind each day in ho'born, saw'd his way there clear enough, mr. sinniwating sparrow, in corduroys span new and nice, druv up in his pine-apple barrow, which he used to sell a win a slice. [ ] tol, lol lol, etc. vi the ball was open'd by fat mary, togg'd out in book muslin pure, [ ] and saucy sam, surnamed 'the lary,' who did the '_minuit-on-a-squre.'_ while spifflicating charley coker, and jane of the hatchet-face divine, just did the rowdydowdy poker, and out of greasy took the shine. [ ] tol, lol lol, etc. vii the sillywarious next was done in tip-top style just as it should, by muster and missus mudfog, stunning, whose hair curled like a bunch of wood. the folks grinn'd all about their faces, 'cos mudfog--prince of flashy bucks-- had on a pair of pillow cases, transmogrified slap into ducks! tol, lol lol, etc. viii the celebrated pass de sandwich to join in no one could refuse-- six bushels on 'em came in, and wich wanish'd in about two two's. the gatter waltz next followed arter-- [ ] they lapp'd it down, right manful-ly, [ ] until joe guffin and his darter, was in a state of fourpen-ny! tol, lol lol, etc. ix next came the pass de fascination betwixt peg price and dumby dick-- but peg had sich a corporation, he dropp'd her like a red hot brick. the company was so enraptur'd, they _buckets_ of vall flowers threw-- but one chap flung a bunch of turnips, which nearly split dick's nut in two. tol, lol lol, etc. x the dose now set to gallopading, and stamp'd with all their might and main-- they thump'd the floor so precious hard-in, it split the ancient crib in twain, [ ] some pitch'd in the road, bent double-- some was smash'd with bricks--done brown-- so the cadgers saved 'the crown' the trouble of sending coves to pull it down. tol, lol lol, etc. [ : nothing] [ : merrily] [ : walking] [ : lodging-house] [ : sweetheart; wife] [ : penny] [ : dressed] [ : grisi?] [ : beer] [ : drunk] [ : house] "dear bill, this stone-jug" [notes] [ ] [from _punch_, jan., p. . being an epistle from toby cracksman, in newgate, to bill sykes]. i dear bill, this stone-jug at which flats dare to rail, [ ] (from which till the next central sittings i hail), is still the same snug, free-and-easy old hole, where macheath met his blowens, and wild floor'd his bowl [ ] in a ward with one's pals, not locked up in a cell, [ ] to an old hand like me it's a family hotel. [ ] ii in the dayrooms the cuffins we queers at our ease, [ ] and at darkmans we run the rig just as we please, [ ] there's your peck and your lush, hot and reg'lar each day. [ ] all the same if you work, all the same if you play but the lark's when a goney up with us they shut [ ] as ain't up to our lurks, our flash patter, and smut; [ ] iii but soon in his eye nothing green would remain, he knows what's o'clock when he comes out again. and the next time he's quodded so downy and snug, [ ] he may thank us for making him fly to the jug. [ ] but here comes a cuffin--who cuts short my tale, it's agin rules is screevin' to pals out o' gaol. [ ] [the following postscript seems to have been added when the warder had passed.] iv for them coves in guildhall, and that blessed lord mayor, prigs on their four bones should chop whiners i swear: [ ] that long over newgit their worships may rule, as the high-toby, mob, crack and screeve model school: [ ] for if guv'ment wos here, not the alderman's bench, newgit soon 'ud be bad as 'the pent,' or 'the tench'. [ ] [ : prison] [ : mistresses] [ : friends] [ : notes] [ : warders, bamboozle] [ : night] [ : meat and drink] [ : greenhorn] [ : tricks; talking slang; obscenity] [ : imprisoned] [ : up to prison ways] [ : writing] [ : on knees should pray] [ : highwayman; swell-mobsmen; burglars, forgers] [ : notes] the leary man [notes] [ ] [from _the vulgar tongue_, by ducange anglicus]. i of ups and downs i've felt the shocks since days of bats and shuttlecocks, and allcumpaine and albert-rocks, when i the world began; and for these games i often sigh both marmoney and spanish-fly, and flying kites, too, in the sky, for which i've often ran. ii but by what i've seen, and where i've been, i've always found it so, that if you wish to learn to live too much you cannot know. for you must now be wide-awake, if a living you would make, so i'll advise what course to take to be a leary man. ii go first to costermongery, to every fakement get a-fly, [ ] and pick up all their slangery, but let this be your plan; put up with no kieboshery, [ ] but look well after poshery, [ ] and cut teetotal sloshery, [ ] and get drunk when you can. iv and when you go to spree about, let it always be your pride to have a white tile on your nob [ ] and bull-dog by your side your fogle you must flashly tie [ ] each word must patter flashery, [ ] and hit cove's head to smashery, to be a leary man. v to covent garden or billingsgate you of a morn must not be late, but your donkey drive at a slashing rate, and first be if you can. from short pipe you must your bacca blow and if your donkey will not go, to lick him you must not be slow but well his hide must tan. vi the fakement conn'd by knowing rooks must be well known to you, and if you come to fibbery, you must mug one or two. then go to st giles's rookery, [ ] and live up some strange nookery, of no use domestic cookery, to be a leary man. vii then go to pigeon fancery and know each breed by quiz of eye, bald-heads from skin-'ems by their fly, go wrong you never can. all fighting coves too you must know ben caunt as well as bendigo, and to each mill be sure to go, and be one of the van. viii things that are found before they're lost, be always first to find. restore dogs for a pound or two you'll do a thing that's kind, and you must sport a blue billy, or a yellow wipe tied loosily [ ] round your scrag for bloaks to see [ ] that you're a leary man ix at knock-'em-downs and tiddlywink, to be a sharp you must not shrink, but be a brick and sport your chink [ ] to win must be your plan. and set-toos and cock-fighting are things you must take delight in, and always try to be right in and every kidment scan. x and bullying and chaffing too, to you should be well known, your nob be used to bruisery, [ ] and hard as any stone. put the kiebosh on the dibbery, know a joey from a tibbery, and now and then have a black eye, to be a leary man. xi to fairs and races go must you, and get in rows and fights a few, and stopping out all night it's true must often be your plan. and as through the world you budgery, get well awake to fudgery, and rub off every grudgery, and do the best you can. xii but mummery and slummery you must keep in your mind, for every day, mind what i say, fresh fakements you will find. but stick to this while you can crawl. to stand 'till you're obliged to fall, and when you're wide awake to all you'll be a leary man. [ : dodge; learn] [ : nonsense] [ : money] [ : drink] [ : hat; head] [ : necktie] [ : talk slang] [ : notes] [ : handkerchief] [ : neck; men] [ : good fellow; money] [ : head; pugilism] "a hundred stretches hence" [notes] [ ] [from _the vocabulum: or rogues lexicon_, by g. w. matsell, new york]. i oh! where will be the culls of the bing [ ] a hundred stretches hence? [ ] the bene morts who sweetly sing, [ ] a hundred stretches hence? the autum-cacklers, autum-coves, [ ] the jolly blade who wildly roves; [ ] and where the buffer, bruiser, blowen, [ ] and all the cops, and beaks so knowin, [ ] a hundred stretches hence? ii and where the swag so bleakly pinched [ ] a hundred stretches hence? the thimbles, slangs, and danglers filched, [ ] a hundred stretches hence? the chips, the fawneys, chatty-feeders, [ ] the bugs, the boungs, and well-filled readers; [ ] and where the fence, and snoozing ken, [ ] with all the prigs and lushing men, [ ] a hundred stretches hence? iii played out they lay, it will be said a hundred stretches hence; with shovels they were put to bed [ ] a hundred stretches since! some rubbed to wit had napped a winder, [ ] and some were scragged and took a blinder, [ ] planted the swag and lost to sight, [ ] we'll bid them one and all good-night, a hundred stretches hence. [ : publicans] [ : years] [ : pretty women] [ : married women and men] [ : boon companion] [ : smuggler; pugilist; whore] [ : police; magistrate] [ : plunder cleverly stolen] [ : watches; chains; seals; stolen] [ : money; rings; spoons] [ : breast-pins; purses; pocket-book] [ : receiver of stolen goods; brothel] [ : thieves; drunkards] [ : buried] [ : taken to gaol; had cheated a life sentence] [ : hanged; drowned oneself] [ : got rid of the plunder] the chickaleary cove [notes] [_c_. ] i i'm a 'chickaleary bloke' with my one, two, three, [ ] whitechapel was the village i was born in, for to get me on the hop, or on my tibby drop, [ ] you must wake up very early in the morning. i have a rorty gal, also a knowing pal, [ ] and merrily together we jog on, i doesn't care a flatch, as long as i've a tach, [ ] some pannum for my chest, and a tog on. [ ] i'm a chickaleary bloke with my one, two, three, whitechapel was the village i born in, for to get me on the hop, or on my tibby drop, you must wake up very early in the morning. ii now kool my downy kicksies--the style for me, [ ] built on a plan werry naughty, the stock around my squeeze a guiver colour see, [ ] and the vestat with the bins so rorty, [ ] my tailor serves you well, from a perger to a swell, [ ] at groves's you're safe to make a sure pitch, [ ] for ready yenom down, there ain't a shop in town, [ ] can lick groves in the cut as well as shoreditch. [ ] i'm a chickaleary bloke, etc. iii off to paris i shall go, to show a thing or two to the dipping blokes what hangs about the caffes, [ ] how to do a cross-fam, for a super, or a slang, [ ] and to bustle them grand'armes i'd give the office: now my pals i'm going to slope, see you soon again, i hope, my young woman is awaiting, so be quick; now join in a chyike, the jolly we all like, [ ] i'm off with a party to the vic. i'm a chickaleary bloke, etc. [ : whitechapel swell] [ : got the better of me] [ : flashly dressed; clever] [ : halfpenny; hat] [ : eatables; coat] [ : look; trousers flashy cut] [ : neck; flash] [ : vest; pockets] [ : teetotaller] [ : place] [ : money] [ : beat] [ : pickpockets] [ : watch; chain] [ : salute; shout] blooming Æsthetic [ ] [from _the rag_, sept.]. _he_ i a dealer-in-coke young man, a wallop-his-moke young man, a slosher-of-pals, a spooning-with-gals, [ ] an ought-to-be-blowed young man. ii a tell-a-good-whopper young man, [ ] a slogging-a-copper young man, [ ] a pay-on-the-nod, [ ] an always-in-quod, [ ] a sure-to-be-scragged young man. [ ] iii a sunday-flash-togs young man, [ ] a pocket-of-hogs young man, [ ] a save-all-his-rhino, [ ] a cut-a-big-shine, oh, will soon-have-a-pub young man _she_ i a powder-and-paint young girl, not-quite-a-saint young girl, an always-get-tight, [ ] a stay-out-all-night, have-a-kid-in-the-end young girl. [ ] ii make-a-bloke-a-choke young girl, love-a-gin-soak young girl, [ ] on-the-kerb-come-a-cropper, run-in-by-a-copper, [ ] "fined-forty-bob "--young girl. iii a tallow-faced-straight young girl, a never-out-late young girl, a salvation-mummery, smoleless-and-glummery, kid-by-a-captain young girl. [ : making love] [ : lie] [ : assaulting the police] [ : take unlimited credit] [ : in prison] [ : hung] [ : clothes] [ : silver] [ : money] [ : drunk] [ : child] [ : drunken bout] [ : policeman] 'arry at a political picnic [by t milliken in _punch_, oct.] dear charlie. i 'ow are yer, my ribstone? seems scrumtious to write the old name. i 'ave quite lost the ran of you lately. bin playing some dark little game? [ ] i'm keeping mine hup as per usual, fust in the pick of the fun, for wherever there's larks on the tappy there's 'arry as sure as a gun. ii the latest new lay's demonstrations. you've heard on 'em, charlie, no doubt, for they're at 'em all over the shop. i 'ave 'ad a rare bustle about. all my saturday arfs are devoted to politics. fancy, old chump, me doing the sawdusty reglar, and follering swells on the stump! [ ] iii but, bless yer, my bloater, it isn't all chin-music, votes, and 'ear! 'ear!' [ ] or they wouldn't catch me on the ready, or nail me for ninepence. no fear! percessions i've got a bit tired of, hoof-padding and scrouging's dry rot, [ ] but political picnics mean sugar to them as is fly to wot's wot. iv went to one on 'em yesterday, charlie; a reglar old up and down lark. the pallis free gratis, mixed up with a old country fair in a park, and rosherville gardens chucked in, with a dash of the bean feast will do, to give you some little idear of our day with sir jinks bottleblue. v make much of us, charlie? lor bless you, we might ha' bin blooming chinese a-doing the rounds at the 'ealthries. 'twas regular go as you please. lawn-tennis, quoits, cricket, and dancing for them as must be on the shove, but i preferred pecking and prowling, and spotting the mugs making love. vi don't ketch me a-slinging my legs about arter a beast of a ball at ninety degrees in the shade or so, charlie, old chap, not at all. athletics 'aint 'ardly my form, and a cutaway coat and tight bags are the species of togs for yours truly, and lick your loose 'flannels' to rags. vii so i let them as liked do a swelter; i sorntered about on the snap. rum game this yer politics, charlie, seems arf talkee-talkee and trap. jest fancy old bluebottle letting the 'multitood' pic-nic and lark, and make battersea park of his pleasure-grounds, bathelmy fair of his park! viii 'to show his true love for the people!' sezs one vote-of-thanking tall-talker, and wosn't it rude of a bloke as wos munching a bun to cry 'walker!' i'm tory right down to my boots, at a price, and i bellered "'ear, ear!' but they don't cop yours truly with chaff none the more, my dear charlie, no fear!" ix old bottleblue tipped me his flipper, and 'oped i'd 'refreshed,' and all that. [ ] 'wy rather,' sez i, 'wot do you think ?' at which he stared into his 'at, and went a bit red in the gills. must ha' thought me a muggins, old man, [ ] to ask sech a question of 'arry--as though grabbing short was his plan. x i went the rounds proper, i tell yer; 'twas like the free run of a bar, and politics wants lots o' wetting. don't ketch me perched up on a car, or 'olding a flag-pole no more. no, percessions, dear boy, ain't my fad, but political picnics with fireworks, and plenty of swiz ain't 'arf bad. xi the palaver was sawdust and treacle. old bottleblue buzzed for a bit, and a sniffy young wiscount in barnacles landed wot 'e thought a 'it; said old gladstone wos like simpson's weapon, a bit of a hass and all jor, when a noisy young rad in a wideawake wanted to give him what for! [ ] xii yah! boo! turn 'im hout!' sings yours truly, a-thinkin' the fun was at 'and, but, bless yer! 'twas only a sputter. i can't say the meeting looked grand. five thousand they reckoned us, charlie, but if so i guess the odd three were a-spooning about in the halley's, or lappin' up buns and bohea. xiii the band and the 'opping wos prime though, and 'arry in course wos all there. i 'ad several turns with a snappy young party with stror coloured 'air. her name she hinfonned me wos polly, and wen in my 'appiest style, i sez, 'polly is nicer than politics!' didn't she colour and smile? xiv we got back jest in time for the fireworks, a proper flare-up, and no kid, which finished that day's demonstration, an' must 'ave cost many a quid. wot fireworks and park-feeds do demonstrate, charlie, i'm blest if i see, and i'm blowed if i care a brass button, so long as i get a cheap spree. xv the patter's all bow-wow, of course, but it goes with the buns and the beer. if it pleases the big-wigs to spout, wy it don't cost bus nothink to cheer. though they ain't got the 'ang of it, charlie, the toffs ain't--no go and no spice! why, i'd back barney crump at our singsong to lick 'em two times out o' twice! xvi still i'm all for the lords and their lot, charlie. rads are my 'error, you know. change r into c and you've got 'em, and 'arry 'ates anythink low. so if demonstrations means skylarks, and lotion as much as you'll carry, these 'busts of spontanyous opinion' may reckon all round upon 'arry. [ : sight] [ : nonsense] [ : talking] [ : walking] [ : eating; fools] [ : trousers] [ : prowl] [ : notes] [ : catch] [ : shook hands] [ : face; fool] [ : something to talk about] "rum coves that relieve us" [ ] [by heinrich baumann in _londonismen_]. i rum coves that relieve us [ ] of clunkers and pieces, [ ] is gin'rally lagged, [ ] or wuss luck gets scragg'd. [ ] ii are smashers and divers [ ] and noble contrivers not sold to the beaks [ ] by the coppers an' sneaks? [ ] iii yet moochin' arch-screevers, [ ] concoctin' deceivers, chaps as reap like their own what by tothers were sown; iv piratical fakers [ ] of bosh by the acres, these muck-worms of trash cut, oh, a great dash. v but, there, it don't matter since, to cut it still fatter, by 'ook and by crook ve've got up this book. vi tell ye 'ow? vy in rum kens, [ ] in flash cribs and slum dens, [ ] i' the alleys and courts, 'mong the doocedest sorts; vii when jawin' with jillie or mag and 'er billie, ve shoved down in black their illigant clack. [ ] viii so from hartful young dodgers, from vaxy old codgers, [ ] from the blowens ve got [ ] soon to know vot is vot. ix now then there is yer sumptuous tuck-in of most scrumptious, and dainty mag-pie! [ ] will ye jes' come and try? [ : thieves] [ : money] [ : imprisoned] [ : hung] [ : counterfeiters; pickpockets] [ : magistrates] [ : police; informers] [ : prowling; begging letter writers] [ : writers of "blood and thunder"] [ : queer places] [ : thieves' resorts] [ : talk] [ : men] [ : prostitutes] [ : speech] villon's good-night [ ] [by william ernest henley]. i you bible-sharps that thump on tubs, [ ] you lurkers on the abram-sham, [ ] you sponges miking round the pubs, [ ] you flymy titters fond of flam, [ ] you judes that clobber for the stramm, [ ] you ponces good at talking tall, with fawneys on your dexter famm-- [ ] a mot's good-night to one and all! [ ] ii likewise you molls that flash your bubs [ ] for swells to spot and stand you sam, [ ] you bleeding bonnets, pugs, and subs, you swatchel-coves that pitch and slam. [ ] you magsmen bold that work the cram, [ ] you flats and joskins great and small, gay grass-widows and lawful-jam-- [ ] a mot's good-night to one and all! iii for you, you coppers, narks, and dubs, [ ] who pinched me when upon the snam, [ ] and gave me mumps and mulligrubs [ ] with skilly and swill that made me clam, [ ] at you i merely lift my gam-- [ ] i drink your health against the wall! [ ] that is the sort of man i am, a mot's good-night to one and all! _the farewell_. paste 'em, and larrup 'em, and lamm! give kennedy, and make 'em crawl! [ ] i do not care one bloody damn, a mot's good-night to one and all. [ : false clericos] [ : beggar feigning sickness] [ : cadgers; loafing] [ : saucy girls; non-sense] [ : women dress; game] [ : rings; right hand] [ : harlot] [ : prostitutes; expose paps] [ : see; pay for] [ : punch-and-judy-man] [ : pattering tradesman] [ : wife] [ : police; informers; warders] [ : arrested; stealing] [ : "the blues"] [ : refuse food] [ : leg] [ : urinate] [ : thrash them and make them stir] villon's straight tip to all cross coves [notes] [ ] [by william ernest henley]. _'tout aux tavernes et aux filles'_ i suppose you screeve, or go cheap-jack? [ ] or fake the broads? or fig a nag? or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? or pitch a snide? or smash a rag? suppose you duff? or nose and lag? or get the straight, and land your pot? how do you melt the multy swag? booze and the blowens cop the lot. ii fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack; or moskeneer, or flash the drag; dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack; pad with a slang, or chuck a fag; bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag; rattle the tats, or mark the spot you cannot bank a single stag: booze and the blowens cop the lot. iii suppose you try a different tack, and on the square you flash your flag? at penny-a-lining make your whack, or with the mummers mug and gag? for nix, for nix the dibbs you bag at any graft, no matter what! your merry goblins soon stravag: booze and the blowens cop the lor. _the moral._ it's up-the-spout and charley-wag with wipes and tickers and what not! until the squeezer nips your scrag, booze and the blowens cop the lot. [ : see notes for translation] culture in the slums [ ] [by william ernest henley: "inscribed to an intense poet"]. i. _rondeau._ i "o crikey, bill!" she ses to me, she ses. "look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges. yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree! [ ] for lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she, [ ] "i'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less." [ ] ii was it not prime--i leave you all to guess how prime! to have a jude in love's distress [ ] come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee, [ ] "o crikey, bill!" iii for in such rorty wise doth love express [ ] his blooming views, and asks for your address, and makes it right, and does the gay and free. i kissed her--i did so! and her and me was pals. and if that ain't good business. o crikey, bill! ii. _villanelle_. i now ain't they utterly too--too? [ ] (she ses, my missus mine, ses she), them flymy little bits of blue. [ ] ii joe, just you kool 'em--nice and skew [ ] upon our old meogginee, now ain't they utterly too-too? iii they're better than a pot'n a screw, they're equal to a sunday spree, them flymy little bits of blue! iv suppose i put 'em up the flue, [ ] and booze the profits, joe? not me. [ ] now ain't they utterly too-too ? v i do the 'igh art fake, i do. joe, i'm consummate; and i _see_ them flymy little bits of blue. vi which, joe, is why i ses to you-- Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free-- now ain't they utterly too-too, them flymy little bits of blue? iii. _ballade_. i i often does a quiet read at booty shelley's poetry; [ ] i thinks that swinburne at a screed is really almost too-too fly; at signor vagna's harmony [ ] i likes a merry little flutter; i've had at pater many a shy; in fact, my form's the bloomin' utter. ii my mark's a tidy little feed, and 'enery irving's gallery, to see old 'amlick do a bleed, and ellen terry on the die, or franky's ghostes at hi-spy, and parties carried on a shutter [ ] them vulgar coupeaus is my eye! in fact, my form's the bloomin' utter. iii the grosvenor's nuts--it is, indeed! i goes for 'olman 'unt like pie. it's equal to a friendly lead [ ] to see b. jones's judes go by. stanhope he makes me fit to cry, whistler he makes me melt like butter, strudwick he makes me flash my cly-- [ ] in fact, my form's the bloomin' utter. _envoy_. i'm on for any art that's 'igh! i talks as quite as i can splutter; i keeps a dado on the sly; in fact, my form's the blooming utter! [ : sausages] [ : friend] [ : very hungry] [ : girl] [ : fondling; softly] [ : thus expressively] [ : nice] [ : _i.e._ china] [ : look at] [ : pawn] [ : drink] [ : botticelli(?)] [ : wagner(?)] [ : the corsican brothers(?)] [ : notes] [ : spend money] "tottie" [ ] [by "dagonet" (g. r. sims) in _referee_, nov.]. i as she walked along the street with her little 'plates of meat,' [ ] and the summer sunshine falling on her golden 'barnet fair,' [ ] bright as angels from the skies were her dark blue 'mutton pies.' [ ] in my 'east and west' dan cupid [ ] shot a shaft and left it there. ii she'd a grecian 'i suppose,' [ ] and of 'hampstead heath' two rows, [ ] in her 'sunny south' that glistened [ ] like two pretty strings of pearls; down upon my 'bread and cheese' [ ] did i drop and murmur, 'please be my "storm and strife," dear tottie, [ ] o, you darlingest of girls!' iii then a bow-wow by her side, [ ] who till then had stood and tried a 'jenny lee' to banish, [ ] which was on his 'jonah's whale,' [ ] gave a hydrophobia bark, (she cried, 'what a noah's ark!') [ ] and right through my 'rank and riches' [ ] did my 'cribbage pegs' assail. [ ] iv ere her bull-dog i could stop she had called a 'ginger pop,' [ ] who said, 'what the "henry meville" [ ] do you think you're doing there?' and i heard as off i slunk, 'why, the fellow's "jumbo's trunk!" [ ] and the 'walter joyce' was tottie's [ ] with the golden 'barnet fair.' [ ] [ : feet] [ : hair] [ : eyes] [ : breast] [ : nose] [ : teeth] [ : mouth] [ : knees] [ : wife] [ : dog] [ : flee] [ : tail] [ : lark] [ : breeches] [ : legs] [ : slop = policeman] [ : devil] [ : drunk] [ : voice] [ : hair] a plank bed ballad [ ] [by "dagonet" (g. r. sims) in _referee_, feb.]. i understand, if you please, i'm a travelling thief, the gonophs all call me the gypsy; [ ] by the rattler i ride when i've taken my brief, [ ] and i sling on my back an old kipsey. [ ] ii if i pipe a good chat, why, i touch for the wedge, [ ] but i'm not a "particular" robber; i smug any snowy i see on the hedge, [ ] and i ain't above daisies and clobber. [ ] iii one day i'd a spree with two firms in my brigh, [ ] and a toy and a tackle--both red 'uns; [ ] and a spark prop a pal (a good screwsman) and i [ ] had touched for in working two dead 'uns. iv i was taking a ducat to get back to town [ ] (i had come by the rattler to dover), when i saw as a reeler was roasting me brown, [ ] and he rapped, "i shall just turn you over." [ ] v i guyed, but the reeler he gave me hot beef, [ ] and a scuff came about me and hollered; i pulled out a chive, but i soon came to grief, [ ] and with screws and a james i was collared. [ ] vi i was fullied, and then got three stretch for the job,[ ] and my trip--cuss the day as i seen her-- [ ] she sold off my home to some pals in her mob, [ ] for a couple of foont and ten deener. [ ] vii oh, donnys and omees, what gives me the spur, [ ] is, i'm told by a mug (he tells whoppers), [ ] that i ought to have greased to have kept out of stir [ ] the dukes of the narks and the coppers. [ ] [ : boys] [ : rail; ticket] [ : basket] [ : see; horse; go for; silver plate] [ : steal; linen] [ : boots; clothes] [ : £ notes; pocket] [ : watch; chain; gold] [ : diamond pin] [ : ticket] [ : detective; closely scanning me] [ : said; search you] [ : ran; tea; chased me] [ : knife] [ : burglars tools; caught] [ : remanded; years] [ : mistress] [ : friends; set] [ : £ notes; shillings] [ : girl; fellows] [ : man] [ : bribed] [ : hands; detectives; police] the rondeau of the knock [ ] [by "dagonet" (g. r. sims) in _referee_, ap. p. ]. i he took the knock! no more with jaunty air [ ] he'll have the "push" that made the punter stare; no more in monkeys now odds on he'll lay [ ] and make the ever grumbling fielder gay. one plunger more has had his little flare [ ] and then came to monday when he couldn't "square"; [ ] stripped of his plunees a poor denuded j [ ] he took the knock! where is he now? ah! echo answers "where"? upon the turf he had his little day and when, stone-broke, he could no longer pay [ ] leaving the ring to gnash its teeth and swear he took the knock! [ : gave in] [ : £ ] [ : opportunity] [ : pay up] [ : fellow] [ : ruined] the rhyme of the rusher [ ] [by doss chiderdoss in _sporting times_, oct. _in appropriate rhyming slanguage_]. i i was out one night on the strict teetote, [ ] 'cause i couldn't afford a drain; i was wearing a leaky i'm afloat, [ ] and it started to france and spain. [ ] but a toff was mixed in a bull and cow, [ ] and i helped him to do a bunk; [ ] he had been on the i'm so tap, and now [ ] he was slightly elephant's trunk. [ ] ii he offered to stand me a booze, so i [ ] took him round to the "mug's retreat;" and my round the houses i tried to dry [ ] by the anna maria's heat. [ ] he stuck to the i'm so to drown his cares, while i went for the far and near, [ ] until the clock on the apples and pears [ ] gave the office for us to clear. [ ] iii then round at the club we'd another bout, and i fixed him at nap until i had turned his skyrockets inside out, [ ] and had managed my own to fill, of course, i had gone on the half-ounce trick,[ ] and we quarrelled, and came to blows; but i fired him out of the roiy quick, and he fell on his i suppose. [ ] iv and he laid there, weighing out prayers for me, without hearing the plates of meat [ ] of a slop, who pinched him for "d. and d." [ ] and disturbing a peaceful beat, and i smiled as i closed my two mince pies [ ] in my insect promenade; for out of his nibs i had taken a rise, [ ] and his stay on the spot was barred. v next morning i brushed up my barnet fair, [ ] and got myself up pretty smart; then i sallied forth with a careless air, and contented raspberry tart. [ ] at the first big pub i resolved, if pos., [ ] that i'd sample my lucky star; so i passed a flimsy on to the boss [ ] who served drinks at the there you are. [ ] vi he looked at the note, and the air began with his language to pen and ink; [ ] for the mug i'd fleeced had been his head man, [ ] and had done him for lots of chink. [ ] i'm blessed if my luck doesn't hum and ha, for i argued the point with skill; but the once a week made me go ta-ta [ ] for a month on the can't keep still. [ ] [ : without drink] [ : coat] [ : rain] [ : swell; row] [ : get away] [ : rap] [ : drunk] [ : drink] [ : trousers] [ : fire] [ : beer] [ : stairs] [ : warning] [ : pockets] [ : bounce] [ : nose] [ : feet] [ : policeman; arrested; drunk and disorderly] [ : eyes ] [ : him; advantage] [ : hair] [ : heart] [ : possible] [ : banknote] [ : bar] [ : stink] [ : fellow; cheated] [ : robbed; money] [ : beak] [ : everlasting wheel=mill] wot cher! [notes] _or, knocked 'em in the old kent rd._ [ ] [by albert chevalier]. i last week down our alley come a toff, [ ] nice old geezer with a nasty cough, [ ] sees my missus, takes 'is topper off [ ] in a very gentlemanly way! "ma'am," says he, "i 'ave some news to tell, your rich uncle tom of camberwell, popped off recent, which it ain't a sell, [ ] leaving you 'is little donkey shay." "wot cher!" all the neighbours cried, "who're yer goin' to meet, bill? have yer bought the street, bill?" laugh! i thought i should 'ave died, knock'd 'em in the old kent road! [ ] ii some says nasty things about the moke, [ ] one cove thinks 'is leg is really broke, [ ] that's 'is envy, cos we're carriage folk, like the toffs as rides in rotten row! straight! it woke the alley up a bit, [ ] thought our lodger would 'ave 'ad a fit, when my missus, who's a real wit, says, "i 'ates a bus, because it's low!" "wot cher!" &c. iii when we starts the blessed donkey stops, he won't move, so out i quickly 'ops, pals start whackin' him, when down he drops, someone says he wasn't made to go. lor it might 'ave been a four-in-'and, my old dutch knows 'ow to do the grand, [ ] first she bows, and then she waves 'er 'and, calling out we're goin' for a blow! "wot cher!" &c. iv ev'ry evenin' on the stroke of five, me and missus takes a little drive, you'd say, "wonderful they're still alive," if you saw that little donkey go. i soon showed him that 'e 'd have to do, just whatever he was wanted to, still i shan't forget that rowdy crew, 'ollerin' "woa! steady! neddy woa! "wot cher!" &c. [ : well-dressed man] [ : man] [ : hat] [ : died; mistake] [ : made them stare] [ : donkey] [ : fellow] [ : no mistake] [ : wife; make a show] our little nipper [notes] [ ] [by albert chevalier]. i i'm just about the proudest man that walks, i've got a little nipper, when 'e talks [ ] i'll lay yer forty shiners to a quid [ ] you'll take 'im for the father, me the kid. now as i never yet was blessed wi' wealf, i've 'ad to bring that youngster up myself, and though 'is education 'as been free, 'e's allus 'ad the best of tips from me. [ ] and 'e's a little champion, do me proud well 'e's a knock out, [ ] takes after me and ain't a bit too tall. 'e calls 'is mother "sally," and 'is father "good old pally," and 'e only stands about so 'igh, that's all! ii 'e gits me on at skittles and 'e flukes, [ ] and when 'e wants to 'e can use 'is "dooks," [ ] you see 'im put 'em up, well there, it's great, 'e takes a bit of lickin at 'is weight; 'e'll stick up like a briton for 'is pals, an' ain't 'e just a terror with the gals; i loves to see 'im cuttin' of a dash, a walkin' down our alley on the mash. [ ] there, 'e's a little champion, do me proud well 'e's a knock out, i've knowed 'im take a girl on six foot tall; 'e'll git 'imself up dossy, [ ] say i'm goin' out wi' flossie, an' 'e only stands about so 'igh, that's all. iii i used to do a gin crawl e'vry night, [ ] an' very, very often come 'ome tight, [ ] but now of all sich 'abits i've got rid, i al'us wants to git 'ome to the kid. in teachin' 'im i takes a regular pride, not books, of course, for them 'e can't abide, but artful little ikey little ways, [ ] as makes the people sit up where we stays. [ ] (_spoken_)--only last sunday me an' the missus took 'im out for a walk--i should say 'e took us out. as we was a comin' 'ome i says to the old gal "let's pop into the 'broker's arms' and 'ave a drop o' beer?" she didn't raise no objection so in we goes, followed by 'is nibs--i'd forgotten all about 'im--i goes to the bar and calls for two pots of four 'alf; suddenly i feels 'im a tuggin' at my coat, "wot's up?" sez i; "wot did yer call for?" sez 'e; "two pots of four 'alf," sez i; "oh," sez 'e, "ain't mother goin' to 'ave none?" well, 'e's a little champion, do me proud well 'e's a knock out, "drink up," sez 'e, "three pots, miss, it's my call." i sez "now jacky, jacky;" 'e sez, "and a screw of baccy," and 'e only stands about so 'igh, that's all. [ : child] [ : shillings; pound] [ : information] [ : notes] [ : notes] [ : hands] [ : courting] [ : dressy] [ : round of ginshops] [ : drunk] [ : funny] [ : stare] the coster's serenade [ ] [by albert chevalier]. i you ain't forgotten yet that night in may, down at the welsh 'arp, which is 'endon way, you fancied winkles and a pot of tea, "four 'alf" i murmured's "good enough for me." "give me a word of 'ope that i may win"-- you prods me gently with the winkle pin-- we was as 'appy as could be that day down at the welsh 'arp, which is 'endon way. oh, 'arriet i'm waiting, waiting for you my dear, oh, 'arriet i'm waiting, waiting alone out here; when that moon shall cease to shine, false will be this 'eart of mine, i'm bound to go on lovin' yer my dear; d'ye 'ear? ii you ain't forgotten 'ow we drove that day down to the welsh 'arp, in my donkey shay; folks with a "chy-ike" shouted, "ain't they smart?" [ ] you looked a queen, me every inch a bart. seemed that the moke was saying "do me proud;" mine is the nobbiest turn-out in the crowd; [ ] me in my "pearlies" felt a toff that day, [ ] down at the welsh 'arp, which is endon way. oh, 'arriet, &c. iii eight months ago and things is still the same, you're known about 'ere by your maiden name, i'm getting chivied by my pals 'cos why? [ ] nightly i warbles 'ere for your reply. summer 'as gone, and it's a freezin' now, still love's a burnin' in my 'eart, i vow; just as it did that 'appy night in may down at the welsh 'arp, which is endon way. oh, 'arriet, &c. [ : shout] [ : finest; trap] [ : swell] [ : chaffed] notes _rhymes of the canting crew._ [footnote: throughout these notes free use has been made of the _national dictionary of biography_; a work which, without question, contains the latest and most accurately sifted array of biographical information, much of which could not be obtained from any other source whatever.] these lines are of little interest apart from the fact of being the earliest known example of the canting speech or pedlar's french in english literature. sorry in point or meaning, they are sorrier still as verse. yet, antedating, by half a century or more, the examples cited by awdeley and harman, they possess a certain value they carry us back almost to the beginnings of cant, at all events to the time when the secret language of rogues and vagabonds first began to assume a concrete form. usually ascribed to thomas dekker (who "conveyed" them bodily, and with errors, to _lanthorne and candlelight_, published in ) this jingle of popular canting phrases, strung together almost at haphazard, is the production of robert copland ( - ), the author of _the hye way to the spyttel house_, a pamphlet printed after , and of which only two or three copies are now known. copland was a printer-author; in the former capacity a pupil of caxton in the office of wynkyn de worde. the plan of _the hye way_ is simplicity itself. copland, taking refuge near st. bartholomew's hospital during a passing shower, engages the porter in conversation concerning the "losels, mighty beggars and vagabonds, the michers, hedge-creepers, fylloks and luskes" that "ask lodging for our lord's sake". thereupon is drawn a vivid and vigorous picture of the seamy side of the social life of the times. all grades of "vagrom men," with their frauds and shifts, are passed in review, and when copland asks about their "bousy" speech, the porter entertains him with these lines. lines and . _bousy_ = drunken, sottish, dissipated. so skelton in _elynoor rommin_ (harl. mss. ed. park, i. ), 'her face all _bowsie_'. _booze_ = to drink heavily, is still colloquial; and, = to drink, was in use as early as a.d. . line . _cove_ (or _cofe_) = a man, an individual. _maimed nace_ (_nase_ or _nazy_) = helplessly drunk; lat. _nausea_ = sickness; _cf_. line , '_nace gere_'. line . _teare_ (_toure_ or _towre_) = to look, to see. _patrying cove_ (_patrico, patricove_, or _pattercove_) = a strolling priest; _cf_. awdeley, _frat. of vacabondes_ ( ), p. .:-- "a patriarke co. doth make marriages, and that is untill death depart the married folke, which is after this sort: when they come to a dead horse or any dead catell, then they shake hands and so depart, euery one of them a seuerall way." the form _patrying cove_ seems to suggest a derivation from 'pattering' or 'muttering'--the pater- noster, up to the time of the reformation, was recited by the priest in a low voice as far as 'and lead us not into temptation' when the choir joined in. _darkman_ _cace_ (or _case_) = a sleeping apartment or place--ward, barn, or inn: _darkmans_ = night + lat. _casa_ = house etc.: '_mans_' is a common canting affix = a thing or place: _e.g. lightmans_ = day; _ruffmans_ = a wood or bush; _greenmans_ = the fields; _chepemans_ = cheapside market etc. line . _docked the dell_ = deflowered the girl: _dell_ = virgin; _see_ harman, _caveat_ ( ), p. :--'a dell is a yonge wenche, able for generation, and not yet knowen or broken by the upright man'. _coper meke_ (or _make_) = a half-penny. line . _his watch_ = he: _my watch_ = i, or me: _cf_. 'his nabs' and 'my nabs' in modern slang. _feng_ (a. s.) = to get, to steal, to snatch. _prounces nobchete_ = prince's hat or cap: _cheat_ (a. s.) = thing, and mainly used as an affix: thus, _belly-chete_ = an apron; _cackling-chete_ = a fowl; _crashing-chetes_ = the teeth; _nubbing-chete_ = the gallows, and so forth. line . _cyarum, by salmon_--the meaning of _cyarum_ is unknown: _by salmon_ (or _solomon_) = a beggar's oath, _i.e_., by the altar or mass. _pek my jere_ = eat excrement: _cf_. 'turd in your mouth'. line . _gan_ = mouth. _my watch_, see _ante_, line . _nace gere_ = nauseous stuff: _cf. ante_, line : _gere_ = generic for thing, stuff, or material. line . _bene bouse_ = strong drink or wine. _the beggar's curse_ thomas dekker, one of the best known of the elizabethan pamphleteers and dramatists, was born in london about , and began his literary career in - when an entry referring to a loan-advance occurs in henslowe's _diary_. a month later forty shillings were advanced from the same source to have him discharged from the counter, a debtor's prison. dekker was a most voluminous writer, and not always overparticular whence he got, or how he used, the material for his tracts and plays. _the belman of london bringing to light the most notorious villanies that are now practised in the kingdome_ ( ) of which three editions were published in one year, consists mainly of pilferings from harman's _caveat for common curselors_ first published in - . he did not escape conviction, however, for samuel rowlands showed him up in _martin mark-all_. yet another instance of wholesale "conveyance" is mentioned in the note to "canting rhymes" (_ante_). in spite of this shortcoming, however, and a certain recklessness of workmanship, the scholar of to- day owes dekker a world of thanks: his information concerning the social life of his time is such as can be obtained nowhere else, and it is, therefore, now of sterling value. _lanthorne and candlelight_ is the second part of _the belman of london_. published also in , it ran to two editions in , a fourth appearing in under the title of _o per se o, or a new cryer of lanthorne and candlelight, being an addition or lengthening of the belman's second night walke_. eight or nine editions of this second part appeared between and all differing more or less from each other, another variation occurring when in dekker republished _lanthorne and candlelight_ under the title of _english villanies_, shortly after which he is supposed to have died. _"towre out ben morts"_ samuel rowlands, a voluminous writer _circa_ - , though little known now, nevertheless kept the publishers busy for thirty years, his works selling readily for another half century. not the least valuable of his numerous productions from a social and antiquarian point of view is _martin mark-all, beadle of bridewell; his defence and answere to the belman of london_ (see both notes _ante_). martin markall delivers himself of a vivid and "originall" account of "the regiment of rogues, when they first began to take head, and how they have succeeded one the other successively unto the sixth and twentieth year of king henry the eighth, gathered out of the chronicle of crackropes" etc. he then criticizes somewhat severely the errors and omissions in dekker's canting glossary, adding considerably to it, and finally joins issue with the belman in an attempt to give "song for song". dekker's "canting rhymes" (plagiarised from copland) and "the beggar's curse" thus apparently gave birth to the present verses and to those entitled "the maunder's wooing" that follow. stanza i, line i. _ben_ = lat. _bene_ = good. _mort_ = a woman, chaste or not. line . _rome-cove_ = "a great rogue" (b. e., _dict. cant. crew_, ), _i.e_., an organizer, or the actual perpetrator of a robbery: _quire-cove_ = a subordinate thief--the money had passed from the actual thief to his confederate. _rom_ (or _rum_) and _quier_ (or _queer_) enter largely into combination, thus--_rom_ = gallant, fine, clever, excellent, strong; _rom-bouse_ = wine or strong drink; _rum- bite_ = a clever trick or fraud; _rum-blowen_ = a handsome mistress; _rum-bung_ = a full purse; _rum-diver_ = a clever pickpocket; _rum-padder_ = a well-mounted highwayman, etc.: also _queere_ = base, roguish; _queer-bung_ = an empty purse; _queer-cole_ = bad money; _queer-diver_ = a bungling pickpocket; _queer-ken_ = a prison; _queer-mart_ = a foundered whore, and so forth. _budge_ = a general verb of action, usually stealthy action: thus, _budge a beak_ = to give the constable the slip, or to bilk a policeman; _to budge out_ (or _off_) = to sneak off; _to budge an alarm_ = to give warning. _the maunder's wooing_ _see_ previous note. stanza ii, line . _autem mort_ = a wife; thus harman, _caveat_ ( ):--"these autem mortes be maried wemen, as there be but a fewe. for autem in their language is a churche; so she is a wyfe maried at the church, and they be as chaste as a cowe i have, that goeth to bull every moone, with what bull she careth not." line . _wap_ = to lie carnally with. stanza iv, line . _whittington_ = newgate, from the famous lord mayor of london who left a bequest to rebuild the gaol. after standing for years whittington's building was demolished in . stanza v, line . _crackmans_ = hedges or bushes. _tip lowr with thy prat_ = (literally) get money with thy buttocks, _i.e._ by prostitution. stanza vi, line . _clapperdogen_ = (b. e. _dict. cant. crew,_ ) "a beggar born and bred"; also harman, _caveat_, etc. p. :--" these go with patched clokes, and have their morts with them, which they call wives." _"a gage of ben rom-bouse"_ thomas middleton, another of the galaxy of elizabethan writers contributing so many sidelights on shakspeare's life and times, is supposed to have been of gentle birth. he entered gray's inn about and was associated with dekker in the production of _the roaring girl_, probably having the larger share in the composition. authorities concur in tracing dekker's hand in the canting scenes, but less certainly elsewhere. the original of moll cut-purse was a mary frith ( -- ), the daughter of a shoemaker in the barbican. though carefully brought up she was particularly restive under discipline, and finally became launched as a "bully, pickpurse, fortune-teller, receiver and forger" in all of which capacities she achieved considerable notoriety. as the heroine of _the roaring girl_ moll is presented in a much more favorable light than the facts warrant. line . _and couch till a palliard docked my dell_ = (literally) 'and lie quiet while a beggar deflowered my girl', but here probably = while a beggar fornicates with my mistress. _"bing out, bien morts"_ [see note to "the beggar's curse"]. dekker introducing these verses affirms "it is a canting song not ... composed as those of the belman's were, out of his owne braine, but by the canter's themselves, and sung at their meetings", in which, all things considered, dekker is probably protesting overmuch. stanza v, line . _and wapping dell that niggles well_ = a harlot or mistress who "spreads" acceptably. stanza ix, line . _bing out of the rom-vile;_ i.e. to tyburn, then the place of execution: _rom-vile_ = london. _the song of the begger_ _the description of love_ is an exceedingly scarce little "garland" which first appeared in ; but of that edition no copies are known to exist. of the sixth edition, from which this example is taken, one copy is in the british museum and another in the library collected by henry huth esq. a somewhat similar ballad occurs in the roxburgh collection i, (the chorus being almost identical), under the title of "the cunning northern beggar". the complete title is _a description of love. with certain epigrams, elegies, and sonnets. and also mast. iohnson's answere to mast. withers. with the crie of ludgate, and the song of the begger. the sixth edition. london, printed by m. f. for francis coules at the upper end of the old-baily neere newgate, ._ stanza ii, line i. _if a bung be got by the hie-law, i.e._ by highway robbery. _the maunder's initation_ john fletcher( -- ), dramatist, a younger son of dr. richard fletcher afterwards bishop of london, by his first wife elizabeth, was born in december at rye in sussex, where his father was then officiating as minister. a 'john fletcher of london' was admitted oct. a pensioner of bene't (corpus) college, cambridge, of which college dr. fletcher had been president. dycc assumes that this john fletcher, who became one of the bible-clerks in , was the dramatist. bishop fletcher died, in needy circumstances, june , and by his will, dated oct. , left his books to be divided between his sons nathaniel and john. _the beggar's bush_ was performed at court at christmas , and was popular long after the restoration. fletcher was buried on aug. at st. saviour's, southwark. 'in the great plague, ,' says aubrey (_letters written by eminent persons,_ vol. ii. pt. i. p. ), 'a knight of norfolk or suffolk invited him into the countrey. he stayed but to make himselfe a suite of cloathes, and while it was makeing fell sick of the plague and died.' _the high pad's boast_ see note to "the maunder's, initiation", _ante_. _the merry beggars_ little is known of the birth or extraction of richard brome, and whether he died in or is uncertain. for a time he acted as servant to ben jonson. _the jovial crew_ was produced in at the cock-pit, a theatre which stood on the site of pitt place running out of drury lane into gt. wild st. stanza i, line . _go-well and com-well_ = outgoing and incoming. _a mort's drinking song_ _see_ note to "the merry beggars," _ante_. "a beggar i'll be" this ballad is from the bagford collection which, formed by john bagford ( - ), passed successively through the hands of james west (president of the royal society), major pearson, the duke of roxburghe and mr. b. h. bright, until in it and the more extensive roxburghe collection became the property of the nation. stanza ii, line . _maunder_ = beggar. line . _filer_ = pickpocket; _filcher_ = thief. line . _canter_ = a tramping beggar or rogue. line . _lifter_ = a shop-thief. stanza iv, line . _compter_ (or _counter_), _king's bench, nor the fleet_, all prisons for debtors. stanza v, line , _jumble_ = to copulate. stanza viii, line . _with shinkin-ap-morgan, with blue-cap, or teague_ = with a welshman, scotchman, or irishman--generic: as now are taffy, sandy, and pat. _a budg and snudg song_ chappell in _popular english music of the olden time_ says that this song appears in _the canting academy_ ( nd ed. ) but the writer has been unable to find a copy of the book in question. the song was very popular, and many versions (all varying) are extant. the two given have been carefully collated. the portions in brackets [ ],- -for example stanza ii, line , stanza iii, lines -- , stanza iv, lines -- etc.--only appear in the _new canting dict_. ( ). it was sung to the tune now known as _there was a jolly miller once lived on the river dee_. title. _budge_ = "one that slips into a house in the dark, and taketh cloaks, coats, or what comes next to hand, marching off with them" (b. e., _dict. cant. crew_, ). _snudge_ = "one that lurks under a bed, to watch an opportunity to rob the house"--(b. e., _dict. cant. crew_, ). stanza i, line . _whitt_= newgate (see note p. ). stanza v, line . _jack ketch_, the public hangman - . _the maunder's praise of his strowling mort_ _the triumph of wit_ by j. shirley is a curious piece of bookmaking--scissors and paste in the main--which ran through many editions. divided into three parts, the first two are chiefly concerned with "the whole art and mystery of love in all its nicest intrigues", "choice letters with their answers" and such like matters. part iii contains "the mystery and art of canting, with the original and present management thereof, and the ends to which it serves, and is employed: illustrated with poems, songs and various intrigues in the canting language with the explanation, etc." the songs were afterwards included in _the new canting dict._ ( ), and later on in _bacchus and venus_ ( ). title. _strowling mort_ = a beggar's trull:--"pretending to be widows, sometimes travel the countries ... are light-fingered, subtle, hypocritical, cruel, and often dangerous to meet, especially when the ruffler is with them" (b. e., _dict. cant. crew_, ). stanza i, line . _doxy_--"these doxes be broken and spoyled of their maydenhead by the upright men, and then they have their name of doxes, and not afore. and afterwards she is commen and indifferent for any that wyll use her".--harman, _caveat_, p. . line . _prats_ = buttocks or thighs. line . _wap_ = to copulate (also stanza iv, line i). stanza ii, line . _clip and kiss_ = to copulate. _the rum-mort's praise of her faithless maunder_ obviously a companion song to the previous example: see note _ante_. _rum-mort_ = a beggar or gypsy queen. stanza i, line . _kinching-cove_ = (literally) a child or young lad: here as an endearment. line . _clapperdogeon_ = "the paillard or clapperdogeons, are those that have been brought up to beg from their infancy, and frequently counterfeit lameness, making their legs, arms, and hands appear to be sore"--_triumph of wit_, p. . stanza ii, line . _dimber-damber_ = a chief man in the canting crew, or the head of a gang. line . _palliard_ (see note stanza i). line . _jockum_ =_penis_. line . _glimmer_ = fire; here, a pox or clap. stanza v, line . _crank_ (or _counterfeit-crank_)--"these that do counterfet the cranke be yong knaves and yonge harlots that deeply dissemble the falling sickness".--(harman, _caveat_, , p. ). line . _dommerar_= a beggar feigning deaf and dumb. line . _rum-maunder_ = to feign madness. line . _abram-cove_ = a beggar pretending madness to cover theft. line . _gybes well jerk'd_ = pass or license cleverly forged. _the black procession_ see note as to j. shirley on page . _frisky moll's song_ john harper (d. ), actor, originally performed at bartholomew and southwark fairs. on oct. his name appears as sir epicure mammon in the _alchemist_ at drury lane. here he remained for eleven years, taking the parts of booby squires, fox-hunters, etc., proving himself what victor calls 'a jolly facetious low comedian'. his good voice was serviceable in ballad opera and farce. on account of his 'natural timidity', according to davies, he was selected by highmore, the patentee, in order to test the status of an actor, to be the victim of legal proceedings taken under the vagrant act, queen anne, and on nov. he was committed to bridewell as a vagabond. on nov. he came before the chief justice of the kings bench. it was pleaded on his behalf that he paid his debts, was well esteemed by persons of condition, was a freeholder in surrey, and a householder in westminster. he was discharged amid acclamations on his own recognisance. _the canter's serenade_ _the new canting dictionary_ ( ) is, in the main, a reprint of _the dictionary of the canting_* _crew_ (_c_. ) compiled by b. e. the chief difference is that the former contains a collection of canting songs, most of which are included in the present collection. stanza i, line . _palliards--see_ note, p. , ten lines from bottom. _"retoure my dear dell"_ _see_ note to "the canter's serenade." this song appears to be a variation of a much older one, generally ascribed to chas ii, entitled _i pass all my hours in a shady old grove_. _the vain dreamer_ _see_ note to "the canter's serenade." _"when my dimber dell i courted"_ _see_ note to "the canter's serenade." the first two stanzas appear in a somewhat different form as "a new song" to the time of _beauty's ruin_ in _the triumph of wit_ ( ), of which the first stanza is as follows:-- when dorinda first i courted, she had charms and beauty too; conquering pleasures when she sported, the transport it was ever new: but wastful time do's now deceive her, which her glories did uphold; all her arts can ne'er relieve her, poor dorinda is grown old. stanza i, line . _wap_ = the act of kind. _dimber dell_ = pretty wench--"a dell is a yonge wenche, able for generation, and not yet knowen or broken by the upright man ... when they have beene lyen with all by the upright man then they be doxes, and no dells."-- (harman). stanza iii, line . _upright-men_--"the second rank of the canting tribes, having sole right to the first night's lodging with the dells."--(b. e., _dict. cant. crew_, ). _the oath of the canting crew_ bamfylde moore carew, the king of the gypsies, born in , was the son of the rector of bickley, near tiverton. it is related that to avoid punishment for a boyish freak he, with some companions, ran away and joined the gypsies. after a year and a half carew returned for a time, but soon rejoined his old friends. his career was a long series of swindling and imposture, very ingeniously carried out, occasionally deceiving people who should have known him well. his restless nature then drove him to embark for newfoundland, where he stopped but a short time, and on his return he pretended to be the mate of a vessel, and eloped with the daughter of a respectable apothecary of newcastle on tyne, whom he afterwards married. he continued his course of vagabond roguery for some time, and when clause patch, a king, or chief of the gypsies, died, carew was elected his successor. he was convicted of being an idle vagrant, and sentenced to be transported to maryland. on his arrival he attempted to escape, was captured, and made to wear a heavy iron collar, escaped again, and fell into the hands of some friendly indians, who relieved him of his collar. he took an early opportunity of leaving his new friends, and got into pennsylvania. here he pretended to be a quaker, and as such made his way to philadelphia, thence to new york, and afterwards to new london, where he embarked for england. he escaped impressment on board a man- of-war by pricking his hands and face, and rubbing in bay salt and gunpowder, so as to simulate smallpox. after his landing he continued his impostures, found out his wife and daughter, and seems to have wandered into scotland about , and is said to have accompanied the pretender to carlisle and derby. the record of his life from this time is but a series of frauds and deceptions, and but little is absolutely known of his career, except that a relative, sir thomas carew of hackern, offered to provide for him if he would give up his wandering life. this he refused to do, but it is believed that he eventually did so after he had gained some prizes in the lottery. the date of his death is uncertain. it is generally given, but on no authority, as being in but 'i. p.', writing from tiverton, in _notes and queries_, nd series, vol. iv, p. , says that he died in . the story of his life in detail is found in the well-known, and certainly much-printed, _life and adventures of bamfylde moore carew_, the earliest edition of which ( ) describes him on the title-page as "the noted devonshire stroller and dogstealer". this book professes to have been "noted by himself during his passage to america", but though no doubt the facts were supplied by carew himself, the actual authorship is uncertain, though the balance of probability lies with robert goadby, a printer and compiler of sherborne dorsetshire, who printed an edition in . a correspondent of _notes and queries_, however, states that mrs. goadby wrote it from carew's dictation. [_n. and q._ s iii. ; iv. , , ], line . _crank cuffin_ = _queer cove_ = a rogue. line . _stop-hole abbey_, "the nick-name of the chief rendezvous of the canting crew ".--(b. e., _dict. cant. crew_, ). line . _abram_ = formerly a mendicant lunatic of bethlehem hospital who on certain days was allowed to go out begging: hence a beggar feigning madness. _ruffler crack_ = an expert rogue. line . _hooker_ = "peryllous and most wicked knaves... for, as they walke a day times, from house to house, to demaund charite... well noting what they see... that will they be sure to have... for they customably carry with them a staffe of v. of vi. foote long, in which within one ynch of the tope thereof, ys a lytle hole bored through, in which hole they putte an yron hoke, and with the same they wyll pluck unto them quickly anything that they may reche therewith."--(harman, _caveat_, , p. , ). line . _frater_ = "such as beg with a sham-patent or brief for spitals, prisons, fires, etc."--(b. e.). line . _irish toyle_ = a beggar-thief, working under pretence of peddling pins, lace, and such-like wares. line . _dimber-damber_ = the chief of a gang: also an expert thief. _angler_ = hooker (see _ante_). line . _swigman_ = a beggar peddling haberdashery to cover theft and roguery. _clapperdogeon_ = a beggar born and bred, _see_ note p. , tenth line from bottom. line . _curtal_--"a curtall is much like to the upright man (that is, one in authority, who may "call to account", "command a share", chastise those under him, and "force any of their women to serve his turn"), but hys authority is not fully so great. he useth commonly to go with a short cloke, like to grey friers, and his woman with him in like livery, which he calleth his altham if she be hys wyfe, and if she be his harlot, she is called hys doxy."--(harman). line . _whip-jack_ = a rogue begging with a counterfeit license. _palliard_ = a beggar born and bred. _patrico_ = a hedge-priest. line . _jarkman_ = "he that can write and reade, and sometime speake latin. he useth to make counterfaite licenses which they call gybes, and sets to seales, in their language called jarkes. "--(harman). line . _dommerar_ = a rogue pretending deaf and dumb. _romany_ = a gipsy. line . _the family_ = the fraternity of vagabonds. _"come all you buffers gay"_ in the roxburghe collection (ii. ) is a ballad upon which the present song is clearly based. it is called _the west country nymph, or the little maid of bristol_ to the time of _young jemmy_ (_i.e._ the duke of monmouth, charles ii's natural son). the first stanza runs-- come all you maidens fair, and listen to my ditty, in bristol city fair there liv'd a damsel pretty. _the potato man_ stanza ii, line . _cly_ = properly pocket, but here is obviously meant the contents. stanza iv, line . _blue bird's-eye_ = a blue and silk handkerchief with white spots. _a slang pastoral_ of r. tomlinson nothing is known. the dr. byrom whose poem is here parodied is perhaps best remembered as the author of a once famous system of shorthand. he was born in , went to the merchant taylor's school, and at the age of was admitted a pensioner of trinity college cambridge. it was here that he wrote _my time, o ye muses_. he died in , and his poems, no inconsiderable collection, were published in . _"ye scamps, ye pads, ye divers"_ stanza i, line . _the lay_ = a pursuit, a scheme: here = thievery and roguery in general. stanza iv, line . _like blackamore othello &c._--the reference is to _othello_, v. . "yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. put out the light, and then--put out the light." _the sandman's wedding_ though george parker's name is not formally attached to this "cantata" there would appear little doubt, from internal evidence, that it, with the two songs immediately following, forms part of a characteristic series from the pen of this roving soldier-actor. parker was born in at green street, near canterbury and was 'early admitted', he says, 'to walk the quarterdeck as a midshipman on board the falmouth and the guernsey'. a series of youthful indiscretions in london obliged him to leave the navy, and in or about to enlist as a common soldier in the oth regiment of foot, the second battalion of which became in the th regiment, under the command of wolfe. in his regiment he continued a private, corporal, and sergeant for seven years, was present at the siege of belleisle, and saw service in portugal, gibraltar, and minorca. at the end of the war he returned home as a supernumerary excise-man. about his friends placed him in the king's head inn at canterbury where he soon failed. parker went upon the stage in ireland, and in company with brownlow ford, a clergyman of convivial habits, strolled over the greater part of the island. on his return to london he played several times at the haymarket, and was later introduced by goldsmith to colman. but on account of his corpulence colman declined his services. parker then joined the provincial strolling companies, and was engaged for one season with digges, then manager of the edinburgh theatre. at edinburgh he married an actress named heydon, from whom, however, he was soon obliged to part on account of her dissolute life. returning again to london, he set up as wandering lecturer on elocution, and in this character travelled with varying success through england. in november he set out on a visit to france, and lived at paris for upwards of six months on funds supplied by his father. his resources being exhausted, he left paris in the middle of july on foot. on reaching england he made another lecturing tour, which proved unsuccessful. his wit, humour, and knowledge of the world rendered him at one time an indispensable appendage to convivial gatherings of a kind; but in his later days he was so entirely neglected as to be obliged to sell gingerbread-nuts at fairs and race-meetings for a subsistance. he died in coventry poorhouse in april . _the happy pair and the bunter's christening and the masqueraders_ see note (_ante_) to "the sandman's wedding". _life's painter etc._ ran through several editions. _the flash man of st. giles_ stanza ii, line . _drunk as david's sow_ = beastly drunk. grose (_classical dictionary of the vulgar tongue_) says: one david lloyd, a welshman, who kept an ale-house at hereford, had a sow with six legs, which was an object of great curiosity. one day david's wife, having indulged too freely, lay down in the sty to sleep, and a company coming to see the sow, david led them to the sty, saying, as usual, "there is a sow for you! did you ever see the like?" one of the visitors replied, "well, it is the drunkenest sow i ever beheld." whence the woman was ever after called "davy's sow." _a leary mot_ stanza iii, line . _cock and hen club_ = a free-and-easy for both sexes. stanza iv, line . _tom cribb_--_see_ note p. . _"the night before larry was stretched"_ neither the authorship nor the date of these inimitable verses are definitely known. according to the best authorities, will maher, a shoemaker of waterford, wrote the song. dr. robert burrowes, dean of st. finbar's cork, to whom it has been so often attributed, certainly did not. often quoted in song book and elsewhere. francis sylvester mahony, better known as "father prout" contributed to _froser's magazine_ the following translation into the french. la mort de socrate. _par l'abbé de prout, curé du mont-aux-cressons, près de cork._ a la veille d'être pendu, notr' laurent reçut dans son gite, honneur qui lui était bien dû, de nombreux amis la visite; car chacun scavait que laurent a son tour rendrait la pareille, chapeau montre, et veste engageant, pour que l'ami put boire bouteille, ni faire, à gosier sec, le saut. "helas, notre garden!" lui dis-je, "combien je regrette ton sort! te voilà fleur, que sur sa tige moisonne la cruelle mort!"-- "au diable," dit-il, "le roi george! Ça me fait la valeur d'un bouton; devant le boucher qui m'égorge, je serai comme un doux mouton, et saurai montrer du courage!" des amis déjà la cohorte remplissait son étroit réduit: six chandelles, ho! qu'on apporte, donnons du lustre à cette nuit! alors je cherchai à connaitre s'il s'était dument repenti? "bah! c'est les fourberies des prêtres les gredins, ils en ont menti, et leurs contes d'enfer sont faux!" l'on demande les cartes. au jeu laurent voit un larron qui triche; d'honneur tout rempli, ìl prend feu, et du bon coup de poign l'affiche. "ha, coquìn! de mon dernier jour tu croyais profiler, peut-être; tu oses me jouer ce tour! prends ça pour ta peine, vil traître! et apprends à te bien conduire!" quand nous eûmes cessé nos ébats, laurent, en ce triste repaire pour le disposer au trépas, voit entrer monsieur le vicaire. apres un sinistre regard, le front de sa main il se frotte, disant tout haut, "venez plus tard!" et tout has, "vilaine calotte!" puis son verre il vida deux fois. lors il parla de l'echaufaud, et de sa dernière cravate; grands dieux! que ça paraissait beau de la voïr mourir en socrate! le trajet en chantant il fit-- la chanson point ne fut un pseaume; mais palit un peu quand il vit la statute de roy guillaume-- les pendards n'aiment pas ce roi! quand fut au bout de son voyage, le gibet fut prêt en un clin: mourant îl tourna de visage vers la bonne ville de dublin. il dansa la carmagnole, et mount comme fit malbrouck; puis nous enterrâmes le drôle au cimetière de donnybrook que son âme y soit en repos! stanza v, line . _kilmainham_, a gaol near dublin. stanza vi, line . _king william_, the statute of william iii erected on college green in commemoration of the battle of the boyne. it was long the object of much contumely on the part of the nationalists. it was blown to pieces in , but was subsequently restored. _the song of the young prig_ said to have been written by little arthur chambers, the prince of prigs, who was one of the most expert thieves of his time. he began to steal when he was in petticoats, and died a short time before jack sheppard came into notice. internal evidence, however, renders this attributed authorship very improbable. stanza i, line . _dyots isle, i.e.,_ dyot st., st. giles, afterwards called george st. bloomsbury, was a well-known rookery where thieves and their associates congregated. stanza ii, line . _and i my reading learnt betime from studying pocket-books._ "pocket-book" = reader. stanza iv, line . _to work capital_ = to commit a crime punishable with death. previous to many offences, now thought comparatively trivial, were deemed to merit the extreme penalty of the law. _the milling match_ _tom cribb's memorial to congress_: with a preface, notes, and appendix. by one of the fancy. london, longmans & co., . there were several editions. usually, with good reason, ascribed to thomas moore. it may be remarked that, though the irish anacreon's claim to fame rests avowedly on his more serious contributions to literature, he was, nevertheless, never so popular as when dealing with what, in the early part of the present century, was known as the fancy. pugilism then took the place, in the popular mind, that football and cricket now occupy. tom cribb was born at hanham in the parish of bitton, gloucestershire, in , and coming to london at the age of thirteen followed the trade of a bell-hanger, then became a porter at the public wharves, and was afterwards a sailor. from the fact of his having worked as a coal porter he became known as the 'black diamond,' and under this appellation he fought his first public battle against george maddox at wood green on jan. , when after seventy-six rounds he was proclaimed the victor, and received much praise for his coolness and temper under very unfair treatment. in he was introduced to captain barclay, who, quickly perceiving his natural good qualities, took him in hand, and trained him under his own eye. he won the championship from bob gregson in but in he was beaten by jem belcher. he subsequently regained the belt. after an unsuccessful venture as a coal merchant at hungerford wharf, london, he underwent the usual metamorphosis from a pugilist to a publican, and took the golden lion in southwark; but finding this position too far eastward for his aristocratic patrons he removed to the king's arms at the corner of duke street and king street, st. james's, and subsequently, in , to the union arms, panton street, haymarket. on jan. it was decided that cribb, having held the championship for nearly ten years without receiving a challenge, ought not to be expected to fight any more, and was to be permitted to hold the title of champion for the remainder of his life. on the day of the coronation of george iv, cribb, dressed as a page, was among the prizefighters engaged to guard the entrance to westminster hall. his declining years were disturbed by domestic troubles and severe pecuniary losses, and in he was obliged to give up the union arms to his creditors. he died in the house of his son, a baker in the high street, woolwich, on may , aged , and was buried in woolwich churchyard, where, in , a monument representing a lion grieving over the ashes of a hero was erected to his memory. as a professor of his art he was matchless, and in his observance of fair play he was never excelled; he bore a character of unimpeachable integrity and unquestionable humanity. _ya hip, my hearties!_ stanza iii, line . _houyhnhnms_. a race of horses endowed with human reason, and bearing rule over the race of man--a reference to dean swift's _gulliver's travels_ ( ). _sonnets for the fancy_ pierce egan, the author of the adventures of tom and jerry was born about and died in . he had won his spurs as a sporting reporter by , and for eleven years was recognised as one of the smartest of the epigrammatists, song-writers, and wits of the time. _boxiana_, a monthly serial, was commenced in . it consisted of 'sketches of modern pugilism', giving memoirs and portraits of all the most celebrated pugilists, contemporary and antecedent, with full reports of their respective prize-fights, victories, and defeats, told with so much spirited humour, yet with such close attention to accuracy, that the work holds a unique position. it was continued in several volumes, with copperplates, to . at this date, having seen that londoners read with avidity his accounts of country sports and pastimes, he conceived the idea of a similar description of the amusements pursued by sporting men in town. accordingly he announced the publication of _life in london_ in shilling numbers, monthly, and secured the aid of george cruikshank, and his brother, isaac robert cruikshank, to draw and engrave the illustrations in aquatint, to be coloured by hand. george iv had caused egan to be presented at court, and at once accepted the dedication of the forthcoming work. this was the more generous on the king's part because he must have known himself to have been often satirised and caricatured mercilessly in the _green bag_ literature by g. cruikshank, the intended illustrator. on july appeared the first number of _life in london_; or, 'the day and night scenes of jerry hawthorn, esq., and his elegant friend, corinthian jem, accompanied by bob logic, the oxonian, in their rambles and sprees through the metropolis.' the success was instantaneous and unprecedented. it took both town and country by storm. so great was the demand for copies, increasing with the publication of each successive number, month by month, that the colourists could not keep pace with the printers. the alternate scenes of high life and low life, the contrasted characters, and revelations of misery side by side with prodigal waste and folly, attracted attention, while the vivacity of dialogue and description never flagged. stanza iii, line . _new drop_. the extreme penalty of the law, long carried out at tyburn (near the marble arch corner of hyde park), was ultimately transferred to newgate. the lament for "tyburn's merry roam" was, without doubt, heart-felt and characteristic. executions were then one of the best of all good excuses for a picnic and jollification. yet the change of scene to newgate does not appear to have detracted much from these functions as shows. "newgate to-day," says a recent writer in _the daily mail_, is little wanted, and all but vacant, as a general rule. in former days enormous crowds were herded together indiscriminately--young and old, innocent and guilty, men, women, and children, the heinous offender, and the neophyte in crime. the worst part of the prison was the "press yard," the place then allotted to convicts cast for death. there were as many as sixty or seventy sometimes within these narrow limits, and most were kept six months and more thus hovering between a wretched existence and a shameful death. men in momentary expectation of being hanged rubbed shoulders with others still hoping for reprieve. if the first were seriously inclined, they were quite debarred from private religious meditation, but consorted, perforce, with reckless ruffians, who played leap-frog, and swore and drank continually. infants of tender years were among the condemned; lunatics, too, raged furiously through the press yard, and were a constant annoyance and danger to all. the "condemned sermon" in the prison chapel drew a crowd of fashionable folk, to stare at those who were to die, packed together in a long pew hung with black, and on a table in front was placed an open coffin. outside, in the old bailey, on the days of execution, the awful scenes nearly baffle description. thousands collected to gloat over the dying struggles of the criminals, and fought and roared and trampled each other to death in their horrible eagerness, so that hundreds were wounded or killed. ten or a dozen were sometimes hanged in a row, men and women side by side. _the true bottomed boxer_ _the universal songster_, or museum of mirth; forming the most complete collection of ancient and modern songs in the english language, with a classified index... embellished with a frontispiece and wood cuts, designed by george cruikshank etc. vols. london, - . vo. stanza i, line . _moulsey-hurst rig_ = a prize-fight: moulsey- hurst, near hampton court, was long a favorite _venue_ for pugilistic encounters. line . _fibbing a nob is most excellent gig_ = getting in a quick succession of blows on the head is good fun. line . _kneading the dough_ = a good pummelling. line . _belly-go-firsters_ = an initial blow, generally given in the stomach. line . _measuring mugs for a chancery job_ = getting the head under the arm or 'in chancery'. stanza ii, line . _flooring_ = downing (a man). _flushing_ = delivering a blow right on the mark, and straight from the shoulder. line . _crossing_ = unfair fighting; shirking. stanza iii, line . _victualling-office_ = the stomach. line . _smeller and ogles_ = nose and eyes. line . _bread-basket_ = stomach. line . _in twig_ = in form; ready. _bobby and his mary_ [see _ante_ for note on _universal songster_]. stanza i, line . _dyot street_, see note page . stanza ii, line . _st. pulchre's bell_, the great bell of st. sepulchre's holborn, close to newgate, always begins to toll a little before the hour of execution, under the bequest of richard dove, who directed that an exhortation should be made to "... prisoners that are within, who for wickedness and sin are appointed to die, give ear unto this passing bell." _poor luddy_ thomas john dibdin ( - ), the author of this song, was an actor and dramatist--an illegitimate son of charles dibdin the elder. he claimed to have written nearly songs. _the pickpocket's chaunt_ eugene françois vidocq was a native of arras, where his father was a baker. from early associations he fell into courses of excess which led to his flying from the paternal roof. after various, rapid, and unexampled events in the romance of real life, in which he was everything by turns and nothing long, he was liberated from prison, and became the principal and most active agent of police. he was made chief of the police de sureté under messrs. delavau and franchet, and continued in that capacity from the year till , during which period he extirpated the most formidable gangs of ruffians to whom the excesses of the revolution and subsequent events had given full scope for daring robberies and iniquitous excesses. he settled down as a paper manufacturer at st. mandé near paris. of maginn ( - ) it may be said he was, without question, one of the most versatile writers of his time. he is, perhaps, best remembered in connection with the _noctes ambrosianæ_, which first appeared in _blackwood_, and with the idea of which maginn is generally credited. he was also largely concerned with the inception of _fraser's_. maginn's english rendering of vidocq's famous song first appeared in _blackwood_ for july . for the benefit of the curious the original is appended. it will be seen that maginn was very faithful to his copy. en roulant de vergne en vergne [ ] pour apprendre à goupiner, [ ] j'ai rencontré la mercandière, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, qui du pivois solisait, [ ] lonfa malura dondé. j'ai rencontré la mercandière qui du pivois solisait; je lui jaspine en bigorne; [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, qu'as tu donc à morfiller? [ ] lonfa malura dondé. je lui jaspine en bigorne; qu'as tu donc à morfiller? j'ai du chenu pivois sans lance. [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, et du larton savonné [ ] lonfa malura dondé. j'ai du chenu pivois sans lance et du larton savonné, une lourde, une tournante, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, et un pieu pour roupiller [ ] lonfa malura dondé. une lourde, une tournante et un pieu pour roupiller. j'enquille dans sa cambriole, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, espérant de l'entifler, [ ] lonfa malura dondé. j'enquille dans sa cambriole espérant de l'entifler; je rembroque au coin du rifle, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, un messière qui pionçait, [ ] lonfa malura dondé. je rembroque au coin du rifle un messière qui pionçait; j'ai sondé dans ses vallades, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, son carle j'ai pessigué, [ ] lonfa malura dondé. j'ai sondé dans ses vallades, son carie j'ai pessigué, son carle et sa tocquante, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, et ses attaches de cé, [ ] lonfa malura dondé. son carle et sa tocquante, et ses attaches de cé, son coulant et sa montante, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, et son combre galuché lonfa malura dondé. son coulant et sa montante et son combre galuché, [ ] son frusque, aussi sa lisette, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, et ses tirants brodanchés, [ ] lonfa malura dondé. son frasque, aussi sa lisette et ses tirants brodanchés. crompe, crompe, mercandière, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, car nous serions béquillés, [ ] lonfa malura dondé. crompe, crompe, mercandière, car nous serions béquillés. sur la placarde de vergne, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, ii nous faudrait gambiller, [ ] lonfa malura dondé. sur la placarde de vergne il nous faudrait gambiller, allumés de toutes ces largues, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, et du trèpe rassemblé, [ ] lonfa malura dondé. allumés de toutes ces largues et du trèpe rassemblé; et de ces charlots bons drilles, [ ] lonfa malura dondaine, tous aboulant goupiner. [ ] lonfa malura dondé. [ : vergne, _town._] [ : goupiner, _to steal._] [ : mercandière, _tradeswomen._] [ : du pivois solisait, _sold wine._] [ : jaspine en bigorne, _say in cant._] [ : morfiller, _to eat and drink._] [ : chenu, _good._ lance, _water._] [ : larton savonné, _white bread._] [ : lourde, _door._ tournante, _key._] [ : pieu, _bed._ roupiller, _to sleep._] [ : j'enquille, _i enter._ cambriole, _room._] [ : entifler, _to marry._] [ : rembroque, _see_. rifle, _fire_.] [ : mesisère _man_. pionçait, _as sleeping_.] [ : vallades, _pockets_.] [ : carle, _money_. pessigué, _taken_.] [ : tocquante, _watch_.] [ : attaches de ce, _silver buckles_.] [ : coulant, _chain_. montante, _breeches_.] [ : combre galuché, _laced hat_.] [ : frusque, _coat_. lisette, _waistcoat_.] [ : tirants brodanchés, _embroidered stockings_.] [ : footnote: crompe, _run away_.] [ : béquilles, _hanged_.] [ : placarde de vergne, _public place_.] [ : gambiller, _to dance_.] [ : allumés, _stared at_. largues, _women_.] [ : trèpe, _crowd_.] [ : charlots bons drilles, _jolly thieves_.] [ : aboulant, _coming_.] stanza xiii, line . cotton, the ordinary at newgate. _on the prigging lay_ h. t. r., the english translator of vidocq's _memoirs_ ( vol., - ), says of this and the following renderings from the french that they "with all their faults and all their errors, are to be added to the list of the translator's sins, who would apologise to the muse did he but know which of the nine presides over slang poetry." the original of "on the prigging lay" is as follows:-- un jour à la croix-rouge nous étions dix à douze (_she interrupted herself with_ "comme à l'instant même.") nous étions dix à douze tous grinches de renom, [ ] nous attendions la sorgue [ ] voulant poisser des bogues [ ] pour faire du billon. [ ] (_bis_) partage ou non partage tout est à notre usage; n'épargnons le poitou [ ] poissons avec adresse [ ] messières et gonzesses [ ] sans faire de regout. [ ] (_bis_) dessus le pont au change certain argent-de-change se criblait au charron, [ ] j'engantai sa toquante [ ] ses attaches brillantes [ ] avec ses billemonts. [ ] (_bis_) quand douze plombes crossent, [ ] ses pègres s'en retournant [ ] au tapis de montron [ ] montron ouvre ta lourde, [ ] si tu veux que j'aboule, [ ] et piausse en ton bocsin. [ ] (_bis_) montron drogue à sa larque, [ ] bonnis-moi donc girofle [ ] qui sont ces pègres-là? [ ] des grinchisseurs de bogues, [ ] esquinteurs de boutoques, [ ] les connobres tu pas? [ ] (_bis_) et vite ma culbute; [ ] quand je vois mon affure [ ] je suis toujours paré [ ] du plus grand coeur du monde je vais à la profonde [ ] pour vous donner du frais, (_bis_) mais déjà la patrarque, [ ] au clair de la moucharde, [ ] nous reluge de loin. [ ] l'aventure est étrange, c'était l'argent-de-change, que suivait les roussins. [ ] (_bis_) a des fois l'on rigole [ ] ou bien l'on pavillonne [ ] qu'on devrait lansquiner [ ] raille, griviers, et cognes [ ] nous ont pour la cigogne [ ] tretons marrons paumés. [ ] (_bis_) [ : thieves] [ : night] [ : watches] [ : money] [ : let us be cautious] [ : let us rob] [ : citizen and wife] [ : awaken suspicion] [ : cried "thief."] [ : i took his watch.] [ : his diamond buckles] [ : his bank notes] [ : twelve oclock strikes.] [ : the thieves] [ : at the cabinet] [ : your door] [ : give money] [ : sleep at your house] [ : asks his wife] [ : says my love] [ : these thieves] [ : watch stealers] [ : burglers] [ : do you not know them?] [ : breeches] [ : profit] [ : ready] [ : cellar] [ : patrol] [ : the moon] [ : look at us.] [ : spies] [ : laughs] [ : jokes] [ : to weep] [ : exempt, soldiers and gendarmes.] [ : palace of justice] [ : taken in the act] _the lag's lament_ _see_ note _ante_, "on the prigging lay", the original runs as follows:-- air: _l'heureux pilote_. travaillant d'ordinaire, la sorgue dans pantin, [ ] dans mainte et mainte affaire faisant très-bon choppin, [ ] ma gente cambriole, [ ] rendoublée de camelotte, [ ] de la dalle au flaquet; [ ] je vivais sans disgrâce, sans regout ni morace, [ ] sans taff et sans regret. [ ] j'ai fait par comblance [ ] giroude larguecapé, [ ] soiffant picton sans lance, [ ] pivois non maquillé, [ ] tirants, passe à la rousse, [ ] attachés de gratouse, [ ] combriot galuché. [ ] cheminant en bon drille, un jour à la courtille je m'en étais enganté. [ ] en faisant nos gambades, un grand messière franc, [ ] voulant faire parade, serre un bogue d'orient. [ ] après la gambriade, [ ] le filant sur l'estrade, [ ] d'esbrouf je l'estourbis, [ ] j'enflaque sa limace, [ ] son bogue, ses frusques, ses passes, [ ] je m'en fus au fourallis. [ ] par contretemps, ma largue, voulant se piquer d'honneur, craignant que je la nargue moi que n' suis pas taffeur, [ ] pour gonfler ses valades encasque dans un rade [ ] sert des sigues a foison [ ] on la crible à la grive, [ ] je m' la donne et m' esquive, [ ] elle est pommée maron. [ ] le quart d'oeil lui jabotte [ ] mange sur tes nonneurs, [ ] lui tire une carotte lui montant la couleur. [ ] l'on vient, on me ligotte, [ ] adieu, ma cambriole, mon beau pieu, mes dardants [ ] je monte à la cigogne, [ ] on me gerbe à la grotte, [ ] au tap et pour douze ans. [ ] ma largue n' sera plus gironde, je serais vioc aussi; [ ] faudra pour plaire au monde, clinquant, frusque, maquis. [ ] tout passe dans la tigne, [ ] et quoiqu'on en juspine. [ ] c'est un f-- flanchet, [ ] douze longes de tirade, [ ] pour un rigolade, [ ] pour un moment d'attrait. [ : evening in paris.] [ : a good booty.] [ : chamber.] [ : full of goods.] [ : money in the pocket.] [ : without fear or uneasiness.] [ : without care.] [ : an increase.] [ : a handsome mistress.] [ : drinking wine without water.] [ : unadulterated wine.] [ : stockings.] [ : lace.] [ : laced hat.] [ : clad] [ : citizen] [ : a gold watch] [ : dance] [ : following him in the boulevard.] [ : i stun him.] [ : i take off his shirt.] [ : i steal his watch, clothes and shoes.] [ : the receiving house.] [ : coward] [ : enters a shop.] [ : steals money.] [ : they call for the guard.] [ : i fly] [ : taken in the fact.] [ : the commissary questions him.] [ : denounces his accomplices.] [ : tell a falsehood.] [ : they tie me.] [ : my fine bed, my loves.] [ : the dock.] [ : they condemn me to the galleys.] [ : to exposure.] [ : old.] [ : rouge.] [ : in this world.] [ : whatever people say.] [ : lot.] [ : twelve years of fetters.] [ : fool.] stanza ii, line . _so gay, so nutty and so knowing_--see _don juan_, canto xi, stanza ... stanza vi, line i. sir richard birnie the chief magistrate at bow st. _"nix my doll, pals, fake away"_ ainsworth in his preface to _rookwood_ makes the following remarks on this and the three following songs:--"as i have casually alluded to the flash song of jerry juniper, i may be allowed to make a few observations upon this branch of versification. it is somewhat curious with a dialect so racy, idiomatic, and plastic as our own cant, that its metrical capabilities should have been so little essayed. the french have numerous _chansons d'argot_, ranging from the time of charles bourdigné and villon down to that of vidocq and victor hugo, the last of whom has enlivened the horrors of his '_dernier jour d'un condamne_" by a festive song of this class. the spaniards possess a large collection of _romances de germania_, by various authors, amongst whom quevedo holds a distinguished place. we on the contrary, have scarcely any slang songs of merit. this barreness is not attributable to the poverty of the soil, but to the want of due cultivation. materials are at hand in abundance, but there have been few operators. dekker, beaumont and fletcher, and ben jonson, have all dealt largely in this jargon, but not lyrically; and one of the earliest and best specimens of a canting-song occurs in brome's '_jovial crew;_' and in the '_adventures of bamfylde moore carew_' there is a solitary ode addressed by the mendicant fraternity to their newly-elected monarch; but it has little humour, and can scarcely be called a genuine canting-song. this ode brings us down to our own time; to the effusions of the illustrious pierce egan; to tom moore's flights of '_fancy;_' to john jackson's famous chant, '_on the high toby spice flash the muzzle,_' cited by lord byron in a note to '_don juan;_' and to the glorious irish ballad, worth them all put together, entitled '_the night before larry was stretched_.' this is attributed to the late dean burrowes, of cork. [_see_ note, p. _ed_.]. it is worthy of note, that almost all modern aspirants to the graces of the _musa pedestris_ are irishmen. of all rhymesters of the '_road_,' however, dean burrowes is, as yet, most fully entitled to the laurel. larry is quite 'the potato!' "i venture to affirm that i have done something more than has been accomplished by my predecessors, or contemporaries, with the significant language under consideration. i have written _a purely flash song_; of which the great and peculiar merit consists in its being utterly incomprehensible to the uninformed understanding, while its meaning must be perfectly clear and perspicuous to the practised _patterer_ of _romany_, or _pedler's french_. i have, moreover, been the first to introduce and naturalize amongst us a measure which, though common enough in the argotic minstrelsy of france, has been hitherto utterly unknown to our _pedestrian_ poetry." how mistaken ainsworth was in his claim, thus ambiguously preferred, the present volume shows. some years after the song alluded to, better known under the title of '_nix my dolly, pals,--fake away!'_ sprang into extra-ordinary popularity, being set to music by rodwell, and chanted by glorious paul bedford and clever little mrs. keeley. _the game of high toby_ and _the double cross_ _see_ note to "nix my doll, pals, etc.," _ante_. _the house breaker's song_ g. w. m. reynolds followed closely on the heels of dickens when the latter scored his great success in _the pickwick papers_. he was a most voluminous scribbler, but none of his productions are of high literary merit. _the faking boy to the crap is gone_ _the nutty blowen_ _the faker's new toast_ and _my mother_ "bon gualtier" was the joint _nom-de-plume_ of w. e. aytoun and sir theodore martin. between and they worked together in the production of _the bon gualtier ballads_, which acquired such great popularity that thirteen large editions of them were called for between and . they were also associated at this time in writing many prose magazine articles of a humorous character, as well as a series of translations of goethe's ballads and minor poems, which, after appearing in _blackwood's magazine_, were some years afterwards ( ) collected and published in a volume. the four pieces above mentioned appeared as stated in _tails edinburgh magazine_ under the title of "flowers of hemp, or the newgate garland," and are parodies of well-known songs. _the high pad's frolic_ and _the dashy, splashy.... little stringer_ leman rede ( - ) an author of numerous successful dramatic pieces, and a contributor to the weekly and monthly journals of the day, chiefly to the _new monthly_ and _bentley's_. he was born in hamburgh, his father a barrister. some of the best parts ever played by liston, john reeve, charles mathews, keeley, and g. wild were written by him. _the bould yeoman_ _the bridle-cull and his little pop-gun_ _jack flashman_ _miss dolly trull_ and _the by-blow of the jug_ _see_ note to "sonnets for the fancy" p. . captain macheath was one of egan's latest, and by no means one of his best, productions. it is now very scarce. _the cadger's ball_ john labern, a once popular, but now forgotten music-hall artiste, and song-writer, issued several collections of the songs of the day. it is from one of these that "the cadger's ball" is taken. _"dear bill, this stone-jug"_ the state of affairs described in this poem is now happily a thing of the past. newgate, as a prison, has almost ceased to be. only when the courts are sitting do its functions commence, and then there is constant coming and going between the old city gaol and the real london prison of to-day, holloway castle. _the leary man_ _the vulgar tongue_, by ducarge anglicus, is, as a glossary, of no account whatever; the only thing not pilfered from brandon's _poverty, mendicity, and crime_ being this song. where that came from deponent knoweth not. _a hundred stretches hence_ _the rogue's lexicon_, mainly reprinted from grose's _dictionary of the vulgar tongue_, is of permanent interest and value to the philologist and student for the many curious survivals of, and strange shades of meaning occurring in, slang words and colloquilisms after transplantation to the states. g. w. matsell was for a time the chief of the new york police. _the chickaleary cove_ vance, a music-hall singer and composer in the sixties, made his first great hit in _jolly dogs; or slap-bang! here we are again_. this was followed by _the chickaleary cove_: a classic in its way. _'arry at a political picnic_ the 'arry ballads' are too fresh in public memory to need extensive quotation. the example given is a fair sample of the series; which, taken as a whole, very cleverly "hit off" the idiosyncrasies and foibles of the london larrikin. stanza viii, line . _walker_ = be off! _"rum coves that relieve us"_ heinrich baumann, the author of _londonism en_, an english-german glossary of cant and slang, to which "rum coves that relieve us" forms the preface. _villon's good night_ _villon's straight tip_ and _culture in the slums_ william ernest henley, poet, critic, dramatist, and editor was born at gloucester in , and educated at the same city. in his early years (says _men of the time_) he suffered much from ill-health, and the first section of his _book of verses_ ( : th ed. ), _in hospital: rhymes and rhythms_, was a record of experiences in the old infirmary, edinburgh, in - . in he began writing for the london magazines, and in was one of the founders as well as the editor of _london_. in this journal much of his early verse appeared. he was afterwards appointed editor of _the magazine of art_, and in of _the scots_, afterwards _the national observer_. to these journals, as well as to _the athenaeum_ and _saturday review_ he has contributed many critical articles, a selection of which was published in under the title of _views and reviews_. in collaboration with robert louis stevenson he has published a volume of plays, one of which, _beau austin_, was produced at the haymarket theatre in . his second volume of verses--_the song of the sword_--marks a new departure in style. he has edited a fine collection of verses, _lyra heroica_, and, with mr. charles whibley, an anthology of english prose. in mr. henley received the honour of an l.l.d. degree of st. andrew's university. at the present time he is also editing _the new review_, a series of _tudor translations_, a new _byron_, a new _burns_, and collaborating with mr. j. s. farmer in _slang and its analogues_; an historical dictionary of slang. "_villon's straight tip_: stanza i, line i. _screeve_ = provide (or work with) begging-letters. line . _fake the broads_ = pack the cards. _fig a nag_ = play the coper with an old horse and a fig of ginger. line . _knap a yack_ = steal a watch. line . _pitch a snide_ = pass a false coin. _smash a rag_ = change a false note. line . _duff_ = sell sham smugglings. _nose and lag_ = collect evidence for the police. line . _get the straight_ = get the office, and back a winner. line . _multy_ (expletive) = "bloody". line . _booze and the blowens cop the lot: cf_. "'tis all to taverns and to lasses." (a. lang). stanza ii, line . _fiddle_ = swindle. _fence_ = deal in stolen goods. _mace_ = welsh. _mack_ = pimp. line . _moskeneer_ = to pawn for more than the pledge is worth. _flash the drag_ = wear women's clothes for an improper purpose. line . _dead-lurk a crib_ = house-break in church time. _do a crack_--burgle with violence. line . _pad with a slang_ = tramp with a show. line . _mump and gag_ = beg and talk. line . _tats_ = dice. _spot_, (at billiards). line . _stag_ = shilling. stanza iii, line . _flash your flag_ = sport your apron. line . _mug_ = make faces. line . _nix_ = nothing. line . _graft_ = trade. line . _goblins_ = sovereigns. _stravag_ = go astray. the moral. liner. /i>up the spout and charley wag_ = expressions of dispersal. line . _wipes_ = handkerchiefs. _tickers_ = watches. line . _squeezer_ = halter. _scrag_ = neck. _"tottie"_ _a plank-bed ballad_ and _the rondeau of the knock_ g. r. sims ("dagonet") needs little introduction to present-day readers. born in london in , he was educated at harwell college, and afterwards at bonn. he joined the staff of _fun_ on the death of tom hood the younger in , and _the weekly despatch_ the same year. since he has been a contributor to _the referee_ under the pseudonym of "dagonet". a voluminous miscellaneous writer, dramatist, poet, and novelist, m. sims shows yet no diminution of his versatility and power. _wot cher!_ _our little nipper_ and _the coster's serenade_ albert chevalier, a "coster poet", music-hall artist, and musician of french extraction was born in hammersmith. he is a careful, competent actor of minor parts, and sings his own little ditties extremely well. appendix there are still one or two "waifs and strays" to be mentioned:-- i. in _don juan_, canto xi, stanzas xvii--xix, byron thus describes one of his _dramatis personæ_. poor tom was once a kiddy upon town, a thorough varmint and a real swell... full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled, his pockets first, and then his body riddled. * * * * * he from the world had cut off a great man who in his time had made heroic bustle. who in a row like tom could lead the van, booze in the ken, or in the spellken hustle? who queer a flat? who (spite of bow street's ban) on the high-toby-splice so flash the muzzle? who on a lark, with black-eyed sal (his blowing) so prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? in a note byron says, "the advance of science and of language has rendered it unnecessary to translate the above good and true english, spoken in its original purity by the select mobility and their patrons. the following is the stanza of a song which was very popular, at least in my early days:--" ("if there be any german so ignorant as to require a traduction, i refer him to my old friend and corporeal pastor and master john jackson, esq., professor of pugilism.") on the high toby splice flash the muzzle in spite of each gallows old scout; if you at the spellken can't hustle you'll be hobbled in making a clout. then your blowing will wax gallows haughty, when she hears of your scaly mistake she'll surely turn snitch for the forty-- that her jack may be regular weight. john jackson, to whom is attributed the slang song of which the foregoing stanza is a fragment was the son of a london builder. he was born in london on sept. , and though he fought but thrice, was champion of england from to , when he retired, and was succeeded by belcher. after leaving the prize-ring, jackson established a school at no. bond street, where he gave instructions in the art of self-defence, and was largely patronised by the nobility of the day. at the coronation of george iv he was employed, with eighteen other prize-fighters dressed as pages, to guard the entrance to westminster abbey and hall. he seems, according to the inscription on a mezzotint engraving by c. turner, to have subsequently been landlord of the sun and punchbowl, holborn, and of the cock at button. he died on oct. at no. lower grosvenor street west, london, in his seventy-seventh year, and was buried in brompton cemetery, where a colossal monument was erected by subscription to his memory. byron, who was one of his pupils, had a great regard for him, and often walked and drove with him in public. it is related that, while the poet was at cambridge, his tutor remonstrated with him on being seen in company so much beneath his rank, and that he replied that "jackson's manners were infinitely superior to those of the fellows of the college whom i meet at 'the high table'" (j. w. clark, cambridge, , p. ). he twice alludes to his 'old friend and corporeal pastor and master' in his notes to his poems (byron, _poetical works_, - , ii. , vi. ), as well as in his 'hints from horace' (ib. i. ): and men unpractised in exchanging knocks must go to jackson ere they dare to box. moore, who accompanied jackson to a prize-fight in december , notes in his diary that jackson's house was 'a very neat establishment for a boxer', and that the respect paid to him everywhere was 'highly comical' (_memoirs_, ii. ). a portrait of jackson, from an original painting then in the possession of sir henry smythe, bart., will be found in the first volume of miles's 'pugilistica' (opp. p. ). there are two mezzotint engravings by c. turner. ii. in boucicault's _janet pride_ (revival by charles warner at the adelphi theatre, london in the early eighties) was sung the following (here given from memory): the convict's song. the farewell. farewell to old england the beautiful! farewell to my old pals as well! farewell to the famous old ba-i-ly (_whistle_). where i used for to cut sich a swell, ri-chooral, ri-chooral, oh!!! the [werdhick?] these seving long years i've been serving, and seving i've got for to stay, all for bashin' a bloke down our a-alley, (_whistle_). and a' takin' his huxters away! the complaint. there's the captain, wot is our commanduer, there's the bosun and all the ship's crew, there's the married as well as the single 'uns, (_whistle_). knows wot we pore convicks goes through. the [suffering?] it ain't' cos they don't give us grub enough, it ain't' cos they don't give us clo'es: it's a-cos all we light-fingred gentery (_whistle_). goes about with a log on our toes. the prayer. oh, had i the wings of a turtle-dove, across the broad ocean i'd fly, right into the arms of my policy love (_whistle_). and on her soft bosum i'd lie! the morrell. now, all you young wi-counts and duchesses, take warning by wot i've to say, and mind all your own wot you touches is, (_whistle_). or you'll jine us in botinny bay! oh!!! ri-chooral, ri-chooral, ri-addiday, ri-chooral, ri-chooral, iday. transcribed by linda cantoni. [transcriber's note: this e-book is volume of thomas d'urfey's _wit and mirth: or pills to purge melancholy_, published in six volumes in - by j. tonson, london. it was prepared from a facsimile reprint by folklore library publishers, inc., new york, of an reprint (publisher unidentified). the - edition was published in two issues. the first issue was published under the title _songs compleat, pleasant and divertive_; the second, under the _wit and mirth_ title. the reprint apparently used a combination of the two issues, and volume bears the _songs compleat_ title. moreover, the reprint was not an exact facsimile of the - edition, as the typography and music notation were modernized. for more information on the various editions, see cyrus l. day, "pills to purge melancholy," _the review of english studies_, vol. , no. (apr. ), pp. - , available at http://www.jstor.org/stable/ (login required). archaic and inconsistent spellings and hyphenation have been preserved as they appear in the original, except that "vv" is rendered as "w." the original order of titles in the alphabetical table has also been preserved. obvious printer errors have been corrected. some words are rendered in the original in blackletter font. they are rendered here in uppercase letters. italics are indicated with underscores.] wit and mirth: or pills to purge melancholy edited by thomas d'urfey in six volumes volume v folklore library publishers, inc. new york _this edition is a facsimile reproduction of the reprint of the original edition of - ._ copyright © printed in the u.s.a. by noble offset printers, inc. new york , new york songs compleat, pleasant and divertive; set to musick by dr. john blow, mr. henry purcell, and other excellent masters of the town. ending with some orations, made and spoken by me several times upon the publick stage in the theater. together with some copies of verses, prologues, and epilogues, as well as for my own plays as those of other poets, being all humerous and comical. vol. v. _london:_ printed by _w. pearson_, for _j. tonson_, at shakespear's head, against _catherine_ street in the _strand_, . an alphabetical table of the songs and poems contain'd in this book. page a _all christians and_ lay-elders _too_, _as i went by an hospital_, _a shepherd kept sheep on a_, _as i was a walking under a grove_, _a councel grave our king did hold_, _a heroe of no small renown_, _as the fryer he went along_, _a bonny lad came to the court_, _a pox on those fools, who exclaim_, _amongst the pure ones all_, _as oyster_ nan _stood by her tub_, _ah!_ cælia _how can you be_, _are you grown so melancholy_, _as_ collin _went from his sheep_, _a wife i do hate_, _a thousand several ways i try'd_, _a_ whig _that's full_, _as_ cupid _roguishly one day_, _a young man sick and like to die_, _at noon in a sultry summer's day_, _ah! how lovely sweet and dear_, _advance, advance, advance gay_, _ah! foolish lass, what mun i do_, b _bold impudent_ fuller _invented_, _by moon-light on the green_, _bonny_ peggy ramsey _that any_, _by shady woods and purling_, belinda! _why do you distrust_, _born to surprize the world_, _bring out your coney-skins_, _bonny_ scottish _lads that keens_, c _come bring us wine in plenty_, _come pretty birds present your_, _come fill up the bowl with_, _cease lovely_ strephon, _cease to_, _cease whining_ damon _to complain_, cælia _my heart has often rang'd_, corinna, _if my fate's to love you_, cælia's _charms are past expressing_, _come beaus, virtuoso's, rich heirs_, _cease, cease of_ cupid _to complain_, _come, come ye nymphs_, chloe _blush'd, and frown'd, and swore_, cælia _hence with affectation_, d _did you not hear of a gallant_, _divine_ astrea _hither flew_, _draw_ cupid _draw, and make_, damon _if you will believe me_, _drunk i was last night that's_, delia _tir'd_ strephon _with her_, f _fair_ cælia _too fondly contemns_, _fly_ damon _fly, 'tis death to stay_, _fear not mortal, none shall harm_, _farewel ungrateful traytor_, g gilderoy _was a bonny boy_, _good neighbour why do you_, h _how now sister_ betteris, _why look_, _heaven first created woman to_, _hears not my_ phillis _how_, _how happy's the mortal whose_, _he himself courts his own ruin_, _how happy and free is the_, _how charming_ phillis _is_, _hither turn thee, hither turn thee_, _here lies_ william de valence, _ho my dear joy, now what dost_, _here's a health to the tackers_, _here are people and sports of_, _hark! now the drums beat up again_, _how often have i curs'd that sable deceit_, i _i am a young lass of_ lynn, _i am a jovial cobler bold and_, _it was a rich merchant man_, _if sorrow the tyrant invade_, _in the pleasant month of_ may, _it was a happy golden day_, _i prithee send me back my heart_, _in_ chloris _all soft charms agree_, _i lik'd, but never lov'd before_, iris _beware when_ strephon _pursues_, _i am one in whom nature has_, _in vain, in vain, the god i ask_, _in the devil's country there_, _in elder time, there was of_ yore, ianthia _the lovely, the joy of_, jockey _met with_ jenny _fair_, _i met with the devil in the_, _jilting is in such a fashion_, jockey _loves his_ moggy _dearly_, l _let the females attend_, _let's be jolly, fill our glasses_, _let's sing of stage-coaches_, _last_ christmas _'twas my chance_, _lately as thorough the fair_, _let soldiers fight for pay and praise_, _long had_ damon _been admir'd_, laurinda, _who did love disdain_, _let ambition fire thy mind_, _long was the day e'er_ alexis, _let's be merry, blith and jolly_, m _my friend if you would understand_, _marriage it seems is for better_, n _no more let_ damon's _eyes pursue_, _nay pish, nay pish, nay pish sir_, _no, no every morning my_, _now my freedom's regain'd_, _no_, phillis, _tho' you've all the charms_, _now to you ye dry wooers_, o _once more to these arms my_, _one night in my ramble i_, _oh! let no eyes be dry_, _old_ lewis le grand, _he raves like_, _of old soldiers, the song you_, _of late in the park a fair fancy_, _oh! how you protest and solemnly_, p philander _and_ sylvia, _a gentle_, _poor_ jenny _and i we toiled_, _pretty_ floramel, _no tongue can_, _plague us not with idle stories_, _poor_ mountfort _is gone, and the_, _pretty parrot say, when i was_, s _state and ambition, all joy to_, _stay, stay, shut the gates_, _slaves to_ london _i'll deceive you_, _stay, ah stay, ah turn, ah whither_, _see how fair and fine she lies_, _since_ cælia _only has the art_, _some brag of their_ chloris, _see, sirs, see here! a doctor rare_, _swain thy hopeless passion smother_, t _there was an old woman liv'd_, _the suburbs is a fine place_, _there can be no glad man_, _then_ jockey _wou'd a wooing away_, _there was a lass of_ islington, _there was a lord of worthy fame_, _there was a jovial tinker_, _there is a fine doctor now come_, _there was a knight and he_, _think wretched mortal, think_, _to the wars i must alass_, _though the pride of my passion fair_, _tell me ye_ sicilian _swains_, _to the grove, gentle love, let_, _tell me no more of flames in_, _tho' fortune and love may be_, _that little patch upon your face_, _tho' over all mankind, besides my_, _there lives an ale-draper near_, _the caffalier was gone, and the_, _the_ devil _he pull'd off his jacket_, _the jolly, jolly breeze_, _the jolly, jolly bowl_, ib. u _upon a holiday, when nymphs_, w _where gott'st thou the_ haver-mill, _when first_ mardyke _was made_, _when maids live to thirty, yet never_, _what life can compare, with the_, _with my strings of small wire_, _when that young_ damon _bless'd_, _would you be a man in fashion_, _when first i fair_ celinda _knew_, _when busy fame o'er all the_, _why am i the only creature_, _where would coy_ amyntas _run_, _when gay_ philander _left the plain_, _wealth breeds care, love, hope_, _when first_ amyntas _charmed my_, _why so pale and wan fond lover_, _when i languish'd and wish'd you_, _when first i saw her charming face_, _while the love is thinking_, _when_ jemmy _first began to love_, y _you master colours pray_, _ye brave boys and tars_, _young_ coridon _and_ phillis, _your hay it is mow'd, and your_, _you happy youths, whose hearts_, _young ladies that live in the_, _you i love by all that's true_, _you've been with dull prologues_, songs compleat, pleasant and divertive, &c. vol. v. _the_ four-legg'd elder: _or a horrible relation of a_ dog _and an_ elder's maid. _by sir_ john burtonhead. [music] all christians and _lay-elders_ too, for shame amend your lives; i'll tell you of a dog-trick now, which much concerns you wives: an _elder's_ maid near _temple-bar_, (ah! what a quean was she?) did take an ugly mastiff cur, where christians use to be. _help house of commons, house of peers,_ _oh now or never help!_ _th' assembly hath not sat four years,_ _yet hath brought forth a whelp._ one evening late she stept aside, pretending to fetch eggs; and there she made her self a bride, to one that had four legs: her master heard a rumblement, and wonder she did tarry; not dreaming (without his consent) his dog would ever marry. _help house of commons_, &c. he went to peep, but was afraid, and hastily did run, to fetch a staff to help his maid, not knowing what was done: he took his _ruling elders_ cane, and cry'd out _help, help, here_; for _swash_ our mastiff, and poor _jane_, are now fight dog, fight bear. _help house of commons_, &c. but when he came he was full sorry, for he perceiv'd their strife; that according to the _directory_, they two were dog and wife: ah! (then said he) thou cruel quean, why hast thou me beguil'd? i wonder _swash_ was grown so lean, poor dog he's almost spoil'd. _help house of commons_, &c. i thought thou hadst no carnal sense, but what's in our lasses: and could have quench'd thy cupiscence, according to the _classes_: but all the parish see it plain, since thou art in this pickle; thou art an independent quean, and lov'st a conventicle. _help house of commons_, &c. alas now each _malignant_ rogue, will all the world perswade; that she that's spouse unto a dog, may be an _elder's_ maid: they'll jeer us if abroad we stir, good master _elder_ stay; sir, of what _classis_ is your cur? and then what can we say? _help house of commons_, &c. they'll many graceless ballads sing, of a presbyterian; that a _lay elder_ is a thing made up half dog, half man: out, out, said he, (and smote her down) was mankind grown so scant? there's scarce another dog in town, had took the covenant. _help house of commons_, &c. then _swash_ began to look full grim, and _jane_ did thus reply; sir, you thought nought too good for him, you fed your dog too high: 'tis true he took me in the lurch, and leap'd into my arms; but (as i hope to come at church) i did your dog no harm. _help house of commons_, &c. then she was brought to _newgate_ gaol, and there was naked stripp'd; they whipp'd her till the cords did fail, as dogs us'd to be whipp'd: poor city maids shed many a tear, when she was lash'd and bang'd; and had she been a _cavalier_, surely she had been hang'd. _help house of commons_, &c. hers was but _fornication_ found, for which she felt the lash: but his was _bugg'ry_ presum'd, therefore they hanged _swash_: what will become of _bishops_ then, or _independency_? for now we find both dogs and men, stand up for presbytry. _help house of commons_, &c. she might have took a _sow-gelder_, with _synod-men_ good store, but she would have a _lay-elder_, with two legs and two more: go tell the _assembly_ of divines, tell adoniram blue; tell _burgess_, _marshall_, _case_ and _vines_, tell _now-and-anon_ too. _help house of commons_, &c. some say she was a _scottish_ girl, or else (at least) a witch; but she was born in _colchester_, was ever such a bitch: take heed all christian virgins now, the _dog-star_ now prevails; ladys beware your monkeys too, for monkeys have long tails. _help house of commons_, &c. bless _king_ and _queen_, and send us peace, as we had seven years since: for we remember no _dog-days_, while we enjoy'd our prince: bless sweet prince _charles_, two _dukes_, three girls, lord save his _majesty_; grant that his _commons_, _lords_, and _earls_, may lead such lives as _he_. _help house of commons_, &c. _plain proof ruin'd: or, a grand_ cheat _discover'd._ [music] bold impudent _fuller_ invented a plot, and all to discover the devil knows what; about a young bantling strangely begot. _which no body can deny._ the better to cheat both the fools and the wise, he impos'd on a nation a hundred of lies; that none but a knight of the post could devise. _which no body can deny._ he tells us he had the honour to peep, in the warming-pan where the _welch_ infant did sleep; and found out a plot which was damnable deep, _which no body can believe._ then to the wise senate he suddenly went, where he told all the lies that he then could invent, for which he was voted a rogue by consent, _which no body can deny._ and tho' he was punish'd for that his offence, he has almost forgot it, it was so long since, therefore the whole game he began to commence, _which no body can deny._ then he to the lords his bold letters did send, and told the high peers, that the plot he could mend, and make it as plain, as he first did pretend, _which no body can deny._ he told them his witnesses were mighty men, that wou'd come to the town, tho' the devil knows when, and make _william fuller_ once famous agen, _which no body can deny._ the lords they were generous, noble and kind, and allowed him freedom his 'squires to find, the which he will do when the devil is blind, _which no body can deny._ so the peers they declared him a scandalous sot, and none thinks him fit to manage a plot, if _newgate_ and _tyburn_ does fall to his lot, _there's no body will deny._ they gave him no more time than himself did require, to find out his _jones_ and the wandering 'squire, but the time being come, they were never the nigher, _which no body can deny._ the brave house of _commons_ next for him did send, to hear what the block-headly fool wou'd pretend, who humbly request, that they wou'd him befriend, _which no body can deny._ one day he declar'd they were near _london_ town, but the very next day into _wales_ they were flown, such nimble heel'd witnessess never were known, _which no body can deny._ when being examin'd about his sham plot, he answer'd as though he had minded them not, perhaps the young rogue had his lesson forgot, _which no body can deny._ but after some study and impudent tales, ask'd for a commission to march into _wales_, and be chang'd to a herse, as rogues goes to gaols, _which no body can deny._ but seeing his impudence still to abound, to go search for the men who were not to be found, they immediately sent him back to _fleet_ pound, _which no body can deny._ from the _fleet_ to the cart may he quickly advance to learn the true steps of old _oates's_ new dance, and something beside, or it is a great chance, _which no body can deny._ he has made it a trade to be doing of wrong, in swearing, and lying, and cheating so long, for all his life time, he's been at it ding dong, _which no body can deny._ _welch taffy_ he raves and crys splutterdenails, he's abused hur highness with lies and with tales, hur will hang hur if e'er hur can catch hur in _wales_, _which no body will deny._ _the woman warrior._ _who liv'd in_ cow-cross _near_ west-smithfield; _who changing her apparrel, entered her self on board in quality of a soldier, and sailed to_ ireland, _where she valiantly behaved her self, particularly at the siege of_ cork, _where she lost her toes, and received a mortal wound in her body, of which she since died in her return to_ london. [music] let the females attend, to the lines which are penn'd, for here i shall give a relation; of a young marry'd wife, who did venture her life, for a soldier, a soldier she went from the nation. she her husband did leave, and did likewise receive her arms, and on board she did enter; and right valiantly went, with a resolution bent, to the ocean, the ocean her life there to venture. yet of all the ships crew, not a seaman that knew, they then had a woman so near 'em; on the ocean so deep, she her council did keep, ay, and therefore, and therefore she never did fear 'em. she was valiant and bold, and would not be controul'd, by any that dare to offend her; if a quarrel arose, she would give him dry blows, and the captain, the captain did highly commend her. for he took her to be, then of no mean degree, a gentleman's son or a 'squire; with a hand white and fair, there was none could compare, which the captain, the captain did often admire. on the _irish_ shore, where the cannons did roar, with many stout lads she was landed; there her life to expose, she lost two of her toes, and in battle, in battle was daily commended. under _grafton_ she fought, like a brave hero stout, and made the proud tories retire; she in field did appear, with a heart void of fear, and she bravely, she bravely did charge and give fire. while the battering balls, did assault the strong walls, of _cork_ and the sweet trumpets sounded; she did bravely advance, where by unhappy chance, this young female, young female alass she was wounded. at the end of the fray, still she languishing lay, then over the ocean they brought her; to her own native shore, now they ne'er knew before, that a woman, a woman had been in that slaughter. what she long had conceal'd, now at length she reveal'd, that she was a woman that ventur'd; then to _london_ with care, she did straitways repair, but she dy'd, oh she dy'd e'er the city she enter'd. when her parents beheld, they with sorrow was fill'd, for why they did dearly adore her: in her grave now she lies, 'tis not watery eyes, no nor sighing, nor sighing that e'er can restore her. _a medly, compos'd out of several_ songs. [music] state and ambition, all joy to great _cæsar_, _sawney_ shall ne'er be my colly my cow; all hail to the shades, all joy to the bridegroom, and call upon _dobbin_ with hi, je, ho. remember ye whigs, what was formerly done; and _jenny_ come tye my bonny cravat, if i live to grow old for i find i go down, for i cannot come every day to wooe. _jove_ in his throne was a fumbler, _tom farthing_, and _jockey_ and _jenny_ together did lie; oh mother _roger_: boys, fill us a bumper, for why will ye die my poor _cælia_, ah why? hark! how thundring cannons do roar, ladies of _london_ both wealthy and fair; _charon_ make hast and ferry me over, lilli burlero bullen a lah. _chloris_ awake, four-pence-half-penny-farthing, give me the lass that is true country bred; like _john_ of _gaunt_ i walk in _covent-garden_, i am a maid and a very good maid: twa bonny lads was _sawney_ and _jockey_, the delights of the bottle and charms of good wine; wading the water so deep my sweet _moggy_, cold and raw, let it run in the right line. old _obadiah_ sings _ave-maria_, sing lulla-by-baby with a dildo; the old woman and her cat sat by the fire, now this is my love d'y' like her ho? old _charon_ thus preached to his pupil _achilles_, and under this stone here lies _gabriel john_; happy was i at the fight of fair _phillis_, what should a young woman do with an old man? there's old father _peters_ with his romish creatures, there was an old woman sold pudding and pies, cannons with thunder shall fill them with wonder, i once lov'd a lass that had bright rowling eyes: there's my maid _mary_, she does mind her dairy, i took to my heels and away i did run; and bids him prepare to be happy to morrow, alass! i don't know the right end of a gun. my life and death does lye both in your power, and every man to his mind, _shrewsbury_ for me; on the bank of a brook as i sat fishing, shall i die a maid and never married be: uds bobs let _oliver_ now be forgotten, _joan_ is as good as my lady in the dark; cuckolds are christians boys all the world over, and here's a full bumper to _robin john clark_. _the_ trooper _watering his_ nagg. [music] there was an old woman liv'd under a hill, sing trolly lolly, lolly, lolly, lo; she had good beer and ale for to sell, ho, ho, had she so, had she so, had she so; she had a daughter her name was _siss_, sing trolly lolly, lolly, lolly, lo; she kept her at home for to welcome her guest, ho, ho, did she so, did she so, did she so. there came a trooper riding by, sing trolly, _&c._ he call'd for drink most plentifully, ho, ho, did he so, _&c._ when one pot was out he call'd for another, sing trolly, _&c._ he kiss'd the daughter before the mother, ho, ho, did he so, _&c._ and when night came on to bed they went, sing trolly, _&c._ it was with the mother's own consent, ho, ho, was it so, _&c._ quoth she what is this so stiff and warm, sing trolly _&c._ 'tis ball my nag he will do you no harm, ho, ho, wont he so, _&c._ but what is this hangs under his chin, sing trolly, _&c._ 'tis the bag he puts his provender in, ho, ho, is it so, _&c._ quoth he what is this? quoth she 'tis a well, sing trolly, _&c._ where ball your nag may drink his fill, ho, ho, may he so, _&c._ but what if my nag should chance to slip in, sing trolly, _&c._ then catch hold of the grass that grows on the brim, ho, ho, must i so, _&c._ but what if the grass should chance to fail, sing trolly, _&c._ shove him in by the head, pull him out by the tail, ho, ho, must i so, _&c._ _a trip to the_ jubilee. _the tune by mr._ r. loe. [music] come bring us wine in plenty, we've money enough to spend; i hate to see the pots empty, a man cannot drink to's friend: then drawer bring up more wine, and merrily let it pass; we'll drink till our faces do shine, he that wont may look like an ass: and we'll tell him so to his face, if he offers to baulk his glass, for we defy all such dull society. 'tis drinking makes us merry, and mirth diverts all care; a song of hey down derry, is better than heavy air: make ready quickly my boys, and fill up your glasses higher; for we'll present with huzzas, and merrily all give fire; since drinking's our desire, and friendship we admire, for here we'll stay, ne'er call drawer what's to pay. _the_ good fellow. [music] let's be jolly, fill our glasses, madness 'tis for us to think, how the world is rul'd by asses, that o'ersway the wise with chink: let not such vain thoughts oppress us, riches prove to them a snare; we are all as rich as _croesus_, drink your glasses, take no care. wine will make us fresh as roses, and our sorrows all forgot; let us fuddle well our noses, drink ourselves quite out of debt: when grim death is looking for us, whilst we're singing o'er our bowls; _bacchus_ joyning in our chorus, death depart, here's none but souls. jockey's _escape from_ dundee; _and the parsons daughter whom he had mow'd._ [music] where gott'st thou the _haver-mill bonack_? blind booby can'st thou not see; ise got it out of the _scotch-man's_ wallet, as he lig lousing him under a tree: _come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,_ _come saddle my horse, and call up my man;_ _come open the gates, and let me go free,_ _and shew me the way to bonny_ dundee. for i have neither robbed nor stole, nor have i done any injury; but i have gotten a fair maid with child, the minister's daughter of bonny _dundee_: _come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,_ _come saddle my horse and call up my man,_ _come open the gates and let me go free,_ _and ise gang no more to bonny_ dundee. altho' ise gotten her maiden-head, geud feth ise given her mine in lieu; for when at her daddy's ise gang to bed, ise mow'd her without any more to do? ise cuddle her close, and gave her a kiss, pray tell now where is the harm of this, _then open the gates and let me go free,_ _and ise gang no more to bonny_ dundee. all _scotland_ ne'er afforded a lass, so bonny and blith as _jenny_ my dear; ise gave her a gown of green on the grass, but now ise no longer must tarry here: then saddle my nag that's bonny and gay, for now it is time to gang hence away, _then open the gates and let me go free,_ _she's ken me no more to bonny_ dundee. in liberty still i reckon to reign, for why i have done no honest man wrong; the parson may take his daughter again, for she'll be a mammy before it is long: and have a young lad or lass of my breed, ise think i have done her a generous deed; _then open the gates and let me go free,_ _for ise gang no more to bonny_ dundee. since _jenny_ the fair was willing and kind, and came to my arms with a ready good will; a token of love ise left her behind, thus i have requited her kindness still: tho' _jenny_ the fair i often had mow'd, another may reap the harvest i sow'd, _then open the gates and let me go free,_ _she's ken me no more to bonny_ dundee. her daddy would have me to make her my bride, but have and to hold i ne'er could endure; from bonny _dundee_ this day i will ride, it being a place not safe and secure: then _jenny_ farewel my joy and my dear, with sword in my hand the passage i'se clear; _then open the gates and let me go free,_ _for ise gang no more to bonny_ dundee. my father he is a muckle good leard, my mother a lady bonny and gay; then while i have strength to handle a sweard, the parson's request ise never obey: then _sawny_ my man be thou of my mind, in bonny _dundee_ we'se ne'er be confin'd, _the gates we will force to set ourselves free,_ _and never come more to bonny_ dundee. the _sawny_ reply'd ise never refuse, to fight for a leard so valiant and bold; while i have a drop of blood for to lose, e'er any fickle loon shall keep us in hold: this sweard in my hand i'll valiantly weild, and fight by your side to kill or be kill'd, _for forcing the gates and set ourselves free,_ _and so bid adieu to bonny_ dundee. with sweard ready drawn they rid to the gate, where being denied an entrance thro' the master and man they fought at that rate, that some ran away, and others they slew: thus _jockey_ the leard and _sawny_ the man, they valiantly fought as highlanders can, _in spight of the loons they set themselves free,_ _and so bid adieu to bonny_ dundee. _a_ song. _sung by mr._ dogget. [music: let's sing of stage-coaches, and fear no reproaches; for riding in one, but daily be jogging, while whistling, and flogging, while whistling and flogging, the coachman drives on; with a hey geeup, geeup hey ho, with a hey gee dobin hey ho, hey, geeup, geeup, geeup hey ho, geeup, geeup, geeup hey ho, with a hey, gee dobin hey ho.] in coaches thus strowling, who wou'd not be rowling; with nymphs on each side, still pratling and playing; our knees interlaying, we merrily ride. _with a hey_, &c. here chance kindly mixes, all sorts and all sexes, more females than men, we squeese 'em, we ease 'em, the jolting does please 'em, drive jollily then, _with a hey_, &c. the harder you're driving, the more 'tis reviving, nor fear we to tell, for if the coach tumble, we'll have a rare jumble, and then up tails all, _with a hey_, &c. _the crafty cracks of_ east-smith-field, _who pick't up a master colour upon_ tower-hill, _whom they plundred of a purse of_ silver, _with above threescore_ guineas. [music] you master colours pray draw near, and listen to my report; my grief is great, for lo of late, two ladies i chanc'd to court: who did meet me on _tower-hill_, their beauties i did behold: _those crafty jades have learnt their trades,_ _and plunder'd me of my gold._ i'll tell you how it came to pass, this sorrowful story is thus: of guineas bright a glorious sight, i had in a cat-skin purse: the value of near fourscore pounds, as good as e'er i had told, _those crafty jades have learnt their trades,_ _and plunder'd me of my gold._ i saw two poor distressed men, who lay upon _tower-hill_, to whom in brief i gave relief, according to my good will: two wanton misses drawing near, my guineas they did behold; they laid a plot by which they got, my silver and yellow gold. they both address'd themselves to me, and thus they was pleas'd to say; kind sir, indeed, we stand in need, altho' we are fine and gay: of some relief which you may give, i thought they were something bold; the plot was laid, i was betray'd, and plunder'd of all my gold. alas 'tis pity, then i cry'd, such ladies of good repute, should want relief, therefore in brief, i gave 'em a kind salute: thought i of them i'll have my will, altho' i am something old; they were i see too wise for me, they plunder'd me of my gold. then to _east-smithfield_ was i led, and there i was entertain'd: with kisses fine and brandy wine, in merriment we remain'd: methought it was the happiest day, that ever i did behold; sweet meat alass! had sower sauce, they plunder'd me of my gold. time after time to pay their shot, my guineas i would lug out; those misses they wou'd make me stay, and rally the other bout: i took my fill of pleasures then altho' i was something old; those joys are past, they would not last, i'm plunder'd of all my gold. as i was at the wanton game, my pocket they fairly pick'd; and all my wealth they took by stealth, thus was a poor colour trick'd: let me therefore a warning be, to merchants both young and old; for now of late hard was my fate, i'm plunder'd of all my gold. they got three pounds in silver bright, and guineas above threescore, such sharping cracks breaks merchants backs, i'll never come near them more: sure now i have enough of them, my sorrow cannot be told; that crafty crew makes me look blew, i'm plunder'd of all my gold. _the dance of the_ usurer _and the_ devil. [music] last _christmas_ 'twas my chance, to be in _paris_ city; where i did see a dance, in my conceit was very pretty--by men of france. first came the lord of _pool_, and he begun his measure; the next came in a fool, and danc'd with him for pleasure--with his tool. the next a knight came in, who look'd as he would swagger; and after follow'd him a merry needy beggar--dancing in. the next a gentleman, on him a servant tending, and there the dance began, with nimble bodies bending--like two friends. then in a lawyer came, with him a knave came leaping; and as they danc'd in frame, so hand in hand went skipping--to the term. the next a citizen, and he a cuckold leading; so round about the room, their masque they fell a treading--and fain they would. the next an usurer, old fat guts he came grunting; the devil left all care, for joy he fell a jumping--to see him there. and ending then their masque, the fool his lord he carries upon his back in hast, no longer there he tarries--but left the place. the beggar took the knight, who took it in derision; the searjeant took in spite, the gentleman to prison--for all his might. the cuckold, silly man, altho' he was abhorred: he took the citizen, and led him by the forehead--and out he ran. the devil lik'd it well, his lot it was to carry; the usurer to hell, and there with him to tarry. _the_ suburbs _is a fine place: to the_ tune _of_ london _is a fine town._ [music] the suburbs is a fine place belonging to the city, it has no government at all, alack the more the pity; a wife, a silly animal, esteemed in that same place, for there a civil woman's now asham'd to shew her face: the misses there have each man's time, his money, nay, his heart, then all in all, both great and small, and all in ev'ry part. which part it is a thorough-fair so open and so large, one well might sail through ev'ry tail even in a western barge; these cracks that coach it now, when first they came to town, did turn up tail for a pot of ale in linsey wolsey gown. the bullies first debauch'd 'em, in baudy _covent-garden_, that filthy place, where ne'er a wench was ever worth a farthing; and when their maiden-heads are sold to sneaking lords, which lords are clapt at least nine-fold for taking of their words. and then my lord, that many tries, she looks so innocent, believing he infected her, he makes a settlement; these are your cracks, who skill'd in all kind of debauches, do daily piss, spue and whore in their own glass coaches. now miss turn night-walker, till lord-mayor's men she meets, o'er night she's drunk, next day she's finely flogged thro' _london_ streets; after their rooms of state are chang'd to bulks or coblers stalls, 'till poverty and pox agree they dying in hospitals. this suburbs gallant fop that takes delight in roaring, he spends his time in huffing, swearing, drinking, and in whoring; and if an honest man and his wife meet them in the dark, makes nothing to run the husband through to get the name of spark. but when the constable appears, the gallant, let me tell ye, his heart denies his breeches, and sinks into his belly; these are the silly rogues that think it fine and witty, to laugh and joak at aldermen, the rulers of the city. they'd kiss our wives, but hold, for all their plotting pates, while they would get us children, we are getting their estates; and still in vain they court pretending in their cares, that their estates may thus descend unto the lawful heirs. their play-houses i hate, are shops to set off wenches, where fop and miss, like dog and bitch, do couple under benches; that i might advise the chiefest play-house monger, i have a sister of my own both handsomer and younger. she lives not far off in the parish of st. _clements_, she never liv'd in cellar nor sold oranges and lemons: then why should play-house trulls with paint and such temptations, be an eye sore to me & more to the best part o'th' nation. now you that all this while have listened to my dity, with streightened hands pray drink a health unto this noble city: and let us pray to _jove_, these suburb folks to mend, and having now no more to say, i think it fit to end. _the old woman's_ wish. [music] as i went by an hospital, i heard an old woman cry, kind sir, quoth she, be kind to me, once more before i die, and grant to me those joys, that belong to woman-kind, and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. i find an itching in my blood, altho' it be something cold, therefore good man do what you can, to comfort me now i'm old. and grant to me those joys, that belong to woman-kind, and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. altho' i cannot see the day, nor never a glance of light; kind sir, i swear and do declare, i honour the joys of night: then grant to me those joys, that belong to woman-kind, and the fates above reward you love, to an old woman poor and blind. when i was in my blooming youth, my vigorous love was hot; now in my age i dare engage, a fancy i still have got: then give to me those joys, that belong to woman-kind, and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. you shall miss of a reward, if readily you comply; then do not blush but touch my flesh. this minute before i die: o let me tast those joys, that belong to woman-kind, and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. i forty shillings would freely give, 'tis all the mony i have; which i full long have begged for, to carry me to my grave: this i would give to have the bliss, that belongs to woman-kind, and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. i had a husband in my youth, as very well 'tis known, the truth to tell he pleased me well, but now i am left alone; and long to tast the good old game, that belongs to woman-kind: and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. if forty shillings will not do, my petticoat and my gown; nay smock also shall freely go, to make up the other crown: then sir, pray grant that kind request, that belongs to woman-kind; and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. tho' i am fourscore years of age, i love with a right good will; and what in truth i want in youth, i have it in perfect skill: then grant to me that charming bliss, that belongs to woman-kind; and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. now if you do not pleasure me, and give me the thing i crave; i do protest i shall not rest, when i am laid in my grave: therefore kind sir, grant me the joys, that belong to woman-kind; and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. _the mad-man's_ song. [music] there can be no glad-man compar'd to the mad-man, his mind is still void of care; his fits and his fancies, are above all mischances, and mirth is his ordinary fare. _then be thou mad, mad, mad let's be,_ _nor shall the foul fiend be madder than we._ the wise and the witty, in court and in city, are subject to sorrow and pain; while he that is mad, knows not why to be sad, nor has any cause to complain: _then be thou mad_, &c. we laugh at you wise men, that thus do despise men, whose senses you think to decline; mark well and you'll see, what you count but frenzy, is indeed but raptures divine. _then be thou mad_, &c. let the grave and the wise, pluck out their eyes, to set forth a book worth a groat; we mad-men are quicker, grow learn'd with good liquor, and chirp a merry note. _then be thou mad_, &c. hast thou lost thy estate man, why, care not for that man, what wealth may'st not fancy thy own; more than queen _dido_, or her ass-ear'd _midas_, that great philosopher's stone. _then be thou mad_, &c. _pompey_ was a mad-man, and so long a glad-man; but at length he was forc'd to flee; for _cæsar_ from _gallia_ beat him in _pharsalia_, 'cause a madder fellow then he. _then be thou mad_, &c. 'twas this extasie brave, that the great courage gave, if your eyes were but ope'd and would see; to great _alexander_, that mighty commander, as mad a fellow as could be. _then be thou mad_, &c. then around goes a health to the lady o'th' house, if any man here does forsake it; for a fool let him go, we know better manners, and so we mean to take it. _then be thou mad_, &c. there's no night mirth's going, nor any lad wooing, but mad-men are privy unto it; for the stars so peep, into every such thing, and wink upon us as you do it. _then be thou mad_, &c. when the frost, ice and snow, do benumb things below, we chirp as merry as larks; our sack and our madness, consumes cold and sadness, and we are the jovial sparks. _then be thou mad_, &c. has thy mistress frown'd on thee, or thy rival out-gone thee? let sober and wise fellows pine; whilst bright _miralind_ and goodly _dulcind_, and the rest of the fairies are thine. _then be thou mad_, &c. a mad-man needs baulk no manner of talk, his tongues never guilty with treason; but a wise knave would suffer, if the same he should utter, for a wise man's guilt is his reason. _then be thou mad_, &c. _a_ song. [music] a shepherd kept sheep on a hill so high, _fa, la, la_, &c. and there came a pretty maid passing by, _fa, la_, &c. shepherd, quoth she, dost thou want e'er a wife, no by my troth i'm not weary of my life, _fa, la, la_, &c. shepherd for thee i care not a fly, _fa, la, la_, for thou'st not the face with a fair maid to lie, _fa, la_, how now my damsel, say'st thou me so, thou shalt tast of my bottle before thou dost go, _fa, la_. then he took her and laid her upon the ground, _fa, la_, and made her believe that the world went round, _fa, la_, look yonder my shepherd, look yonder i spy, there are fine pretty babies that dance in the sky, _fa, la_. and now they are vanisht, and now they appear, _fa, la_, sure they will tell stories of what we do here, _fa, la, la_, lie still my dear _chloris_, enjoy thy conceit, for the babes are too young and too little to prate, _fa, la, la_. see how the heavens fly swifter than day, _fa, la, la_, rise quickly, or they will all run away, _fa, la, la_, rise quickly my shepherd, quickly i tell ye, for the sun, moon and stars are got all in my belly, _fa, la_. o dear, where am i? pray shew me the way, _fa, la, la_, unto my father's house hard by, _fa, la, la_, if he chance to chide me for staying so long, i'll tell him the fumes of your bottle were strong, _fa, la, la_. and now thou hast brought my body to shame, _fa, la_, i prithee now tell me what is thy name, _fa, la, la_, why _robin_ in the rushes my name is, quoth he, but i think i told her quite contrary, _fa, la, la_. then for _robin_ in the rushes, she did enquire, _fa, la, la_, but he hung down his head, and he would not come nigh her, _fa, la, la_, he wink'd with one eye, as if he had been blind, and he drew one leg after a great way behind, _fa, la, la_. _a_ song. [music] as i was a walking under a grove, within my self, as i suppos'd; my mind did oftentimes remove, and by no means could be disclosed: at length by chance a friend i met, which caused me long time to tarry; and thus of me she did intreat, to tell her when i meant to marry. sweet-heart, quoth i, if you would know, then hear the words, and i'll reveal it; since in your mind you bear it so, and in your heart you will conceal it: she promis'd me she'd make no words, but of such things she would be wary; and thus in brief i did begin, to tell her when i meant to marry. when _shrove-tide_ falls in _easter_ week, and _christmas_ in the midst of _july_; when lawyers for no fees will plead, and taylors they prove just and truly: when all deceits are quite put down, and truth by all men is preferred; and _indigo_ dies red and brown, o then my love and i'll be married. when men and beasts in the ocean flow, and fishes in green fields are feeding; when muscle-shells in the streets grow, and swans upon dry rocks be breeding: when cockle-shells are diamond rings, and glass to pearl may be compared; gold is made of a grey-goose wings, oh then my love and i'll be married. when hostesses do reckon true, and _dutchmen_ leave off drinking brandy; when cats do bark, and dogs do mew, and brimstone is took for sugar-candy: or when that _whitsontide_ do fall, within the month of _january_; and a cobler works without an awl, o then my, _&c._ when women know not how to scold, and maids on sweet-hearts ne'er are thinking; when men in the fire complain of cold, and ships on _salisbury_ plain fear sinking: or when horse-coursers turn honest men, and _london_ into _york_ is carried; and out of one you can take ten, oh then, _&c._ when candlesticks do serve for bells, and frying-pans they do use for ladles; when in the sea they dig for wells, and porridge-pots they use for cradles: when maids forget to go a _maying_, and a man on his back an ox can carry; or when the mice with the cat be playing, oh then, _&c._ good sir, since you have told me when, that you're resolv'd for to marry; i wish with all my heart till then, that for a wife you still may tarry: but if all young men were of your mind, and maids no better were preferred; i think it were when the d----l were blind, that we and our lovers should be married. gilderoys _last farewel. to a new tune._ [music] _gilderoy_ was a bonny boy, had roses tull his shun, his stockings were made of the finest silk, his garters hanging down: it was a comely sight to see, he was so trim a boy; he was my joy and heart's delight, _my handsom_ gilderoy. oh sike a charming eye he had, a breath as sweet as a rose, he never wore a hiland plad, but costly silken cloaths: he gain'd the love of ladies gay, there's none to him was coy; ah, wa's me, ise mourn this day, _for my dear_ gilderoy. my _gilderoy_ and i was born, both in one town together; not past seven years of age, since one did love each other: our daddies and our mammies both, were cloath'd with mickle joy, to think upon the bridal day, _betwixt i and my_ gilderoy. for _gilderoy_, that love of mine, geud faith ise freely bought: a wedding-sark of holland fine, with silk in flowers wrought: and he gave me a wedding ring, which i receiv'd with joy; no lads or lasses e'er could sing, _like my sweet_ gilderoy. in mickle joy we spent our time, till we was both fifteen; then gently he did lay me down, amongst the leaves so green: when he had done what he could do, he rose and he gang'd his way; but ever since i lov'd the man, _my handsome_ gilderoy. while we did both together play, he kiss'd me o'er and o'er; geud faith it was as blith a day, as e'er i saw before: he fill'd my heart in every vein, with love and mickle joy; who was my love and hearts delight, _mine own sweet_ gilderoy. oh never, never shall i see, the cause of past delight; or sike a lovely lad as he, transport my ravish'd sight: the law forbids what love enjoyns, and does prevent our joy; though just and fair were the designs, _of me and_ gilderoy. 'cause _gilderoy_ had done amiss, must he be punish'd then; what kind of cruelty is this to hang such handsom men? the flower of the _scotish_ land, a sweet and lovely boy; he likewise had a lady's hand, _my handsom_ gilderoy. at _leith_ they took my _gilderoy_, and there god wot they bang'd him: carry'd him to fair _edenburgh_, and there god wot they hang'd him: they hang'd him up above the rest, he was so trim a boy; my only love and heart's delight, _my handsom_ gilderoy. thus having yielded up his breath, in _cypress_ he was laid; then for my dearest, after death, a funeral i made: over his grave a marble-stone, i fixed for my joy; now i am left to weep alone, _for my dear_ gilderoy. _the_ scotch _wedding_ _between_ jockey _and_ jenny. [music] then _jockey_ wou'd a wooing away, on our feast-day when he was foo; then _jenny_ put on her best array, when she thought _jockey_ would come to woo. if i thought _jockey_ were come to town, it wad be for the leve of me; then wad i put on beth hat and goown, because i'd seem worstsome in his eye. then _jenny_ prick'd up a brant breeght broow, she was as breeght as onny clock; as _moggy_ always used to do, for fear her sweet-heart shou'd her mock. then _jenny_ shoo tripped up the stairs, and secretly to shift her smock; but leard how loud her mother swears, o hast away _jenny_, and come to _jock_. then _jenny_ came tripping down the stairs, oh leard so nimbly tripped she; but oh how _jockey_ began to stare, when he beheld hur fair beauty! then _jenny_ made a curtshy low, until the stairs did touch her dock; but leard how loud her mother did lough, when shoo _jenny_ was come to _jock_. then _jockey_ tuke _jenny_ by the nease, saying my dear lovey canst thou loof me? my father is dead and has left me land, some fair ould houses twa or three. thou shalt be the lady o'er them aw, i doot, quod _jenny_ you do me mock; ad ta my saw, quoth _jockey_, then, i come to woo thee _jenny_, quoth _jock_. _this to be said after the_ song. sea then they gang'd to the kirk to be wad; noow they den't use to wad in _scotchland_ as they wad in _england_, for they gang to the kirk, and they take the donkin by the rocket, and say, good morn sir donkin, says sir donkin, ah _jockey_ sen ater me, wit ta ha _jenny_ to thy wadded wife? ay by her lady quoth _jockey_ and thanka twa, we aw my heart; ah _jenny_ sen ater me, wit ta ha _jockey_ to thy wadded loon, to have and to hold for aver and aver, forsaking aw other loons, lubberloons, black lips, blue nases, an aw swiggbell'd caves? ah, an these twa be'nt as weel wadded as e'er i wadded twa in _scotchland_, the deel and st. _andrew_ part ye. _a_ scotch song _made to the_ irish jigg, _and sung to the king at_ whitehall. [music] lately as thorough the fair _edinborough_, to view the fair meadows as i was ganging; _jockey_ and _moggy_ were walking and talking, of love and religion, thus closely haranguing; never says _moggy_, come near me false _jockey_, for thou art a _whig_, and i mean to abhor thee; ize be no bride, nor will lig by thy side, for no sneaking rebel shall lift a leg o'er me. _jockey._ fairest and dearest, and to my heart nearest, to live with thy frowns i no longer am able; i am so loving, and thou art so moving, each hair of thy head ties me fast as a cable: thou hast that in thee, ise sure to win me, to _jew_, _turk_ or _atheist_, so much i adore thee; nothing i'd shun, that is under the sun, so i have the pleasure to lift a leg o'er thee. _moggy._ plotters and traytors, and associators, in every degree thou shalt swear to oppose 'em; swimmers and trimmers, the nations redeemers, and for thy reward thou shalt sleep in my bosom; i had a dad, was a royal brave lad, and as true as the sun to his monarch before me; _moggy_ he cry'd, the same hour that he dy'd, let no sneaking rebel e'er lift a leg o'er thee. _jockey._ adieu then ye crew then, of protestant blue men, no faction his _moggy_ from _jockey_ shall sever; thou shalt at court, my conversion report, i am not the first whig by his wife brought in favour; ise never deal, for the dull common weal, to fight for true monarchy shall be my glory; lull'd with thy charms, then i die in your arms, when i have the pleasure to lift a leg o'er thee. _the fair lass of_ islington. [music] there was a lass of _islington_, as i have heard many tell; and she would to fair _london_ go, fine apples and pears to sell: and as along the streets she flung, with her basket on her arm: her pears to sell, you may know it right well, this fair maid meant no harm. but as she tript along the street, her pleasant fruit to sell; a vintner did with her meet, who lik'd this maid full well: quoth he, fair maid, what have you there? in basket decked brave; fine pears, quoth she, and if it please ye a taste sir you shall have. the vintner he took a taste, and lik'd it well, for why; this maid he thought of all the rest, most pleasing to his eye: quoth he, fair maid i have a suit, that you to me must grant; which if i find you be so kind, nothing that you shall want. thy beauty doth so please my eye, and dazles so my sight; that now of all my liberty, i am deprived quite: then prithee now consent to me, and do not put me by; it is but one small courtesie, all night with you to lie. sir, if you lie with me one night, as you propound to me; i do expect that you should prove, both courteous, kind and free: and for to tell you all in short, it will cost you five pound, a match, a match, the vintner said, and so let this go round. when he had lain with her all night, her money she did crave, o stay, quoth he, the other night, and thy money thou shalt have: i cannot stay, nor i will not stay, i needs must now be gone, why then thou may'st thy money go look, for money i'll pay thee none. this maid she made no more ado, but to a justice went; and unto him she made her moan, who did her case lament: she said she had a cellar let out, to a vintner in the town; and how that he did then agree five pound to pay her down. but now, quoth she, the case is thus, no rent that he will pay; therefore your worship i beseech, to send for him this day: then strait the justice for him sent, and asked the reason why; that he would pay this maid no rent? to which he did reply, although i hired a cellar of her, and the possession was mine? i ne'er put any thing into it, but one poor pipe of wine: therefore my bargain it was hard, as you may plainly see; i from my freedom was debarr'd, then good sir favour me. this fair maid being ripe of wit, she strait reply'd again; there were two butts more at the door, why did you not roul them in? you had your freedom and your will, as is to you well known; therefore i do desire still, for to receive my own. the justice hearing of their case, did then give order strait; that he the money should pay down, she should no longer wait: withal he told the vintner plain if he a tennant be; he must expect to pay the same, for he could not sit rent-free. but when the money she had got, she put it in her purse: and clapt her hand on the cellar door, and said it was never the worse: which caused the people all to laugh, to see this vintner fine: out-witted by a country girl, about his pipe of wine. _the most famous_ ballad _of king_ henry _the th; his victory over the_ french _at_ agencourt. [music] a councel grave our king did hold, with many a lord and knight: that he might truly understand, that _france_ did hold his right. unto the king of _france_ therefore, embassadors he sent; that he might truly understand, his mind and whole intent. desiring him in friendly sort, his lawful right to yield; or else he swore by dint of sword, to win it in the field. the king of _france_ with all his lords, did hear this message plain; and to our brave embassador, did answer with disdain. and said our king was yet too young, and of but tender age; therefore they pass not for his threats, nor fear not his courage. his knowledge yet in feats of arms, as yet is very small; his tender joints more fitter are, to toss a tennis-ball. a tun of tennis-balls therefore, in pride and great disdain; he sent unto this royal king, to recompence his pain. which answer when our king did hear, he waxed wroth in heart; and swore he would provide such balls, should make all _france_ to smart. an army then our king did hold, which was both good and strong; and from _southampton_ is our king, with all his navy gone. in _france_ he landed safe and sound, both he and all his train; and to the town of _husle_ then he marched up amain. which when he had besieg'd the town, against the fenced walls; to batter down the stately towers, he sent his _english_ balls. when this was done our king did march, then up and down the land; and not a _frenchman_ for his life, durst once his force withstand. until he came to _agencourt_, whereas it was his chance; to find the king in readiness, with all the power of _france_. a mighty host he had prepar'd, of armed soldiers then; which were no less by just account, than forty thousand men. which sight did much amaze our king, for he and all his host; not passing fifteen thousand had, accounted with the most. the king of _france_ who well did know, the number of our men; in vaunting pride and great disdain, did send an herald then: to understand what he would give, for ransom of his life, when they in field had taken him, amongst the bloody strife. and when our king with cheerful heart, this answer then did make; before that it does come to pass, some of your hearts will ake. and to your proud presumptuous king, declare this thing, quoth he; my own heart's-blood will pay the price, nought else he gets of me. then spake the noble duke of _york_, o noble king, quoth he, the leading of this battle brave, it doth belong to me. god-a-mercy cousin _york_, he said, i grant thee thy request; then lead thou on couragiously, and i will lead the rest. then came the bragging _frenchmen_ down, with cruel force and might; with whom our noble king began, a fierce and dreadful fight. the archers they discharg'd their shafts, as thick as hail from skie; and many a _frenchman_ in the field, that happy day did die. their horses tumbled on the stakes, and so their lives they lost; and many a _frenchman_ there was ta'en, as prisoners to their cost. ten thousand men that day was slain, as enemies in the field: and eke as many prisoners, were forc'd that day to yield. thus had our king a happy day, and victory over _france_; and brought them quickly under foot that late in pride did prance. god save our king, and bless this land, and grant to him likewise; the upper-hand and victory, of all his enemies. _the lady_ isabella's _tragedy: or, the step-mother's cruelty._ _to the foregoing tune._ there was a lord of worthy fame, and a hunting he would ride, attended by a noble train, of gentry on each side. and whilst he did in chace remain, to see both sport and play; his lady went as she did feign, unto the church to pray. this lord he had a daughter fair, whose beauty shin'd so bright; she was belov'd both far and near, of many a lord and knight. fair _isabella_ was she call'd, a creature fair was she; she was her father's only joy, as you shall after see. but yet her cruel step-mother, did envy her so much; that day by day she sought her life, her malice it was such. she bargain'd with the master-cook, to take her life away; and taking of her daughter's book, she thus to her did say. go home, sweet daughter, i thee pray. go hasten presently; and tell unto the master-cook, these words which i tell thee. and bid him dress to dinner straight, that fair and milk-white doe; that in the park doth shine so bright, there's none so fair to show. this lady fearing of no harm, obey'd her mother's will; and presently she hasted home, her mind for to fulfil. she straight into the kitchin went, her message for to tell, and there the master-cook she spy'd, who did with malice swell. now master-cook it must be so, do that which i thee tell; you needs must dress the milk-white doe, which you do know full well. then straight his cruel bloody hands, he on the lady laid; who quivering and shaking stands, while thus to her he said: thou art the doe that i must dress, see here, behold my knife; for it is pointed presently, to rid thee of thy life. o then cry'd out the scullion boy, as loud as loud might be; o save her life, good master-cook, and make your pies of me? for pity sake do not destroy my lady with your knife; you know she is her father's joy, for christ's sake save her life. i will not save her life he said, nor make my pies of thee; yet if thou dost this deed betray, thy butcher i will be; now when this lord he did come home, for to sit down to meat; he called for his daughter dear, to come and carve his meat. now sit you down, his lady said, o sit you down to meat; into some nunnery she's gone, your daughter dear forget. then solemnly he made a vow, before the company; that he would neither eat nor drink, until he did her see. o then bespoke the scullion boy, with a loud voice so high; if that you will your daughter see my lord cut up the pye. wherein her flesh is minced small, and parched with the fire; all caused by her step-mother, who did her death desire. and cursed be the master-cook, o cursed may he be! i proffer'd him my own heart's blood, from death to set her free. then all in black this lord did mourn, and for his daughter's sake; he judged for her step-mother, to be burnt at a stake. likewise he judg'd the master-cook, in boyling lead to stand; he made the simple scullion boy, the heir to all his land. _a_ ballad _in praise of a certain commander in the city._ [music] a heroe of no small renown, but noted for a man of mettle; thro' all the parts of _london_ town, no gentleman, nor yet a clown, no grave wise man, nor stupid beetle. by many deeds of prowess done, he's gain'd a matchless reputation; perform'd by neither sword nor gun, but by what means you'll know anon, and how he work'd his preservation. well mounted on a noble steed, with sword and pistol charg'd before him; altho' we must confess indeed, of either arms there was no need, his conduct did alone secure him. with's wife upon a single horse, t'wards _eppin_ both rid out together; but what than ill luck can be worse, a high-way-man of equal force, alass, obstructed both their pleasure. with pistol cock'd he made demand, and told them he must have their money; the major wisely would not stand, nor on his pistols clap a hand, he was not such a fighting tony. but spur'd away as swift as wind, no elk or tyger could run faster; was ever man so stout and kind, to leave his frighted wife behind, expos'd to such a sad disaster. her necklace, cloaths and diamond ring, the greedy robber quickly fell to; one petticoat he let her bring away with smock, and t'other thing, to let her noble heroe smell to. this slight bred sad domestick strife, altho' the man's to be commended; for what's a loving handsome wife, to a man's money or his life, for all is lost when that is ended. _a_ song. [music] as the fryer he went along, and a poring in his book, at last he spy'd a jolly brown wench a washing of her buck, sing, _stow the fryer, stow the fryer_ _some good man, and let this fair maid go_. the fryer he pull'd out and a jolly brown t----d as much as he could handle, fair maid, quoth he, if thou earnest fire in thy a---- come light me this same candle. sing, _stow the fryer_, &c. the maid she sh---- and a jolly brown t---- out of her jolly brown hole, good sir, quoth she, if you will a candle light come blow me this same cole. sing, _stow the fryer_, &c. part of the sparks flew into the _north_, and part into the _south_, and part of this jolly brown t---- flew into the fryer's mouth. sing, _stow the fryer, stow the fryer_ _some good man, and let this fair maid go_. _the lass of_ lynn's _sorrowful lamentation for the loss of her maiden-head._ [music] i am a young lass of _lynn_, who often said thank you too; my belly's now almost to my chin, _i cannot tell what to do_. my being so free and kind, does make my heart to rue; the sad effects of this i find, _and cannot tell what to do_. my petticoats which i wore, and likewise my aprons too; alass, they are all too short before, _i cannot_, &c. was ever young maid so crost, as i who thank'd him too: for why, my maiden-head is lost, _i cannot tell what to do_. in sorrowful sort i cry'd, and may now for ever rue; the pain lies in my back and side, _i cannot tell what to do_. alass i was kind and mild, but now the same i rue; having no father for my child, _i cannot_, &c. i took but a touch in jest, believe me this is true; yet i have proved, i protest, _and cannot_, &c. he crav'd my virginity, and gave me his own in lieu; in this i find i was too kind, _and cannot_, &c. each damsel will me degrade, and so will the young men too; i'm neither widow, wife, nor maid, _i cannot_, &c. a cradle i must provide, a chair and posset too; nay, likewise twenty things beside, _i cannot_, &c. when i was a maiden fair, such sorrows i never knew; but now my heart is full of care, _i cannot_, &c. oh what will become of me, my belly's as big as two; 'tis with a two-legg'd tympany, _i cannot tell what to do_. you lasses that hear my moan, if you will your joys renew; besure, while married, lye alone, _or else you at length may rue_. i came of as good a race, as most is in _lynn_'s fair town; and cost a great deal bringing up, _but a little thing laid me down_. _the jovial tinker._ [music] there was a jovial tinker, which was a good ale drinker; he never was a shrinker, believe me this is true; and he came from the wild of _kent_, when all his money was gone and spent, which made him look like a _jack-a-lent_, _and joan's ale is new,_ _and joan's ale is new boys,_ _and joan's ale is new._ the tinker he did settle, most like a man of mettle, and vow'd to pawn his kettle, now mark what did ensue; his neighbours they flock'd in apace, to see _tom tinker's_ comely face, where they drank soundly for a space, _whilst_ joan's _ale_, &c. the cobler and the broom man, came next into the room, man, and said they would drink for boon man, let each one take his due; but when good liquor they had found, they cast their caps upon the ground, and so the tinker he drank round, _whilst_ joan's _ale_, &c. the rag-man being weary, with the burden he did carry, he swore he would be merry, and spend a shilling or two; and he told his hostess to her face, the chimney-corner was his place, and he began to drink apace, _and_ joan's _ale_, &c. the pedlar he drew nigher, for it was his desire, to throw the rags i'th' fire, and burn the bundle blue; so whilst they drank whole flashes, and threw about the glasses, the rags were burnt to ashes, _and_ joan's _ale_, &c. _the second_ part. and then came in a hatter, to see what was the matter, he scorn'd to drink cold water, amongst that jovial crew; and like a man of courage stout, he took the quart-pot by the snout, and never left till all was out, _o_ joan's _ale_, &c. the taylor being nimble, with bodkin, shears and thimble, he did no whit dissemble, i think his name was _true_; he said that he was like to choak, and he call'd so fast for lap and smoak, until he had pawn'd the vinegar cloak, _for_ joan's _ale_, &c. then came a pitiful porter, which often did resort there, quoth he, i'll shew some sport here, amongst the jovial crew; the porter he had very bad luck, before that it was ten a clock, the fool got drunk, and lost his frock, _for_ joan's _ale_, &c. the bonny brave shoe-maker, a brave tobacco taker, he scorn'd to be a quaker, i think his name was _hugh_; he call'd for liquor in so fast, till he forgot his awl and last, and up the reckoning he did cast, _whilst_ joan's _ale_, &c. and then came in the weaver, you never saw a braver, with a silk man and a glover, _tom tinker_ for to view; and so to welcom him to town, they every man spent half a crown, and so the drink went merrily down, _for_ joan's _ale_, &c. then came a drunken _dutchman_, and he would have a touch, man, but he soon took too much, man, which made them after rue; he drank so long as i suppose, 'till greasie drops fell from his nose, and like a beast befoul'd his hose, _whilst_ joan's _ale_, &c. a _welchman_ he came next, sir, with joy and sorrow mixt, sir, who being partly vex'd, sir, he out his dagger drew; cuts-plutter-a-nails, quoth _taffy_ then, a _welchman_ is a shentleman, come hostess fill's the other cann, _for_ joan's _ale_, &c. thus like to men of courage stout, couragiously they drank about, till such time all the ale was out, as i may tell to you; and when the business was done, they every man departed home, and promis'd _joan_ again to come, _when she had brew'd anew_. _the soldiers fortune: or, the taking_ mardyke. [music] when first _mardyke_ was made a prey, 'twas courage that carry'd the fort away, then do not lose your valours prize, by gazing on your mistresses eyes; but put off your petticoat-parley, potting and sotting, and laughing and quaffing canary, will make a good soldier miscarry: and never travel for true renown: then turn to your marshal mistress, fair _minerva_ the soldier's sister is; rallying and sallying, with gashing and slashing of wounds sir, with turning and burning of towns, sir, is a high step to a great man's throne. let bold _bellona's_ brewer frown, and his tunn shall overflow the town; and give the cobler sword and fate: and a tinker may trapan the state; such fortunate foes as these be, turn'd the crown to a cross at _naseby_: father and mother, sister and brother confounded, and many a good family wounded; by a terrible turn of fate, he that can kill a man, thunder and plunder the town, sir, and pull his enemies down, sir, in time may be an officer great. it is the sword does order all, makes peasants rise, and princes fall; all sylogisms in vain are spilt, no logick like a basket-hilt: it handles 'em joint by joint sir, quilling and drilling, and spilling, and killing profoundly, until the disputers on ground lie, and have never a word to say; unless it be quarter, quarter, truth is confuted by a carter, by stripping and nipping, and ripping and quipping evasions, doth conquer a power of perswasions, _aristotle_ hath lost the day. the musket bears so great a force, to learning it has no remorse; the priest, the layman, the lord, find no distinction from the sword; tan tarra, tan tarra the trumpet, now the walls begin to crack, the councellors struck dumb too, by the parchment upon the drum too; dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub an alarum, each corporal now can out-dare 'em, learned _littleton_ goes to rack. then since the sword so bright doth shine, we'll leave our wenches and our wine, and follow _mars_ where-e'er he runs, and turn our pots and pipes to guns. the bottles shall be grenadoes, we'll bounce about the bravado's by huffing and puffing, and snuffing and cuffing the _french_ boys, whose brows have been dy'd in a trench boys; well got fame is a warriour's wife, the drawer shall be the drummer, we'll be colonels all next summer by hiking and tilting, and pointing and jointing like brave boys, we shall have gold or a grave, boys, and there's an end of a soldier's life. _the_ misses _complaint._ _tune_, packington's pound. [music] how now sister _betteris_, why look you so sad? _gillian._ the times are so hard and our trading so bad, that we in our function no money can gain, our pride and our bravery for to maintain. _bett._ true sister, _gillian_, i know it full well, but what will you say if such news i do tell? and how't will rejoyce you, i'll make it out plain, will make our trade quick, and more money will gain. there's none of the pitiful tribe we'll be for, and six-penny customers we will abhor; for all those that will our dominions invade, must pay for their sauce, we must live by our trade. _gil._ good sister if you can make this but appear, my spirit and senses you greatly will chear, but a famine of flesh will bring all things to pass, or else we are as bad still as ever we was. _bett._ lately a counsel of bauds there did meet, in _cock_ and _pye_ alley, near _do-little_ street: and who was the counsel, and what was there done; i'll make it out to you as clear as the sun. from _ratcliffe-highway_, and from _nightingale-lane_, their deputies come with a very fine train: unto these two couple come long sided _sue_, is as good as e'er twang'd, if you give her her due. then _tower-ditch_ and _hatton-wall_ sent in their prayers, and drest as compleatly as horses to fairs; with them jumping _jenny_ appear'd, as 'tis said, who ne'er in her life of a man was afraid. the two metropolitans came from the park, as arch at the game, as e'er plaid in the dark; then _lutener's_-lane a gay couple did bring, two better, i think, was ne'er stretch'd in hemp-string. there was many others from places remote, the which were too tedious for me here to note; and what was their business i here will declare, how to keep our trade in repute they take care. and first for those ladies that walk in the night, their aprons and handkerchiefs they should be white, and that they do walk more in town than in fields, for that is the place most variety yields. and those that are over-much worn by their trade, shall go in a vessel, their passage being paid; the venture of cuckolds, 'tis called by name, and this is the way for to keep up our fame. and this is the ship which the cuckolds have brought, it lies at their haven, and is to be frought: and thither whores rampant, that please may repair, with master and captain to truck for their ware. and for a supply that our trade may increase, for wanton commodity it will grow less; we'll visit the carriers, and take them up there, and then for their tutering we will take care. in this we shall ease all the countries to do't, and do our selves pleasure and profit to boot; for one that is crack'd in the country before, in _london_ will make a spick and span whore. there's many more precepts which they did advise, but these which i'll give you here shall suffice: and when you have heard them, i think you will say, we ne'er were more likely to thrive in our way. _some orders agreed upon at a general consultation of the_ sisterhood _of_ nightingale-lane, ratcliff-high-way, tower-ditch, rose-mary-lane, hatton-wall, saffron-hill, wetstone's-park, lutener's-lane, _and other places adjacent, for the general encouragement and advancement of their occupation._ i. _that no_ night-walker _presume to go without a white apron and handkerchief, the better to be seen._ ii. _to keep due time and hours, for fear of the constable and his watch._ iii. _that those which are over-worn, cast off and cashier'd, do repair to the ship called_ (the cuckolds venture) _now riding at_ cuckolds haven, _thence to be transported over-sea, to have their breeches repaired._ iv. _that a due care be taken to visit the carriers for crack'd maidenheads, for the use and increase of our occupation._ v. _that all honest women belonging to either_ wittals _or_ cuckolds, _be admitted to the principal places in this ship._ vi. _and lastly, for the better state and magnificence of the honourable corporation of_ w----es, _'tis order'd that a chariot be made to be drawn by_ cuckolds, _the_ cuckold-makers _to drive, and the_ wittals _to ride._ _the well approved doctor:_ _or, an infallible cure for_ cuckolds. _to the foregoing tune._ there is a fine doctor now come to town, whose practice in physick hath gain'd him renown, in curing of cuckolds he hath the best skill, by giving one dose of his approved pill. his skill is well known, and his practice is great, then come to the doctor before 'tis too late; his med'cines are safe, and the doctor is sure, he takes none in hand but he perfects, the cure. the doctor himself he doth freely unfold, that he can cure cuckolds tho' never so old; he helps this distemper in all sorts of men, at forty and fifty, yea, threescore and ten. there was an old man lived near to the _strand_, decripid and feeble, scarce able to stand; who had been a cuckold full forty long years, but hearing of this how he prick'd up his ears. away to the doctor he went with all speed, where he struck a bargain, they soon were agreed; he cured his forehead that nothing was seen, and now he's as brisk as a youth of fifteen. now this being known, how his fame it did ring, and unto the doctor much trading did bring; they came to the doctor out of e'ery shire, from all parts and places, yea both far and near. both _dutchmen_ and _scotchmen_ to _london_ did ride, with _shonny-ap-morgan_, and thousands beside; thus all sorts and sizes, both rich men and poor, they came in whole cart-loads to this doctor's door. some whining, some weeping, some careful and sad, and some was contented, and others born mad; some crooked, some straight horns, and some overgrown, the like in all ages i think was ne'er known. some rich and brave flourishing cuckolds were there, that came in whole droves, sir, as if to _horn-fair_; for now there is hopes to be cur'd of their grief, the doctor declares in the fall of the leaf. let none be so foolish as now to neglect, this doctor's great kindness and civil respect; tho' rich men may pay, yet the poor may go free, so kind and so courteous a doctor is he. 'tis known he so worthy a conscience doth make, poor cuckolds he'll cure them for charity sake; nay, farther than this still his love does enlarge, providing for them at his own cost and charge. but some are so wicked, that they will exclaim against their poor wives, making 'em bare the blame; and will not look out in the least for a cure, but all their sad pains and their tortures endure. but 'tis without reason, for he that is born under such a planet, is heir to the horn: then come to the doctor both rich men and poor, he'll carefully cure you, what would you have more? the term of his time here the doctor does write, from six in the morning 'till seven at night; where in his own chamber he still will remain, at the sign of the _woodcock_ in _vinegar-lane_. _the doctor doth here likewise present you with the receipt of his infallible medicine, that those which have no occasion for it themselves, may do good to their neighbours and acquaintances: and take it here as followeth._ take five pound of brains of your _december_ flies, and forty true tears from a _crocodile's_ eyes; the wit of a _weasel_, the wool of a _frog_, with an ounce of conserve of _michaelmas_ fog. and make him a poultis when he goes to bed, to bind to his temples behind of his head; as hot as the patient he well can endure, and this is for cuckolds an absolute cure. _a_ song. good neighbour why do you look awry, you are a wond'rous stranger; you walk about, you huff and pout, as if you'd burst with anger: is it for that your fortune's great, or you so wealthy are? or live so high there's none a-nigh that can with you compare? but t'other day i heard one say, your husband durst not show his ears, but like a lout does walk about, so full of sighs and fears: good mrs. _tart_, i caren't a fart, for you nor all your jears. my husband's known for to be one, that is most chast and pure; and so would be continually, but for such jades as you are: you wash, you lick, you smug, you trick, you toss a twire a grin; you nod and wink, and in his drink, you strive to draw him in: you lie you punck, you're always drunk, and now you scold and make a strife, and like a whore you run o' th' score, and lead him a weary life; tell me so again you dirty quean, and i'll pull you by the quoif. go dress those brats, those nasty rats, that have a lear so drowzy; with vermin spread they look like dead, good faith they're always lousie: pray hold you there, and do not swear, you are not half so sweet; you feed yours up with bit and sup, and give them a dirty teat: my girls, my boys, my only joys, are better fed and taught than yours; you lie you flirt, you look like dirt, and i'll kick you out of doors; a very good jest, pray do your best, and faith i'll quit your scores. go, go you are a nasty bear, your husband cannot bear it; a nasty quean as e'er was seen, your neighbours all can swear it: a fulsome trot and good for nought, unless it be to chat; you stole a spoon out of the room, last christning you were at: you lye you bitch you've got the itch, your neighbours know you are not sound; look how you claw with your nasty paw, and i'll fell you to the ground; you've tore my hood, you shall make it good if it cost me forty pound. _the jovial_ cobler _of st._ hellens. [music] i am a jovial cobler bold and brave, and as for employment enough i have: for to keep jogging my hammer and awl, _whilst i sit singing and whistling in my stall,_ _stall, stall, whilst i sit singing and whistling in my stall._ but there's _dick_ the carman, and _hodge_ who drives the dray for sixteen, or eighteen pence a day, slave in the dirt, whilst i with my awl, _get more money, sitting, sitting in my stall_, &c. and there's _tom_ the porter, companion of the pot, who stands in the street with his rope and knot, waiting at a corner to hear who will him call, _whilst i am getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's the jolly broom-man, his bread for to get, crys brooms up and down in the open street, and one crys broken glasses tho' ne'er so small, _whilst i am getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's another gang of poor smutty souls, doth trudge up and down to cry small-coals; with a sack on their back, at a door stand and call, _whilst i am getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's another sort of notes, who crys up and down old suits and coats; and perhaps some days get nothing at all, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's the jolly cooper with his hoops at his back, who trudgeth up and down to see who lack their casks to be made tite, with hoops great and small, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's a jolly tinker that loves a bonny lass, who trudges up and down to mend old brass; with his long smutty punch to force holes withal, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there is another old _tom terrah_, who up and down the city drives his barrow; to sell his fruit both great and small, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there is the blind and lame, with a wooden leg, who up and down the city they forced are to beg some crumbs of comfort, the which are but small, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's a gang of wenches who oysters sell, and powder _moll_ with her sweet smell; she trudges up and down with powder and ball, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's the jovial girls with their milking-pails, who trudge up and down with their draggle tails: flip flapping at their heels for custom they call, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. 'tis these are the gang who take great pain, and it is those who do me maintain; but when it blows and rains i do pity them all, _to see them trudge about while i am in my stall_, &c. and there's many more who slave and toil, their living to get, but it is not worth while, to mention them, so i'll sing in my stall, _i am the happiest mortal, mortal of them all,_ _all, all, i am the happiest mortal, mortal of them all._ _the merchant and the fidler's_ wife. [music] it was a rich merchant man, that had both ship and all; and he would cross the salt seas, tho' his cunning it was but small. the fidler and his wife, they being nigh at hand; would needs go sail along with him, from _dover_ unto _scotland_. the fidler's wife look'd brisk, which made the merchant smile; he made no doubt to bring it about, the fidler to beguile. is this thy wife the merchant said, she looks like an honest spouse; ay that she is, the fidler said, that ever trod on shoes. thy confidence is very great, the merchant then did say; if thou a wager darest to bet, i'll tell thee what i will lay. i'll lay my ship against thy fiddle, and all my venture too; so _peggy_ may gang along with me, my cabin for to view. if she continues one hour with me, thy true and constant wife; then shalt thou have my ship and be, a merchant all thy life. the fidler was content, he danc'd and leap'd for joy; and twang'd his fiddle in merriment, for _peggy_ he thought was coy. then _peggy_ she went along, his cabin for to view; and after her the merchant-man, did follow, we found it true. when they were once together, the fidler was afraid; for he crep'd near in pitious fear, and thus to _peggy_ he said. hold out, sweet _peggy_ hold out, for the space of two half hours; if thou hold out, i make no doubt, but the ship and goods are ours. in troth, sweet _robin_, i cannot, he hath got me about the middle; he's lusty and strong, and hath laid me along, o _robin_ thou'st lost thy fiddle. if i have lost my fiddle, then am i a man undone; my fiddle whereon i so often play'd, away i needs must run. o stay the merchant said, and thou shalt keep thy place; and thou shalt have thy fiddle again, but _peggy_ shall carry the case. poor _robin_ hearing that, he look'd with a merry-chear; his wife she was pleas'd, and the merchant was eas'd, and jolly and brisk they were. the fidler he was mad, but valu'd it not a fig; then _peggy_ unto her husband said, kind _robin_ play us a jigg. then he took up his fiddle, and merrily he did play; the _scottish jigg_ and the _horn pipe_, and eke the _irish hey_. it was but in vain to grieve, the deed it was done and past; poor _robin_ was born to carry the horn, for _peggy_ could not be chast. then fidlers all beware, your wives are kind you see; and he that's made for the fidling trade, must never a merchant be. for _peggy_ she knew right well, although she was but a woman; that gamesters drink, and fidlers wives, they are ever free and common. _the unconstant_ woman. [music] did you not hear of a gallant sailor, whose pockets they were lin'd with gold; he fell in love with a pretty creature, as i to you the truth unfold: with a kind salute, and without dispute, he thought to gain her for his own, _unconstant woman proves true to no man,_ _she has gone and left me all alone._ don't you remember my pretty _peggy_, the oaths and vows which you made to me: all in the chamber we were together, that you would ne'er unconstant be: but you prove strange love, and from me range, and leave me here to sigh and moan; _unconstant woman is true to no man,_ _she's gone and left me all alone._ as i have gold you shall have treasure, or any dainty kind of thing; thou may'st command all delights and pleasure, and what you'd have, love, i would you bring: but you prove shy, and at last deny, him that admires you alone; _unconstant woman proves true to no man,_ _she's left me here to make my moan._ when first i saw your charming beauty, i stood like one all in amaze; i study'd only how to pay duty, and could not speak but only gaze, at last said i, fair maid comply, and ease a wretched lover's moan; _unconstant woman proves true to no man,_ _she's gone and left me here alone._ i made her presents of rings and jewels, with diamond stones i gave her too; she took them kindly, and call'd me jewel, and said her love to me was true: but in the end she prov'd unkind, when i thought she had been my own; _unconstant woman_, &c. for three months time we saw each other, and she oft said she'd be my wife; i had her father's consent and mother, i thought to have liv'd a happy life: she'd laugh and toy both night and day, but at length she chang'd her tone; _unconstant woman, proves true to no man,_ _she's left me now to make my moan._ many a time we have walk'd together, both hand in hand to an arbour green; where tales of love in sun-shiny weather, we did discourse and were not seen: with a kind salute we did dispute, while we together were alone: _unconstant woman she's true to no man,_ _she's gone and left me here alone._ since _peggy_ has my kindness slighted, i'll never trust a woman more; 'twas in her alone i e'er delighted, but since she's false i'll leave the shoar: in ship i'll enter, on seas i'll venture, and sail the world where i'm not known: _unconstant woman proves true to no man,_ _she's gone and left me here alone._ _sorrow banish'd in a_ mug. _the words_ _by sir_ edward morgan. [music] if sorrow the tyrant invade thy breast, haul out the foul fiend by the lug, the lug, let nought of to morrow disturb thy rest, but dash out his brains with a mug, a mug. if business unluckily goes not well, let the fond fools their affections hug, to shew our allegiance we'll go to the bell, and banish despair in a mug, a mug. if thy wife proves not one of the best, the best, but admits no time but to think, to think; or the weight of thy forehead bow down thy crest, divert the dull _damon_ with drink, with drink, if miss prove peevish and will not gee, ne'er pine, ne'er pine at the wanton pug, but find out a fairer, a kinder than she, and banish dispair in a mug, a mug. if dear assignation be crost, be crost, and mistress go home in a rage, a rage; let not thy poor heart like a ship be tost, but with a brisk brimmer engage, engage: what if the fine fop and the mask fall out. and the one hug, and t'other tug, while they pish and fie, we will frolick in stout, and banish all care in a mug, a mug. if toying young _damon_ by _sylvia's_ charms, at length should look pale and perplexed be; to cure the distemper and ease those harms, go straight to the _globe_ and ask number three: there beauties like _venus_ thou canst not lack, be kind to them, they will sweetly hug; there's choice of the fairest, the brown or the black. then banish despair in a mug, a mug. let then no misfortune e'er make thee dull, but drink away care in a jug, a jug; then let not thy tide steal away, but pull, carouse away though in a mug, a mug: while others for greatness and fortune's doom, while they for their ambition tug; we'll sit close and snug in a sea-coal room, and banish despair in a mug, a mug. let zealots o'er coffee new plots devise, and lace with fresh treason the pagan drug; whilst our loyal blood flows our veins shall shine, like our faces inspir'd with a mug, a mug: let sectaries dream of alarms, alarms, and fools still for new changes tug; while fam'd for our loyalty we'll stand to our arms, and drink the king's health in a mug, a mug. come then to the queen let the next advance, and all loyal lads of true _english_ race; who hate the stum poison of _spain_ and _france_, or to _bourdeux_ or _burgundy_ do give place; the flask and the bottle breeds ach and gout, whilst we, we all the season lie snug; neither _spaniard_ nor _flemming_, can vie with our stout, and shall submit to the mug, the mug. _the good fellow. words by mr._ alex. brome. [music] stay, stay, shut the gates, t'other quart, faith, it is not so late as you're thinking, those stars which you see, in this hemisphere be, but the studs in your cheeks by your drinking: the sun is gone to tiple all night in the sea boys, to morrow he'll blush that he's paler than we boys, drink wine, give him water, 'tis sack makes us jee boys. fill, fill up the glass, to the next merry lad let it pass, come away with't: come set foot to foot, and but give our minds to't, 'tis heretical six that doth slay wit, no helicon like to the juice of the vine is, for _phoebus_ had never had wit, nor diviness, had his face been bow dy'd as thine, his, and mine is. drink, drink off your bowls, we'll enrich both our heads and our souls with canary; a carbuncled face, saves a tedious race, for the _indies_ about us we carry: then hang up good faces, we'll drink till our noses give freedom to speak what our fancy disposes, beneath whose protection is under the roses. this, this must go round, off your hats, till that the pavement be crown'd with your beavers; a red-coated face, frights a searjeant at mace, and the constable trembles to shivers: in state march our faces like those of the _quorum_, when the wenches fall down and the vulgar adore'em, and our noses, like link-boys, run shining before'em. _the nymphs holiday. the tune of the nightingale._ [music] upon a holiday, when nymphs had leave to play, i walk'd unseen, on a pleasant green, where i heard a maid in an angry spleen, complaining to a swain, to leave his drudging pain, and sport with her upon the plain; but he the silly clown, regardless of her moan, did leave her all alone, still she cry'd, come away, come away bonny lad come away, i cannot come, i will not come, i cannot come, my work's not done, was all the words this clown did say. she vex'd in her mind to hear this lad's reply, to _venus_ she went, in great discontent, to desire her boy with his bow ready bent, to take a nimble dart, and strike him to the heart, for disobeying her commandment: _cupid_ then gave the swain such a bang, as made him to gang with this bonny lass along, still she cry'd, come away, come away bonny lad, come hither, i come, i come, i come, i come, i come, i come, so they gang'd along together. _good honest trooper take warning by_ donald cooper. _to the tune of_ daniel cooper. [music] a bonny lad came to the court, his name was _donald cooper_, and he petition'd to the king, that he might be a trooper: he said that he, by land and sea, had fought to admiration, and with _montross_ had many blows, both for his king and nation. the king did his petition grant, and said he lik'd him dearly, which gave to _donald_ more content, than twenty shillings yearly: this wily leard rode in the guard, and lov'd a strong beer barrel; yet stout enough, to fight and cuff, but was not given to quarrel. till on a _saturday_ at night, he walked in the park, sir; and there he kenn'd a well fair lass, when it was almost dark, sir; poor _donald_ he drew near to see, and kist her bonny mow, sir; he laid her flat upon her back, and bang'd her side weam too, sir. he took her by the lilly white hand, and kiss'd his bonny _mary_, then they did to the tavern go, where they did drink canary; when he was drunk, in came a punck, and ask'd gan he would mow her; then he again, with might and main, did bravely lay her o'er, sir. poor _donald_ he rose up again, as nothing did him ail, sir; but little kenn'd this bonny lass, had fire about her tail, sir: when night was spent then home he went, and told it with a hark, sir; how he did kiss a dainty miss, and lifted up the sark, sir. but e'er a month had gone about, poor _donald_ walked sadly: and every yean enquir'd of him, what gar'd him leuk so badly: a wench, quoth he, gave snuff to me, out of her placket box, sir; and i am sure, she prov'd a whore, and given to me the pox, sir. poor _donald_ he being almost dead, was turn'd out of the guard, sir; and never could get in again, although he was a leard, sir: when _mars_ doth meet, with _venus_ sweet, and struggles to surrender; the triumph's lost, then never trust a feminine commander. poor _donald_ he went home again, because he lost his place, sir; for playing of a game at whisk, and turning up an ace, sir; ye soldiers all, both great and small, a foot-man or a trooper; when you behold, a wench that's bold remember _donald cooper_. _the jovial drinker._ [music] a pox on those fools, who exclaim against wine, and fly the dear sweets that the bottle doth bring; it heightens the fancy, the wit does refine, and he that was first drunk was made the first king. by the help of good claret old age becomes youth, and sick men still find this the only physitian; drink largely, you'll know by experience, the truth, that he that drinks most is the best politician. to victory this leads on the brave cavalier, and makes all the terrors of war, but delight; this flushes his courage, and beats off base fear, 'twas that taught _cæsar_ and _pompey_ to fight. this supports all our friends, and knocks down our foes, this makes us all loyal men from courtier to clown; like _dutchmen_ from brandy, from this our strength grows so 'tis wine, noble wine, that's a friend to the crown. _the sexton's_ song. _sung by_ ben. johnson, _in the play of_ hamlet _prince of_ denmark, _acting the_ _grave maker._ [music] once more to these arms my lov'd pick-ax and spade, with the rest of the tools that belong to my trade; i that buried others am rose from the dead, _with a ring, a ring, ring, a ring, and dig a dig, dig._ my thoughts are grown easie, my mind is at rest, since things at the worst are now grown to the best, and i and the worms that long fasted shall feast, _with a ring_, &c. how i long to be measuring and cleaving the ground, and commending the soil for the sculls shall be found, whose thickness alone, not the soil makes them sound, _with a ring_, &c. look you masters, i'll cry, may the saints ne'er me save, if this ben't as well contriv'd sort of a grave, as a man could wish on such occasion to have, _with a ring_, &c. observe but the make of't, i'll by you be try'd, and the coffin so fresh there that lies on that side, it's fifty years since he that owns it has dy'd. _with a ring_, &c. i hope to remember your friend in a bowl, an honest good gentleman, god rest his soul, he has that for a ducket is worth a pistole, _with a ring_, &c. at marriages next i'll affirm it and swear, if the bride would be private so great was my care, that not a soul knew that the priest joyn'd the pair, _with a ring_, &c. when i myself whisper'd and told it about what door they'd go in at, what door they'd go out, to receive the salutes of the rabble and rout, _with a ring_, &c. at chris'nings i'll sit with abundance of joy, and drink to the health of the girl or the boy, at the same i wish that fate both would destroy, _that i may ring_, &c. what e'er's my religion, my meaning's to thrive, so the child that is born, to the font but survive, no matter how short it's continuance alive, _that i may ring_, &c. hear then my good neighbours attend to my cry, and bravely get children, and decently die, no sexton now breathing shall use you as i, _with a ring a ring, ring a ring, dig a dig, dig._ _the great_ boobee. [music] my friend if you would understand, my fortunes what they are; i once had cattle house and land, but now i am never the near: my father left a good estate, as i may tell to thee; i couzened was of all i had, _like a great boobee_. i went to school with a good intent, and for to learn my book; and all the day i went to play, in it i never did look: full seven years, or very nigh, as i may tell to thee; i could hardly say my criss-cross-row, _like a great boobee_. my father then in all the hast, did set me to the plow; and for to lash the horse about, indeed i knew not how: my father took his whip in hand, and soundly lashed me; he called me fool and country clown, _and a great boobee_. but i did from my father run, for i would plow no more; because he had so lashed me, and made my sides so sore: but i will go to _london_ town, some fashions for to see; when i came there they call'd me clown, _and a great boobee_. but as i went along the street, i carried my hat in my hand, and to every one that i did meet, i bravely buss'd my hand: some did laugh, and some did scoff, and some did mock at me; and some did say i was a woodcock, _and a great boobee_. then i did walk in hast to _paul's_ the steeple for to view; because i heard some people say, it should be builded new; then i got up unto the top, the city for to see; it was so high it made me cry, _like a great boobee_. from thence i went to _westminster_, and for to see the tombs: oh, said i, what a house is here, with an infinite sight of rooms: sweetly the abby bells did ring, it was a fine sight to see; methought i was going to heav'n in a string, _like a great boobee_. but as i went along the street, the most part of the day; many gallants i did meet, methought they were very gay: i blew my nose and pist my hose, some people did me see: they said i was a beastly fool: _and a great boobee_. next day i thro' _pye-corner_ past, the roast-meat on the stall; invited me to take a taste, my money was but small: the meat i pickt, the cook me kickt, as i may tell to thee; he beat me sore and made me roar, _like a great boobee_. as i thro' _smithfield_ lately walkt, a gallant lass i met: familiarly with me she talk't, which i cannot forget: she proferr'd me a pint of wine, methought she was wondrous free, to the tavern then i went with her, _like a great boobee_. she told me we were near of kin, and call'd for wine good store; before the reckoning was brought in, my cousin prov'd a whore: my purse she pickt, and went away, my cousin couzened me, the vintner kickt me out of door; _like a great boobee_. at the _exchange_ when i came there, i saw most gallant things; i thought the pictures living were, of all our english kings: i doft my hat and made a leg, and kneeled on my knee; the people laugh'd and call'd me fool, _and a great boobee_. to _paris-garden_ then i went, where there is great resort; my pleasure was my punishment, i did not like the sport: the garden-bull with his stout horns, on high then tossed me; i did bewray my self with fear, _like a great boobee_. the bearward went to save me then, the people flock'd about; i told the bear-garden-men, my guts they were almost out: they said i stunk most grievously, no man would pity me; they call'd me witless fool and ass, _and a great boobee_. then o'er the water i did pass, as you shall understand; i dropt into the thames, alass, before i came to land: the waterman did help me out, and thus did say to me; 'tis not thy fortune to be drown'd, _like a great boobee_. but i have learned so much wit, shall shorten all my cares; if i can but a licence get, to play before the bears: 'twould be a gallant place indeed, as i may tell to thee: then who dares call me fool or ass, _or great boobee_. _set by mr._ jeremiah clark, _sung by mr._ leveridge. [music] when maids live to thirty, yet never repented, when _europe's_ at peace and all _england_ contented, when gamesters won't swear, and no bribery thrives, young wives love old husbands, young husbands old wives; when landlords love taxes, and soldiers love peace: and lawyers forget a rich client to fleece: when an old face shall please as well as a new, wives, husbands, and lovers will ever be true. when bullies leave huffing and cowards their trembling, and courtiers and women and priests their dissembling, when these shall do nothing against what they teach, pluralities hate, and we mind what they preach: when vintners leave brewing to draw the wine pure, and quacks by their medicines kill less than they cure, when an old face shall please as well as a new, wives, husbands and lovers will ever be true. _words to a tune of_ mr. barret's, _call'd the_ catherine. [music] in the pleasant month of _may_, when the merry, merry birds began to sing; and the blossoms fresh and gay; usher'd in the welcome spring, when the long cold winter's gone, and the bright enticing moon, in the evening sweetly shon: when the bonny men and maids tript it on the grass; at a jolly country fair, when the nymphs in the best appear; we resolv'd to be free, with a fiddle and a she, e'ery shepherd and his lass. in the middle of the sport, when the fiddle went brisk and the glass went round, and the pretty gay nymphs for court, with their merry feet beat the ground; little _cupid_ arm'd unseen, with a bow and dart stole in, with a conquering air and mien, and empty'd his bow thro' the nymphs and the swains; e'ery shepherd and his mate, soon felt their pleasing fate, and longing to try in enjoyment to die, love reign'd o'er all the plains. now the sighing swain gave o'er, and the wearied nymphs could dance no more, there were other thoughts that mov'd, e'ery pretty kind pair that lov'd: in the woods the shepherds lay, and mourn'd the time away, and the nymphs as well as they, long'd to taste what it is that their senses cloys, till at last by consent of eyes, e'ery swain with his pretty nymph flies, e'ery buxom she retires with her he, to act love's solid joys. _a_ scotch song. _sung by mrs._ lucas _at the old_ theatre. [music] by moon-light on the green, our bonny lasses cooing; and dancing there i've seen, who seem'd alone worth wooing: her skin like driven snow, her hair brown as a berry: her eyes black as a slow, her lips red as a cherry. oh how she tript it, skipt it, leapt it, stept it, whiskt it, friskt it, whirld it, twirl'd it, swimming, springing, starting: so quick, the tune to nick, with a heave and a toss: and a jerk at parting, with a heave, and a toss, and a jerk at parting. as she sat down i bowed, and veil'd my bonnet to her; then took her from the crowd, with honey words to woo her; sweet blithest lass, quoth i, it being bleaky weather: i prithee let us try, another dance together; _oh how she_, &c. whilst suing thus i stood, quoth she, pray leave your fooling; some dancing heats the blood, but yours i fear lacks cooling: still for a dance i pray'd, and we at last had seven; and whilst the fiddle play'd, she thought her self in heaven, _oh how she_, &c. at last she with a smile, to dance again desir'd me; quoth i, pray stay a while, for now good faith ye've tir'd me: with that she look'd on me, and sigh'd with muckle sorrow; than gang ye'ar gate, quoth she, but dance again to morrow. _the_ quaker's song. _sung by mrs._ willis _at the new play-house._ [music] amongst the pure ones all, which conscience doth profess; and yet that sort of conscience, doth practice nothing less: i mean the sect of those elect, that loath to live by merit; that leads their lives with other mens wives, according unto the spirit. one met with a holy sister of ours, a saint who dearly lov'd him: and fain he would have kiss'd her, because the spirit mov'd him: but she deny'd, and he reply'd, you're damn'd unless you do it; therefore consent, do not repent, for the spirit doth move me to it. she not willing to offend, poor soul, yielded unto his motion; and what these two did intend, was out of pure devotion: to lye with a friend and a brother, she thought she shou'd die no sinner, but e'er five months were past, the spirit was quick within her. but what will the wicked say, when they shall here of this rumour; they'd laugh at us every day, and scoff us in every corner: let 'em do so still if that they will, we mean not to follow their fashion, they're none of our sect, nor of our elect, nor none of our congregation. but when the time was come, that she was to be laid; it was no very great crime, committed by her they said: 'cause they did know, and she did show, 'twas done by a friend and a brother, but a very great sin they said it had been, if it had been done by another. _a_ song. [music] as oyster _nan_ stood by her tub, to shew her vicious inclination; she gave her noblest parts a scrub, and sigh'd for want of copulation: a vintner of no little fame, who excellent red and white can sell ye, beheld the little dirty dame, as she stood scratching of her belly. come in, says he, you silly slut, 'tis now a rare convenient minute; i'll lay the itching of your scut, except some greedy devil be in it: with that the flat-capt fusby smil'd, and would have blush'd, but that she cou'd not; alass! says she, we're soon beguil'd, by men to do those things we shou'd not. from door they went behind the bar, as it's by common fame reported; and there upon a turkey chair, unseen the loving couple sported: but being call'd by company, as he was taking pains to please her; i'm coming, coming sir, says he, my dear, and so am i, says she, sir. her mole-hill belly swell'd about, into a mountain quickly after; and when the pretty mouse crept out, the creature caus'd a mighty laughter: and now she has learnt the pleasing game, altho' much pain and shame it cost her; she daily ventures at the same, and shuts and opens like an oyster. _the_ irish _jigg: or, the night ramble._ [music] one night in my ramble i chanc'd to see, a thing like a spirit, it frightened me; i cock'd up my hat and resolv'd to look big, and streight fell a tuning the _irish jigg_. the devil drew nearer and nearer in short, i found it was one of the petticoat sort; my fears being over, i car'd not a fig, but still i kept tuning the _irish jigg_. and then i went to her, resolving to try her; i put her agog of a longing desire; i told her i'd give her a whip for her gig, and a scourge to the tune of the _irish jigg_. then nothing but dancing our fancy could please, we lay on the grass and danc'd at our ease; i down'd with my breeches and off with my whigg, and we fell a dancing the _irish jigg_. i thank you, kind sir, for your kindness, said she, the scholar's as wise as the master can be; for if you should chance to get me with kid, i'll lay the poor brat to the _irish jigg_. the dance being ended as you may see, we rose by consent and we both went away; i put on my cloaths and left her to grow big, and so i went roaring the _irish jigg_. _a_ song. [music] it was a happy golden day, when fair _althea_ kind and gay, put all but love and me away; i arm'd with soft words did address, sweet and kind kisses far express, a greater joy and happiness. nature the best instructeress cry'd, her ivory pillows to divide, that love might sail with wind and tide; she rais'd the mast and sail'd by it, that day two tides together met, drove him on shore soon dropping wet. _a_ song. [music] ah! _cælia_ how can you be cruel and fair? since removing, the charms that are loving, 'twould make a poor lover despair; 'tis true, i have lov'd you these seven long years & more, too long for a man that ne'er was in love before: and if longer you my caresses deny, i then am resolv'd to give over my flames and die. love fires the heart of him that is brave, charms the spirit of him that is merit, and makes the poor lover a slave; dull sordid souls that never knew how to love, where nature is plung'd, 'tis a shame to the best above: and if any longer you my caresses deny, i then am resolv'd to give over my flames and die. _a_ song. [music] there was a knight and he was young, a riding along the way, sir; and there he met a lady fair, among the cocks of hay, sir: quoth he, shall you and i lady, among the grass lye down a; and i will have a special care, of rumpling of your gown a. if you will go along with me, unto my father's hall, sir; you shall enjoy my maiden-head, and my estate and all, sir: so he mounted her on a milk-white steed, himself upon another; and then they rid upon the road, like sister and like brother. and when she came to her father's house, which was moated round about, sir; she stepped streight within the gate, and shut this young knight out, sir, here is a purse of gold, she said, take it for your pains, sir; and i will send my father's man, to go home with you again, sir. and if you meet a lady fair, as you go thro' the next town, sir; you must not fear the dew of the grass, nor the rumpling of her gown, sir: and if you meet a lady gay, as you go by the hill, sir; if you will not when you may, you shall not when you will, sir. there is a dew upon the grass, will spoil your damask gown a; which has cost your father dear, many shilling and a crown a: there is a wind blows from the _west_, soon will dry the ground a; and i will have a special care, of the rumpling of my gown a. _a_ song. [music] slaves to _london_ i'll deceive you, for the country now i leave you: who can bear, and not be mad, wine so dear, and yet so bad: such a noise and air so smoaky, that to stun, this to choak ye; men so selfish, false and rude, nymphs so young and yet so lew'd. quiet harmless country pleasure, shall at home engross my leisure; farewel _london_, i'll repair, to my native country air: i leave all thy pleasures behind me, but at home my wife will find me; oh the gods! 'tis ten times worse, _london_ is a milder curse. _the duke of_ ormond's _march._ _set by mr._ church. [music] ye brave boys and tars, that design for the wars, remember the action at _vigo_; and where ormond commands, let us all joyn our hands, _and where he goes, may you go, and i go_. let conquest and fame, the honour proclaim, great ormond has gotten at _vigo_; let the trumpets now sound, and the ecchoes around, _where he goes, may you go, and i go_. let the glories be sung, which the ormonds have won, long before this great action at _vigo_; they're so loyal and just, and so true to their trust, _that where he goes, may you go, and i go_. old records of fame, of the ormonds great name, their actions, like these were of _vigo_; and since this prince exceeds, in his fore-father's deeds, _then where he goes, may you go, and i go_. 'tis the praise of our crown, that such men of renown, shou'd lead on the van, as at _vigo_; where such lives and estates are expos'd for our sakes, _then where he goes, may you go, and i go_. 'twas the whole nation's voice, and we all did rejoyce, when we heard he commanded for _vigo_; to anna so true, all her foes to pursue, _then where he goes, may you go, and i go_. 'tis the voice of the town, and our zeal for the crown, to serve ormond to _france_, _spain_, or _vigo_; so noble and brave, both to conquer and save, _then where he goes, may you go, and i go_. to the soldiers so kind, and so humbly inclin'd, to wave his applause gain'd at _vigo_; yet so kind and so true, he gave all men their due, _then where he goes, may you go, and i go_. we justly do own, all the honour that's won, in _flanders_, as well as at _vigo_; but our subject and theme, is of ormond's great name, _and where he goes, may you go, and i go_. then take off the bowl, to that generous soul, that commanded so bravely at _vigo_; and may anna approve, of our duty and love, _and where he goes, may you go, and i go_. _a cure for melancholy._ [music] are you grown so melancholy, that you think on nought but folly; are you sad, are you mad, are you worse; do you think, want of chink is a curse: do you wish for to have, longer life, or a grave, _thus would i cure ye_. first i would have a bag of gold, that should ten thousand pieces hold, and all that, in thy hat, would i pour; for to spend, on thy friend, or thy whore: for to cast away at dice, or to shift you of your lice, _thus would i cure ye_. next i would have a soft bed made, wherein a virgin should be laid; that would play, any way you'll devise; that would stick like a tick, to your thighs, that would bill like a dove, lye beneath or above, _thus would i cure ye_. next that same bowl, where _jove_ divine, drank _nectar_ in, i'd fill with wine; that whereas, you should pause, you should quaff; like a _greek_, till your cheek, to _ceres_ and to _venus_, to _bacchus_ and _silenus_, _thus would i cure ye_. last of all there should appear, seven eunuchs sphere-like singing here, in the praise, of those ways, of delights; _venus_ can, use with man, in the night; when he strives to adorn, _vulcan's_ head with a horn, _thus would i cure ye_. but if not gold, nor woman can, nor wine, nor songs, make merry then; let the batt, be thy mate, and the owl; let a pain, in thy brain, make thee howl; let the pox be thy friend, and the plague work thy end, _thus i would cure you_. _to his fairest_ valentine _mrs._ a.l. [music] come pretty birds present your lays, and learn to chaunt a goddess praise; ye wood-nymphs let your voices be, employ'd to serve her deity: and warble forth, ye virgins nine, _some musick to my_ valentine. her bosom is loves paradise, there is no heav'n but in her eyes; she's chaster than the turtle-dove, and fairer than the queen of love; yea, all perfections do combine, to beautifie my valentine. she's nature's choicest cabinet, where honour, beauty, worth and wit, are all united in her breast, the graces claim an interest: all vertues that are most divine, shine clearest in my valentine. _a_ ballad, _or_, collin's _adventure._ [music] as _collin_ went from his sheep to unfold, in a morning of _april_, as grey as 'twas cold, in a thicket he heard a voice it self spread; which was, o, o, _i am almost dead_. he peep'd in the bushes, and spy'd where there lay his mistress, whose countenance made _april may_; but in her looks some sadness was read, crying o, o, _i am almost dead_. he rush'd in to her, and cry'd what's the matter, ah! _collin_, quoth she, why will you come at her, who by the false swain, hath often been misled, for which o, o, _i am almost dead_. he turn'd her milk-pail, and there down he sat, his hands stroak'd his beard, on his knee lay his coat, but, o, still _mopsa_ cry'd, before ought was said, _collin_, o, o, _i am almost dead_. no more, quoth stout _collin_! i ever was true, thou gav'st me a handkerchief all hemm'd with blue: a pin-box i gave thee, and a girdle so red, yet still she cry'd, o, o, _i am almost dead_. delaying, quoth she, hath made me thus ill, for i never fear'd _sarah_ that dwelt at the mill, since in the ev'ning late her hogs thou hast fed, for which, o, o, _i am almost dead_. _collin_ then chuck'd her under the chin, cheer up for to love thee i never will lin, says she, i'll believe it when the parson has read, 'till then, o, o, _i am almost dead_. uds boars, quoth _collin_, i'll new my shon, and e'er the week pass, by the mass it shall be done: you might have done this before, then she said, but now, o, o, _i am almost dead_. he gave her a twitch that quite turn'd her round, and said, i'm the truest that e'er trod on ground, come settle thy milk-pail fast on thy head, no more o, o, _i am almost dead_. why then i perceive thoul't not leave me in the lurch, i'll don my best cloths and streight to the church: jog on, merry _collin_, jog on before, for i faith, i faith, _i'll dye no more_. _the_ town-rakes, _a_ song: _set by mr._ daniel purcell: _sung by mr._ edwards. [music] what life can compare with the jolly town rakes, when in his full swing of all pleasure he takes? at noon he gets up for a wet and to dine, and wings the swift hours with mirth, musick, and wine, then jogs to the play-house and chats with the masques, and thence to the _rose_ where he takes his three flasks, there great as a _cæsar_ he revels when drunk, and scours all he meets as he reels, as he reels to his punk, and finds the dear girl in his arms when he wakes, what life can compare to the jolly town-rakes, the jolly town-rakes. he like the great turk has his favourite she, but the town's his _seraglio_, and still he lives free; sometimes she's a lady, but as he must range, black _betty_, or oyster _moll_ serve for a change: as he varies his sports his whole life is a feast, he thinks him that is soberest is most like a beast: all houses of pleasure, breaks windows and doors, kicks bullies and cullies, then lies with their whores: rare work for the surgeon and midwife he makes, what life can compare with the jolly town-rakes. thus in _covent-garden_ he makes his campaigns, and no coffee-house haunts but to settle his brains; he laughs at dry mortals, and never does think, unless 'tis to get the best wenches and drink: he dwells in a tavern, and lives ev'ry where, and improving his hour, lives an age in a year: for as life is uncertain, he loves to make haste, and thus he lives longest because he lives fast: then leaps in the dark, and his _exit_ he makes, what death can compare with the jolly town-rakes. _a_ song: _set by mr._ clarke. [music] young _coridon_ and _phillis_ sate in a lovely grove; contriving crowns of lillies, repeating tales of love: _and something else, but what i dare not_, &c. but as they were a playing, she oagled so the swain; it say'd her plainly saying, let's kiss to ease our pain: _and something else_, &c. a thousand times he kiss'd her, laying her on the green; but as he farther press'd her, her pretty leg was seen: _and something else_, &c. so many beauties removing, his ardour still increas'd; and greater joys pursuing, he wander'd o'er her breast: _and something else_, &c. a last effort she trying, his passion to withstand; cry'd, but it was faintly crying, pray take away your hand: _and something else_, &c. young _coridon_ grown bolder, the minute would improve; this is the time he told her, to shew you how i love; _and something else_, &c. the nymph seem'd almost dying, dissolv'd in amorous heat; she kiss'd, and told him sighing, my dear your love is great: _and something else_, &c. but _phillis_ did recover much sooner than the swain; she blushing ask'd her lover, shall we not kiss again: _and something else_, &c. thus love his revels keeping, 'till nature at a stand; from talk they fell to sleeping, holding each others hand; _and something else_, &c. _the amorous_ barber's _passion of love for his dear_ bridget. [music] with my strings of small wire lo i come, and a cittern made of wood; and a song altho' you are deaf and dumb, may be heard and understood. _dumb, dumb_---- oh! take pity on me, my dear, me thy slave, and me thy vassal, and be not cruel, as it were, like to some strong and well built old castle. _dumb, dumb_---- lest as thou passest along the street, braver every day and braver; every one that does thee meet, will say there goes a woman-shaver. _dumb, dumb_---- and again will think fit, and to say they will determine; there goes she that with tongue killed clip-chops, as a man with his thumbs kill vermine. _dumb, dumb_---- for if thou dost then, farewel pelf, farewel _bridget_, for i vow i'll: either in my bason hang my self, or drown me in my towel, _dumb, dumb_---- _a_ ballad, _made by a gentleman in_ ireland, _who could not have access to a lady whom he went to visit, because the maid the night before had over-laid her pretty bitch. to the tune of_, o hone, o hone. [music] oh! let no eyes be dry, _oh hone, oh hone_, but let's lament and cry, _oh hone, o hone_, we're quite undone almost, for _daphne_ on this coast, has yielded up the ghost, _oh hone, o hone_. _daphne_ my dearest bitch, _oh hone, o hone_, who did all dogs bewitch, _oh hone_, &c. was by a careless maid, pox take her for a jade, in the night over-laid, _oh hone_, &c. oh may she never more _oh hone_, &c. sleep quietly, but snore, _oh hone_, &c. may never irish lad, sue for her maiden-head, until it stinks i gad, _oh hone_, &c. oh may she never keep _oh hone, oh hone_; her water in her sleep, _oh hone, oh hone_: may never pence nor pounds, come more within the bounds, of her pocket ad-sounds, _oh hone, oh hone_. damon _forsaken. set by mr._ wroth. [music] when that young _damon_ bless'd my heart, and in soft words did move; how did i hug the pleasing dart, and thank'd the god of love: _cupid_, said i, my best lov'd lamb, that in my bosom lives: to thee, for kindling this dear flame, to thee, kind god, i'll give. but prying friends o'er-heard my vow, and murmur'd in my ear; _damon_ hath neither flocks nor plough, girl what thou dost beware: they us'd so long their cursed art, and damn'd deluding sham; that i agreed with them to part, nor offer'd up my lamb. _cupid_ ask'd for his offering, 'cause i refus'd to pay; he took my _damon_ on his wing, and carry'd him quite away: pitch'd him before _olinda's_ charms, those wonders of the plain; commanding her into her arms, to take the dearest swain. the envy'd nymph, soon, soon obey'd, and bore away the prize; 'tis well she did, for had she stay'd, i'd snatch'd him from her eyes: my lamb was with gay garlands dress'd, the pile prepar'd to burn; hoping that if the god appeas'd, my _damon_ might return. but oh! in vain he's gone, he's gone, _phillis_ he can't be thine; i by obedience am undone, was ever fate like mine: _olinda_ do, try all thy charms, yet i will have a part; for whilst you have him in your arms, i'll have him in my heart. _the apparition to the jilted lover. set by mr._ wroth. [music] think wretched mortal, think no more, how to prolong thy breath: for thee there are no joys in store, but in a welcome death: then seek to lay thee under ground, the grave cures all despair; and healeth every bitter wound, giv'n by th' ungrateful fair. how cou'dst thou faith in woman think, women are _syrens_ all; and when men in loves ocean sink, take pride to see 'em fall: women were never real yet, but always truth despise: constant to nothing but deceit, false oaths and flattering lies. ah! _coridon_ bid life adieu, the gods will thee prefer; their gates are open'd wide for you, but bolted against her: do thou be true, you vow'd to love, _phillis_ or death you'll have; now since the nymph doth perjured prove, be just unto the grave. _a_ song. [music] heaven first created woman to be kind, both to be belov'd, and for to love; if you contradict what heav'n has design'd, you'll be contemn'd by all the pow'rs above: then no more dispute me, for i am rashly bent, to subject your beauty to kind nature's duty, let me than salute you by consent. arguments and fair intreats did i use, but with her consent could not prevail; she the blessing modestly would still refuse, seeming for to slight my amorous tale: sometimes she would cry sir, prithee dear be good, oh sir, pray sir, why sir? pray now, nay now, fye sir, i would sooner die sir, than be rude. i began to treat her then another way, modestly i melted with a kiss; she then blushing look'd like the rising day, fitting for me to attempt the bliss: i gave her a fall sir, she began to tear, crying she would call sir, as loud as she could baul sir, but is prov'd as false, sir, as she's fair. ralph's _going to the wars._ [music] to the wars i must alass, though i do not like the game, for i hold him to be an ass, that will lose his life for fame: _for these guns are such pestilent things, to pat a pellet in ones brow; four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay, ch'ill kill a man he knows not how._ when the bow, bill, zword and dagger, were us'd all in vighting; ch've heard my father swear and swagger, that it was but a flea-biting: _but these guns_, &c. ise would vight with the best of our parish, and play at whisters with _mary_; cou'd thump the vootball, yerk the morrie, and box at visticuffs with any: _but these guns_, &c. varewel _dick_, _tom_, _ralph_ and _hugh_, my maypoles make all heretofore; varewel _doll_, _kate_, _zis_ and _zue_, for i shall never zee you more: _for these guns are such pestilent things, to pat a pellet in ones brow; four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay, ch'ill kill a man he knows not how._ _a_ song _in praise of punch._ [music] come fill up the bowl with the liquor that fine is, and much more divine is, than now a-days wine is, with all their art, none here can controul: the vintner despising, tho' brandy be rising, 'tis punch that must chear the heart: the lovers complaining, 'twill cure in a trice, and _cælia_ disdaining, shall cease to be nice, _come fill up the bowl_, &c. thus soon you'll discover, the cheat of each lover, when free from all care you'll quickly find, as nature intended 'em willing and kind: _come fill up the bowl_, &c. _a_ song. [music] bonny _peggy ramsey_ that any man may see, and bonny was her face, with a fair freckel'd eye, neat is her body made, and she hath good skill, and square is her wethergig made like a mill: _with a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_ _bonny_ peggy ramsey _she gives weel her mill._ _peggy_ to the mill is gone to grind a bowl of mault, the mill it wanted water, and was not that a fault; up she pull'd her petticoats and piss'd into the dam, for six days and seven nights she made the mill to gang; _with a hey_, &c. some call her _peggy_, and some call her _jean_, but some calls her midsummer, but they all are mista'en; for _peggy_ is a bonny lass, and grinds well her mill, for she will be occupied when others they lay still: _with a hey_, &c. _peg_, thee and ise grin a poke, and we to war will leanes, ise lay thee flat upon thy back and then lay to the steanes; ise make hopper titter totter, haud the mouth as still, when twa sit, and eane stand, merrily grind the mill: _with a hey_, &c. up goes the clap, and in goes the corn, betwixt twa rough steans _peggy_ not to learn; with a dam full of water that she holdeth still, to pour upon the clap for burning of the mill: _with a hey_, &c. up she pull'd the dam sure and let the water in, the wheel went about, and the mill began to grind: the spindle it was hardy, and the steanes were they well pickt, and the meal fell in the mill trough, and ye may all come lick: _with a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_ _bonny_ peggy ramsey _she gives weel her mill._ _a_ song. _writ by the famous mr._ nat. lee. _philander_ and _sylvia_, a gentle soft pair, whose business was loving, and kissing their care; in a sweet smelling grove went smiling along, 'till the youth gave a vent to his heart with his tongue: ah _sylvia_! said he, (and sigh'd when he spoke) your cruel resolves will you never revoke? no never, she said, how never, he cry'd, 'tis the damn'd that shall only that sentence abide. she turn'd her about to look all around, then blush'd, and her pretty eyes cast on the ground; she kiss'd his warm cheeks, then play'd with his neck, and urg'd that his reason his passion would check: ah _philander_! she said, 'tis a dangerous bliss, ah! never ask more and i'll give thee a kiss; how never? he cry'd, then shiver'd all o'er, no never, she said, then tripp'd to a bower. she stopp'd at the wicket, he cry'd let me in, she answer'd, i wou'd if it were not a sin; heav'n sees, and the gods will chastise the poor head of _philander_ for this; straight trembling he said, heav'n sees, i confess, but no tell-tales are there, she kiss'd him and cry'd, you're an atheist my dear; and shou'd you prove false i should never endure: how never? he cry'd, and straight down he threw her. her delicate body he clasp'd in his arms, he kiss'd her, he press'd her, heap'd charms upon charms; he cry'd shall i now? no never, she said, your will you shall never enjoy till i'm dead: then as if she were dead, she slept and lay still, yet even in death bequeath'd him a smile: which embolden'd the youth his charms to apply, which he bore still about him to cure those that die. _a_ song. [music] your hay it is mow'd, and your corn is reap'd, your barns will be full, and your hovels heap'd; come, my boys come, come, my boys come, and merrily roar our harvest home: harvest home, harvest home, and merrily roar our harvest home. _come, my boys come_, &c. we ha' cheated the parson, we'll cheat him agen, for why should a blockhead ha' one in ten: one in ten, one in ten, for why should a blockhead ha' one in ten, _one in ten_, &c. for prating too long, like a book learnt sot, 'till pudding and dumpling are burnt to pot: burnt to pot, burnt to pot, 'till pudding and dumpling are burnt to pot. _burnt to pot_, &c. we'll toss off our ale till we cannot stand, and hey for the honour of old _england_; old _england_, old _england_, and hey for the honour of old _england_, _old_ england, _&c._ _a_ song. [music] i prithee send me back my heart, since i cannot have thine: for if from yours you will not part, why then should you have mine. yet now i think on't, let it be, to send it me is vain; thou hast a thief in either eye, will steal it back again. why should two hearts in one breast be, and yet not be together; or love, where is thy sympathy, if thou our hearts do sever? but love is such a mystery, i cannot find it out; for when i think i am best resolv'd, then i am most in doubt. then farewel care, then farewel woe, i will no longer pine; but i'll believe i have her heart, as well as she hath mine. bacchus _turn'd doctor. the words by_ ben. johnson. [music] let soldiers fight for pay and praise, and money be misers wish; poor scholars study all their days, and gluttons glory in their dish: _'tis wine, pure wine, revives sad souls,_ _therefore give us chearing bowls._ let minions marshal in their hair, and in a lover's lock delight; and artificial colours wear, we have the native red and white. _'tis wine_, &c. your pheasant, pout, and culver salmon, and how to please your palates think: give us a salt _westphalia-gammon_, not meat to eat, but meat to drink. _'tis wine_, &c. it makes the backward spirits brave, that lively, that before was dull; those grow good fellows that are grave, and kindness flows from cups brim full, _'tis wine_, &c. some have the ptysick, some the rhume, some have the palsie, some the gout; some swell with fat, and some consume, but they are sound that drink all out. _'tis wine_, &c. some men want youth, and some want health, some want a wife, and some a punk; some men want wit, and some want wealth, but he wants nothing that is drunk. _'tis wine, pure wine, revives sad souls,_ _therefore give us chearing bowls._ jenny _making hay._ [music] poor _jenny_ and i we toiled, in a long summer's day; till we were almost foiled, with making of the hay; her kerchief was of holland clear, bound low upon her brow; ise whisper'd something in her ear, _but what's that to you?_ her stockings were of kersey green, well stitcht with yellow silk; oh! sike a leg was never seen, her skin as white as milk: her hair as black as any crow, and sweet her mouth was too; oh _jenny_ daintily can mow, _but_, &c. her petticoats were not so low, as ladies they do wear them; she needed not a page i trow, for i was by to bear them: ise took them up all in my hand, and i think her linnen too; which made me for to make a stand; _but_, &c. king _solomon_ had wives enough, and concubines a number; yet ise possess more happiness, and he had more of cumber; my joys surmount a wedded life, with fear she lets me mow her; a wench is better than a wife, _but_, &c. the lilly and the rose combine, to make my _jenny_ fair; there's no contentment sike as mine; i'm almost void of care: but yet i fear my _jenny's_ face, will cause more men to woe; which if she should, as i do fear, _still, what is that to you?_ _the knotting_ song. _the words by sir_ charles sydney. [music] hears not my _phillis_ how the birds, their feather'd mates salute: they tell their passion in their words, must i alone, must i alone be mute: phillis _without a frown or smile,_ _sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while._ the god of love in thy bright eyes, does like a tyrant reign; but in thy heart a child he lies, without a dart or flame. _phillis_, &c. so many months in silence past, and yet in raging love; might well deserve one word at last, my passion should approve. _phillis_, &c. must then your faithful swain expire, and not one look obtain; which to sooth his fond desire, might pleasingly explain. _phillis_, &c. _the_ french king _in a foaming passion for the loss of his potent army in the_ netherlands, _which were routed by his grace the duke of_ marlborough. [music] old _lewis le grand_, he raves like a fury, and calls for _mercury_; quoth he, if i can, i'll finish my days; for why should i live? since the fates will not give one affable smile: great _marlborough_ conquers, great _marlborough_ conquers, i'm ruin'd the while. the flower of _france_, and troops of my palace which march'd from _versales_ who vow'd to advance, with conquering sword, are cut, hack'd and hew'd, i well may conclude, they're most of them slain: oh! what will become of, oh! what will become of, my grand-son in _spain_. my fortify'd throne, propt up by oppression, must yield at discretion, for needs must i own, my glory decays: bold _marlborough_ comes with ratling drums, and thundering shot, he drives all before him, he drives all before him, oh! where am i got? he pushes for crowns, and slays my commanders, and forces in _flanders_; great capital towns, for _charles_ has declar'd: these things like a dart, has pierced my heart, and threatens my death; here do i lye sighing, here do i lye sighing, and panting for breath. this passionate grief, draws on my diseases, which fatally ceases my spirits in chief, a fit of the gout, the gravel and stone, i have 'tis well known, at this horrid news, of _marlborough's_ triumph, of _marlborough's_ triumph, all battles i lose. wherever he comes, he is bold and victorious, successful and glorious, my two royal thumbs with anguish i bite: to hear his success; yet nevertheless, my passion's in vain: i pity my darling, i pity my darling, young _philip_ in _spain_. i am out of my wits, if e'er i had any; my foes they are many, which plagues me by fits, in _flanders_ and _spain_: i'm sick at my heart, to think we must part, with what we enjoy'd, towns, castles, are taken, towns, castles, are taken, my troops are destroy'd. i am i declare, in a weak condition, go call my physician, and let him prepare some comfort with speed, without all delay, assist me i pray, and hear my complaint, a dram of the bottle, a dram of the bottle, or else i shall faint. should i slip my breath, at this dreadful season, i think it but reason, i should lay my death, to the daring foes, whose fire and smoak, has certainly broke, the heart in my breast: oh! bring me a cordial, oh! bring me a cordial, and lay me to rest. _a_ song. _set by captain_ pack. [music] would you be a man in fashion? would you lead a life divine? take a little dram of passion, (a little dram of passion) in a lusty dose of wine if the nymph has no compassion, vain it is to sigh and groan: love was but put in for fashion, wine will do the work alone. _a_ song. _set by mr._ tho. farmer. [music] though the pride of my passion fair _sylvia_ betrays, and frowns at the love i impart; though kindly her eyes twist amorous rays, to tye a more fortunate heart: yet her charms are so great, i'll be bold in my pain, his heart is too tender, too tender, that's struck with disdain. still my heart is so just to my passionate eyes, it dissolves with delight while i gaze: and he that loves on, though _sylvia_ denies, his love but his duty obeys: i no more can refrain her neglects to pursue, than the force, the force of her beauty can cease to subdue. _a_ song. [music] when first i fair _celinda_ knew, her kindness then was great: her eyes i cou'd with pleasure view, and friendly rays did meet: in all delights we past the time, that could diversion move; she oft would kindly hear me rhime upon some others love: _she oft would kindly hear me rhime,_ _upon some others love._ but ah! at last i grew too bold, prest by my growing flame; for when my passion i had told, she hated ev'n my name: thus i that cou'd her friendship boast, and did her love pursue; and taught contentment at the cost, of love and friendship too. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburne. [music] long had _damon_ been admir'd, by the beauties of the plain; ev'ry breast warm love inspir'd, for the proper handsome swain: the choicest nymph _sicilia_ bred, was won by his resistless charms: soft looks, and verse as smooth, had led and left the captive in his arms. but our _damon's_ soul aspires, to a goddess of his race; though he sues with chaster fires, this his glories does deface: the fatal news no sooner blown in whispers up the chesnut row; the god _sylvanus_ with a frown, blasts all the lawrels on his brow. swains be wise, and check desire in it's soaring, when you'll woe: _damon_ may in love require _thestyles_ and _laura_ too: when shepherds too ambitious are, and court _astrea_ on a throne; like to the shooting of a star, they fall, and thus their shining's gone. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburn. [music] pretty _floramel_, no tongue can ever tell, the charms that in thee dwell; those soul-melting pleasures, shou'd the mighty _jove_ once view, he'd be in love, and plunder all above, to rain down his treasure: ah! said the nymph in the shepherd's arms, had you half so much love as you say i have charms; there's not a soul, created for man and love, more true than _floramel_ wou'd prove, i'd o'er the world with thee rove. love that's truly free, had never jealousie, but artful love may be both doubtful and wooing; ah! dear shepherdess, ne'er doubt, for you may guess, my heart will prove no less, than ever endless loving: then cries the nymph, like the sun thou shalt be, and i, like kind earth, will produce all to thee; of ev'ry flower in love's garden i'll off'rings pay to my saint. nay then pray take not those dear eyes away. _a_ song. _set by mr._ robert king. [music] by shady woods and purling streams, i spend my life in pleasing dreams; and would not for the world be thought to change my false delightful thought: for who, alas! can happy be, that does the truth of all things see? _for who, alas! can happy be,_ _that does the truth of all things see._ _a_ song. _sett by mr._ henry purcell. [music] in _chloris_ all soft charms agree, enchanting humour pow'rful wit; beauty from affectation free, and for eternal empire fit: where-e'er she goes, love waits her eyes, the women envy, men adore; tho' did she less the triumph prize, she wou'd deserve the conquest more. but vanity so much prevails, she begs what else none can deny her; and with inviting treach'rous smiles gives hopes which ev'n prevent desire: reaches at every trifling heart, grows warm with ev'ry glimm'ring flame: and common prey so deads her dart, it scarce can wound a noble game. i could lye ages at her feet, adore her careless of my pain; with tender vows her rigour meet, despair, love on, and not complain: my passion from all change secur'd, favours may rise, no frown controuls; i any torment can endure, but hoping with a crowd of fools. _a_ song. _set by mr._ tho. farmer. [music] when busie fame o'er all the plain, _velinda's_ praises rung; and on their oaten pipes each swain her matchless beauty sung: the envious nymphs were forc'd to yield she had the sweetest face; no emulous disputes were held, but for the second place. young _coridon_, whose stubborn heart no beauty e'er could move; but smil'd at _cupid's_ bow and dart, and brav'd the god of love: would view this nymph, and pleas'd at first, such silent charms to see: with wonder gaz'd, then sigh'd, and curs'd his curiosity. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburne. [music] why am i the only creature, must a ruin'd love pursue; other passions yield to nature, mine there's nothing can subdue: not the glory of possessing, monarch wishes gave me ease, more and more the mighty blessings did my raging pains encrease. nor could jealousie relieve me, tho' it ever waited near; cloath'd in gawdy pow'r to grieve me, still the monster would appear: that, nor time, nor absence neither, nor despair removes my pain; i endure them all together, yet my torments still remain. had alone her matchless beauty, set my amorous heart on fire, age at last would do its duty, fuel ceasing, flames expire. but her mind immortal grows, makes my love immortal too; nature ne'er created faces, can the charms of souls undoe. and to make my loss the greater, she laments it as her own; could she scorn me, i might hate her, but alas! she shews me none: then since fortune is my ruin, in retirement i'll complain; and in rage for my undoing, ne'er come in its power again. _a_ song. [music] _laurinda_, who did love disdain, for whom had languish'd many a swain: leading her bleating flocks to drink, she 'spy'd upon a river's brink a youth, whose eyes did well declare, how much he lov'd, but lov'd not her. at first she laugh'd, but gaz'd a while, which soon it lessen'd to a smile; thence to surprize and wonder came, her breast to heave, her heart to flame: then cry'd she out, ah! now i prove thou art a god most mighty _jove_. she would have spoke, but shame deny'd, and bid her first consult her pride; but soon she found that aid was gone, for _jove_, alass! had left her none: ah! now she burns! but 'tis too late, for in his eyes she reads her fate. _a_ song. [music] fair _cælia_ too fondly contemns those delights, wherewith gentle nature hath soften'd the nights; if she be so kind to present us with pow'r, the fault is our own to neglect the good hour: who gave thee this beauty, ordain'd thou should'st be, as kind to thy slaves, as the gods were to thee. then _cælia_ no longer reserve the vain pride, of wronging thy self, to see others deny'd; if love be a pleasure, alass! you will find, we both are not happy, when both are most kind: but women, like priests, do in others reprove, and call that thing lust, which in them is but love. what they thro' their madness and folly create, we poor silly slaves still impute to our fate; but in such distempers where love is the grief, 'tis _cælia_, not heaven, must give us relief: then away with those titles of honour and cause, which first made us sin, by giving us laws. _a_ song. _set by mr._ william turner. [music] i lik'd, but never lov'd before i saw that charming face; now every feature i adore, and doat on ev'ry grace: she ne'er shall know that kind desire, which her cold looks denies, unless my heart that's all on fire, should sparkle through my eyes: then if no gentle glance return, a silent leave to speak; my heart which would for ever burn, alass! must sigh and break. _a_ song _in_ valentinian. [music] where would coy _amyntas_ run, from a despairing lover's story? when her eyes have conquest won, why should her ear refuse the glory: shall a slave, whose racks constrain, be forbidden to complain; let her scorn me, let her fly me, let her looks, her love deny me: ne'er shall my heart yield to despair, or my tongue cease to tell my care, or my tongue cease to tell my care: much to love, and much to pray, is to heav'n the only way. _a_ song. _set by mr._ pelham humphreys. [music] a wife i do hate, for either she's false, or she's jealous; but give me a mate, who nothing will ask us or tell us: she stands at no terms, nor chaffers by way of indenture: or loves for the farms, but takes the kind man at a venture. if all prove not right, without an act, process or warning, from wife for a night, you may be divorc'd the next morning, where parents are slaves, their brats can't be any other; great wits and great braves, have always a punk to their mother. _a_ song. [music] tell me ye _sicilian_ swains, why this mourning's o'er your plains; where's your usual melody? why are all your shepherds mad, and your shepherdesses sad? what can the mighty meaning be? _chorus._ _sylvia_ the glory of our plains; _sylvia_ the love of all our swains; that blest us with her smiles: where ev'ry shepherd had a heart, and ev'ry shepherdess a part; slights our gods, and leaves our isle, slights our gods, and leaves our isle. _a_ song. [music] when gay _philander_ left the plain, the love, the life of ev'ry swain; his pipe the mournful _strephon_ took, by some sad bank and murm'ring brook: whilst list'ning flocks forsook their food, and melancholy by him stood; on the cold ground himself he laid, and thus the mournful shepherd play'd. farewel to all that's bright and gay, no more glad night and chearing day; no more the sun will gild our plain, 'till the lost youth return again: then every pensive heart that now, with mournful willow shades his brow; shall crown'd with chearful garlands sing, and all shall seem eternal spring. say, mighty _pan_, if you did know, say all ye rural gods below; 'mongst all youths that grac'd your plain, so gay so beautiful a swain: in whose sweet air and charming voice, our list'ning swains did all rejoyce; him only, o ye gods! restore your nymphs, and shepherds ask no more. _a_ song. _set by mr._ tho. kingsley. [music] how happy's the mortal whose heart is his own, and for his own quiet's beholden to none, (_eccho._ beholden to none, to none;) that to love's enchantments ne'er lendeth an ear, which a frown or a smile can equally bear, (_eccho._ can equally bear, can bear,) nor on ev'ry frail beauty still fixes an eye, but from those sly felons doth prudently fly, (_eccho._ doth prudently, prudently fly, doth fly;) for the heart that still wanders is pounded at last, and 'tis hard to relieve it when once it is fast, (_eccho._ when once it is fast, is fast.) by sporting with dangers still longer and longer, the fetters and chains of the captive grows stronger; he drills on his evil, then curses his fate, and bewails those misfortunes himself did create: like an empty camelion he lives on the air, and all the day lingers 'twixt hope and despair; like a fly in the candle he sports and he games, 'till a victim in folly, he dies in the flames. if love, so much talk'd of, a heresie be, of all it enslaves few true converts we see; if hectoring and huffing would once do the feat, there's few that would fail of a vict'ry compleat; but with gain to come off, and the tyrant subdue, is an art that is hitherto practis'd by few; how easie is freedom once had to maintain, but liberty lost is as hard to regain. this driv'ling and sniv'ling, and chiming in parts, this wining and pining, and breaking of hearts; all pensive and silent in corners to sit, are pretty fine pastimes for those that want wit: when this passion and fashion doth so far abuse 'em, it were good the state should for pendulums use 'em; for if reason it seize on, and make it give o'er, no labour can save, or reliev't any more. _a_ song. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] a thousand several ways i try'd, to hide my passion from your view; conscious that i should be deny'd, because i cannot merit you: absence, the last and worst of all, did so encrease my wretched pain, that i return'd, rather to fall by the swift fate, by the swift fate of your disdain. _a_ song. [music] to the grove, gentle love, let us be going, where the kind spring and wind all day are woing; he with soft sighing blasts strives to o'er-take her, she would not tho' she flies, have him forsake her, but in circling rings returning, and in purling whispers mourning; she swells and pants, as if she'd say, fain i would, but dare not stay. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburn. [music] tell me no more of flames in love, that common dull pretence, fools in romances use to move soft hearts of little sense: no, _strephon_, i'm not such a slave, love's banish'd power to own; since interest and convenience have so long usurp'd his throne. no burning hope or cold despair, dull groves or purling streams, sighing and talking to the air in love's fantastick dreams, can move my pity or my hate, but satyrist i'll prove, and all ridiculous create that shall pretend to love. love was a monarch once, 'tis true, and god-like rul'd alone, and tho' his subjects were but few, their hearts were all his own; but since the slaves revolted are, and turn'd into a state, their int'rest is their only care, and love grows out of date. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburn. [music] wealth breeds care, love, hope and fear; what does love our business hear? while _bacchus_ merry does appear, fight on and fear no sinking, charge it briskly to the brim, 'till the flying top-sails swim, we owe the great discovery to him of this new world of drinking. grave cabals that states refine, mingle their debates with wine; _ceres_ and the god o'th' wine; makes every great commander. let sober sots small-beer subdue, the wise and valiant wine does woe; the _stagyrite_ had the honour to be drunk with _alexander_. stand to your arms, and now advance a health to the _english_ king of _france_; on to the next a _bon speranze_, by _bacchus_ and _apollo_. thus in state i lead the van, fall in your place by your right-hand man, beat drum! now march! dub a dub, ran dan, he's a _whig_ that will not follow. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburn. [music] tho' fortune and love may be deities still, to those they oblige by their pow'r; for my part, they ever have us'd me so ill, they cannot expect i'll adore: hereafter a temple to friendship i'll raise, and dedicate there all the rest of my days, to the goddess accepted my vows, _to the goddess accepted my vows_. thou perfectest image of all things divine, bright center of endless desires, may the glory be yours, and the services mine, when i light at your altars the fires. i offer a heart has devotion so pure, it would for your service all torments endure, might you but have all things you wish, _might you_, &c. but yet the goddess of fools to despise, i find i'm too much in her power; she makes me go where 'tis in vain to be wise, in absence of her i adore: if love then undoes me before i get back, i still with resignment receive the attack, or languish away in despair, _or languish_, &c. _a_ song. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] he himself courts his own ruin, that with too great passion sues 'em: when men whine too much in wooing, women with like coquets use 'em: some by this way of addressing have the sex so far transported, that they'll fool away the blessing for the pride of being courted. jilt and smile when we adore 'em, while some blockhead buys the favour; presents have more power o'er 'em than all our soft love and labour, thus, like zealots, with screw'd faces, we our fooling make the greater, while we cant long winded graces, others they fall to the creature. _a_ song. _set by mr._ damasene. [music] cease lovely _strephon_, cease to charm; useless, alas! is all this art; it's needless you should strongly arm, to take a too, too willing heart: i hid my weakness all i could, and chid my pratling tell-tale eyes, for fear the easie conquest should take from the value of the prize. but oh! th' unruly passion grew so fast, it could not be conceal'd, and soon, alas! i found to you i must without conditions yield, tho' you have thus surpriz'd my heart, yet use it kindly, for you know, it's not a gallant victor's part to insult o'er a vanquish'd foe. _a_ song. _set by mr._ damasene. [music] you happy youths, whose hearts are free from love's imperial chain, henceforth be warn'd and taught by me, and taught by me to avoid inchanting pain, fatal the wolves to trembling flocks, sharp winds to blossoms prove: to careless seamen, hidden rocks; to human quiet love. fly the fair-sex, if bliss you prize, the snake's beneath the flow'r: whoever gaz'd on beauties eyes, that tasted quiet more? the kind with restless jealousie, the cruel fill with care; with baser falshood those betray, these kill us with despair. _a_ song. _set by dr._ staggins. [music] when first _amyntas_ charm'd my heart, the heedless sheep began to stray; the wolves soon stole the greatest part, and all will now be made a prey: ah! let not love your thoughts possess, 'tis fatal to a shepherdess; the dangerous passion you must shun, or else like me, be quite undone. a song. _set by mr._ richard croone. [music] how happy and free is the resolute swain, that denies to submit to the yoak of the fair; free from excesses of pleasure and pain, neither dazl'd with hope, nor deprest with despair. he's safe from disturbance, and calmly enjoys all the pleasures of love, without clamour and noise. poor shepherds in vain their affections reveal, to a nymph that is peevish, proud sullen and coy; vainly do virgins their passions conceal, for they boil in their grief, 'till themselves they destroy, and thus the poor darling lies under a curse: to be check'd in the womb, or o'erlaid by the nurse. _a_ song. _sung by mrs._ cross _in the_ mock-astrologer, _set by mr._ ramondon. [music] why so pale and wan fond lover? prithee, prithee, prithee why so pale: will, when looking well can't move her, looking ill, looking ill prevail? why so dull and mute young sinner? prithee, prithee why so mute; will, when speaking well can't win her, saying nothing, nothing do't? quit, quit for shame, this will not move, this cannot, cannot, cannot, cannot take her; if of her self she will not love, nothing can, nothing can make her, the devil, the devil, the devil, the devil take her. _a_ song _occasioned by a lady's wearing a patch upon a becoming place on her face. set by mr._ john weldon. [music] that little patch upon your face wou'd seem a foil on one less fair, wou'd seem a foil, wou'd seem a foil, wou'd seem a foil on one less fair: on you it hides a charming grace, and you in pity, you in pity, you in pity plac'd it there; on you it hides a charming grace, and you in pity, you in pity, in pity plac'd it there. _and you in pity, pity,_ _and you in pity plac'd it there._ _a_ song. _set and sung by mr._ leveridge _at the_ theater. [music] _iris_ beware when _strephon_ pursues you, 'tis but to boast a conquest won: all his designs are aim'd to undo you, break off the love he has begun: when he's addressing, and prays for the blessing, which none but his _iris_ can give alone; o then beware, 'tis all to undo you, 'tis but to boast a conquest won: she that's believing, while he is deceiving, like many already, will be undone; _iris_ beware when _strephon_ pursues you, 'tis but to boast a conquest won. _a_ song. _set by mr._ ramondon, _sung at the_ theatre. [music] how charming _phillis_ is, how fair, how charming _phillis_ is, how fair, o that she were as willing, to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing; to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing; to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing; to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing. i sigh, i sigh, i languish now, and love will not let me rest; i drive about the park and bow, where-e'er i meet my dearest. _a_ song. _set by mr._ anthony young. [music] cease whining _damon_ to complain, of thy unhappy fate; that _sylvia_ should thy love disdain, which lasting was and great. for love so constant flames so bright, more unsuccessful prove: than cold neglect and sudden slight, to gain the nymph you love. then only you'll obtain the prize, when you her coyness use; if you pursue the fair, she flies, but if you fly, pursues. had _phoebus_ not pursu'd so fast the seeming cruel she; the god a virgin had embrac'd, and not a lifeless tree. _a_ song _in the_ opera _call'd the_ brittish enchanters. _set by mr._ j. eccles. [music] plague us not with idle stories, whining loves, whining loves, whining loves, and senceless glories. what are lovers? what are kings? what, at best, but slavish things? what are lovers? what are kings? what, at best, but slavish things? what, at best, but slavish things? free i liv'd as nature made me, love nor beauty durst invade me, no rebellious slaves betray'd me, free i liv'd as nature made me, each by turns as sence inspired me, _bacchus_, _ceres_, _venus_ fir'd me, i alone have learnt true pleasure, freedom, freedom, freedom is the only, only treasure. juno _in the prize._ _set by mr._ john weldon. [music] let ambition fire thy mind, thou wert born o'er men to reign; not to follow flocks design'd, scorn thy crook, and leave the plain: not to follow flocks design'd, scorn thy crook, and leave the plain. crowns i'll throw beneath thy feet, thou on necks of kings shalt tread, joys in circles, joys shall meet, which way e're thy fancy leads. _the beau's character in the comedy call'd_ hampstead-heath. _set and sung by mr._ ramondon. [music] a whig that's full, an empty scull, a box of _burgamot_; a hat ne'er made to fit his head no more than that to plot. a hand that's white, a ring that's right, a sword, knot, patch and feather; a gracious smile, and grounds and oyl, do very well together. a smatch of _french_, and none of sence, all conquering airs and graces; a tune that thrills, a lear that kills, stoln flights and borrow'd phrases. a chariot gilt, to wait on jilt, an awkward pace and carriage; a foreign tower, domestick whore, and mercenary marriage. a limber ham, g---- d---- ye m'am, a smock-face, tho' a tann'd one; a peaceful sword, not one wise word, but state and prate at random. duns, bastards, claps, and am'rous scraps, of _cælia_ and _amadis_; toss up a beau, that grand ragou, that hodge-podge for the ladies. _a_ song _in the innocent mistress. set by mr._ john eccles, _sung by mrs._ hodgson. [music] when i languish'd and wish'd you wou'd something bestow, you bad me to give it a name; but by heav'n i know it as little as you, tho' my ignorance passes for shame: you take for devotion each passionate glance, and think the dull fool is sincere; but never believe that i spake in romance, on purpose to tickle, on purpose, on purpose, on purpose to tickle your ear: to please me than more, think still i am true, and hug each apocryphal text; tho' i practice a thousand false doctrines on you, i shall still have enough, i shall still have enough, shall still have enough for the next. venus _to_ paris _in the prize musick. set by mr._ john weldon. [music] hither turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle swain, hither turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle swain, let not _venus_, let not _venus_, let not _venus_ sue in vain; _venus_ rules, _venus_ rules, _venus_ rules the gods above, love rules them, love rules them, love rules them, and she rules love? _venus_ rules the gods above, love rules them, love rules them, love rules them, love rules them, love rules them, and she rules love. love rules them, and she rules love. _a_ song. _the words by mr._ ward, _set by mr._ harris. [music] _belinda_! why do you distrust, so faithful and so kind a heart: which cannot prove to you unjust, but must it self endure the smart: no, no, no, no the wandring stars, shall sooner cease their motion; and nature reconcile the jars, 'twixt _boreas_ and the ocean: the fixed poles shall seem to move, and ramble from their places; e'er i'll from fair _belinda_ rove, or slight her charming graces. _a_ song. _set by mr._ william turner. [music] long was the day e're _alexis_ my lover, to finish my hopes would his passion reveal; he could not speak, nor i could not discover, what my poor aking heart was so loath to conceal: till the strength of his passion his fear had remov'd, then we mutually talk'd, and we mutually lov'd. groves for umbrella's did kindly o'er-shade us, from _phoebus_ hot rages, who like envy in strove; had not kind fate this provision made us, all the nymphs of the air would have envy'd our love: but we stand below envy that ill-natur'd fate, and above cruel scorn is happy estate. _a_ song. _set to musick by mr._ john eccles. [music] as _cupid_ roguishly one day, had all alone stole out to play; the _muses_ caught the little, little, little knave, and captive love to beauty gave: the _muses_ caught the little, little, little knave, and captive love to beauty gave: the laughing dame soon miss'd her son, and here and there, and here and there, and here and there distracted run; distracted run, and here and there, and here and there, and here and there distracted run: and still his liberty to gain, his liberty to gain, offers his ransom, but in vain, in vain, in vain; the willing, willing prisoner still hugs his chain, and vows he'll ne'er be free, and vows he'll ne'er be free, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no he'll ne'er be free again, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no he'll ne'er be free again. _old_ soldiers. [music] of old soldiers, the song you would hear, and we old fidlers have forgot who they were, but all we remember shall come to your ear, _that we are old soldiers of the queens,_ _and the queens old soldiers._ with the _old drake_, that was the next man to _old franciscus_, who first it began, to sail through the streights of _magellan_, _like an old soldier_, &c. that put the proud _spanish armado_ to wrack, and travell'd all o'er the old world, and came back, in his old ship, laden with gold and old sack, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old cavendish_, that seconded him, and taught his old sails the same passage to swim, and did them therefore with cloth of gold trim, _like an old soldier_, &c. like an _old rawleigh_, that twice and again, sailed over most part of the _seas_, and then travell'd all o'er the world with his pen, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old john norris_, the general, that at old _gaunt_, made his fame immortal, in spight of his foes, with no loss at all, _like an old soldier_, &c. like _old brest fort_, an invincible thing, when the old _queen_ sent him to help the _french_ king, took from the proud _fox_, to the world's wond'ring, _like an old soldier_, &c. where an old stout _fryer_, as goes the story, came to push of pike with him in vain-glory, but he was almost sent to his own _purgatory_, _by this old soldier_, &c. with an _old ned norris_, that kept _ostend_, a terror to foe, and a refuge to friend, and left it impregnable to his last end, _like an old soldier_, &c. that in the old unfortunate voyage of all, march'd o'er the old bridge, and knock'd at the wall, of _lisbon_, the mistress of _portugal_, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old tim norris_, by the old _queen_ sent, of _munster_ in _ireland_, lord president, where his days and his blood in her service he spent, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old harry norris_, in battle wounded, in his knee, whose leg was cut off, and he said, you have spoil'd my dancing, and dy'd in his bed, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old will norris_, the oldest of all, who went voluntary, without any call, to th' old _irish_ wars, to's fame immortal, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old dick wenman_, the first in his prime, that over the walls of old _cales_ did clime, and there was knighted, and liv'd all his time, _like an old soldier_, &c. with _old nando wenman_, when _brest_ was o'er thrown, into the air, into the seas, with gunpowder blown, yet bravely recovering, long after was known, _for an old soldier_, &c. when an _old tom wenman_, whose bravest delight, was in a good cause for his country to fight, and dy'd in _ireland_, a good old knight, _and an old soldier_, &c. with a young _ned wenman_, so valiant and bold, in the wars of _bohemia_, as with the old, deserves for his valour to be enroll'd, _an old soldier_, &c. and thus of old soldiers, ye hear the fame, but ne'er so many of one house and name, and all of old _john lord viscount_ of _thame_, _an old soldier of the queens,_ _and the queens old soldier._ _on the tombs in_ westminster abby. _you must suppose it to be_ easter _holy-days: at what time_ sisly _and_ dol, kate _and_ peggy, moll _and_ nan, _are marching to_ westminster, _with a leash of prentices before 'em; who go rowing themselves along with their right arms to make more hast, and now and then with a greasie muckender wipe away the dripping that bastes their foreheads. at the door they meet a crowd of_ wapping _sea-men_, southwark _broom-men, the inhabitants of the_ bank-side, _with a butcher or two prickt in among them. there a while they stand gaping for the master of the show, staring upon the suburbs of their dearest delight, just as they stand gaping upon the painted cloth before they go into the puppet play. by and by they hear the bunch of keys, which rejoyces their hearts like the sound of the_ pancake-bell. _for now the man of comfort peeps over the spikes, and beholding such a learned auditory, opens the gate of_ paradise, _and by that time they are half got into the first chapel, (for time is very precious) he lifts up his voice among the tombs, and begins his lurrey in manner and form following._ _to the foregoing tune; in imitation of the old soldiers._ here lies _william de valence_, a right good earl of _pembroke_, and this is his monument which you see, i'll swear upon a book. he was high marshal of _england_, when _henry_ the third did reign; but this you take upon my word, that he'll ne'er be so again. here the lord _edward talbot_ lies, the town of _shrewsbury's_ earl; together with his countess fair, that was a most delicate girl. the next to him there lyeth one, sir _richard peckshall_ hight; of whom we only this do say, he was a _hampshire_ knight. but now to tell you more of him, there lies beneath this stone: two wives of his, and daughters four, to all of us unknown. sir _bernard brockhurst_ there doth lie, lord chamberlain to queen _ann_; queen _ann_ was _richard_ the second's queen, and was king of _england_. sir _francis hollis_, the lady _frances_, the same was _suffolk's_ dutchess; two children of _edward_ the third, lie here in death's cold clutches. this is the third king _edward's_ brother, of whom our records tell nothing of note, nor say they whether, he be in heaven or hell. this same was _john_ of _eldeston_, he was no costermonger; but _cornwall's_ earl, and here's one dy'd, 'cause he could live no longer. the lady _mohun_, dutchess of _york_, and duke of _york's_ wife also; but death resolv'd to horn the duke, she lies now with death below. the lady _ann ross_, but wot ye well, that she in childbed dy'd; the lady marquiss of _winchester_, lies buried by her side. now think your penny well spent good folks, and that you're not beguil'd; within this cup doth lie the heart of a _french embassador's_ child. but how the devil it came to pass, on purpose, or by chance; the bowels they lie underneath, the body is in _france_. [sidenote: dol. _i warrant ye the_ pharises _carried it away._] there's _oxford's_ countess, and there also the lady _burleigh_ her mother; and there her daughter, a countess too, lie close by one another. these once were bonny dames, and tho' there were no coaches then, yet could they jog their tails themselves, or had them jogg'd by men. [sidenote: dick. _ho, ho, ho, i warrant ye they did as other women did, ha_ ralf. ralf. _oy, oy._] but woe is me! those high born sinners; that went to pray so stoutly; are now laid low, and 'cause they can't, their statues pray devoutly. this is the dutchess of _somerset_, by name the lady _ann_; her lord _edward_ the sixth protected, oh! he was a gallant man. [sidenote: tom. _i have heard a ballad of him sang at_ ratcliff cross. mol. _i believe we have it at home over our kitchin mantle-tree._] in this fair monument which you see, adorn'd with so many pillars; doth lie the countess of _buckingham_, and her husband, sir _george villers_. this old sir _george_ was grandfather, and the countess she was granny; to the great duke of _buckingham_, who often topt king _jammy_. sir _robert eatam_, a _scotch_ knight, this man was secretary; and scribl'd compliments for two queens, queen _ann_, and eke queen _mary_. this was the countess of _lenox_, yclep'd the lady _marget_: king _james's_ grandmother, and yet 'gainst death she had no target. this was queen _mary_, queen of _scots_, whom _buchanan_ doth bespatter; she lost her head at _tottingham_, what ever was the matter. [sidenote: dol. _how came she here then?_ will. _why ye silly oafe could not she be brought here, after she was dead?_] the mother of our seventh _henry_, this is that lyeth hard by; she was the countess wot ye well, of _richmond_ and of _derby_. _henry_ the seventh lieth here, with his fair queen beside him, he was the founder of this chapel, oh! may no ill betide him. therefore his monument's in brass, you'll say that very much is; the duke of _richmond_ and _lenox_, there lieth with his dutchess. [sidenote: rog. _i warrant ye these were no small fools in those days._] and here they stand upright in a press with bodies made of wax; with a globe and a wand in either hand, and their robes upon their backs. here lies the duke of _buckingham_, and the dutchess his wife; him _felton_ stabb'd at _portsmouth_ town, and so he lost his life. two children of king _james_ these are, whom death keeps very chary; _sophia_ in the cradle lies, and this is the lady _mary_. [sidenote: bess. _good woman pray still your child, it keeps such a bawling, we can't hear what the man says._] and this is queen _elizabeth_, how the _spaniards_ did infest her? here she lies buried, with queen _mary_, and now agrees with her sister. to another chapel now we come, the people follow and chat; this is the lady _cottington_, and the people cry, who's that? this is the lady _frances sidney_, the countess of _suffolk_ was she; and this the lord _dudley carleton_ is, and then they look up and see. sir _thomas brumley_ lieth here, death would him not reprieve; with his four sons, and daughters four, that once were all alive. the next is sir _john fullerton_, and this is his lady i trow; and this is sir _john puckering_, whom none of you did know. that's the earl of _bridgwater_ in the middle, who makes no use of his bladder; although his lady lie so near him, and so we go up a ladder. [sidenote: kate. _he took more pains, than i would ha done for a hundred such._] _edward_ the first, that gallant blade, lies underneath this stone; and this is the chair which he did bring, a good while ago from _scone_. in this same chair, till now of late, our kings and queens were crown'd; under this chair another stone doth lie upon the ground. [sidenote: ralf. _gad i warrant there has been many a maiden-head got in that chair._ tom. _gad and i'll come hither and try one of these days, an't be but to get a prince._ dol. _a_ papist _i warrant him._] on that same stone did _jacob_ sleep, instead of a down pillow; and after that 'twas hither brought, by some good honest fellow. _richard_ the second lieth here, and his first queen, queen _ann_; _edward_ the third lies here hard by, oh! there was a gallant man. for this was his two handed sword, a blade both true and trusty; the _french_ men's blood was ne'er wip'd off, which makes it look so rusty. here he lies again, with his queen _philip_, a _dutch_ woman by record, but that's all one, for now alass! his blade's not so long as his sword. king _edward_ the confessor lies within this monument fine; i'm sure, quoth one, a worser tomb must serve both me and mine. _harry_ the fifth lies there, and there doth lie queen _eleanor_; to our first _edward_ she was wife, which was more than ye knew before. _henry_ the third lies there entomb'd, he was herb _john_ in pottage; little he did, but still reign'd on, although his sons were at age. fifty six years he reigned king, e'er he the crown would lay by; only we praise him, 'cause he was last builder of the _abby_. here _thomas cecil_ lies, who's that? why 'tis the earl of _exeter_; and this his countess is, to die how it perplexed her. [sidenote: dol. _ay, ay, i warrant her, rich folks are as unwilling to die as poor folks._] here _henry cary_, lord _hunsdon_ rests, what a noise he makes with his name? lord chamberlain was he unto queen _elizabeth_ of great fame. [sidenote: sisly. _that's he for whom our bells ring so often, is it not_ mary? mol. _ay, ay, the very same._] and here's one _william colchester_ lies of a certainty; an abbot was he of _westminster_, and he that saith no, doth lie. this is the bishop of _durham_, by death here lay'd in fetters; _henry_ the seventh lov'd him well, and so he wrote his letters. sir _thomas bacchus_, what of him? poor gentleman not a word; only they buried him here; but now behold that man with a sword. _humphry de bohun_, who though he were not born with me i'the same town; yet i can tell he was earl of _essex_, of _hertford_, and _northampton_. he was high constable of _england_, as history well expresses; but now pretty maids be of good chear, we're going up to the presses. and now the presses open stand, and ye see them all arow; but never no more are said of these then what is said below. now down the stairs come we again, the man goes first with a staff; some two or three tumble down the stairs, and then the people laugh. this is the great sir _francis vere_, that so the _spaniards_ curry'd; four colonels support his tomb, and here his body's buried. that _statue_ against the _wall_ with one eye, is major general _norris_; he beat the _spaniards_ cruelly, as is affirm'd in stories. [sidenote: dick. _i warrant ye he had two, if he could have but kep'd 'em._] his six sons there hard by him stand, each one was a commander; to shew he could a lady serve, as well as the _hollander_. and there doth sir _john hollis_ rest, who was the major general; to sir _john norris_, that brave blade, and so they go to dinner all. for now the shew is at an end, all things are done and said; the citizen pays for his wife, the prentice for the maid. _a_ song _sung by mrs._ campion, _in the comedy call'd_, she wou'd and she wou'd not. _by mr._ john weldon. [music] _cælia_ my heart has often rang'd, like bees o'er gaudy flowers; and many thousand loves have chang'd, 'till it was fix'd, 'till it was fix'd on yours; but _cælia_ when i saw those eyes, 'twas soon, 'twas soon determin'd there; stars might as well forsake the skies, and vanish into air: stars might as well forsake the skies, and vanish into air. now if from the great rules i err, new beauties, new beauties to admire; may i again, again turn wanderer, and never, never, never, never, never, no, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, settle more: may i again, again turn wanderer, and never, never, never, never, never, no, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, settle more. _a_ song _made for the entertainment of her royal highness. set by mr._ leveridge. _sung by mrs._ lindsey _in_ caligula. [music] tho' over all mankind, besides my conquering beauty, conquering beauty, my conquering beauty reigns; my conquering beauty reigns; from him i love, from him i love when i meet disdain, a killing damp, a killing damp comes o'er my pride: i'm fair and young, i'm fair and young, i'm fair and young in vain: i'm fair and young, i'm fair and young, i'm fair and young in vain; no, no, no, let him wander where he will, let him wander, let him wander, let him wander, let him wander where he will, i shall have youth and beauty, youth and beauty, youth and beauty, i shall have youth and beauty, youth and beauty still; i shall have beauty that can charm a _jove_, can charm a _jove_, and no fault, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no fault, no, no, no fault, but constant love: from my arms then let him fly, fly, fly, from my arms then let him fly; shall i languish, pine, and dye? no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no not i. _a_ song _in the fair_ penitent. _set by mr._ eccles. _sung by mrs._ hudson. [music] stay, ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly? ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly? whither, whither wou'd you fly? too charming, too charming, too relentless maid, i follow not to conquer, not to conquer, i follow not to conquer, but to dye: you of the fearful, of the fearful are afraid, ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly? whither, whither, whither, whither, ah whither wou'd you fly? in vain, in vain i call, in vain, in vain i call, while she like fleeting, fleeting air; when press'd by some tempestuous wind, flys swifter from the voice of my despair: nor cast a pitying, pitying, pitying, pitying look behind, no not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying look, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind, no not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind, no not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind. _a new_ song. _the words by mr._ tho. wall. _set to musick by mr._ henry eccles, _junior._ [music] no more let _damon's_ eyes pursue, no more let _damon's_ eyes pursue, the bright enchanting fair; _almira_ thousands, thousands, thousands can undo, and thousands more, and thousands more, and thousands more may still despair, and thousands more may still despair. for oh her bright alluring eyes, and graces all admire; for her the wounded lover dies, and ev'ry breast, and ev'ry heart, and ev'ry breast is set on fire. then oh poor _damon_, see thy fate, but never more complain; for all a thousand hearts will stake, and all may sigh, and all may die, and all may sigh and die in vain. _the_ dear joy's _lamentation._ [music] ho my dear joy, now what dost thou think? hoop by my shoul our country-men stink; to _ireland_ they can never return, the hereticks there our houses will burn: _ah hone, ah hone, ah hone a cree._ a pox on _t----l_ for a son of a w----, he was the cause of our coming o'er; and when to _dublin_ we came to put on our coats, he told us his business was cutting of throats. _ah hone_, &c. our devil has left us now in the lurch, a plague light upon the _protestant_ c---- if _p----s_ had let but the bishops alone, o then the nation had all been our own. _ah hone_, &c. and i wish other measures had been taken, for now i fear we shan't save our bacon; now _orange_ to _london_ is coming down-right, and the soldiers against him resolve not to fight _ah hone_, &c. what we shall do, the lord himself knows, our army is beaten without any blows; our m----r begins to feel some remorse, for the grey mare has proved the better horse. _ah hone_, &c. if the _french_ do but come, which is all our hopes, we'll bundle the hereticks all up with ropes; if _london_ stands to us as _bristol_ has done, we need not fear but _orange_ must run. _ah hone_, &c. but if they prove false, and to _orange_ they scower, by g---- all the m---- shall play from the _tower_; our massacree fresh in their memories grown, the devil tauk me, we all shall go down. _a hone, a hone, a hone a cree._ _the character of a_ seat's-man; _written by one of the_ craft: _to be sung on_ crispin-night. _tune_ packington's pound. [music] i am one in whom nature has fix'd a decree, ordaining my life to happy and free; with no cares of the world i am never perplex'd, and never depending, i never am vex'd: i'm neither of so high nor so low a degree, but ambition and want are both strangers to me; my life is a compound of freedom and ease, i go where i will, and i work when i please: i live above envy, and yet above spight, and have judgment enough for to do my self right; some greater and richer i own there may be, yet as many live worse, as live better than me, and few that from cares live so quiet and free. when money comes in i live well 'till it's gone, so with it i'm happy, content when i've none: i spend it genteelly, and never repent, if i lose it at play, why i count it but lent: for that which at one time i lose among friends, another night's winnings still makes me amends: and though i'm without the first day of the week, i still make it out by shift or by tick: in mirth at my work the swift hours do pass, and by _saturday_ night, i'm as rich as i was. then let masters drudge on, and be slaves to their trade, let their hours of pleasure by business be stay'd; let them venture their stocks to be ruin'd by trust, let clickers bark on the whole day at their post: let 'em tire all that pass with their rotified cant, "will you buy any shoes, pray see what you want"; let the rest of the world still contend to be great, let some by their losses repine at their fate: let others that thrive, not content with their store, be plagu'd with the trouble and thoughts to get more. let wise men invent, 'till the world be deceived, let fools thrive thro' fortune, and knaves be believed; let such as are rich know no want, but content, let others be plagu'd to pay taxes and rent: with more freedom and pleasure my time i'll employ, and covet no blessings but what we enjoy. then let's celebrate _crispin_ with bumpers and songs, and they that drink foul, may it blister their tongues, here's two in a hand, and let no one deny 'em, since _crispin_ in youth was a _seat's-man_ as i am. _the female scuffle. to the foregoing tune._ of late in the park a fair fancy was seen, betwixt an old _baud_ and a lusty young _quean_; their parting of money began the uproar, i'll have half says the _baud_, but you shan't says the _whore_: why 'tis my own house, i care not a louse, i'll ha' three parts in four, or you get not a souse. 'tis i, says the _whore_, must take all the pains, and you shall be damn'd e'er you get all the gains; the _baud_ being vex'd, straight to her did say, come off wi' your _duds_, and i pray pack away, and likewise your _ribbonds_, your _gloves_, and your _hair_, for naked you came, and so out you go bare; then _buttocks_ so bold, began for to scold, _hurrydan_ was not able her _clack_ for to hold. both _pell-mell_ fell to't, and made this uproar, with these compliments, th'art a _baud_, th'art a _whore_: the _bauds_ and the _buttocks_ that liv'd there around, came all to the case, both _pockey_ and _sound_, to see what the reason was of this same fray, that did so disturb them before it was day; if i tell you amiss, let me never more piss, this _buttocks_ so bold she named was _siss_. by _quiffing_ with _cullies_ three pound she had got, and but one part of four must fall to her lot; yet all the _bauds_ cry'd, let us turn her out bare, unless she will yield to return her half share; if she will not, we'll help to strip off her cloaths, and turn her abroad with a slit o' the nose: who when she did see, there was no remedy, for her from the tyranous _bauds_ to get free; the _whore_ from the money was forced to yield, and in the conclusion the _baud_ got the field. _an elegy on_ mountfort. _to the foregoing tune._ poor _mountfort_ is gone, and the ladies do all break their hearts for this beau, as they did for _duvall_; and they the two brats for this tragedy damn at _kensington_ court, and the court of _bantam_, they all vow and swear, that if any peer, should acquit this young lord, he shou'd pay very dear; nor will they be pleased with him who on the throne is, if he do's not his part to revenge their _adonis_. with the widow their amorous bowels do yearn, there are divers pretend to an equal concern; and by her perswasion their hearts they reveal, in case if not guilty, to bring an appeal: they all will unite, the young blade to indite, and in prosecution will joyn day and night; in the mean time full many a tear and a groan is, wherever they meet, for their departed _adonis_. with the ladies foul murther's a horrible sin of one handsome without, tho' a coxcomb within; for not being a beau, the sad fate of poor _crab_, tho' himself hang'd for love, was a jest to each drab; then may _jering_ live long, and may _risby_ among the fair with _jack barkley_, and _culpepper_ throng: may no ruffin whose heart as hard as a stone is, kill any of those for a brother _adonis_. no lady henceforth can be safe with her beau, they think if this slaughter unpunish'd should go; their gallants, for whose persons they most are in pain, must no sooner be envy'd, but strait must be slain: for all _b----_ shape, none car'd for the rape, nor whether the virtuous their lust did escape; their trouble of mind, and their anguish alone is, for the too sudden fate of departed _adonis_. let not every vain spark think that he can engage, the heart of a female, like one on the stage; his flute, and his voice, and his dancing are rare, and wherever they meet, they prevail with the fair: but no quality fop, charms like mr. _hop_, adorn'd on the stage, and in _east-india_ shop; so that each from _miss felton_, to ancient _drake joan_ is, bemoaning the death of the player _adonis_. yet _adonis_ in spight of this new abjuration, did banter the lawful king of this great nation: who call'd god's anointed a foolish old prig, was both a base and unmannerly _whigg_: but since he is dead no more shall be said, for he in repentance has laid down his head; so i wish each lady, who in mournful tone is, in charity grieve for the death of _adonis_. _a_ song. _set by mr._ james townshend, _organist of_ lyn riges. _the words by_ j.r. [music] fly _damon_ fly, 'tis death to stay, nor listen to the _syren's_ song; nor hear her warbling fingers play, that kills in consort with her tongue: oft to despairing shepherds verse, unmov'd she tunes the trembling strings; oft does some pitying words rehearse, but little means the thing she sings. cease on her lovely looks to gaze, nor court your ruin in her eyes; her looks too 's dangerous as her face, at once engages and destroys: speak not if you'd avoid your fate, for then she darts resentment home; but fly, fly _damon_ e'er too late, or else be deaf, be blind, be dumb. mercury _to_ paris, _in the prize musick, compos'd by mr._ john eccles. [music] fear not mortal, none shall harm thee, with this sacred rod i'll charm thee; freely gaze, and view all over, thou mayst every grace discover: though a thousand darts fly round thee, fear not mortal, none can wound thee; _though a thousand darts fly round thee,_ _fear not mortal, none can wound thee._ _a_ song. _set by mr._ w. morley. [music] born to surprize the world, born to surprize the world, and teach the great, the slippery danger of exalted state; victorious _marlborough_, victorious _marlborough_, to battle flies, arm'd, arm'd with new lightning from bright _anna's_ eyes: wonders, wonders like these no former age has seen, the subjects heroes, the subjects heroes, and a saint the queen. _a_ song. _set by mr._ j. isum. [music] in vain, in vain, in vain, in vain, in vain, in vain the god i ask, he'll ne'er remove the dart; and still i love the pretty, pretty boy, altho', altho' he wound my heart: henceforth i'll be contented then, no more will i desire; no, no, no more, no, no, no more will i desire, to slight her whom i love so much, that but creates the fire: well might i expect the fate, as well as any other; since he ne'er spares the gods themselves, nor does he spare his mother. _an amorous_ song. _to the tune of_, the bonny christ-church bells. [music] see how fair and fine she lies, upon her bridal bed; no lady at the court, so fit for the sport, oh she look'd so curiously white and red: after the first and second time, the weary bridegroom slacks his pace; but oh! she cries, come, come my joy, and cling thy cheek close to my face: tinkle, tinkle, goes the bell under the bed, whilst time and touch they keep; then with a kiss, they end their bliss, and so fall fast asleep. _a_ song. _set by mr._ j. isum. [music] _corinna_ if my fate's to love you, _corinna_ if my fate's to love you, where's the harm in saying so? _corinna_ if my fate's to love you, where's the harm in saying so? why shou'd my sighs, why shou'd my sighs, why shou'd my sighs and fondness move you? to encrease, to encrease your shepherd's woe: flame pent in still burns and scorches, 'till it burns a lover's heart: love declar'd like lighted torches, wastes it self and gives less pain: love declar'd like lighted torches, wastes it self, wastes it self, wastes it self, and gives less smart. _a_ song. _set by mr._ john isum. [music] _cælia's_ charms are past expressing, were she kind as she is fair; _cælia's_ charms are past expressing, were she kind as she is fair: heav'ns cou'd grant no greater blessing, nor earth a nymph more worth our care; heav'ns cou'd grant no greater blessing, nor earth a nymph, nor earth a nymph more worth our care. but unkindness, unkindness mars her beauty, and useless makes that heav'nly, that heav'nly, that heav'nly frame; but unkindness mars her beauty, and useless makes that heav'nly, heav'nly frame: while she mistakes and calls that duty, which ill nature others name: while she mistakes and calls that duty, which ill nature others name. _the hopeful bargain: or a fare for a hackney-coachman, giving a comical relation, how an_ ale-draper _at the sign of the_ double-tooth'd rake _in or near the new_ palace-yard, westminster, _sold his wife for a shilling, and how she was sold a second time for five shillings to_ judge; _my lord ---- coachman, and how her husband receiv'd her again after she had lain with other folks three days and nights_, &c. _the tune_ lilly bullero. [music] there lives an ale-draper near _new-palace-yard_, who used to jerk the bum of his wife; and she was forced to stand on her guard, to keep his clutches from her quoiff: she poor soul the weaker vessel, to be reconcil'd was easily won; he held her in scorn, but she crown'd him with horn, _without hood or scarff, and rough as she run._ he for a shilling sold his spouse, and she was very willing to go; and left the poor cuckold alone in the house, that he by himself his horn might blow: a hackney coachman he did buy her, and was not this a very good fun; with a dirty pinner, as i am a sinner, _without hood or scarff, but rough as she run._ the woman gladly did depart, between three men was handed away; he for her husband did care not a fart, he kept her one whole night and day: then honest _judge_ the coachman bought her, and was not this most cunningly done? gave for her five shilling, to take her was willing, _without hood or scarff_, &c. the cuckold to _judge_, a letter did send, wherein he did most humbly crave; quoth he, i prithee, my rival friend, my spouse again i fain would have: and if you will but let me have her, i'll pardon what she e'er has done; i swear by my maker, again i will take her, _without hood and scarff_, &c. he sent an old baud to interceed, and to perswade her to come back; that he might have one of her delicate breed, and he would give her a ha'p'uth of sack: therefore prithee now come to me, or else poor i shall be undone: then do not forgo me, but prithee come to me, _without hood or scarff, tho' rough_, &c. the coachman then with much ado, did suffer the baud to take her out; upon the condition that she would be true, and let him have now and then a bout: but he took from her forty shillings, and gave her a parting glass at the _sun_; and then with good buyt' ye, discharged his duty, _and turn'd her a grazing, rough as she run._ the cuckold invited the coachman to dine, and gave him a treat at his own expence; they drown'd all cares in full brimmers of wine, he made him as welcome as any prince: there was all the hungregation, which from _cuckolds-point_ was come; they kissed and fumbled, they touzed and tumbled, _he was glad to take her rough as she run._ _judge_ does enjoy her where he list, he values not the old cuckold's pouts; and she is as good for the game as e'er pist, fudge on his horns sits drying of clouts: she rants and revels when she pleases, and to end as i begun, the horned wise-acre, is forced to take her _without hood or scarff, and rough as she run._ _the_ maiden lottery: _containing thousand tickets, at a guinea each; the prizes being rich and loving husbands, from three thousand to one hundred a year, which lottery will begin to draw on next_ valentine's _day._ _then pretty lasses venture now,_ _kind_ fortune _may her smiles alow._ [music] young ladies that live in the city, sweet beautiful proper and tall; and country maids who dabling wades, here's happy good news for you all: a lottery now out of hand, erected will be in the _strand_; young husbands with treasure, and wealth out of measure will fairly be at your command: _of her that shall light of a fortunate lot,_ _there's six of three thousand a year to be got._ i tell you the price of each ticket, it is but a guinea, i'll vow; then hasten away, and make no delay, and fill up the lottery now: if _gillian_ that lodges in straw, shall have the good fortune to draw a knight or a 'squire, he'll never deny her, 'tis fair and according to law; _then come pretty lasses and purchase a lot,_ _there's ten of two thousand a year to be got._ the number is seventy thousand, when all the whole lot is compleat; five hundred of which, are prizes most rich, believe me for this is no cheat: there's drapers and taylors likewise, brave men that you cannot despise; come _bridget_ and _jenny_, and throw in your guinea, a husband's a delicate prize: _then come pretty lasses and purchase a lot,_ _there's ten of one thousand a year to be got._ suppose you should win for your guinea, a man of three thousand a year; would this not be brave; what more would you have? you soon might in glory appear: in glittering coach you may ride, with lackeys to run by your side; for why should you spare it? faith win gold and wear it; now who would not be such a bride? _then come pretty lasses and purchase a lot,_ _there's sixty, five hundreds a year to be got._ old widows, and maids above forty, shall not be admitted to draw: there's five hundred and ten, as proper young men, indeed, as your eyes ever saw: who scorns for one guinea of gold, to lodge with a woman that's old; young maids are admitted, in hopes to be fitted, with husbands couragious and bold: _then come pretty lasses and purchase a lot,_ _there are wealthy kind husbands now, now to be got._ kind men that are full of good nature, the flaxen, the black, and the brown; both lusty and stout, and fit to hold out, the prime and the top of the town: so clever in every part, they'll please a young girl to the heart; nay, kiss you, and squeese you, and tenderly please you, for love has a conquering dart: _then come pretty lasses and purchase a lot,_ _there are wealthy kind husbands now, now to be got._ then never be fearful to venture, but girls bring you guineas away; come merrily in, for we shall begin, to draw upon _valentine's_ day: the prizes are many and great, each man with a worthy estate; then come away _mary_, _sib_, _susan_, and _sarah_, _joan_, _nancy_, and pretty fac'd _kate_: _for now is the time if you'll purchase a lot,_ _while wealthy kind husbands they are to be got._ amongst you i know there is many, will miss of a capital prize: yet nevertheless, no sorrows express, but dry up your watry eyes: young lasses it is but in vain, in sorrowful sighs to complain; then ne'er be faint hearted, tho' luck be departed, for all cannot reckon to gain: _yet venture young lasses, your guineas bring in,_ _the lucky will have the good fortune to win._ _a_ song _on the_ jubilee. [music] come beaus, virtuoso's, rich heirs and musicians away, and in troops to the _jubile_ jog; leave discord and death, to the college physicians, let the vig'rous whore on, and the impotent flog: already _rome_ opens her arms to receive ye, and ev'ry transgression her lord will forgive ye. indulgences, pardons, and such holy lumber, as cheap there is now as our cabbages grown; while musty old relicks of saints without number, for barely the looking upon, shall be shown: these, were you an atheist, must needs overcome ye, that first were made martyrs, and afterwards mummy. they'll shew ye the river, so sung by the poets, with the rock from whence, mortals were knockt o'th' head; they'll shew ye the place too, as some will avow it, where once a she pope was brought fairly to bed: for which, ever since, to prevent interloping, in a chair her successors still suffer a groping. what a sight 'tis to see the gay idol accoutred, with mitre and cap, and two keys by his side; be his inside what 'twill, yet the pomp of his outward, shows _servus servorum_, no hater of pride, these keys into heav'n will as surely admit ye, as clerks of a parish to a pew in the city. what a sight 'tis to see the old man in procession, through _rome_ in such pomp as here _cæsar_ did ride, now scattering of pardons, here crossing, there blessing, with all his shav'd spiritual train'd-bans by his side; as, _confessors_, _cardinals_, _monks_ fat as bacons, from rev'rend _arch-bishops_, to rosie _arch-deacons_. then for your diversion the more to regale ye, fine music you'll hear, and high dancing you'll see; men who much shall out-warble your famous _fideli_, and make ye meer fools, of _balloon_ and _l'abbe_: and to shew ye how fond they're to kiss _vostre manos_, each _padre_ turns pimp, all _nuns_ courtezana's. and when you've some months at old _babylon_ been-_a_, and on pardons, and punks, all your _rhino_ is spent; and when you have seen all, that there is to be seen-_a_, you'll return not so rich, tho' as wise as you went: and 'twill be but small comfort after so much expence-_a_, that your heirs will do just so an hundred years hence-_a_. _a young man's_ will. [music] a _young man_ sick and like to die, his last _will_ being written found; i give my _soul_ to _god_ on high, and my _body_ to the ground: unto some _church-men_ do i give, base minds to greedy lucre bent; _pride_ and _ambition_ whilst they live, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. _item._ poor folks _brown bread_ i give, and eke _bare bones_, with hungry cheeks; _toil_ and _travel_ whilst they live, and to feed on _roots_ and _leeks_: _item._ to rich men i bestow, high _looks_, low _deeds_, and hearts of flint; and that themselves they seldom know, _by this_, &c. proud stately _courtiers_ do i _will_, two faces in one head to wear, for great men _bribes_, i think most fit, _pride_ and _oppression_ through the year: _tenants_ i give them leave to lose, and _landlords_ for to raise their _rent_; _rogues_ to fawn, collogue and glose, _by this_, &c. _item._ to _soldiers_ for their _fees_, i give them _wounds_ their bodies full; and for to beg on bended knees, with cap in hand to every _gull_: _item_. i will poor _scholars_ have, for all their pains and travel spent: _raggs_, _jaggs_, and _taunts_ of every knave, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. to _shoemakers_ i grant this boon, which _mercury_ gave them once before; altho' they earn two pence by noon, to spend e'er night two groats and more: and _blacksmiths_ when the work is done, i give to them incontinent, to drink two barrels with a bun, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. to _weavers_ swift, this do i leave, against that may beseem them well: that they their good wives do deceive, bring home a yard and steal an ell: and _taylors_ too must be set down, a _gift_ to give them i am bent; to cut four sleeves to every gown, _by this_, &c. to tavern haunters grant i more, red eyes, red nose, and stinking breath; and doublets foul with drops before, and foul shame until their _death_: and _gamesters_ that will never leave, before their substance be all spent; the wooden _dagger_ i bequeath, _by this_, &c. to common fidlers i _will_ that they, shall go in poor and thread-bare coats; and at most places where they play, to carry away more _tunes_ than _groats_: to wand'ring _players_ i do give, before their _substance_ be all spent; proud silk'n _beggars_ for to live, _by this_, &c. to _wenching_ smell-smocks give i these, dead looks, gaunt purrs, and crasy back; and now and then the foul _disease_, such as _gill_ gave to _jack_; to _parretors_ i give them clear, for all their _toil_ and _travel_ spent; the _devil_ away such _knaves_ to bear, by _this my_ will _and_ testament. i _will_ that _cutpurses_ haunt all _fairs_, and thrust among the thickest throng; that neither _purse_ nor _pocket_ spare, but what they get to bear along: but if they falter in their trade, and so betray their bad intent; i give them _tyburn_ for their share, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. to serving men i give this gift, that when their strength is once decay'd; the master of such men do shift, as horsemen do a toothless _jade_: _item._ i give them leave to _pine_, for all their service so ill spent: and with _duke humphry_ for to dine, _by this_, &c. _item._ to _millers_ i grant withal, that they spare, nor poke, nor sack; but with _grist_, so e'er befal, they grind a strike, and steal a peck: i _will_ that _butchers_ huff their meat, and sell a lump of _ramish_ scent; for weather mutton good and sweet, _by this_, &c. i _will_ ale wives punish their guests, with hungry cakes and little canns; and barm their drink with new found _yeest_, such as is made of _pispot_ grounds: and she that meaneth for to gain, and in her house have money spent, i _will_ she keep a pretty punck, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. to jealous husbands i do grant, lack of pleasure, want of sleep; that lanthorn horns they never want, tho' ne'er so close their wives they keep: and for their wives, i _will_ that they, the closer up that they are pent; the closer still they seek to play, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. for swearing _swaggerers_ nought is left, to give them for a parting blow; but leaving off of damned oaths, and that of them i will bestow: _item._ i give them for their pain, that when all hope and livelihood's spent, a wallet or a hempen chain, _by this_ &c. time and longest livers do i make, the supervisor of my _will_: my gold and silver let them take, that will dig for't in _malvein_ hill. _a new_ song, _sung at the playhouse. by mr._ dogget. [music] in the devil's country there lately did dwell, a crew of such whores as was ne'er bred in hell, the devil himself he knows it full well, _which no body can deny, deny;_ _which no body can deny._ there were six of the gang, and all of a bud, which open'd as soon as got into the blood, there are five to be hang'd, when the other proves good, _which no body_, &c. but it seems they have hitherto sav'd all their lives, since they cou'd not live honest, there's four made wives, the other two they are not marry'd but sw----s, _which no body_, &c. the eldest the matron of t'other five imps, though as chast as _diana_, or any o'th' nymphs, yet rather than daughter shall want it, she pimps, _which no body_, &c. damn'd proud and ambitious both old and the young, and not fit for honest men to come among, a damn'd itch in their tail, and a sting in their tongue, _sing tantara rara whores all, whores all,_ _sing tantara rara whores all._ _a_ song. [music] marriage it seems is for better for worse, some count it a blessing and others a curse; the cuckolds are blest if the proverb prove true, and then there's no doubt but in heav'n there's enough: of honest rich rogues who ne'er had got there, if their wives had not sent them thro' trembling and fear. some women are honest, tho' rare in a wife, yet with scolding and brawling they'll shorten your life, you ne'er can enjoy your bottle and friend; but your wife like an imp, is at your elbow's end: crying fie, fie you sot, come, come, come, come, so these are unhappy abroad and at home. we find the batchelor liveth best, tho' drunk or sober he takes his rest; he never is troubl'd with scolding or strife, 'tis the best can be said of a very good wife: but merrily day and night does spend, enjoying his mistress, bottle, and friend. a woman out-wits us, do what we can, she'll make a fool of ev'ry wise man; old mother _eve_ did the _serpent_ obey, and has taught all her sex that damnable way: of cheating and couzening all mankind, 'twere better if _adam_ had still been blind. the poor man that marries he thinks he does well, i pity's condition, for sure he's in hell; the fool is a sotting and spends all he gets, the child is a bawling, the wife daily frets: that marriage is pleasant we all must agree, consider it well, there's none happier can be. _a_ song. [music] the _caffalier_ was gone, and the _roundhead_ he was come, was the greatest blessing under the sun; before the devil in hell sally'd out, and ript the placket of letter, ay, and take her money too, _cot bless hur master_ roundhead, _and send hur well to do._ now hur can go to _shrewsperry_ her flannel for to sell, hur can carry a creat sharge of money about hur, thirty or forty groats lap'd in a _welsh_ carter, ay, and think hur self rich too, _cot bless_, &c. now hur can coe to shurch, or hur can stay at home, hur can say hur _lord's prayer_, or hur can let it alone: hur can make a prayer of hur own head, lye with hur holy sister, ay, and say a long crace too, _cot bless_, &c. but yet for all the great cood that you for hur have done, would you wou'd made peace with our king, and let hur come home, put off the military charge, impost, and excise, ay, and free quarter too. _then cot shall bless you master_ roundhead, _and send hur well to do._ _a_ song _sung by mrs._ cross. _set by mr._ jeremiah clark. [music] divine _astrea_ hither flew, to _cynthia's_ brighter throne; she left the iron world below, to bless the silver moon: _she left the iron world below,_ _to bless the silver moon._ tho' _phoebus_ with his hotter beams, do's gold in earth create; that leads those wretches to extreams, of av'rice, lust, and hate. _a_ song _in the_ surpriz'd lovers. _set by mr._ john eccles, _sung by mr._ bowman. [music] when first i saw her charming face, her taking shape and moving grace; my rosie cheeks, my rosie cheeks did glow with heat, my heart and my pulse did beat, beat, beat, my heart and my pulse did beat; i wish'd for a, i wish'd for a, do you, do you guess what, do you guess what makes soldiers fight, soldiers fight, and states-men plot. subdues us all in every thing, and makes, makes a subject of a king; still she deny'd, and i reply'd, away she flew, i did pursue, at last i catch'd her fast; but oh! had you seen, but oh! had you seen, had you seen what had past between; oh! i fear, i fear, oh! i fear, i fear, oh! i fear, i fear, i fear, i have spoil'd her wast. _a_ song. _set by mr._ akeroyd. [music] the _devil_ he pull'd of his jacket of flame, the _fryer_ he pull'd off his cowle; the _devil_ took him for a dunce of the game, and the _fryer_ took him for a fool: he piqu'd, and repiqu'd so oft, that at last, he swore by the jolly fat _nuns_; if cards came no better than those that are past, oh! oh! i shall lose all my _buns_. _a new_ song. _translated from the_ french. [music] pretty parret say, when i was away, and in dull absence pass'd the day; what at home was doing; with chat and play, we are gay, night and day, good chear and mirth renewing; _singing, laughing all, singing laughing all, like pretty pretty_ poll. was no fop so rude, boldly to intrude, and like a sawcy lover wou'd, court, and teaze my lady: 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, prattl'd, laugh'd, and flutter'd: _well receiv'd in all, like pretty, pretty_ poll. did he go away, at the close of the day, or did he ever use to stay in a corner dodging; the want of light, when 'twas night, spoil'd my sight, but i believe his lodging, _was within her call, like pretty, pretty_ poll. _a_ song _by a person of honour. set by mr._ john weldon. [music] at noon in a sultry summer's day, the brightest lady of the _may_, young _chloris_ innocent and gay, sat knotting in a shade: each slender finger play'd its part, with such activity and art; as wou'd inflame a youthful heart, and warm the most decay'd. her fav'rite swain by chance came by; she had him quickly in her eye, yet when the bashful boy drew nigh, she wou'd have seem'd afraid, she let her iv'ry needle fall, and hurl'd away the twisted ball; then gave her _strephon_ such a call, as wou'd have wak'd the dead. dear gentle youth is't none but thee? with innocence i dare be free; by so much trust and modesty, no nymph was e'er betray'd, come lean thy head upon my lap, while thy soft cheeks i stroak and clap; thou may'st securely take a nap, which he poor fool, obey'd. she saw him yawn, and heard him snore, and found him fast a sleep all o're; she sigh'd ---- and cou'd no more, but starting up she said, such vertue shou'd rewarded be, for this thy dull fidelity; i'll trust thee with my flocks, not me, pursue thy grazing trade. go milk thy goats, and sheer thy sheep, and watch all night thy flocks, to keep; thou shalt no more be lull'd asleep, by me mistaken maid. _a_ song. _set by mr._ jeremy clark. [music] while the lover is thinking, with my friend i'll be drinking and with vigour pursue my delight; while the fool is designing, his fatal confining, with _bacchus_ i'll spend the whole night: with the god i'll be jolly, without madness or folly. fickle woman to marry implore, leave my bottle and friend, for so foolish an end, when i do, may i never drink more. _a health to the_ tackers. [music] here's a health to the tackers, my boys, but mine a----se for the tackers about; may the brave _english_ spirits come in, and the knaves and _fanaticks_ turn out: since the _magpyes_ of late, are confounding the state, and wou'd pull our establishments down; let us make 'em a jest, for they shit in their nest, and be true to the church and the crown. let us chuse such parliament men as have stuck to their principles tight; and wou'd not their country betray in the story of _ashby_ and _white_: who care not a t----d, for a _whig_, or a lord, that won't see our accounts fairly stated; for _c----ll_ ne'er fears, the address of those peers, who the nation of millions have cheated. the next thing adviseable is, since _schism_ so strangely abounds; to oppose e'ery man that's set up by _dissenters_, in corporate towns: for _high-church_, and _low-church_, has brought us to no _church_, and conscience so bubbl'd the nation; for who is not still for conformity bill, will be surely a r---- on occasion. _a_ song. _set by mr._ anthony young. [music] since _cælia_ only has the art, and only she can captivate, and wanton in my breast; all other pleasure i despise, than what are from my _cælia's_ eyes, in her alone i'm blest. whene'er she smiles, new life she gives, and happy, happy who receives, from her inchanting breath; then prithee _cælia_ smile once more, since i no longer must adore, for when you frown 'tis death. _a_ song. [music] ah! how lovely sweet and dear, is the kind relenting fair, who reprieve us in despair; oh! that thus my nymph wou'd say, come, come my dear thy cares repay, be blest my love, be mine to day: _come, come my dear, thy cares repay,_ _be blest my love, be mine to day._ _a_ song. _sung by mrs._ bracegirdle. [music] advance, advance, advance gay tenants of the plain, advance, advance, advance, gay tenants of the plain, loud eccho spread my voice, loud eccho spread my voice, loud eccho, loud eccho, loud eccho, loud eccho, loud eccho, spread my voice, advance, advance, advance, gay tenants of the plain, advance, advance, advance, gay tenants of the plain. _the_ king _and the shepherd, and_ gillian _the shepherd's wife, with her churlish answer to the_ king. [music] in elder time, there was of yore, when guides of churlish glee; were us'd among our country earls, though no such thing now be. the which king _alfred_ liking well, forsook his stately court; and in disguise unknown went forth, to see that jovial sport. how _dick_ and _tom_, in clouted shoon, and coats of russet grey, esteem'd themselves more brave than them, that went in golden ray. in garments fit for such a life, the good king _alfred_ went, all ragg'd and torn, as from his back the beggar his cloaths had rent. a sword and buckler good and strong, to give _jack sauce_ a rap; and on his head, instead of crown, he wore a _monmouth_ cap. thus coasting through _somersetshire_, near _newton_ court he met a shepherd swain of lusty limb, that up and down did jet. he wore a bonnet of good grey, close buttoned to his chin; and at his back a leather scrip, with much good meat therein. god speed, good shepherd, quoth the king, i come to be thy guest; to taste of thy good victuals here, and drink that's of the best. thy scrip i know, hath cheer good store, what then the shepherd said? thou seem'st to be some sturdy thief, and mak'st me sore afraid. yet if thou wilt thy dinner win, the sword and buckler take; and if thou canst into my scrip, therewith an entrance make. i tell thee, roister, it hath store of beef, and bacon fat; with sheafs of barly-bread to make thy mouth to water at. here stands my bottle, here my bag, if thou canst win them roister; against the sword and buckler here, my sheep-hook is my master. _benedicit_ now, quoth our good king, it never shall be said; that _alfred_ of the shepherd's hook, will stand a whit afraid. so soundly thus they both fell to't, and giving bang for bang; at every blow the shepherd gave, king _alfred's_ sword cry'd twang. his buckler prov'd his chiefest fence, for still the shepherd's hook; was that the which king _alfred_ could, in no good manner brook. at last when they had fought four hours, and it grew just mid-day; and wearied both, with right good will, desir'd each others stay. king, truce i cry, quoth _alfred_ then, good shepherd hold thy hand: a sturdier fellow than thy self, lives not within this land. nor a lustier roister than thou art, the churlish shepherd said, to tell thee plain, thy thievish looks, now makes my heart afraid. else sure thou art some prodigal, which hast consum'd thy store; and now com'st wand'ring in this place, to rob and steal for more. deem not of me, then quoth our king, good shepherd in this sort; a gentleman well known i am, in good king _alfred's_ court. the devil thou art, the shepherd said, thou goest in rags all torn; thou rather seem'st, i think to be, some beggar basely born. but if thou wilt mend thy estate, and here a shepherd be; at night to _gillian_ my sweet wife, thou shalt go home with me. for she's as good a toothless dame, as mumbleth on brown bread; where thou shalt lie on hurden sheets, upon a fresh straw bed. of whig and whey, we have good store, and keep good pease-straw fires; and now and then good barly cakes, as better days requires. but for my master which is chief, and lord of _newton_ court; he keeps i say, his shepherds swains, in far more braver sort. we there have curds, and clouted cream, of red cows morning milk; and now and then fine buttered cakes, as soft as any silk. of beef and reised bacon store, that is most fat and greasy; we have likewise to feast our chaps, and make them glib and easie. thus if thou wilt my man become, this usage thou shalt have; if not, adieu, go hang thy self, and so farewel sir knave. king _alfred_ hearing of this glee, the churlish shepherd said; was well content to be his man, so they a bargain made. a penny round, the shepherd gave, in earnest of this match; to keep his sheep in field and fold, as shepherds use to watch. his wages shall be full ten groats, for service of a year; yet was it not his use, old lad, to hire a man so dear. for did the king himself (quoth he) unto my cottage come; he should not for a twelvemonths pay, receive a greater sum. hereat the bonny king grew blith, to hear the clownish jest; how silly sots, as custom is, do discant at the best. but not to spoil the foolish sport, he was content good king; to fit the shepherd's humour right, in every kind of thing. a sheep-hook then, with _patch_ his dog, and tar-box by his side; he with his master, jig by jowl, unto old _gillian_ hy'd. into whose sight no sooner came, whom have you here (quoth she) a fellow i doubt, will cut our throats, so like a knave looks he. not so old dame, quoth _alfred_ strait, of me you need not fear; my master hir'd me for ten groats, to serve you one whole year. so good dame _gillian_ grant me leave, within your house to stay; for by st. _ann_, do what you can, i will not yet away. her churlish usage pleas'd him still, put him to such a proof, that he at night was almost choak'd, within that smoaky roof. but as he sat with smiling cheer, the event of all to see; his dame brought forth a piece of dow, which in the fire throws she. where lying on the hearth to bake, by chance the cake did burn; what can'st thou not, thou lout (quoth she) take pains the same to turn: thou art more quick to take it out, and eat it up half dow, than thus to stay till't be enough, and so thy manners show. but serve me such another trick, i'll thwack thee on the snout; which made the patient king, good man, of her to stand in doubt: but to be brief, to bed they went, the good old man and's wife; but never such a lodging had king _alfred_ in his life: for he was laid in white sheeps wool, new pull'd from tanned fells, and o'er his head hang'd spiders webbs, as if they had been bells. is this the country guise, thought he, then here i will not stay; but hence be gone as soon as breaks the peeping of the day. the cackling hens and geese kept roost, and perched at his side; whereat the last the watchful cock, made known the morning tide. then up got _alfred_ with his horn, and blew so long a blast, that made _gillian_ and her groom, in bed full sore agast. arise, quoth she, we are undone, this night, we lodged have, at unawares within our house, a false dissembling knave; rise husband, rise, he'll cut our throats, he calleth for his mates, i'd give old _will_ our good cade lamb, he would depart our gates. but still king _alfred_ blew his horn before them, more and more, 'till that a hundred lords and knights, all lighted at the door: which cry'd all hail, all hail good king, long have we look'd your grace; and here you find (my merry men all) your sovereign in this place. we shall surely be hang'd up both, old _gillian_ i much fear, the shepherd said, for using thus our good king _alfred_ here: o pardon, my liege, quoth _gillian_ then, for my husband and for me, by these ten bones i never thought the same that now i see: and by my hook, the shepherd said, an oath both good and true, before this time, o noble king, i never your highness knew: then pardon me and my old wife, that we may after say, when first you came into our house, it was a happy day. it shall be done, said _alfred_ streight, and _gillian_ thy old dame, for this thy churlish using me, deserveth not much blame. for this thy country guise i see, to be thus bluntish still, and where the plainest meaning is, remains the smallest ill. and master, lo i tell thee now, for thy low manhood shown, a thousand weathers i'll bestow upon thee for thy own. and pasture ground, as much as will suffice to feed them all, and this thy cottage i will change into a stately hall. as for the same, as duty binds, the shepherd said, good king, a milk white lamb once every year, i'll to your highness bring. and _gillian_ my wife likewise, of wool to make you coats, will give you as much at new year's tide, as shall be worth ten groats: and in your praise my bagpipe shall sound sweetly once a year, how _alfred_ our renowned king, most kindly hath been here. thanks shepherd, thanks, quoth he again the next time i come hither, my lords with me here in this house, will all be merry together. _a_ song. _sung by mrs._ bracegirdle. [music] cease, cease of _cupid_ to complain, love, love's a joy even while a pain; oh! then think! oh! then think; oh! then think how great his blisses, moving glances, balmy kisses, charming raptures, matchless sweets, love, love alone, love, love alone, love, love alone, all joys compleats. _a_ song. _sung by mrs._ bracegirdle. [music] come, come ye nymphs, come ye nymphs and ev'ry swain, come ye nymphs and ev'ry swain, _galatea_ leaves the main, to revive us on the plain, to revive us, to revive us, to revive us on the plain; come, come, come, come ye nymphs, come ye nymphs and ev'ry swain, come ye nymphs and ev'ry swain, _galatea_ leaves the main, to revive us on the plain, to revive us on the plain, come ye nymphs and ev'ry swain. _a_ song. _set by mr._ john barret. [music] _ianthia_ the lovely, the joy of her swain, by _iphis_ was lov'd, and lov'd _iphis_ again; she liv'd in the youth, and the youth in the fair, their pleasure was equal, and equal their care; no time, no enjoyment their dotage withdrew; but the longer they liv'd, but the longer they liv'd, still the fonder they grew. a passion so happy alarm'd all the plain, some envy'd the nymph, but more envy'd the swain; some swore 'twould be pity their loves to invade, that the lovers alone for each other was made: but all, all consented, that none ever knew, a nymph yet so kind, a nymph yet so kind, or a shepherd so true. love saw 'em with pleasure, and vow'd to take care of the faithful, the tender, the innocent pair; what either did want, he bid either to move, but they wanted nothing, but ever to love: said, 'twas all that to bless him his god-head cou'd do, that they still might be kind, that they still might be kind, and they still might be true. _a_ song. [music] bring out your coney-skins bring out your coney-skins maids to me, and hold them fair that i may see, grey, black and blue, for the smaller skins i'll give you bracelets, laces, pins, and for your whole coney here's ready money, come gentle _joan_, do thou begin with thy black coney, thy black coney-skin, and _mary_ and _joan_ will follow, with their silver-hair'd skins and yellow; the white coney-skin i will not lay by, for tho' it be faint, it is fair to the eye: the grey it is worn, but yet for my money, give me the bonny, bonny black coney; come away fair maids, your skins will decay, come and take money maids, put your wares away: ha'ye any coney-skins, ha'ye any coney-skins, ha'ye any coney-skins here to sell? _a_ song. _the words by mr._ clossold, _set by mr._ john wilford. [music] nay pish, nay pish, nay pish sir, what ails you; lord! what is't you do? i ne'er met with one so uncivil as you; you may think as you please, but if evil it be, i wou'd have you to know, you're mistaken in me. you men now so rude, and so boistrous are grown, a woman can't trust her self with you alone: i cannot but wonder what 'tis that shou'd move ye; if you do so again, i swear, i swear, i swear, i swear, i swear i won't love ye. _a_ song. _set by mr._ motley. [music] draw _cupid_ draw, and make fair _sylvia_ know; the mighty pain her suff'ring swain does for her undergo; convey this dart into her heart, and when she's set on fire, do thou return and let her burn, like me in chast desire; that by experience she, may learn to pity me, whene'er her eyes do tyrannize o'er my captivity: but when in love we jointly move, and tenderly imbrace, like angels shine, and sweetly join to one another's face. _a_ song; _the words by a person of a quality. set to musick by mr._ robert cary. [music] some brag of their _chloris_, and some of their _phillis_, some cry up their _cælia_, and bright _amaryllis_: thus poets and lovers their mistresses dub, and goddesses fram'd from the wash-bowl and tub; but away with these fictions, and counterfeit folly: there's a thousand more charms in the name of my _dolly_. i cannot describe you her beauty and wit, like manna to each she's a relishing bit; she alone by enjoyment, the more does prevail, and still with fresh pleasures does hoist up your sail: nay, had you a surfeit, but took of all others, one look from my _dolly_ your stomach recovers. _the mountebank_ song. _sung by dr._ leverigo, _and his merry andrew_ pinkanello, _in_ farewel to folly. _set by mr._ leveridge. [music: here are people and sports of all sizes and sorts, coach'd damsel with squire, and mob in the mire, tarpaulins, trugmallions, lords, ladys, sows, babies, and loobys in scores. some howling, some bawling, some leering, some fleering, some loving, some shoving, with legions of furbelow'd whores. to the tavern, some go, and some to a show, see poppets for moppets, jack-puddings, for cuddens, rope dancing, mares prancing, boats flying, quacks lying, pick-pockets, pick plackets, beasts, butchers, and beaus. fops prat'ling, dies rat'ling, rooks shaming, puts daming, whores painted, mask's tainted, in tallymans furbelow'd cloaths. the mobs joys would you know to yon musick-house go, see tailors, and saylors, whores oily in doily, hear musick, makes you sick: cows skipping, clowns tripping, some joaking, some smoaking, like spiggit and tap; short measure, strange pleasure thus billing, and swilling, some yearly, get fairly, for fairings pig, pork, and a clap.] _the mountebank_ song. _set and sung by mr._ leveridge, _in a new play call'd_, farewel to folly. [music: see, sirs, see here! a doctor rare, who travels much at home! here take my bills, take my bills, i cure all ills, past, present, and to come; the cramp, the stitch, the squirt, the itch, the gout, the stone, the pox, the mulligrubs, the bonny scrubs, and all, all, all, all, all, _pandora's_ box; thousands i've dissected, thousands new erected, and such cures effected, as none e'er can tell. let the palsie shake ye, let the chollick rack ye, let the crinkums break ye, let the murrain take ye; take this, take this and you are well. thousands, &c. come wits so keen, devour'd with spleen; come beaus who sprain'd your backs, great-belly'd maids, old founder'd jades, and pepper'd vizard cracks. i soon remove the pains of love, and cure the love-sick maid; the hot, the cold, the young, the old, the living and the dead. i clear the lass with wainscot face, and from pim-ginets free, plump ladies red, like _saracen's_-head, with toaping rattafe. this with a jirk, will do your work, and scour you o're and o're, read, judge and try, and if you die, never believe me more, never, never, never, never, never believe me more.] _a_ song _in the_ mock marriage. _sung by mrs._ knight. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] oh! how you protest and solemnly swear, look humble, and fawn like an ass; i'm pleas'd, i must own, when ever i see a lover that's brought to this pass. keep, keep further off, you're naughty i fear, i vow i will never, will never, will never yield to't; you ask me in vain; for never i swear, i never, no never, i never, no never, i never, no never will do't. for when the deed's done, how quickly you go, no more of the lover remains, in hast you depart, whate'er we can do, and stubbornly throw off your chains: desist then in time, let's hear on't no more, i vow i will never yield to't; you promise in vain, in vain you adore, for i will never, no never will do't. jockey's _lamentation._ [music] _jockey_ met with _jenny_ fair betwixt the dawning and the day, and _jockey_ now is full of care, for _jenny_ stole his heart away: altho' she promis'd to be true, yet she, alas, has prov'd unkind, that which do make poor _jenny_ rue, for _jenny's_ fickle as the wind: and, _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _the wind has blown my plad away._ _jockey_ was a bonny lad, as e'er was born in _scotland_ fair; but now poor _jockey_ is run mad, for _jenny_ causes his despair; _jockey_ was a piper's son, and fell in love while he was young: but all the tunes that he could play, was, _o'er the hills, and far away,_ and, _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills and far away,_ _the wind has blown my plad away._ when first i saw my _jenny's_ face, she did appear with sike a grace, with muckle joy my heart was fill'd; but now alas with sorrow kill'd. oh! was she but as true as fair, 'twou'd put an end to my despair; but ah, alass! this is unkind, which sore does terrify my mind; _'twas o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'twas o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'twas o'er the hills, and far away,_ _that_ jenny _stole my heart away._ did she but feel the dismal woe that for her sake i undergo, she surely then would grant relief, and put an end to all my grief: but oh, she is as false as fair, which causes all my sad despair; she triumphs in a proud disdain, and takes delight to see my pain; _'tis o'er the hills_, &c. hard was my hap to fall in love, with one that does so faithless prove; hard was my fate to court the maid, that has my constant heart betray'd: a thousand times to me she swore, she would be true for evermore: but oh! alas, with grief i say, she's stole my heart, and ran away; _'twas o'er the hills_, &c. good gentle _cupid_ take my part, and pierce this false one to the heart, that she may once but feel the woe, as i for her do undergo; oh! make her feel this raging pain, that for her love i do sustain; she sure would then more gentle be, and soon repent her cruelty; _'tis o'er the hills_, &c. i now must wander for her sake, since that she will no pity take, into the woods and shady grove, and bid adieu to my false love: since she is false whom i adore, i ne'er will trust a woman more, from all their charms i'll fly away, and on my pipe will sweetly play; _'tis o'er the hills_, &c. there by my self i'll sing and say, _'tis o'er the hills, and far away_, that my poor heart is gone astray, which makes me grieve both night and day; farewel, farewel, thou cruel she, i fear that i shall die for thee: but if i live, this vow i'll make, to love no other for your sake. _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _the wind has blown my plad away._ the recruiting officer: _or_, the merry volunteers: _being an excellent new copy of verses upon raising recruits._ _to the foregoing tune._ hark! now the drums beat up again, for all true soldiers gentlemen, then let us list, and march i say, over the hills and far away; over the hills and o'er the main, to _flanders_, _portugal_ and _spain_, queen _ann_ commands, and we'll obey, _over the hills and far away_. all gentlemen that have a mind, to serve the queen that's good and kind; come list and enter into pay, then o'er the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. here's forty shillings on the drum, for those that volunteers do come, with shirts, and cloaths, and present pay, when o'er the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. hear that brave boys, and let us go, or else we shall be prest you know; then list and enter into pay, and o'er the hills and far away, _over the hills_, &c. the constables they search about, to find such brisk young fellows out; then let's be volunteers i say, over the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. since now the _french_ so low are brought, and wealth and honour's to be got, who then behind wou'd sneaking stay? when o'er the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. no more from sound of drum retreat, while _marlborough_, and _gallaway_ beat, the _french_ and _spaniards_ every day, when over the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. he that is forc'd to go and fight, will never get true honour by't, while volunteers shall win the day, when o'er the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. what tho' our friends our absence mourn, we all with honour shall return; and then we'll sing both night and day, over the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. the prentice _tom_ he may refuse, to wipe his angry master's shoes; for then he's free to sing and play, over the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. over rivers, bogs, and springs, we all shall live as great as kings, and plunder get both night and day, when over the hills and far away, _over the hills_, &c. we then shall lead more happy lives, by getting rid of brats and wives, that scold on both night and day, when o'er the hills and far away: _over the hills_, &c. come on then boys and you shall see, we every one shall captains be, to whore and rant as well as they, when o'er the hills and far away: _over the hills_, &c. for if we go 'tis one to ten, but we return all gentlemen, all gentlemen as well as they, when o'er the hills and far away: _over the hills_, &c. _a_ scotch song. _set by mr._ john barrett. [music] ah! foolish lass, what mun i do? my modesty i well may rue, which of my joy bereft me; for full of love he came, but out of silly shame, with pish and phoo i play'd, to muckle the coy maid, and the raw young loon has left me. wou'd _jockey_ knew how muckle i lue, did i less art, or did he shew, more nature, how bleast i'd be; i'd not have reason to complain, that i lue'd now in vain, gen he more a man was, i'd be less a coy lass, had the raw young loon weel try'd me. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd_ justice buisy, _or the_ gentleman quack: _set by mr._ john eccles, _sung by mrs._ bracegirdle. [music] no, no ev'ry morning my beauties renew, where-ever i go, i have lovers enough; i dress and i dance, and i laugh and i sing, am lovely and lively, and gay as the spring: i visit, i game, and i cast away care, mind lovers no more, than the birds of the air, mind lovers no more, than the birds of the air. _a_ song. _set by mr._ willis. [music] now my freedom's regain'd, and by _bacchus_ i swear, all whining dull whimsys of love i'll cashire: the charm's more engaging in bumpers of wine, then let _chloe_ be damn'd, but let this be divine: whilst youth warms thy veins, boy embrace thy full glasses, damn _cupid_ and all his poor proselyte asses; let this be thy rule _tom_, to square out thy life, and when old in a friend, thou'lt live free from all strife, only envied by him that is plagu'd with a wife. _a_ scotch song, _the words by mr._ peter noble, _set by mr._ john wilford. [music] bonny _scottish_ lads that keens me weel, lith ye what, ye what good luck ise fun; _moggey_ is mine own in spight o'th' de'el, i alone her heart has won: near st. _andrew's_ kirk in _london_ town, there ise, ise met my dearest joy; shinening in her silken hued and gown, but ne'er ack, ne'er ack she prov'd not coy. then after many compliments, streight we gang'd into the kirk; there full weel she tuck the documents, and flang me many pleasing smirk: weel i weat that i have gear enough, she's have a yode to ride ont; she's neither drive the swine, nor the plough, whatever does betide ont. _a new_ song _in the play call'd_, a duke and no duke. _sung by mrs._ cibber. [music] _damon_ if you will believe me, 'tis not sighing o'er the plain; songs nor sonnets can't relieve ye, faint attempts in love are vain: urge but home the fair occasion, and be master of the field; to a powerful kind invasion, 'twere a madness not to yield. tho' she vow's she'll ne'er permit ye, says you're rude, and much to blame; and with tears implores your pity, be not merciful for shame: when the first assault is over, _chloris_ time enough will find; this so fierce and cruel lover, much more gentle, not so kind. _a_ song. _the words made to a tune of the late mr._ henry purcell's. [music] drunk i was last night that's poss, my wife began to scold; say what i cou'd for my heart's blood, her clack she wou'd not hold: thus her chat she did begin, is this your time of coming in; the clock strikes one, you'll be undone, if thus you lead your life: my dear said i, i can't deny, but what you say is true; i do intend, my life to mend, pray lends the pot to spew. fye, you sot, i ne'er can bear, to rise thus e'ery night; tho' like a beast you never care, what consequence comes by't: the child and i may starve for you, we neither can have half our due; with grief i find, you're so unkind, in time you'll break my heart: at that i smil'd, and said dear child, i believe your in the wrong; but if't shou'd be you're destiny, i'll sing a merry song. _the gelding the devil. set by mr._ tho. wroth. [music] i met with the devil in the shape of a ram, then over and over the sow-gelder came; i rose and halter'd him fast by the horns, and pick'd out his stones, as you would pick out corns; maa, quoth the devil, with that out he slunk, and left us a carkass of mutton that stunk. i chanc'd to ride forth a mile and a half, where i heard he did live in disguise of a calf; i bound him and gelt him e'er he did any evil, for he was at the best but a young sucking devil: maa, yet he cries, and forth he did steal, and this was sold after for excellent veal. some half a year after in the form of a pig, i met with the rogue, and he look'd very big; i caught at his leg, laid him down on a log, e'er a man could fart twice, i made him a hog: huh, huh quoth the devil, and gave such a jerk, that a _jew_ was converted and eat of that pork. in woman's attire i met him most fine, at first sight i thought him some angel divine; but viewing his crab face i fell to my trade, i made him forswear ever acting a maid: meaw, quoth the devil, and so ran away, hid himself in a fryer's old weeds as they say. i walked along and it was my good chance, to meet with a black-coat that was in a trance; i speedily grip'd him and whip'd off his cods, 'twixt his head and his breech, i left little odds: o, quoth the devil, and so away ran, thou oft will be curst by many a woman. _a_ song. [music] when _jemmy_ first began to love, he was the finest swain; that ever yet a flock had drove, or danc'd upon the plain: 'twas then that i, woe's me poor heart, my freedom threw away; and finding sweets in every part, i could not say him nay. for ever when he spake of love, he wou'd his eyes decline; each sigh he gave a heart wou'd move, good faith, and why not mine: he'd press my hand, and kiss it oft, his silence spoke his flame; and whilst he treated me thus soft, i wish'd him more to blame. sometimes to feed my flock with his, _jemmy_ wou'd me invite; where he the finest songs would sing, me only to delight: then all his graces he display'd, which were enough i trow; to conquer any princely maid, so did he me i trow. but now for _jemmy_ i must mourn, he to the wars must go; his sheephook to a sword must turn, alack what shall i do? his bagpipes into warlike sounds, must now converted be; his garlands into fearful wounds, oh! what becomes of me? _a_ song; _to the tune of_ woobourn _fair._ vol. . pag. . jilting is in such a fashion, and such a fame, runs o'er the nation, there's never a dame of highest rank, or of fame, sir, but will stoop to your caresses, if you do but put home your addresses: it's for that she paints, and she patches, all she hopes to secure is her name, sir. but when you find the love fit comes upon her, never trust much to her honour; tho' she may very high stand on't, yet when her love is ascendant, her vertue's quite out of doors high breeding, rank feeding, with lazy lives leading, in ease and soft pleasures, and taking loose measures, with play-house diversions, and midnight excursions, with balls masquerading, and nights serenading, debauch the sex into whores, sir. _a_ song. _set by mr._ pack. [music] farewel ungrateful traytor, farewel my perjur'd swain: let never injur'd creature, believe a man again: the pleasure of possessing, surpasses all expressing; but joys too short a blessing, and love too long a pain: _but joys too short a blessing,_ _and love too long a pain._ 'tis easie to deceive us, in pity of your pain; but when we love, you leave us, to rail at you in vain: before we have descry'd it, there is no bliss beside it; but she that once has try'd it, will never love again. the passion you pretended, was only to obtain; but when the charm is ended, the charmer you disdain: your love by ours we measure, 'till we have lost our treasure; but dying is a pleasure, when living is a pain. _a_ song. [music] you i love by all that's true, more than all things here below; with a passion far more great, than e'er creature loved yet: and yet still you cry forbear, love no more, or love not here. bid the miser leave his ore, bid the wretched sigh no more; bid the old be young again, bid the _nun_ not think of man: _sylvia_ thus when you can do, bid me then not think on you. love's not a thing of choice, but fate, what makes me love, that makes you hate: _sylvia_ you do what you will, ease or cure, torment or kill: be kind or cruel, false or true, love i must, and none but you. _a_ song. note: _you must sing lines to the first strain._ [music] let's be merry blith and jolly, stupid dulness is a folly; 'tis the spring that doth invite us, hark, the chirping birds delight us: let us dance and raise our voices, every creature now rejoyces; airy blasts and springing flowers, verdant coverings, pleasant showers: each plays his part to compleat this our joy, and can we be so dull as to deny. here's no foolish surly lover, that his passions will discover; no conceited fopish creature, that is proud of cloaths or feature: all things here serene and free are, they're not wise, are not as we are; who acknowledge heavens blessings, in our innocent caressings: then let us sing, let us dance, let us play, 'tis the time is allow'd, 'tis the month of _may_. _a new_ song, _the words by mr._ j.c. _set to musick by dr._ prettle. [music] no _phillis_, tho' you've all the charms, ambitious woman can desire; all beauty, wit, and youth that warms, or sets our foolish hearts on fire: yet you may practice all your arts, in vain to make a slave of me; you ne'er shall re-engage my heart, revolted from your tyranny: _you ne'er shall re-engage my heart,_ _revolted from your tyranny._ when first i saw those dang'rous eyes, they did my liberty betray; but when i knew your cruelties, i snatch'd my simple heart away: now i defy your smiles to win, my resolute heart, no pow'r th'ave got; tho' once i suck'd their poyson in, your rigour prov'd an antidote. _the epilogue to the_ island princes, _set by mr._ clark, _sung by mrs._ lindsey, _and the boy._ [music] now to you ye dry wooers, old beaus, and no doers, so doughty, so gouty, so useless and toothless, your blindless, cold kindness, has nothing of man; still doating, or gloating, still stumbling, or fumbling, still hawking, still baulking, you flash in the pan: unfit like old brooms, for sweeping our rooms, you're sunk and you're shrunk, then repent and look to't; in vain you're so upish, in vain you're so upish. you're down ev'ry foot. _a_ scotch song, _set by mr._ r. brown. [music] _jockey_ loves his _moggy_ dearly, he gang'd with her to _perth_ fair; there we sung and pip'd together, and when done, then down i'd lay her: i so pull'd her, and so lull'd her, both o'erwhelm'd with muckle joy; _mog._ kiss'd _jockey_, _jockey_ _moggy_, from long night to break of day. i told _mog._ 'twas muckle pleasing, _moggey_ cry'd she'd do again such; i reply'd i'd glad gang with thee, but 'twould wast my muckle coyn much: she lamented, i relented, both wish'd bodies might increase; then we'd gang next year together, and my pipe shall never cease. _a_ song, _in the_ lucky younger brother, _or, the_ beau defeated; _set by mr._ john eccles, _and sung by mr._ bowman. [music] _delia_ tir'd _strephon_ with her flame, while languishing, while languishing she view'd him; the well dress'd youth despis'd the dame, but still, still; but still the old fool pursu'd him: some pity on a wretch bestow, that lyes at your devotion; perhaps near fifty years ago, perhaps near fifty years ago, i might have lik'd the motion. if you, proud youth, my flame despise, i'll hang me in my garters; why then make hast to win the prize, among loves foolish martyrs: can you see _delia_ brought so low, and make her no requitals? _delia_ may to the devil go, _delia_ may to the devil, devil go, to the devil, devil, devil, devil, devil, devil go for _strephon_; stop my vitals, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop my vitals. _a_ song, _set by mr._ john weldon. [music] swain thy hopeless passion smother, perjur'd _cælia_ loves another; in his arms i saw her lying, panting, kissing, trembling, dying: there the fair deceiver swore, as once she did to you before. oh! said you, when she deceives me, when that constant creatures leave me; _isis_ waters back shall fly, and leave their _ouzy_ channels dry: turn your waters, leave your shore, for perjur'd _cælia_ loves no more. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd the_ biter, _set by mr._ john eccles, _and sung by mr._ cook. [music] _chloe_ blush'd and frown'd and swore, and push'd me rudely from her; i call'd her faithless, jilting whore, to talk to me of honour: but when i rose and wou'd be gone, she cry'd nay, whither go ye? young _damon_ saw, now we're alone, do, do, do what you will, do what you will with _chloe_: do what you will, what you will, what you will with _chloe_, do what you will, what you will, what you will with _chloe_. _a_ song _in_ rinaldo _and_ armida: _set by mr._ john eccles. _sung by mr._ gouge. [music] the jolly, jolly breeze, that comes whistling through the trees; from all the blissful regions brings, perfumes upon its spicy wings: with its wanton motion curling, curling, curling, curling the crystal rills, which down, down, down, down the hills, run, run, run, run, run o'er golden gravel purling. _a_ song _on the_ punch bowl. _to the foregoing tune._ the jolly, jolly bowl, that does quench my thirsty soul; when all the mingling juice is thrown, perfum'd with fragrant goar stone: with it's wanton toast too, curling, curling, curling, curling, curling the nut-brown riles, which down, down, down, down by the gills, run through ruby swallows purling. _the_ prologue _in the_ island-princess, _set and sung by mr._ leveridge. [music] you've been with dull prologues here banter'd so long, they signify nothing, or less than a song; to sing you a ballad this tune we thought fit, for sound has oft nickt you, when sence could not hit: then ladies be kind, and gentlemen mind, wit capers, play sharpers, loud bullies, tame cullies, sow grumblers, wench fumblers give ear ev'ry man: mobb'd sinners in pinners, kept foppers, bench-hoppers, high-flyers, pit-plyers, be still if you can: you're all in damnation, you're all in damnation for leading the van. ye side-box gallants, whom the vulgar call beaus, admirers of self, and nice judges of cloaths; who now the war's over cross boldly the main, yet ne'er were at seiges, unless at campaign: spare all on the stage, love in every age, young tattles, wild rattles, fan-tearers, mask-fleerers, old coasters, love boasters, who set up for truth: young graces, black faces, some faded, some jaded, old mothers, and others, who've yet a colt's tooth: see us act that in winter, you'd all act in youth. you gallery haunters, who love to lye snug, and maunch apples or cakes, while some neighbour you hugg; ye lofties, genteels, who above us all sit, and look down with contempt, on the mob in the pit, here's what you like best, jigg, song and the rest, free laughers, close graffers, dry jokers, old soakers, kind cousins, by dozens, your customs don't break: sly spouses with blouses, grave horners, in corners, kind no-wits, save poets, clap 'till your hands ake, and tho' the wits damn us, we'll say the whims take. _a_ song _set by mr._ john barrett, _and sung by mrs._ lindsey. [music] _cælia_ hence with affectation, hence with all this careless air; hypocrisy is out of fashion, with the witty and the fair: nature all thy arts discloses, while the pleasures she supplies; paint thy glowing cheeks with roses, and inflame thy sparkling eyes. foolish _cælia_ not to know, love thy int'rest and thy duty; thou to love alone dost owe, all thy joy, and all thy beauty: mark the tuneful feather'd kind, at the coming of the spring; all in happy pairs are joyn'd, and because they love they sing. _a_ song, _set by mr._ clark. [music] how often have i curs'd that sable deceit, for making me wish and admire; and rifle poor _ovid_ to learn to intreat, when reason might check my desire: for sagely of late it has been disclos'd, there's nothing, nothing conceal'd uncommon; no miracles under a mask repos'd, when knowing _cynthia's_ a woman. tho' beauty's great charms our sences delude, 'tis the centre attracts our needle; and love's a jest when thought to intrude, the design of it to unriddle: a virgin may show strange coyness in love, and tell you chimera's of honour; but give her her wish, the man she approves, no labour he'll have to win her. finis. centre for reformation and renaissance studies victoria university toronto lyrics from the song-books of the elizabethan age. note.--_two hundred and fifty copies of this large paper edition printed, each of which is numbered._ _no. ._ lyrics from the song-books of the elizabethan age: edited by a.h. bullen. london: john c. nimmo, , king william street, strand, w.c. . chiswick press:--c. whittingham and co., tooks court, chancery lane. preface. the present anthology is intended to serve as a companion volume to the poetical miscellanies published in england at the close of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth centuries. a few of the lyrics here collected are, it is true, included in "england's helicon," davison's "poetical rhapsody," and "the ph[oe]nix' nest"; and some are to be found in the modern collections of oliphant, collier, rimbault, mr. w.j. linton, canon hannah, and professor arber. but many of the poems in the present volume are, i have every reason to believe, unknown even to those who have made a special study of elizabethan poetry. i have gone carefully through all the old song-books preserved in the library of the british museum, and i have given extracts from two books of which there is no copy in our national library. a first attempt of this kind must necessarily be imperfect. were i to go over the ground again i should enlarge the collection, and i should hope to gain tidings of some song-books (mentioned by bibliographers) which i have hitherto been unable to trace. in elizabeth's days composers were not content to regard the words of a song as a mere peg on which to hang the music, but sought the services of true-born lyrists. it is not too much to say that, for delicate perfection of form, some of the elizabethan songs can compare with the choicest epigrams in the greek anthology. at least one composer, thomas campion, wrote both the words and the music of his songs; and there are no sweeter lyrics in english poetry than are to be found in campion's song-books. but it may be assumed that, as a rule, the composers are responsible only for the music. it was in the year of the spanish armada, , that william byrd published "psalms, sonnets, and songs of sadness and piety," the first elizabethan song-book of importance. few biographical particulars concerning byrd have come down. as he was senior chorister of st. paul's in , he is conjectured to have been born about . from to he was organist of lincoln cathedral. he and tallis were granted a patent, which must have proved fairly lucrative, for the printing of music and the vending of music-paper. in later life he appears to have become a convert to romanism. his last work was published in , and he died at a ripe old age on the th of july, . the "psalms, sonnets, and songs" are dedicated to sir christopher hatton. in the dedicatory epistle he terms the collection "this first printed work of mine _in english_;" in he had published with tallis "cantiones sacræ." from the title one would gather that byrd's first english collection was mainly of a sacred character, but in an epistle to the reader he hastens to set us right on that point:--"benign reader, here is offered unto thy courteous acceptance music of sundry sorts, and to content divers humours. if thou be disposed to pray, here are psalms; if to be merry, here are sonnets." there is, indeed, fare for all comers; and a reader has only himself to blame if he goes away dissatisfied. in those days, as in these, it was not uncommon for a writer to attribute all faults, whether of omission or commission, to the luckless printer. byrd, on the other hand, solemnly warns us that "in the expression of these songs either by voices or instruments, if there be any jar or dissonance," we are not to blame the printer, who has been at the greatest pains to secure accuracy. then the composer makes a modest appeal on behalf of himself, requesting those who find any fault in the composition "either with courtesy to let the same be concealed," or "in friendly sort" point out the errors, which shall be corrected in a future impression. this is the proper manner of dealing between gentlemen. his next publication was "songs of sundry natures," , which was dedicated to sir henry carey, who seems to have been as staunch a patron of byrd as his son, sir george carey, was of dowland. in appeared byrd's last work, "psalms, songs, and sonnets." the composer must have taken to heart the precepts set down by sir edward dyer in "my mind to me a kingdom is," (printed in "psalms, sonnets, and songs") for his dedicatory epistle and his address to the reader show him to have been a man who had laid up a large store of genial wisdom, upon which he could draw freely in the closing days of an honourable life. his earlier works had been well received, and in addressing "all true lovers of music" he knew that he could rely upon their cordial sympathy. "i am much encouraged," he writes, "to commend to you these my last labours, for mine _ultimum vale_;" and then follows a piece of friendly counsel: "only this i desire, that you will be as careful to hear them well expressed, as i have been both in the composing and correcting of them. otherwise the best song that ever was made will seem harsh and unpleasant; for that the well expressing of them either by voices or instruments is the life of our labours, which is seldom or never well performed at the first singing or playing." no musician of the elizabethan age was more famous than john dowland, whose "heavenly touch upon the lute" was commended in a well-known sonnet (long attributed to shakespeare) by richard barnfield. dowland was born at westminster in . at the age of twenty, or thereabouts, he started on his travels; and, after rambling through "the chiefest parts of france, a nation furnished with great variety of music," he bent his course "towards the famous province of germany," where he found "both excellent masters and most honourable patrons of music." in the course of his travels he visited venice, padua, genoa, ferrara, and florence, gaining applause everywhere by his musical skill. on his return to england he took his degree at oxford, as bachelor of music, in . in he published "the first book of songs or airs of four parts, with tableture for the lute." prefixed is a dedicatory epistle to sir george carey (second lord hunsdon), in which the composer alludes gracefully to the kindness he had received from lady elizabeth carey, the patroness of spenser. a "second book of songs or airs" was published in , when the composer was at the danish court, serving as lutenist to king christian the fourth. the work was dedicated to the famous countess of bedford, whom ben jonson immortalized in a noble sonnet. from a curious address to the reader by george eastland, the publisher, it would appear that in spite of dowland's high reputation the sale of his works was not very profitable. "if the consideration of mine own estate," writes eastland, "or the true worth of money, had prevailed with me above the desire of pleasing you and showing my love to my friends, these second labours of master dowland--whose very name is a large preface of commendation to the book--had for ever lain hid in darkness, or at the least frozen in a cold and foreign country." the expenses of publication were heavy, but he consoled himself with the thought that his high-spirited enterprise would be appreciated by a select audience. in appeared "the third and last book of songs or airs;" and, in , when he was acting as lutenist to lord walden, dowland issued his last work, "a pilgrime's solace." he is supposed to have died about , leaving a son, robert dowland, who gained some fame as a composer. modern critics have judged that dowland's music was somewhat overrated by his contemporaries, and that he is wanting in variety and originality. whether these critics are right or wrong, it would be difficult to overrate the poetry. in attempting to select representative lyrics one is embarrassed by the wealth of material. the rich clusters of golden verse hang so temptingly that it is difficult to cease plucking when once we have begun. in his charming collection of "rare poems" mr. linton quotes freely from the song-books of byrd and dowland, but gives only one lyric of dr. thomas campion. as mr. linton is an excellent judge of poetry, i can only suppose that he had no wide acquaintance with campion's writings, when he put together his dainty anthology. there is clear evidence[ ] that campion wrote not only the music but the words for his songs--that he was at once an eminent composer and a lyric poet of the first rank. he published a volume of latin verse, which displays ease and fluency (though the prosody is occasionally erratic); as a masque-writer he was inferior only to ben jonson; he was the author of treatises on the arts of music and poetry; and he practised as a physician. it would be interesting to ascertain some facts about the life of this highly-gifted man; but hitherto little information has been collected. the oxford historian, good old anthony-à-wood, went altogether wrong and confused our thomas campion with another person of the same name who took his degree in --five years after the poet's death. it is probable that our thomas campion was the second son of thomas campion of witham, essex, and that he was distantly related to edmund campion the famous jesuit. his first work was his "epigrammatum libri duo," published in , and republished in . the first edition is exceedingly rare; there is no copy in the british museum. francis meres, in his very valuable (and very tedious) "wit's treasury," , mentions campion among the "english men, being latin poets," who had "attained good report and honorable advancement in the latin empire." in campion and philip rosseter published jointly "a book of airs." the music was partly written by campion and partly by rosseter; but the whole of the poetry may be safely assigned to campion. from a dedicatory epistle, by rosseter, to sir thomas monson, we learn that campion's songs, "made at his vacant hours and privately imparted to his friends," had been passed from hand to hand and had suffered from the carelessness of successive transcribers. some impudent persons, we are told, had "unrespectively challenged" (_i.e._ claimed) the credit both of the music and the poetry. the address _to the reader_, which follows the dedicatory epistle, is unsigned, but appears to have been written by campion. "what epigrams are in poetry," it begins, "the same are airs in music: then in their chief perfection when they are short and well seasoned. but to clog a light song with a long preludium is to corrupt the nature of it. many rests in music were invented either for necessity of the fugue, or granted as an harmonical licence in songs of many parts; but in airs i find no use they have, unless it be to make a vulgar and trivial modulation seem to the ignorant strange, and to the judicial tedious." it is among the curiosities of literature that this true poet, who had so exquisite a sense of form, and whose lyrics are frequently triumphs of metrical skill, should have published a work (entitled "observations in the art of english poesy") to prove that the use of rhyme ought to be discontinued, and that english metres should be fashioned after classical models. "poesy," he writes, "in all kind of speaking is the chief beginner and maintainer of eloquence, not only helping the ear with the acquaintance of sweet numbers, but also raising the mind to a more high and lofty conceit. for this end have i studied to induce a true form of versifying into our language; for the vulgar and artificial custom of rhyming hath, i know, deterr'd many excellent wits from the exercise of english poesy." the work was published in , the year after he had issued the first collection of his charming lyrics. it was in answer to campion that samuel daniel wrote his "defence of rhyme" ( ), one of the ablest critical treatises in the english language. daniel was puzzled, as well he might be, that an attack on rhyme should have been made by one "whose commendable rhymes, albeit now himself an enemy to rhyme, have given heretofore to the world the best notice of his worth." it is pleasant to find daniel testifying to the fact that campion was "a man of fair parts and good reputation." ben jonson, as we are informed by drummond of hawthornden, wrote "a discourse of poesy both against campion and daniel;" but the discourse was never published. in his "observations" campion gives us a few specimen-poems written in the unrhymed metres that he proposed to introduce. the following verses are the least objectionable that i can find:-- "just beguiler, kindest love yet only chastest, royal in thy smooth denials, frowning or demurely smiling, still my pure delight. let me view thee with thoughts and with eyes affected, and if then the flames do murmur, quench them with thy virtue, charm them with thy stormy brows. heaven so cheerful laughs not ever; hoary winter knows his season, even the freshest summer morns from angry thunder yet not still secure." there is artful ease and the touch of a poet's hand in those verses; but the muses shield us from such innovations! campion's second collection, "two books of airs," is undated; but, from an allusion to the death of prince henry, we may conclude that it was published about the year . the first book consists of "divine and moral songs" and the second of "light conceits of lovers." in dealing with sacred themes, particularly when they venture on paraphrases of the psalms, our poets seldom do themselves justice; but i claim for campion that he is neither stiff nor awkward. henry vaughan is the one english poet whose devotional fervour found the highest lyrical expression; and campion's impassioned poem "awake, awake, thou heavy sprite!" (p. ) is not unworthy of the great silurist. among the sacred verses are some lines ("jack and joan they think no ill," p. ) in praise of a contented countryman and his good wife. a sweeter example of an old pastoral lyric could nowhere be found, not even in the pages of nicholas breton. the "third and fourth books of airs" are also undated, but they were probably published in . in this collection, where all is good, my favourite is "now winter nights enlarge" (p. ). others may prefer the melodious serenade, worthy even of shelley, "shall i come, sweet love, to thee" (p. ). but there is one poem of campion (printed in the collection of ) which, for strange richness of romantic beauty, could hardly be matched outside the sonnets of shakespeare:-- "when thou must home to shades of underground, and there arrived, a new admirèd guest, the beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, white iope, blithe helen, and the rest, to hear the stories of thy finish'd love from that smooth tongue whose music hell can move: then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, of tourneys and great challenges of knights, and all these triumphs for thy beauty sake: when thou hast told these honours done to thee, then tell, o tell, how thou didst murder me!" the mention of "white iope" was suggested by a passage of propertius:-- "sunt apud infernos tot millia formosarum; pulchra sit, in superis, si licet, una locis. vobiscum[ ] est _iope_, vobiscum candida tyro," &c. campion was steeped in classical feeling: his rendering of catullus' "vivamus, mea lesbia, atque amemus" (p. ) is, so far as it goes, delightful. it is time that campion should again take his rightful place among the lyric poets of england. in his own day his fame stood high. camden did not hesitate to couple his name with the names of spenser and sidney; but modern critics have persistently neglected him. the present anthology contains a large number of his best poems; and i venture to hope that my attempt to recall attention to the claims of this true poet will not be fruitless. there is much excellent verse hidden away in the song-books of robert jones, a famous performer on the lute. between and jones issued six musical works. two of these--"the first set of madrigals," , and "the muses' garden for delight," ,--i have unfortunately not been able to see, as i have not yet succeeded in discovering their present resting-place. of "ultimum vale, or the third book of airs" [ ], only one copy is known. it formerly belonged to rimbault, and is now preserved in the library of the royal college of music. the other publications of jones are of the highest rarity. by turns the songs are grave and gay. on one page is the warning to love-- "little boy, pretty knave, hence, i beseech you! for if you hit me, knave, in faith i'll breech you." (p. .) on another we read "love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly," (p. ); but the vain hopes, seeking to woo the sun's fair light, were scorched with fire and drown'd in woe, "and none but love their woeful hap did rue, for love did know that their desires were true; though fate frownèd. and now drownèd they in sorrow dwell, it was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell." the last line is superb. i have drawn freely from the madrigals of weelkes, morley, farmer, wilbye and others. thomas ford's "music of sundry kinds," , has yielded some very choice verse; and francis pilkington's collections have not been consulted in vain. from john attye's "first book of airs," , i have selected one song, (p. ), only one,--warm and tender and delicious. some pleasant verses have been drawn from the rare song-books of william corkine; and thomas vautor's "songs of divers airs and natures," , have supplied some quaint snatches, notably the address to the owl, (p. ) "sweet suffolk owl, so trimly dight." i have purposely refrained from giving many humorous ditties. had i been otherwise minded there was plenty of material to my hand in the rollicking rounds and catches of ravenscroft's admirable collections. as i have no technical knowledge of the subject, it would be impertinent for me to attempt to estimate the merits of the music contained in these old song-books; but i venture with all confidence to commend the poetry to the reader's attention. there is one poem which i have deliberately kept back. it occurs in "the first part of airs, french, polish, and others together, some in tableture and some in prick-song," . the composer was a certain captain tobias hume, but who the author of the poem was i know not. here is the first stanza:-- "fain would i change that note to which fond love hath charm'd me, long long to sing by rote, fancying that that harm'd me: yet when this thought doth come, 'love is the perfect sum of all delight,' i have no other choice either for pen or voice to sing or write." the other stanza shall occupy the place of honour in the front of my anthology; for among all the elizabethan song-books i have found no lines of more faultless beauty, of happier cadence or sweeter simplicity, no lines that more justly deserve to be treasured in the memory while memory lasts. [ ] in his address _to the reader_ prefixed to the "fourth book of airs" he writes:--"some words are in these books which have been clothed in music by others, and i am content they then served their turn: _yet give me leave to make use of mine own_." again, in the address _to the reader_ prefixed to the "third book of airs:"--"in these english airs i have chiefly aimed to _couple my words and notes lovingly together; which will be much for him to do that hath not power over both_." [ ] some editions read "vobiscum antiope." _in lavdem amoris._ o love, they wrong thee mvch that say thy sweet is bitter, when thy rich frvit is svch as nothing can be sweeter. fair hovse of joy and bliss, where trvest pleasvre is, i do adore thee; i know thee what thov art, i serve thee with my heart, and fall before thee. captain hume's _first part of airs_, . index of first lines a little pretty bonny lass was walking (farmer) a shepherd in a shade his plaining made (john dowland) a sparrow-hawk proud did hold in wicked jail (weelkes) a woman's looks (jones) about the maypole new, with glee and merriment (morley) adieu! sweet amaryllis (wilbye) april is in my mistress' face (morley) arise, my thoughts, and mount you with the sun (jones) awake, awake! thou heavy sprite (campion) awake, sweet love! 'tis time to rise (youll) ay me, can every rumour (wilbye) ay me, my mistress scorns my love (bateson) behold a wonder here (john dowland) brown is my love, but graceful (musica transalpina) by a fountain where i lay (john dowland) by the moon we sport and play (ravenscroft) canst thou love and lie alone (melismata) change thy mind since she doth change (robert dowland) cold winter's ice is fled and gone (weelkes) come away! come, sweet love! (john dowland) come, o come, my life's delight (campion) come, phyllis, come into these bowers (ford) come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing (wilbye) come, you pretty false-eyed wanton (campion) could my heart more tongues employ (campion) crownèd with flowers i saw fair amaryllis (byrd) dare you haunt our hallow'd green (ravenscroft) dear, if i with guilt would gild a true intent (campion) dear, if you change i'll never choose again (john dowland) do you not know how love lost first his seeing (morley) draw on, sweet night, best friend unto those cares (wilbye) each day of thine, sweet month of may (youll) every dame affects good fame, whate'er her doings be (campion) fair phyllis i saw sitting all alone (farmer) farewell, false love, the oracle of lies (byrd) farewell, my joy! (weelkes) fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new (john dowland) fire that must flame is with apt fuel fed (campion) flora gave me fairest flowers (wilbye) follow your saint, follow with accents sweet (campion and rosseter) fond wanton youths make love a god (jones) from citheron the warlike boy is fled (byrd) from fame's desire, from love's delight retired (john dowland) give beauty all her right (campion) go, crystal tears! like to the morning showers (john dowland) go, turn away those cruel eyes (egerton ms. ) good men, show! if you can tell (campion) ha! ha! ha! this world doth pass (weelkes) happy he (jones) happy, o! happy he, who not affecting (wilbye) have i found her? o rich finding (pilkington) heigh ho! chill go to plough no more (mundy) how many things as yet (maynard) how shall i then describe my love (ford) i always loved to call my lady rose (lichfild) i have house and land in kent (melismata) i joy not in no earthly bliss (byrd) i live and yet methinks i do not breathe (wilbye) i marriage would forswear (maynard) i only am the man (maynard) i saw my lady weep (john dowland) i sung sometime my thoughts and fancy's pleasure (wilbye) i weigh not fortune's frown nor smile (gibbons) i will no more come to thee (morley) if fathers knew but how to leave (jones) if i urge my kind desires (campion and rosseter) if my complaints could passions move (john dowland) if thou long'st so much to learn, sweet boy, what 'tis to love (campion) if women could be fair and never fond (byrd) in crystal towers and turrets richly set (byrd) in darkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be (coprario) in midst of woods or pleasant grove (mundy) in pride of may (weelkes) in sherwood lived stout robin hood (jones) in the merry month of may (este) inconstant laura makes me death to crave (greaves) injurious hours, whilst any joy doth bless me (lichfild) is love a boy,--what means he then to strike (byrd) it was the frog in the well (melismata) jack and joan they think no ill (campion) kind are her answers (campion) kind in unkindness, when will you relent (campion and rosseter) lady, the birds right fairly (weelkes) lady, the melting crystal of your eye (greaves) lady, when i behold the roses sprouting (wilbye) let not chloris think, because (danyel) let not the sluggish sleep (byrd) let us in a lovers' round (mason and earsden) like two proud armies marching in the field (weelkes) lo! country sport that seldom fades (weelkes) lo! when back mine eye (campion) long have i lived in court (maynard) love is a bable (jones) love not me for comely grace (wilbye) love's god is a boy (jones) love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly (jones) "maids are simple," some men say (campion) maids to bed and cover coal (melismata) more than most fair, full of all heavenly fire (peerson) mother, i will have a husband (vautor) my hope a counsel with my heart (este) my love bound me with a kiss (jones) my love is neither young nor old (jones) my mind to me a kingdom is (byrd) my prime of youth is but a frost of cares (mundy) my sweetest lesbia, let us live and love (campion) my thoughts are winged with hopes, my hopes with love (john dowland) never love unless you can (campion) now each creature joys the other (farmer) now every tree renews his summer's green (weelkes) now god be with old simeon (pammelia) now have i learn'd with much ado at last (jones) now i see thy looks were feignèd (ford) now is my chloris fresh as may (weelkes) now is the month of maying (morley) now let her change! and spare not (campion) now let us make a merry greeting (weelkes) now what is love, i pray thee tell (jones) now winter nights enlarge (campion) o say, dear life, when shall these twin-born berries (ward) o stay, sweet love; see here the place of sporting (farmer) o sweet, alas, what say you (morley) o sweet delight, o more than human bliss (campion) oft have i mused the cause to find (jones) on a time the amorous silvy (attye) once did i love and yet i live (jones) once i thought to die for love (youll) our country swains in the morris dance (weelkes) pierce did love fair petronel (farnaby) pour forth, mine eyes, the fountains of your tears (pilkington) robin is a lovely lad (mason and earsden) round-a, round-a, keep your ring (ravenscroft) see, see, mine own sweet jewel (morley) shall a frown or angry eye (corkine) shall i abide this jesting (alison) shall i come, sweet love, to thee (campion) shall i look to ease my grief (jones) she whose matchless beauty staineth (jones) shoot, false love! i care not (morley) silly boy! 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly (campion) simkin said that sis was fair (farnaby) since first i saw your face i resolved to honour and renown ye (ford) sing we and chant it (morley) sister, awake! close not your eyes (bateson) sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me (campion) so light is love, in matchless beauty shining (wilbye) some can flatter, some can feign (corkine) sweet, come again (campion and rosseter) sweet cupid, ripen her desire (corkine) sweet heart, arise! why do you sleep (weelkes) sweet kate (jones) sweet love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory (wilbye) sweet love, i will no more abuse thee (weelkes) sweet love, my only treasure (jones) sweet, stay awhile; why will you rise (john dowland) sweet suffolk owl so trimly dight (vautor) take here my heart, i give it thee for ever (weelkes) take time while time doth last (farmer) the fly she sat in shamble-row (deuteromelia) the gods have heard my vows (weelkes) the lark, linnet and nightingale to sing some say are best (pammelia) the love of change hath changed the world throughout (carlton) the lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall (john dowland) the man of life upright (campion and rosseter) the greedy hawk with sudden sight of lure (byrd) the match that's made for just and true respects (byrd) the nightingale so pleasant and so gay (byrd) the nightingale so soon as april bringeth (bateson) the peaceful western wind (campion) there is a garden in her face (campion) there is a lady sweet and kind (ford) there were three ravens sat on a tree (melismata) think'st thou, kate, to put me down (jones) think'st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning (campion) thou art but young, thou say'st (wilbye) thou art not fair, for all thy red and white (campion and rosseter) thou pretty bird, how do i see (danyel) though amaryllis dance in green (byrd) though my carriage be but careless (weelkes) though your strangeness frets my heart (jones) thrice blessèd be the giver (farnaby) thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air (campion) thus i resolve and time hath taught me so (campion) thus saith my chloris bright (wilbye) thus saith my galatea (morley) to his sweet lute apollo sang the motions of the spheres (campion) to plead my faith, where faith hath no reward (robert dowland) to shorten winter's sadness (weelkes) toss not my soul, o love, 'twixt hope and fear (john dowland) turn all thy thoughts to eyes (campion) unto the temple of thy beauty (ford) upon a hill the bonny boy (weelkes) upon a summer's day love went to swim (byrd) vain men! whose follies make a god of love (campion) wake, sleepy thyrsis, wake (pilkington) we be soldiers three (deuteromelia) we be three poor mariners (deuteromelia) we must not part as others do (egerton ms. ) we shepherds sing, we pipe, we play (weelkes) wedded to will is witless (byrd) weep no more, thou sorry boy (tomkins) weep you no more, sad fountains (john dowland) welcome, sweet pleasure (weelkes) were i a king i might command content (mundy) were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me (campion) what hap had i to marry a shrow (pammelia) what is our life? a play of passion (gibbons) what needeth all this travail and turmoiling (wilbye) what pleasure have great princes (byrd) what poor astronomers are they (john dowland) what then is love, sings corydon (ford) when flora fair the pleasant tidings bringeth (carlton) when i was otherwise than now i am (byrd) when thou must home to shades of underground (campion and rosseter) when younglings first on cupid fix their sight (byrd) where most my thoughts, there least mine eye is striking (wilbye) where shall a sorrow great enough be sought (peerson) whether men do laugh or weep (campion and rosseter) while that the sun with his beams hot (byrd) whilst youthful sports are lasting (weelkes) white as lilies was her face (john dowland) whither so fast? see how the kindly flowers (pilkington) who likes to love, let him take heed (byrd) who made thee, hob, forsake the plough (byrd) who prostrate lies at women's feet (bateson) who would have thought that face of thine (farmer) why are you ladies staying (weelkes) wilt thou, unkind! thus 'reave me (john dowland) wise men patience never want (campion) woeful heart with grief oppressèd (john dowland) ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes (greaves) you blessèd bowers whose green leaves now are spreading (farmer) you that wont to my pipe's sound (morley) your shining eyes and golden hair (bateson) lyrics from elizabethan song-books. _let well-tuned words amaze with harmony divine._ campion. lyrics from elizabethan song-books. from farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . a little pretty bonny lass was walking in midst of may before the sun gan rise; i took her by the hand and fell to talking of this and that as best i could devise: i swore i would--yet still she said i should not; do what i would, and yet for all i could not. from john dowland's _second book of songs or airs_, . a shepherd in a shade his plaining made of love and lover's wrong unto the fairest lass that trod on grass, and thus began his song: "since love and fortune will, i honour still your fair and lovely eye: what conquest will it be, sweet nymph, for thee if i for sorrow die? restore, restore my heart again which love by thy sweet looks hath slain, lest that, enforced by your disdain, i sing 'fie on love! it is a foolish thing.' "my heart where have you laid? o cruel maid, to kill when you might save! why have ye cast it forth as nothing worth, without a tomb or grave? o let it be entombed and lie in your sweet mind and memory, lest i resound on every warbling string 'fie, fie on love! that is a foolish thing.' restore, restore my heart again which love by thy sweet looks hath slain, lest that, enforced by your disdain, i sing 'fie on love! it is a foolish thing.'" from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of six parts_, . a sparrow-hawk proud did hold in wicked jail music's sweet chorister, the nightingale, to whom with sighs she said: "o set me free! and in my song i'll praise no bird but thee." the hawk replied, "i will not lose my diet to let a thousand such enjoy their quiet." from robert jones' _first book of airs_, . a woman's looks are barbèd hooks, that catch by art the strongest heart when yet they spend no breath; but let them speak, and sighing break forth into tears, their words are spears that wound our souls to death. the rarest wit is made forget, and like a child is oft beguiled with love's sweet-seeming bait; love with his rod so like a god commands the mind; we cannot find, fair shows hide foul deceit. time, that all things in order brings, hath taught me how to be more slow in giving faith to speech, since women's words no truth affords, and when they kiss they think by this us men to over-reach. from thomas morley's _first book of ballets to five voices_, . about the maypole new, with glee and merriment, while as the bagpipe tooted it, thyrsis and chloris fine together footed it: and to the joyous instrument still they went to and fro, and finely flaunted it, and then both met again and thus they chaunted it. fa la! the shepherds and the nymphs them round enclosèd had, wond'ring with what facility, about they turn'd them in such strange agility; and still when they unloosèd had, with words full of delight they gently kissed them, and thus sweetly to sing they never missed them. fa la! from john wilbye's _first set of english madrigals_, . adieu, sweet amaryllis! for since to part your will is, o heavy, heavy tiding! here is for me no biding. yet once again, ere that i part with you, adieu, sweet amaryllis; sweet, adieu! from thomas morley's _first book of madrigals_, . april is in my mistress' face, and july in her eyes hath place; within her bosom is september, but in her heart a cold december. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . arise, my thoughts, and mount you with the sun, call all the winds to make you speedy wings, and to my fairest maya see you run and weep your last while wantonly she sings; then if you cannot move her heart to pity, let _oh, alas, ay me_ be all your ditty. arise, my thoughts, no more, if you return denied of grace which only you desire, but let the sun your wings to ashes burn and melt your passions in his quenchless fire; yet, if you move fair maya's heart to pity, let smiles and love and kisses be your ditty. arise, my thoughts, beyond the highest star and gently rest you in fair maya's eye, for that is fairer than the brightest are; but, if she frown to see you climb so high, couch in her lap, and with a moving ditty, of smiles and love and kisses, beg for pity. from thomas campion's _two books of airs_ (circ. ). awake, awake! thou heavy sprite that sleep'st the deadly sleep of sin! rise now and walk the ways of light, 'tis not too late yet to begin. seek heaven early, seek it late; true faith finds still an open gate. get up, get up, thou leaden man! thy track, to endless joy or pain, yields but the model of a span: yet burns out thy life's lamp in vain! one minute bounds thy bane or bliss; then watch and labour while time is. from henry youll's _canzonets to three voices_, . awake, sweet love! 'tis time to rise: ph[oe]bus is risen in the east, spreading his beams on those fair eyes which are enclosed with nature's rest. awake, awake from heavy sleep which all thy thoughts in silence keep! from john wilbye's _first set of english madrigals_, . ay me, can every rumour thus start my lady's humour? name ye some galante to her, why straight forsooth i woo her. then burst[s] she forth in passion "you men love but for fashion;" yet sure i am that no man ever so lovèd woman. then alas, love, be wary, for women be contrary. from thomas bateson's _first set of english madrigals_, . ay me, my mistress scorns my love; i fear she will most cruel prove. i weep, i sigh, i grieve, i groan; yet she regardeth not my moan. then, love, adieu! it fits not me to weep for her that laughs at thee. from john dowland's _third and last book of songs or airs_, . behold a wonder here! love hath receiv'd his sight! which many hundred year hath not beheld the light. such beams infusèd be by cynthia in his eyes, as first have made him see and then have made him wise. love now no more will weep for them that laugh the while! nor wake for them that sleep, nor sigh for them that smile! so powerful is the beauty that love doth now behold, as love is turned to duty that's neither blind nor bold. thus beauty shows her might to be of double kind; in giving love his sight and striking folly blind. from the second book of _musica transalpina_, . brown is my love, but graceful: and each renownèd whiteness match'd with thy lovely brown loseth its brightness. fair is my love, but scornful: yet have i seen despisèd dainty white lilies, and sad flowers well prizèd. from john dowland's _third and last book of songs or airs_, . by a fountain where i lay, (all blessèd be that blessèd day!) by the glimm'ring of the sun, (o never be her shining done!) when i might see alone my true love, fairest one! love's dear light! love's clear sight! no world's eyes can clearer see! a fairer sight, none can be! fair with garlands all addrest, (was never nymph more fairly blest!) blessèd in the highest degree, (so may she ever blessèd be!) came to this fountain near, with such a smiling cheer! such a face, such a grace! happy, happy eyes, that see such a heavenly sight as she! then i forthwith took my pipe, which i all fair and clean did wipe, and upon a heavenly ground, all in the grace of beauty found, play'd this roundelay: "welcome, fair queen of may! sing, sweet air! welcome, fair! welcome be the shepherds' queen, the glory of all our green!" from thomas ravenscroft's _brief discourse, &c._, . the urchins' dance. by the moon we sport and play, with the night begins our day: as we frisk the dew doth fall; trip it, little urchins all! lightly as the little bee, two by two, and three by three; and about, about go we. the elves' dance. round about in a fair ring-a, thus we dance and thus we sing-a; trip and go, to and fro, over this green-a; all about, in and out, over this green-a. from _melismata_, . the courtier's good morrow to his mistress. canst thou love and lie alone? love is so disgracèd, pleasure is best wherein is rest in a heart embracèd. rise, rise, rise! daylight do not burn out; bells do ring and birds do sing, only i that mourn out. morning-star doth now appear, wind is hushed and sky is clear; come, come away, come, come away! canst thou love and burn out day? rise, rise, rise! daylight do not burn out; bells do ring [and] birds do sing, only i that mourn out. from robert dowland's _musical banquet_, . (lines by the earl of essex.) change thy mind since she doth change, let not fancy still abuse thee, thy untruth cannot seem strange when her falsehood doth excuse thee: love is dead and thou art free, she doth live but dead to thee. whilst she loved thee best a while, see how she hath still delayed thee: using shows for to beguile, those vain hopes that have deceived thee: now thou seest, although too late, love loves truth which women hate. love no more since she is gone, she is gone and loves another: being once deceived by one, leave her love but love none other. she was false, bid her adieu, she was best but yet untrue. love, farewell, more dear to me than my life, which thou preservest. life, all joys are gone from thee; others have what thou deservest. oh my death doth spring from hence, i must die for her offence. die, but yet before thou die, make her know what she hath gotten, she in whom my hopes did lie now is changed, i quite forgotten. she is changed, but changèd base, baser in so vild a place. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of five and six parts_, . cold winter's ice is fled and gone, and summer brags on every tree, the red-breast peeps amidst the throng of wood-born birds that wanton be: each one forgets what they have been, and so doth phyllis, summer's queen. from john dowland's _first book of songs or airs_, . come away! come, sweet love! the golden morning breaks; all the earth, all the air, of love and pleasure speaks! teach thine arms then to embrace, and sweet rosy lips to kiss, and mix our souls in mutual bliss. eyes were made for beauty's grace viewing, ruing, love's long pain; procured by beauty's rude disdain. come away![ ] come, sweet love! the golden morning wastes while the sun from his sphere his fiery arrows casts: making all the shadows fly, playing, staying in the grove to entertain the stealth of love. thither, sweet love, let us hie, flying, dying in desire, wing'd with sweet hopes and heavenly fire. come away! come, sweet love! do not in vain adorn beauty's grace, that should rise like to our naked morn! lilies on the river's side, and fair cyprian flowers new-blown, desire no beauties but their own: ornament is nurse of pride. pleasure measure[s] love's delight: haste then, sweet love, our wishèd flight! [ ] this stanza is not in the original, but is added in _england's helicon_. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). come, o come, my life's delight! let me not in languor pine! love loves no delay; thy sight the more enjoyed, the more divine! o come, and take from me the pain of being deprived of thee! thou all sweetness dost enclose, like a little world of bliss; beauty guards thy looks, the rose in them pure and eternal is: come, then, and make thy flight as swift to me as heavenly light! from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . come, phyllis, come into these bowers: here shelter is from sharpest showers, cool gales of wind breathe in these shades, danger none this place invades; here sit and note the chirping birds pleading my love in silent words. come, phyllis, come, bright heaven's eye cannot upon thy beauty pry; glad echo in distinguished voice naming thee will here rejoice; then come and hear her merry lays crowning thy name with lasting praise. from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing, now sigh and groan! dead is my love, my hope, my joy, my spring; dead, dead, and gone! o, she that was your summer's queen, your days' delight, is gone and will no more be seen; o, cruel spite! break all your pipes that wont to sound with pleasant cheer, and cast yourselves upon the ground to wail my dear! come, shepherd swains, come, nymphs, and all a-row to help me cry: dead is my love, and, seeing she is so, lo, now i die! from _two books of airs_, by thomas campion (circ. ). come, you pretty false-eyed wanton, leave your crafty smiling! think you to escape me now with slipp'ry words beguiling? no; you mocked me th' other day; when you got loose, you fled away; but, since i have caught you now, i'll clip your wings for flying: smoth'ring kisses fast i'll heap and keep you so from crying. sooner may you count the stars and number hail down-pouring, tell the osiers of the thames, or goodwin sands devouring, than the thick-showered kisses here which now thy tired lips must bear. such a harvest never was so rich and full of pleasure, but 'tis spent as soon as reaped, so trustless is lore's treasure. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). could my heart more tongues employ than it harbours thoughts of grief, it is now so far from joy that it scarce could ask relief: truest hearts by deeds unkind to despair are most inclined. happy minds that can redeem their engagements how they please, that no joys or hopes esteem half so precious as their ease: wisdom should prepare men so, as if they did all foreknow. yet no art or caution can grown affections easily change; use is such a lord of man that he brooks worst what is strange: better never to be blest than to lose all at the best. from william byrd's _psalms, songs, and sonnets_, . crownèd with flowers i saw fair amaryllis by thyrsis sit, hard by a fount of crystal, and with her hand more white than snow or lilies, on sand she wrote _my faith shall be immortal_: and suddenly a storm of wind and weather blew all her faith and sand away together. from thomas ravenscroft's _brief discourse_, . the fairies' dance. dare you haunt our hallow'd green? none but fairies here are seen. down and sleep, wake and weep, pinch him black, and pinch him blue, that seeks to steal a lover true! when you come to hear us sing, or to tread our fairy ring, pinch him black, and pinch him blue! o thus our nails shall handle you! from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). dear, if i with guile would gild a true intent, heaping flatt'ries that in heart were never meant, easily could i then obtain what now in vain i force; falsehood much doth gain, truth yet holds the better course. love forbid that through dissembling i should thrive, or, in praising you, myself of truth deprive! let not your high thoughts debase a simple truth in me; great is beauty's grace, truth is yet as fair as she. praise is but the wind of pride if it exceeds, wealth prized in itself no outward value needs: fair you are, and passing fair; you know it, and 'tis true; yet let none despair but to find as fair as you. from john dowland's _first book of songs or airs_, . dear, if you change, i'll never choose again; sweet, if you shrink, i'll never think of love; fair, if you fail, i'll judge all beauty vain; wise, if too weak, more wits i'll never prove. dear, sweet, fair, wise! change, shrink, nor be not weak; and, on my faith, my faith shall never break. earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn; heaven her bright stars through earth's dim globe shall move; fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born; air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove: earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view, ere i prove false to faith or strange to you. from thomas morley's _canzonets_, . do you not know how love lost first his seeing? because with me once gazing on those fair eyes where all powers have their being, she with her beauty blazing, which death might have revivèd, him of his sight and me of heart deprivèd. from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . draw on, sweet night, best friend unto those cares that do arise from painful melancholy; my life so ill through want of comfort fares, that unto thee i consecrate it wholly. sweet night, draw on; my griefs, when they be told to shades and darkness, find some ease from paining; and while thou all in silence dost enfold, i then shall have best time for my complaining. from henry youll's _canzonets to three voices_, . each day of thine, sweet month of may, love makes a solemn holyday: i will perform like duty, since thou resemblest every way astræa, queen of beauty. from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). every dame affects good fame, whate'er her doings be, but true praise is virtue's bays, which none may wear but she. borrowed guise fits not the wise, a simple look is best; native grace becomes a face though ne'er so rudely drest. now such new-found toys are sold these women to disguise, that before the year grows old the newest fashion dies. dames of yore contended more in goodness to exceed, than in pride to be envied for that which least they need. little lawn then serve[d] the pawn, if pawn at all there were; homespun thread and household bread then held out all the year. but th' attires of women now wear out both house and land; that the wives in silk may flow, at ebb the good men stand. once again, astræa! then from heaven to earth descend, and vouchsafe in their behalf these errors to amend. aid from heaven must make all even, things are so out of frame; for let man strive all he can, he needs must please his dame. happy man, content that gives and what he gives enjoys! happy dame, content that lives and breaks no sleep for toys! from farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . fair phyllis i saw sitting all alone, feeding her flock near to the mountain-side; the shepherds knew not whither she was gone, but after her lover amyntas hied. up and down he wandered, whilst she was missing; when he found her, oh then they fell a-kissing! from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs_, . farewell, false love, the oracle of lies, a mortal foe and enemy to rest, an envious boy from whom all cares arise, a bastard vile, a beast with rage possest; a way of error, a temple full of treason, in all effects contrary unto reason. a poison'd serpent cover'd all with flowers, mother of sighs and murderer of repose; a sea of sorrows from whence are drawn such showers as moisture lend to every grief that grows; a school of guile, a net of deep deceit, a gilded hook that holds a poison'd bait. a fortress foiled which reason did defend, a siren song, a fever of the mind, a maze wherein affection finds no end, a raging cloud that runs before the wind; a substance like the shadow of the sun, a goal of grief for which the wisest run. a quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, a path that leads to peril and mishap, a true retreat of sorrow and despair, an idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap; a deep distrust of that which certain seems, a hope of that which reason doubtful deems. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . farewell, my joy! adieu, my love and pleasure! to sport and toy we have no longer leisure. fa la la! farewell, adieu until our next consorting! sweet love, be true! and thus we end our sporting. fa la la! from john dowland's _second book of songs or airs_, . fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new, good pennyworths,--but money cannot move: i keep a fair but for the fair to view,-- a beggar may be liberal of love. though all my wares be trash, the heart is true, the heart is true. great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again, my trifles come as treasures from my mind; it is a precious jewel to be plain; sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find: of others take a sheaf, of me a grain! of me a grain! within this pack pins, points, laces, and gloves, and divers toys fitting a country fair, but my heart, wherein duty serves and loves, turtles and twins, court's brood, a heavenly pair-- happy the heart that thinks of no removes! of no removes! from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). fire that must flame is with apt fuel fed, flowers that will thrive in sunny soil are bred: how can a heart feel heat that no hope finds? or can he love on whom no comfort shines? fair, i confess there's pleasure in your sight; sweet, you have power, i grant, of all delight; but what is all to me if i have none? churl that you are t'enjoy such wealth alone! prayers move the heavens but find no grace with you, yet in your looks a heavenly form i view; then will i pray again, hoping to find, as well as in your looks, heaven in your mind. saint of my heart, queen of my life and love, o let my vows thy loving spirit move! let me no longer mourn through thy disdain, but with one touch of grace cure all my pain! from john wilbye's _first set of english madrigals_, . flora gave me fairest flowers, none so fair in flora's treasure; these i placed on phyllis' bowers, she was pleased, and she my pleasure: smiling meadows seem to say, "come, ye wantons, here to play." from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . follow your saint, follow with accents sweet! haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet! there, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move, and tell the ravisher of my soul i perish for her love: but, if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again. all that i sang still to her praise did tend, still she was first, still she my songs did end; yet she my love and music both doth fly, the music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy: then let my notes pursue her scornful flight! it shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight. from robert jones' _first book of airs_, . {ouk esti gêmas hostis ou cheimazetai, legousi pantes; kai gamousin eidotes.} _anthol. græc._ fond wanton youths make love a god which after proveth age's rod; their youth, their time, their wit, their art they spend in seeking of their smart; and, which of follies is the chief, they woo their woe, they wed their grief. all find it so who wedded are, love's sweets, they find, enfold sour care; his pleasures pleasing'st in the eye, which tasted once with loathing die: they find of follies 'tis the chief, their woe to woo, to wed their grief. if for their own content they choose forthwith their kindred's love they lose; and if their kindred they content, for ever after they repent; o 'tis of all our follies chief, our woe to woo, to wed our grief. in bed, what strifes are bred by day, our puling wives do open lay; none friends, none foes we must esteem but whom they so vouchsafe to deem: o 'tis of all our follies chief, our woe to woo, to wed our grief. their smiles we want if aught they want, and either we their wills must grant or die they will, or are with child; their longings must not be beguiled: o 'tis of all our follies chief, our woe to woo, to wed our grief. foul wives are jealous, fair wives false, marriage to either binds us thrall; wherefore being bound we must obey and forcèd be perforce to say,-- of all our bliss it is the chief, our woe to woo, to wed our grief. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . from citheron the warlike boy is fled and smiling sits upon a virgin's lap,-- thereby to train poor misers to the trap, whom beauty draws with fancy to be fed: and when desire with eager looks is led, then from her eyes the arrow flies, feather'd with flame, arm'd with a golden head. her careless thoughts are freèd of that flame wherewith her thralls are scorchèd to the heart: if love would so, would god the enchanting dart might once return and burn from whence it came! not to deface of beauty's work the frame, but by rebound it might be found what secret smart i suffer by the same. if love be just, then just is my desire; and if unjust, why is he call'd a god? o god, o god, o just! reserve thy rod to chasten those that from thy laws retire! but choose aright (good love! i thee require) the golden head, not that of lead! her heart is frost and must dissolve by fire. from john dowland's _second book of songs and airs_, . to master hugh holland. from fame's desire, from love's delight retired, in these sad groves an hermit's life i lead: and those false pleasures, which i once admired, with sad remembrance of my fall, i dread. to birds, to trees, to earth, impart i this; for she less secret, and as senseless is. o sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! o how much do i love your solitariness! experience which repentance only brings, doth bid me, now, my heart from love estrange! love is disdained when it doth look at kings; and love low placèd base and apt to change. there power doth take from him his liberty, her[e] want of worth makes him in cradle die. o sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! o how much do i love your solitariness! you men that give false worship unto love, and seek that which you never shall obtain; the endless work of sisyphus you prove, whose end is this, to know you strive in vain. hope and desire, which now your idols be, you needs must lose, and feel despair with me. o sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! o how much do i love your solitariness! you woods, in you the fairest nymphs have walked: nymphs at whose sights all hearts did yield to love. you woods, in whom dear lovers oft have talked, how do you now a place of mourning prove? wanstead! my mistress saith this is the doom. thou art love's child-bed, nursery, and tomb. o sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! o how much do i love your solitariness! from thomas campion's _two books of airs_ (circ. ). give beauty all her right! she's not to one form tied; each shape yields fair delight where her perfections bide: helen, i grant, might pleasing be, and ros'mond was as sweet as she. some the quick eye commends, some swelling[ ] lips and red; pale looks have many friends, through sacred sweetness bred: meadows have flowers that pleasures move, though roses are the flowers of love. free beauty is not bound to one unmovèd clime; she visits every ground and favours every time. let the old loves with mine compare, my sovereign is as sweet and fair. [ ] old ed. "smelling." from john dowland's _first book of songs or airs_, . go crystal tears! like to the morning showers, and sweetly weep into thy lady's breast! and as the dews revive the drooping flowers, so let your drops of pity be addrest! to quicken up the thoughts of my desert, which sleeps too sound whilst i from her depart. haste hapless sighs! and let your burning breath dissolve the ice of her indurate heart! whose frozen rigour, like forgetful death, feels never any touch of my desert. yet sighs and tears to her i sacrifice both from a spotless heart and patient eyes. from egerton ms., . _the verses were set to music by dr. john wilson._ go, turn away those cruel eyes, for they have quite undone me; they used not so to tyrannize when first those glances won me. but 'tis the custom of you men,-- false men thus to deceive us! to love but till we love again, and then again to leave us. go, let alone my heart and me, which thou hast thus affrighted! i did not think i could by thee have been so ill requited. but now i find 'tis i must prove that men have no compassion; when we are won, you never love poor women, but for fashion, do recompense my love with hate, and kill my heart! i'm sure thou'lt one day say, when 'tis too late, thou never hadst a truer. from thomas campion's _second book of airs_ (circ. ). good men show! if you can tell, where doth human pity dwell? far and near her i would seek, so vexed with sorrow is my breast. "she," they say, "to all, is meek; and only makes th' unhappy blest." oh! if such a saint there be, some hope yet remains for me: prayer or sacrifice may gain from her implorèd grace, relief; to release me of my pain, or at the least to ease my grief. young am i, and far from guile, the more is my woe the while: falsehood, with a smooth disguise, my simple meaning hath abused: casting mists before mine eyes, by which my senses are confused. fair he is, who vowed to me, that he only mine would be; but alas, his mind is caught with every gaudy bait he sees: and, too late, my flame is taught that too much kindness makes men freeze. from me, all my friends are gone, while i pine for him alone; and not one will rue my case, but rather my distress deride: that i think, there is no place, where pity ever yet did bide. from thomas weelkes' _airs or fantastic spirits_, . ha ha! ha ha! this world doth pass most merrily, i'll be sworn; for many an honest indian ass goes for an unicorn. farra, diddle dino; this is idle fino. ty hye! ty hye! o sweet delight! he tickles this age that can call tullia's ape a marmosyte and leda's goose a swan. farra diddle dino; this is idle fino. so so! so so! fine english days! when false play's no reproach: for he that doth the coachman praise, may safely use the coach. farra diddle dino; this is idle fino. from robert jones's _ultimum vale or third book of airs_ ( ). happy he who, to sweet home retired, shuns glory so admired, and to himself lives free, whilst he who strives with pride to climb the skies falls down with foul disgrace before he rise. let who will the active life commend and all his travels bend earth with his fame to fill: such fame, so forced, at last dies with his death, which life maintain'd by others' idle breath. my delights, to dearest home confined, shall there make good my mind not aw'd with fortune's spites: high trees heaven blasts, winds shake and honors[ ] fell, when lowly plants long time in safety dwell. all i can, my worldly strife shall be they one day say of me 'he died a good old man': on his sad soul a heavy burden lies who, known to all, unknown to himself dies. [ ] qy. "hammers"? from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . happy, o! happy he, who not affecting the endless toils attending worldly cares, with mind reposed, all discontents rejecting, in silent peace his way to heaven prepares, deeming this life a scene, the world a stage whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage. from francis pilkington's _first set of madrigals_, . have i found her? o rich finding! goddess-like for to behold, her fair tresses seemly binding in a chain of pearl and gold. chain me, chain me, o most fair, chain me to thee with that hair! from john mundy's _songs and psalms_, . heigh ho! chill go to plough no more! sit down and take thy rest; of golden groats i have full store to flaunt it with the best. but i love and i love, and who thinks you? the finest lass that e'er you knew, which makes me sing when i should cry heigh ho! for love i die. from john maynard's _twelve wonders of the world_, . the bachelor. how many things as yet are dear alike to me! the field, the horse, the dog, love, arms, or liberty. i have no wife as yet that i may call mine own; i have no children yet that by my name are known. yet, if i married were, i would not wish to thrive if that i could not tame the veriest shrew alive. from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . how shall i then describe my love? when all men's skilful art is far inferior to her worth, to praise the unworthiest part. she's chaste in looks, mild in her speech, in actions all discreet, of nature loving, pleasing most, in virtue all complete. and for her voice a philomel, her lips may all lips scorn; no sun more clear than is her eye, in brightest summer morn. a mind wherein all virtues rest and take delight to be, and where all virtues graft themselves in that most fruitful tree: a tree that india doth not yield, nor ever yet was seen, where buds of virtue always spring, and all the year grow green. that country's blest wherein she grows, and happy is that rock from whence she springs: but happiest he that grafts in such a stock. from henry lichfild's _first set of madrigals_, . i always loved to call my lady rose, for in her cheeks roses do sweetly glose, and from her lips she such sweet odours threw as roses do 'gainst ph[oe]bus' morning-view: but when i thought to pull't, hope was bereft me,-- my rose was gone and naught but prickles left me. from _melismata_, . a wooing song of a yeoman of kent's son. i have house and land in kent, and if you'll love me, love me now; twopence-halfpenny is my rent, i cannot come every day to woo. chorus. _twopence-halfpenny is his rent, and he cannot come every day to woo._ ich am my vather's eldest zonne, my mother eke doth love me well, for ich can bravely clout my shoone, and ich full well can ring a bell. chorus. _for he can bravely clout his shoone, and he full well can ring a bell._ my vather he gave me a hog, my mouther she gave me a zow; i have a god-vather dwels thereby, and he on me bestowed a plow. chorus. _he has a god-vather dwells thereby, and he on him bestowed a plough._ one time i gave thee a paper of pins, another time a tawdry-lace; and if thou wilt not grant me love, in truth ich die bevore thy face. chorus. _and if thou wilt not grant his love, in truth he'll die bevore thy vace._ ich have been twice our whitson-lord, ich have had ladies many vair, and eke thou hast my heart in hold and in my mind zeems passing rare. chorus. _and eke thou hast his heart in hold and in his mind seems passing rare._ ich will put on my best white slops and ich will wear my yellow hose, and on my head a good grey hat, and in't ich stick a lovely rose. chorus. _and on his head a good grey hat, and in't he'll stick a lovely rose._ wherefore cease off, make no delay, and if you'll love me, love me now; or else ich zeek zome oderwhere, for i cannot come every day to woo. chorus. _or else he'll zeek zome oderwhere, for he cannot come every day to woo._ from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs of sadness and piety_, . i joy not in no earthly bliss, i force not cr[oe]sus' wealth a straw; for care i know not what it is i fear not fortune's fatal law: my mind is such as may not move for beauty bright nor force of love. i wish but what i have at will, i wander not to seek for more; i like the plain, i climb no hill; in greatest storms i sit on shore and laugh at them that toil in vain to get what must be lost again. i kiss not where i wish to kill; i feign not love where most i hate; i break no sleep to win my will; i wait not at the mighty's gate; i scorn no poor, nor fear no rich; i feel no want, nor have too much. the court and cart i like nor loath; extremes are counted worst of all; the golden mean between them both doth surest sit and fears no fall. this is my choice: for why? i find no wealth is like the quiet mind. from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . i live, and yet methinks i do not breathe; i thirst and drink, i drink and thirst again; i sleep and yet do dream i am awake; i hope for that i have; i have and want: i sing and sigh; i love and hate at once. o, tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar doth cause in store such want, in peace such war? _risposta._ there is a jewel which no indian mines can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit; it makes men rich in greatest poverty; makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, the homely whistle to sweet music's strain: seldom it come, to few from heaven sent, that much in little, all in nought,--content. from john maynard's _twelve wonders of the world_, . the maid. i marriage would forswear, but that i hear men tell that she that dies a maid must lead an ape in hell. therefore, if fortune come, i will not mock and play nor drive the bargain on till it be driven away. titles and lands i like, yet rather fancy can a man that wanteth gold than gold that wants a man. from john maynard's _twelve wonders of the world_, . the married man. i only am the man among all married men that do not wish the priest, to be unlinked again. and though my shoe did wring i would not make my moan, nor think my neighbours' chance more happy than mine own. yet court i not my wife, but yield observance due, being neither fond nor cross, nor jealous nor untrue. from john dowland's _second book of songs or airs_, . i saw my lady weep, and sorrow proud to be advancèd so in those fair eyes where all perfections keep. her face was full of woe, but such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts than mirth can do with her enticing parts. sorrow was there made fair, and passion wise; tears a delightful thing; silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare; she made her sighs to sing, and all things with so sweet a sadness move as made my heart at once both grieve and love. o fairer than aught else the world can show, leave off in time to grieve. enough, enough; your joyful look excels; tears kill the heart, believe. o strive not to be excellent in woe, which only breeds your beauty's overthrow. from john wilbye's _first set of english madrigals_, . i sung sometime my thoughts and fancy's pleasure, where i did list, or time served best and leisure; while daphne did invite me to supper once, and drank to me to spite me. i smiled, but yet did doubt her, and drank where she had drunk before, to flout her; but, o! while i did eye her, mine eyes drank love, my lips drank burning fire. from orlando gibbons' _first set of madrigals_, . i weigh not fortune's frown nor smile, i joy not much in earthly joys, i seek not state, i reak [_sic_] not style, i am not fond of fancy's toys. i rest so pleased with what i have i wish no more, no more i crave. i tremble not at noise of war, i quake not at the thunder's crack, i shrink not at a blazing star, i sound not at the news of wreck, i fear no loss, i hope no gain, i envy none, i none disdain. i see ambition never pleased, i see some tantals starve in store, i see gold's dropsy seldom eased, i see each midas gape for more: i neither want nor yet abound, enough's a feast, content is crowned. i feign not friendship where i hate, i fawn not on the great for grace, i prize, i praise a mean estate ne yet too lofty, nor too base, this is all my choice, my cheer-- a mind content and conscience clear. from thomas morley's _madrigals to four voices_, . i will no more come to thee that flout'st me when i woo thee; still ty hy thou criest and all my lovely rings and pins denyest. o say, alas, what moves thee to grieve him so that loves thee? leave, alas, then, ah leave tormenting and give my burning some relenting. from robert jones' _first book of songs and airs_, . if fathers knew but how to leave their children wit as they do wealth, and could constrain them to receive that physic which brings perfect health, the world would not admiring stand a woman's face and woman's hand. women confess they must obey, we men will needs be servants still; we kiss their hands, and what they say we must commend, be't ne'er so ill: thus we, like fools, admiring stand her pretty foot and pretty hand. we blame their pride, which we increase by making mountains of a mouse; we praise because we know we please; poor women are too credulous to think that we admiring stand or foot, or face, or foolish hand. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . if i urge my kind desires, she, unkind, doth them reject, women's hearts are painted fires, to deceive them that affect. i alone love's fires include: she alone doth them delude. she hath often vowed her love: but alas no fruit i find. that her fires are false i prove yet, in her, no fault i find. i was thus unhappy born, and ordained to be her scorn. yet if human care or pain, may the heavenly order change; she will hate her own disdain, and repent she was so strange: for a truer heart than i, never lived, nor loved to die. from john dowland's _first book of songs and airs_, . if my complaints could passions move, or make love see wherein i suffer wrong; my passions were enough to prove that my despairs had governed me too long. o love, i live and die in thee! thy wounds do freshly bleed in me. thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks, yet thou dost hope when i despair; my heart for thy unkindness breaks; thou say'st thou can'st my harms repair, and when i hope thou mak'st me hope in vain; yet for redress thou let'st me still complain. can love be rich, and yet i want? is love my judge, and yet am i condemned? thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant; thou made a god, and yet thy power contemned! that i do live, it is thy power; that i desire it is thy worth. if love doth make men's lives too sour, let me not love, nor live henceforth! die shall my hopes, but not my faith, that you, that of my fall may hearers be, may hear despair, which truly saith "i was more true to love, than love to me." from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). if thou long'st so much to learn, sweet boy, what 'tis to love, do but fix thy thoughts on me and thou shalt quickly prove: little suit at first shall win way to thy abashed desire, but then will i hedge thee in, salamander-like, with fire. with thee dance i will, and sing, and thy fond dalliance bear; we the grovy hills will climb and play the wantons there; other whiles we'll gather flowers, lying dallying on the grass; and thus our delightful hours, full of waking dreams, shall pass. when thy joys were thus at height, my love should turn from thee, old acquaintance then should grow as strange, as strange might be: twenty rivals thou shouldst find, breaking all their hearts for me, while to all i'll prove more kind and more forward than to thee. thus thy silly youth, enraged, would soon my love defy, but, alas, poor soul, too late! clipt wings can never fly. those sweet hours which we had past, called to thy mind, thy heart would burn; and couldst thou fly ne'er so fast, they would make thee straight return. from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets and songs_, . 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 long to purchase their goodwill: but when i see how 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, and scorning reason follow after will![ ] who would not shake such buzzards from the fist and let them fly (fair fools!) which way they list? 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, o, what a fool was i!" [ ] so oliphant.--old ed., "scorning after reason to follow will." from william byrd's _psalms, songs, and sonnets_, . in crystal towers and turrets richly set with glitt'ring gems that shine against the sun, in regal rooms of jasper and of jet, content of mind not always likes to won;[ ] but oftentimes it pleaseth her to stay in simple cotes enclosed with walls of clay. [ ] dwell. from john coprario's _funeral tears, etc._, . in darkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be, the roof despair to bar all cheerful light from me, the walls of marble black that moistened still shall weep, my music hellish jarring sounds to banish friendly sleep: thus wedded to my woes, and bedded in my tomb o let me dying live till death doth come. my dainties grief shall be, and tears my poisoned wine, my sighs the air through which my panting heart shall pine, my robes my mind shall suit exceeding blackest night, my study shall be tragic thoughts sad fancy to delight, pale ghosts and frightful shades shall my acquaintance be: o thus, my hapless joy, i haste to thee. from john mundy's _songs and psalms_, . in midst of woods or pleasant grove, where all sweet birds do sing, methought i heard so rare a sound which made the heavens to ring. the charm was good, the noise full sweet, each bird did play his part; and i admired to hear the same, joy sprang into my heart. the black bird made the sweetest sound, whose tunes did far excel; full pleasantly, and most profound was all things placed well. thy pretty tunes, mine own sweet bird, done with so good a grace, extolls thy name, prefers the same abroad in every place. thy music grave, bedeckèd well with sundry points of skill, bewrays thy knowledge excellent ingrafted in thy will. my tongue shall speak, my pen shall write in praise of thee to tell; the sweetest bird that ever was, in friendly sort farewell. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . in pride of may the fields are gay, the birds do sweetly sing. fa la la! so nature would that all things should with joy begin the spring. fa la la! then, lady dear, do you appear in beauty like the spring: fa la la! i dare well say the birds that day more cheerfully will sing. fa la la! from robert jones's _musical dream_, . {pheugein dê ton erôta kenos ponos.}--_archias_. in sherwood lived stout robin hood, an archer great, none greater, his bow and shafts were sure and good, yet cupid's were much better; robin could shoot at many a hart and miss, cupid at first could hit a heart of his. hey, jolly robin hood, ho jolly robin hood, love finds out me as well as thee, to follow me to the green-wood. a noble thief was robin hood, wise was he could deceive him; yet marian in his bravest mood could of his heart bereave him: no greater thief lies hidden under skies, than beauty closely lodged in women's eyes. hey, jolly robin, &c. an outlaw was this robin hood, his life free and unruly, yet to fair marian bound he stood and love's debt paid her duly: whom curb of strictest law could not hold in, love[ ] to obedience with a wink could win. hey, jolly robin, &c. now wend we home, stout robin hood, leave we the woods behind us, love-passions must not be withstood, love everywhere will find us. i lived in field and town, and so did he; i got me to the woods, love followed me. hey, jolly robin, &c. [ ] old ed.,--"love with obeyednes and a winke could winne." from michael este's _madrigals of three, four and five parts_, . (by nicholas breton. originally published in .) in the merry month of may, on a morn by break of day, forth i walk'd by the wood-side, whereas may was in her pride: there i spyèd all alone phillida and corydon. much ado there was, god wot! he would love and she would not. she said, never man was true; he said, none was false to you. he said, he had loved her long; she said, love should have no wrong. corydon would kiss her then; she said, maids must kiss no men till they did for good and all; then she made the shepherd call all the heavens to witness truth never lov'd a truer youth. thus with many a pretty oath, yea and nay, and faith and troth, such as seely shepherds use when they will not love abuse, love, which had been long deluded, was with kisses sweet concluded; and phillida with garlands gay was made the lady of the may. from thomas greaves' _songs of sundry kinds_, . inconstant laura makes me death to crave, for wanting her i must embrace my grave; a little grave will ease my malady and set me free from love's fell tyranny. intomb me then and show her where i lie, and say i died through her inconstancy. from henry lichfild's _first set of madrigals_, . injurious hours, whilst any joy doth bless me, with speedy wings you fly and so release me; but if some sorrow do oppress my heart, you creep as if you never meant to part. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . is love a boy,--what means he then to strike? or is he blind,--why will he be a guide? is he a man,--why doth he hurt his like? is he a god,--why doth he men deride? no one of these, but one compact of all: a wilful boy, a man still dealing blows, of purpose blind to lead men to their thrall, a god that rules unruly--god, he knows. boy, pity me that am a child again; blind, be no more my guide to make me stray; man, use thy might to force away my pain; god, do me good and lead me to my way; and if thou beest a power to me unknown, power of my life, let here thy grace be shown. from _melismata_, . the marriage of the frog and the mouse. it was the frog in the well, humbledum, humbledum, and the merry mouse in the mill, tweedle, tweedle, twino. the frog would a wooing ride sword and buckler by his side. when he upon his high horse set, his boots they shone as black as jet. when he came to the merry mill-pin,-- "lady mouse, been you within?" then came out the dusty mouse: "i am lady of this house: hast thou any mind of me?" "i have e'en great mind of thee?" "who shall this marriage make?" "our lord which is the rat," "what shall we have to our supper?" "three beans in a pound of butter?" when supper they were at, the frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat; then came in gib our cat, and catched the mouse e'en by the back. then did they separate, and the frog leaped on the floor so flat. then came in dick our drake, and drew the frog e'en to the lake. the rat run up the wall, humbledum, humbledum; a goodly company, the devil go with all! tweedle tweedle twino. from thomas campion's _two books of airs_ (circ. ). jack and joan, they think no ill, but loving live, and merry still; do their week-days' work, and pray devoutly on the holy day: skip and trip it on the green, and help to choose the summer queen; lash out at a country feast their silver penny with the best. well can they judge of nappy ale, and tell at large a winter tale; climb up to the apple loft, and turn the crabs till they be soft. tib is all the father's joy, and little tom the mother's boy. all their pleasure is content; and care, to pay their yearly rent. joan can call by name her cows and deck her windows with green boughs; she can wreaths and tutties[ ] make, and trim with plums a bridal cake. jack knows what brings gain or loss; and his long flail can stoutly toss: makes the hedge which others break, and ever thinks what he doth speak. now, you courtly dames and knights, that study only strange delights; though you scorn the homespun gray and revel in your rich array; though your tongues dissemble deep, and can your heads from danger keep; yet, for all your pomp and train, securer lives the silly swain. [ ] nosegays. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). kind are her answers, but her performance keeps no day; breaks time, as dancers, from their own music when they stray. all her free favours and smooth words wing my hopes in vain. o, did ever voice so sweet but only feign? can true love yield such delay, converting joy to pain? lost is our freedom when we submit to women so: why do we need 'em when, in their best, they work our woe? there is no wisdom can alter ends by fate prefixt. o, why is the good of man with evil mixt? never were days yet callèd two but one night went betwixt. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . kind in unkindness, when will you relent and cease with faint love true love to torment? still entertained, excluded still i stand; her glove still hold, but cannot touch the hand. in her fair hand my hopes and comforts rest: o might my fortunes with that hand be blest! no envious breaths then my deserts could shake, for they are good whom such true love doth make. o let not beauty so forget her birth that it should fruitless home return to earth! love is the fruit of beauty, then love one! not your sweet self, for such self-love is none. love one that only lives in loving you; whose wronged deserts would you with pity view, this strange distaste which your affection sways would relish love, and you find better days. thus till my happy sight your beauty views, whose sweet remembrance still my hope renews, let these poor lines solicit love for me, and place my joys where my desires would be. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of five and six parts_, . lady, the birds right fairly are singing ever early; the lark, the thrush, the nightingale, the make-sport cuckoo and the quail. these sing of love! then why sleep ye? to love your sleep it may not be. from thomas greaves' _songs of sundry kinds_, . lady, the melting crystal of your eye like frozen drops upon your cheeks did lie; mine eye was dancing on them with delight, and saw love's flames within them burning bright, which did mine eye entice to play with burning ice; but o, my heart thus sporting with desire, my careless eye did set my heart on fire. o that a drop from such a sweet fount flying should flame like fire and leave my heart a-dying! i burn, my tears can never drench it till in your eyes i bathe my heart and quench it: but there, alas, love with his fire lies sleeping, and all conspire to burn my heart with weeping. from john wilbye's _madrigals_, . lady, when i behold the roses sprouting, which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, and then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, my eyes present me with a double doubting: for viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes whether the roses be your lips or your lips [be] the roses. from j. danyel's _songs for the lute, viol and voice_, . let not chloris think, because she hath unvassel'd me, that her beauty can give laws to others that are free: i was made to be the prey and booty of her eyes! in my bosom, she may say. her greatest kingdom lies. though others may her brow adore, yet more must i that therein see far more than any other's eyes have power to see; she is to me more than to any others she can be. i can discern more secret notes that in the margin of her cheeks love quotes than any else besides have art to read; no looks proceed from those fair eyes but to me wonder breed. o then why should she fly from him to whom her sight doth add so much above her might? why should not she still joy to reign in me? from william byrd's _psalms, songs and sonnets_, . let not the sluggish sleep close up thy waking eye, until with judgment deep thy daily deeds thou try: he that one sin in conscience keeps when he to quiet goes, more vent'rous is than he that sleeps with twenty mortal foes. from george mason's and john earsden's _airs that were sung and played at brougham castle in westmoreland in the king's entertainment given by the earl of cumberland_, . let us in a lovers' round circle all this hallowed ground; softly, softly trip and go, the light-foot fairies jet it so. forward then, and back again, here and there and everywhere, winding to and fro, skipping high and louting low; and, like lovers, hand in hand, march around and make a stand. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of six parts_, . like two proud armies marching in the field,-- joining a thund'ring fight, each scorns to yield,-- so in my heart your beauty and my reason: one claims the crown, the other says 'tis treason. but oh! your beauty shineth as the sun; and dazzled reason yields as quite undone. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals to three, four, five and six voices_, . lo! country sport that seldom fades; a garland of the spring, a prize for dancing, country maids with merry pipes we bring. then all at once _for our town_ cries! pipe on, for we will have the prize. from thomas campion's _two books of airs_ (circ. ). lo, when back mine eye pilgrim-like i cast, what fearful ways i spie which, blinded, i securely passed! but now heaven hath drawn from my brows that night; as when the day doth dawn, so clears my long-imprisoned sight. straight the caves of hell dressed with flowers i see, wherein false pleasures dwell, that, winning most, most deadly be. throngs of maskèd fiends, winged like angels, fly; even in the gates of friends, in fair disguise black dangers lie. straight to heaven i raised my restorèd sight, and with loud voice i praised the lord of ever-during light. and since i had strayed from his ways so wide, his grace i humbly prayed henceforth to be my guard and guide. from john maynard's _twelve wonders of the world_, . the courtier. long have i lived in court, yet learned not all this while to sell poor suiters smoke, nor where i hate to smile; superiors to adore, inferiors to despise, to flie from such as fall, to follow such as rise: to cloak a poor desire under a rich array, nor to aspire by vice, though 'twere the quicker way. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . love is a bable, no man is able to say 'tis this or 'tis that; so full of passions of sundry fashions, 'tis like i cannot tell what. love's fair in the cradle, foul in the fable, 'tis either too cold or too hot; an arrant liar, fed by desire, it is and yet it is not. love is a fellow clad oft in yellow,[ ] the canker-worm of the mind, a privy mischief, and such a sly thief no man knows which way to find. love is a wonder that's here and yonder, as common to one as to moe; a monstrous cheater, every man's debtor; hang him and so let him go. [ ] the colour of jealousy. from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . love not me for comely grace, for my pleasing eye or face, nor for any outward part: no, nor for a constant heart! for these may fail or turn to ill: so thou and i shall sever. keep therefore a true woman's eye, and love me still, but know not why! so hast thou the same reason still to doat upon me ever. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . love's god is a boy, none but cowherds regard him, his dart is a toy, great opinion hath marred him: the fear of the wag hath made him so brag; chide him, he'll flie thee and not come nigh thee. little boy, pretty knave, shoot not at random, for if you hit me, slave, i'll tell your grandam. fond love is a child and his compass is narrow, young fools are beguiled with the fame of his arrow; he dareth not strike if his stroke do mislike: cupid, do you hear me? come not too near me. little boy, pretty knave, hence i beseech you, for if you hit me, knave, in faith i'll breech you. th' ape loves to meddle when he finds a man idle, else is he a-flirting where his mark is a-courting; when women grow true come teach me to sue, then i'll come to thee pray thee and woo thee. little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger, for if you hit me, knave, i'll call thee, beggar. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly far from base earth, but not to mount too high; for true pleasure lives in measure, which if men forsake, blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take. but my vain hopes, proud of their new-taught flight, enamoured sought to woo the sun's fair light, whose rich brightness moved their lightness to aspire so high that all scorched and consumed with fire now drown'd in woe they lie. and none but love their woeful hap did rue, for love did know that their desires were true; though fate frownèd, and now drownèd they in sorrow dwell, it was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). "maids are simple," some men say, "they forsooth will trust no men." but should they men's wills obey, maids were very simple then. truth a rare flower now is grown, few men wear it in their hearts; lovers are more easily known by their follies than deserts. safer may we credit give to a faithless wandering jew, than a young man's vows believe when he swears his love is true. love they make a poor blind child, but let none trust such as he; rather than to be beguiled, ever let me simple be. from _melismata_, . the bellman's song. maids to bed and cover coal; let the mouse out of her hole; crickets in the chimney sing whilst the little bell doth ring; if fast asleep, who can tell when the clapper hits the bell? from martin peerson's _mottects or grave chamber-music_, . more than most fair, full of all heavenly fire, kindled above to shew the maker's glory; beauty's first-born, in whom all powers conspire to write the graces' life and muses' story; if in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd, honour the shrine where you alone are placèd. thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits, true character of honour in perfection, thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits, and glorious prison of men's pure affection: if in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd honour the shrine where you alone are placèd. from thomas vautor's _songs of divers airs and natures_, . mother, i will have a husband, and i will have him out of hand! mother, i will sure have one in spite of her that will have none. john-a-dun should have had me long ere this: he said i had good lips to kiss. mother, i will sure have one in spite of her that will have none. for i have heard 'tis trim when folks do love; by good sir john i swear now i will prove. for, mother, i will sure have one in spite of her that will have none. to the town, therefore, will i gad to get me a husband, good or bad. mother, i will sure have one in spite of her that will have none. from michael este's _madrigals of three, four and five parts_, . my hope a counsel with my heart hath long desired to be, and marvels much so dear a friend is not retain'd by me. she doth condemn my haste in passing the estate of my whole life into their hands who nought repays but hate: and not sufficed with this, she says, i did release the right of my enjoyèd liberties unto your beauteous sight. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . my love bound me with a kiss that i should no longer stay; when i felt so sweet a bliss i had less power to part away: alas, that women doth not know kisses make men loath to go. yes, she knows it but too well, for i heard when venus' dove in her ear did softly tell that kisses were the seals of love: o muse not then though it be so, kisses make men loath to go. wherefore did she thus inflame my desires heat my blood, instantly to quench the same and starve whom she had given food? i the common sense can show, kisses make men loath to go. had she bid me go at first it would ne'er have grieved my heart, hope delayed had been the worst; but ah to kiss and then to part! how deep it struck, speak, gods, you know kisses make men loath to go. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . my love is neither young nor old, not fiery-hot nor frozen-cold, but fresh and fair as springing briar blooming the fruit of love's desire; not snowy-white nor rosy-red, but fair enough for shepherd's bed; and such a love was never seen on hill or dale or country-green. from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs_, . my mind to me a kingdom is: such perfect joy therein i find that it excels all other bliss that god or nature hath assigned. though much i want, that most would have, yet still my mind forbids to crave. no princely port, nor wealthy store, no force to win a victory, no wily wit to salve a sore, no shape to win a loving eye; to none of these i yield as thrall! for why? my mind despise them all. i see that plenty surfeits oft, and hasty climbers soonest fall; i see that such as are aloft, mishap doth threaten most of all. these get with toil, and keep with fear: such cares my mind can never bear. i press to bear no haughty sway, i wish no more than may suffice, i do no more, than well i may; look, what i want, my mind supplies. lo, thus i triumph like a king, my mind content with any thing. i laugh not at another's loss, nor grudge not at another's gain. no worldly waves my mind can toss, i brook that is another's bane; i fear no foe, nor fawn on friend, i loathe not life nor dread mine end. my wealth is health and perfect ease; and conscience clear my chief defence; i never seek by bribes to please, nor by desert to give offence, thus do i live, thus will i die: would all did so as well as i! from john mundy's _songs and psalms_, . my prime of youth is but a frost of cares! my feast of joy is but a dish of pain! my crop of corn is but a field of tares! and all my good is but vain hope of gain! my life is fled, and yet i saw no sun! and now i live, and now my life is done! the spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung! the fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green! my youth is gone, and yet i am but young! i saw the world and yet i was not seen! my thread is cut, and yet it is not spun! and now i live, and now my life is done. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . _vivamus, mea lesbia, atque amemus._ my sweetest lesbia, let us live and love, and though the sager sort our deeds reprove let us not weigh them. heaven's great lamps do dive into their west, and straight again revive; but, soon as once is set our little light, then must we sleep one ever-during night. if all would lead their lives in love like me, then bloody swords and armour should not be; no drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, unless alarm came from the camp of love: but fools do live and waste their little light, and seek with pain their ever-during night. when timely death my life and fortunes ends, let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends; but let all lovers, rich in triumph, come and with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb: and, lesbia, close up thou my little light and crown with love my ever-during night. from john dowland's _first book of songs or airs_, . my thoughts are winged with hopes, my hopes with love: mount love unto the moon in clearest night, and say, as she doth in the heavens move, in earth so wanes and waxeth my delight: and whisper this, but softly, in her ears, "hope oft doth hang the head and trust shed tears." and you, my thoughts, that some mistrust do carry, if for mistrust my mistress do you blame, say, though you alter, yet you do not vary, as she doth change and yet remain the same; distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect, and love is sweetest seasoned with suspect. if she for this with clouds do mask her eyes and make the heavens dark with her disdain, with windy sighs disperse them in the skies or with thy tears dissolve them into rain. thoughts, hopes, and love, return to me no more till cynthia shine as she hath done before. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). never love unless you can bear with all the faults of man: men sometimes will jealous be though but little cause they see; and hang the head as discontent, and speak what straight they will repent. men that but one saint adore make a show of love to more; beauty must be scorned in none, though but truly served in one: for what is courtship but disguise? true hearts may have dissembling eyes. men, when their affairs require, must awhile themselves retire; sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk, and not ever sit and talk: if these and such-like you can bear, then like, and love, and never fear! from john farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . (verses by samuel daniel.) now each creature joys the other, passing happy days and hours: one bird reports unto another by the fall of silver showers; whilst the earth, our common mother, hath her bosom decked with flowers. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals_, . now every tree renews his summer's green, why is your heart in winter's garments clad? your beauty says my love is summer's queen, but your cold love like winter makes me sad: then either spring with buds of love again or else congeal my thoughts with your disdain. from _pammelia_, . now god be with old simeon, for he made cans for many-a-one, and a good old man was he; and jinkin was his journeyman, and he could tipple of every can, and thus he said to me: "to whom drink you?" "sir knave, to you." then hey-ho, jolly jinkin! i spie a knave in drinking. from robert jones' _ultimum vale or third book of airs_ ( ). now have i learn'd with much ado at last by true disdain to kill desire; this was the mark at which i shot so fast, unto this height i did aspire: proud love, now do thy worst and spare not, for thee and all thy shafts i care not. what hast thou left wherewith to move my mind, what life to quicken dead desire? i count thy words and oaths as light as wind, i feel no heat in all thy fire: go, change thy bow and get a stronger, go, break thy shafts and buy thee longer. in vain thou bait'st thy hook with beauty's blaze, in vain thy wanton eyes allure; these are but toys for them that love to gaze, i know what harm thy looks procure: some strange conceit must be devised, or thou and all thy skill despised. from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . now i see thy looks were feignèd quickly lost, and quickly gainèd; soft thy skin, like wool of wethers, heart inconstant, light as feathers, tongue untrusty, subtle sighted, wanton will with change delighted. siren, pleasant foe to reason, cupid plague thee for thy treason! of thine eye i made my mirror, from thy beauty came my error, all thy words i counted witty, all thy sighs i deemèd pity, thy false tears, that me aggrievèd first of all my trust deceivèd. siren, pleasant foe to reason, cupid plague thee for thy treason! feigned acceptance when i askèd, lovely words with cunning maskèd, holy vows, but heart unholy; wretched man, my trust was folly; lily white, and pretty winking, solemn vows but sorry thinking. siren, pleasant foe to reason, cupid plague thee for thy treason! now i see, o seemly cruel, others warm them at my fuel, wit shall guide me in this durance since in love is no assurance: change thy pasture, take thy pleasure, beauty is a fading treasure. siren, pleasant foe to reason, cupid, plague thee for thy treason! prime youth lasts not, age will follow and make white those tresses yellow; wrinkled face, for looks delightful, shall acquaint the dame despiteful. and when time shall date thy glory, then too late thou wilt be sorry. siren, pleasant foe to reason, cupid plague thee for thy treason! from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . now is my chloris fresh as may, clad all in green and flowers gay. fa la la! o might i think august were near that harvest joy might soon appear. fa la la! but she keeps may throughout the year, and august never comes the near. fa la la! yet will i hope, though she be may, august will come another day. fa la la! from thomas morley's _first book of ballets_, . now is the month of maying, when merry lads are playing each with his bonny lass upon the greeny grass. fa la la! the spring clad all in gladness doth laugh at winter's sadness, and to the bagpipe's sound the nymphs tread out their ground. fa la la! fie then, why sit we musing, youth's sweet delight refusing? say, dainty nymphs, and speak, shall we play barley-break. fa la la! from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). now let her change! and spare not! since she proves strange, i care not! feigned love charmed so my delight, that still i doted on her sight. but she is gone! new joys embracing, and my distress disgracing. when did i err in blindness? or vex her with unkindness? if my cares served her alone, why is she thus untimely gone? true love abides to th' hour of dying: false love is ever flying. false! then farewell for ever! once false proves faithful never! he that boasts now of thy love, shall soon, my present fortunes prove were he as fair as bright adonis: faith is not had where none is! from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of five and six parts_, now let us make a merry greeting and thank god cupid for our meeting: my heart is full of joy and pleasure since thou art here, mine only treasure. now will we dance and sport and play and sing a merry roundelay. from robert jones's _second book of airs_, . (attributed to sir walter raleigh.) now what is love, i pray thee tell? it is that fountain and that well where pleasures and repentance dwell; it is perhaps that sancing-bell[ ] that tolls all in to heaven or hell: and this is love, as i hear tell. now what is love, i pray thee say? it is a work on holyday, it is december matched with may, when lusty bloods in fresh array hear ten months after of their play: and this is love, as i hear say. now what is love, i pray thee feign? it is a sunshine mixed with rain, it is a gentle pleasing pain, a flower that dies and springs again, it is a no that would full fain: and this is love as i hear sain. yet what is love, i pray thee say? it is a pretty shady way as well found out by night as day, it is a thing will soon decay; then take the vantage whilst you may: and this is love, as i hear say. now what is love, i pray thee show? a thing that creeps, it cannot go, a prize that passeth to and fro, a thing for one, a thing for mo, and he that proves shall find it so: and this is love, as i well know. [ ] saint's-bell; the little bell that called to prayers. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). now winter nights enlarge the number of their hours, and clouds their storms discharge upon the airy towers. let now the chimneys blaze, and cups o'erflow with wine; let well-tuned words amaze with harmony divine. now yellow waxen lights shall wait on honey love, while youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights sleep's leaden spells remove. this time doth well dispense with lovers' long discourse; much, speech hath some defence though beauty no remorse. all do not all things well; some measures comely tread, some knotted riddles tell, some poems smoothly read. the summer hath his joys and winter his delights; though love and all his pleasures are but toys, they shorten tedious nights. from john ward's _first set of english madrigals_, . o say, dear life, when shall these twin-born berries, so lovely-ripe, by my rude lips be tasted? shall i not pluck (sweet, say not _nay_) those cherries? o let them not with summer's heat be blasted. nature, thou know'st, bestow'd them free on thee; then be thou kind--bestow them free on me. from john farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . o stay, sweet love; see here the place of sporting; these gentle flowers smile sweetly to invite us, and chirping birds are hitherwards resorting, warbling sweet notes only to delight us: then stay, dear love, for though thou run from me, run ne'er so fast, yet i will follow thee. i thought, my love, that i should overtake you; sweet heart, sit down under this shadowed tree, and i will promise never to forsake you, so you will grant to me a lover's fee. whereat she smiled and kindly to me said-- i never meant to live and die a maid. from thomas morley's _madrigals_, . o sweet, alas, what say you? ay me, that face discloses the scarlet blush of sweet vermilion roses. and yet, alas, i know not if such a crimson staining be for love or disdaining; but if of love it grow not, be it disdain conceivèd to see us of love's fruits so long bereavèd. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). o sweet delight, o more than human bliss with her to live that ever loving is! to hear her speak whose words are so well placed that she by them, as they by her are graced! those looks to view that feast the viewer's eye, how blest is he that may so live and die! such love as this the golden times did know, when all did reap and none took care to sow; such love as this an endless summer makes, and all distaste from frail affection takes. so loved, so blest in my beloved am i: which till their eyes ache let iron men envy! from robert jones' _ultimum vale or third book of airs_ ( ). oft have i mused the cause to find why love in lady's eyes should dwell; i thought, because himself was blind, he look'd that they should guide him well: and sure his hope but seldom fails, for love by ladies' eyes prevails. but time at last hath taught me wit, although i bought my wit full dear; for by her eyes my heart is hit, deep is the wound though none appear: their glancing beams as darts he throws, and sure he hath no shafts but those. i mused to see their eyes so bright, and little thought they had been fire; i gazed upon them with delight, but that delight hath bred desire: what better place can love desire than that where grow both shafts and fire? from john attye's _first book of airs_, . on a time the amorous silvy said to her shepherd, 'sweet, how do you? kiss me this once, and then god be wi' you, my sweetest dear! kiss me this once and then god be wi' you, for now the morning draweth near.' with that, her fairest bosom showing, opening her lips, rich perfumes blowing, she said, 'now kiss me and be going, my sweetest dear! kiss me this once and then be going, for now the morning draweth near.' with that the shepherd waked from sleeping, and, spying where the day was peeping, he said, 'now take my soul in keeping, my sweetest dear! kiss me, and take my soul in keeping, since i must go, now day is near.' from robert jones' _first book of songs and airs_, . once did i love and yet i live, though love and truth be now forgotten; then did i joy, now do i grieve that holy vows must now be broken. hers be the blame that caused it so, mine be the grief though it be mickle;[ ] she shall have shame, i cause to know what 'tis to love a dame so fickle. love her that list, i am content for that chameleon-like she changeth, yielding such mists as may prevent my sight to view her when she rangeth. let him not vaunt that gains my loss, for when that he and time hath proved her, she may him bring to weeping-cross: i say no more, because i loved her. [ ] old ed., "little" from henry youll's _canzonets to three voices_, . once i thought to die for love, till i found that women prove traitors in their smiling: they say men unconstant be, but they themselves jove change, we see, and all is but beguiling. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals_, our country-swains in the morris dance thus woo and win their brides, will for our town the hobby horse at pleasure frolic rides: i woo with tears and ne'er the near, i die in grief and live in fear. from giles farnaby's _canzonets_, . pierce did love fair petronel because she sang and dancèd well and gallantly could prank it; he pulled her and he haul'd her and oftentimes he call'd her primrose pearls prick'd in a blanket. from francis pilkington's _first set of madrigals and pastorals_, . pour forth, mine eyes, the fountains of your tears; break, heart, and die, for now no hope appears; hope, upon which before my thoughts were fed, hath left me quite forlorn and from me fled. yet, see, she smiles! o see, some hope appears! hold, heart, and live; mine eyes, cease off your tears. from _airs sung and played at brougham castle_, , by george mason and john earsden. robin is a lovely lad, no lass a smoother ever had; tommy hath a look as bright as is the rosy morning light; tib is dark and brown of hue, but like her colour firm and true; jenny hath a lip to kiss wherein a spring of nectar is; simkin well his mirth can place and words to win a woman's grace; sib is all in all to me, there is no queen of love but she. from thomas ravenscroft's _brief discourse_, . the satyrs' dance. round-a, round-a, keep your ring: to the glorious sun we sing,-- ho, ho! he that wears the flaming rays, and th' imperial crown of bays, him with shouts and songs we praise-- ho, ho! that in his bounty he'd vouchsafe to grace the humble sylvans and their shaggy race. from thomas morley's _canzonets_, . see, see, mine own sweet jewel, what i have for my darling: a robin-redbreast and a starling. these i give both in hope to move thee; yet thou say'st i do not love thee. from william corkine's _airs_, . shall a frown or angry eye, shall a word unfitly placèd, shall a shadow make me flie as if i were with tigers chasèd? love must not be so disgracèd. shall i woo her in despight? shall i turn her from her flying? shall i tempt her with delight? shall i laugh at her denying? no: beware of lovers' crying. shall i then with patient mind still attend her wayward pleasure? time will make her prove more kind, let her coyness then take leisure: she is worthy such a treasure. from richard alison's _an hours recreation in music_, . shall i abide this jesting? i weep, and she's a-feasting! o cruel fancy, that so doth blind me to love one that doth not mind me! can i abide this prancing? i weep, and she's a-dancing! o cruel fancy, so to betray me! thou goest about to slay me. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). shall i come, sweet love, to thee when the evening beams are set? shall i not excluded be, will you find no feignèd let? let me not, for pity, more tell the long hours at your door. who can tell what thief or foe, in the covert of the night, for his prey will work my woe, or through wicked foul despite? so may i die unredrest ere my long love be possest. but to let such dangers pass, which a lover's thoughts disdain, 'tis enough in such a place to attend love's joys in vain: do not mock me in thy bed, while these cold nights freeze me dead. from robert jones' _ultimum vale or third book of airs_ ( ). shall i look to ease my grief? no, my sight is lost with eying: shall i speak and beg relief? no, my voice is hoarse with crying: what remains but only dying? love and i of late did part, but the boy, my peace envying, like a parthian threw his dart backward, and did wound me flying: what remains but only dying? she whom then i lookèd on, my remembrance beautifying, stays with me though i am gone, gone and at her mercy lying: what remains but only dying? shall i try her thoughts and write? no i have no means of trying: if i should, yet at first sight she would answer with denying: what remains but only dying? thus my vital breath doth waste, and, my blood with sorrow drying, sighs and tears make life to last for a while, their place supplying: what remains but only dying? from robert jones' _first book of airs_, . she whose matchless beauty staineth what best judgment fair'st maintaineth, she, o she, my love disdaineth. can a creature, so excelling, harbour scorn in beauty's dwelling, all kind pity thence expelling? pity beauty much commendeth and th' embracer oft befriendeth when all eye-contentment endeth. time proves beauty transitory; scorn, the stain of beauty's glory, in time makes the scorner sorry. none adores the sun declining; love all love falls to resigning when the sun of love leaves shining. so, when flower of beauty fails thee, and age, stealing on, assails thee, then mark what this scorn avails thee. then those hearts, which now complaining feel the wounds of thy disdaining, shall contemn thy beauty waning. yea, thine own heart, now dear-prizèd, shall with spite and grief surprisèd burst to find itself despisèd. when like harms have them requited who in others' harms delighted, pleasingly the wrong'd are righted. such revenge my wrongs attending, hope still lives on time depending, by thy plagues thy torrents ending. from thomas morley's _first book of ballets to five voices_, . shoot, false love! i care not; spend thy shafts and spare not! fa la la! i fear not, i, thy might, and less i weigh thy spite; all naked i unarm me,-- if thou canst, now shoot and harm me! so lightly i esteem thee as now a child i dream thee. fa la la la! long thy bow did fear[ ] me, while thy pomp did blear me; fa la la! but now i do perceive thy art is to deceive; and every simple lover all thy falsehood can discover. then weep, love! and be sorry, for thou hast lost thy glory. fa la la la! [ ] frighten. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_, (circ. ). silly boy! 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly; had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love so dearly. shortly wilt thou mourn when all thy pleasures be bereavèd, little knows he how to love that never was deceivèd. this is thy first maiden-flame that triumphs yet unstainèd, all is artless now you speak, not one word is feignèd; all is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessèd, but no spring can want his fall, each troilus hath his cressid. thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected, and thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected; much then wilt thou blame thy saint, that made thy heart so holy and with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly. yet be just and constant still, love may beget a wonder, not unlike a summer's frost or winter's fatal thunder: he that holds his sweetheart true unto his day of dying, lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the envying. from giles farnaby's _canzonets_, . simkin said that sis was fair, and that he meant to love her; he set her on his ambling mare,-- all this he did to prove her. when they came home sis floted cream and poured it through a strainer, but sware that simkin should have none because he did disdain her. from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . since first i saw your face i resolved to honour and renown ye, if now i be disdained i wish my heart had never known ye. what? i that loved and you that liked shall we begin to wrangle? no, no no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle. if i admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me or if my hands had strayed but a touch, then justly might you leave me. i asked you leave, you bade me love; is't now a time to chide me? no no no, i'll love you still what fortune e'er betide me. the sun whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder, and your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder, where beauty moves, and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me there, o there! where'er i go i'll leave my heart behind me. from thomas morley's _first book of ballets_, . sing we and chant it while love doth grant it. fa la la! not long youth lasteth, and old age hasteth. fa la la! now is best leisure to take our pleasure. fa la la! all things invite us now to delight us. fa la la! hence care be packing, no mirth be lacking. fa la la! let spare no treasure to live in pleasure. fa la la! from thomas bateson's _first set of english madrigals_, . sister, awake! close not your eyes! the day her light discloses, and the bright morning doth arise out of her bed of roses. see, the clear sun, the world's bright eye, in at our window peeping: lo! how he blusheth to espy us idle wenches sleeping. therefore, awake! make haste, i say, and let us, without staying, all in our gowns of green so gay into the park a-maying. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me! for who a sleeping lion dares provoke? it shall suffice me here to sit and see those lips shut up that never kindly spoke: what sight can more content a lover's mind than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind? my words have charmed her, for secure she sleeps, though guilty much of wrong done to my love; and in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps: dreams often more than waking passions move. plead, sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee: that she in peace may wake and pity me. from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . so light is love, in matchless beauty shining, when he revisits cypris' hallowed bowers, two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining, can draw his chariot midst the paphian flowers, lightness in love! how ill it fitteth! so heavy on my heart he sitteth. from william corkine's _airs_, . some can flatter, some can feign, simple truth shall plead for me; let not beauty truth disdain, truth is even as fair as she. but since pairs must equal prove, let my strength her youth oppose, love her beauty, faith her love; on even terms so may we close. cork or lead in equal weight both one just proportion yield, so may breadth be peis'd[ ] with height, steepest mount with plainest field. virtues have not all one kind, yet all virtues merit be, divers virtues are combined; differing so, deserts agree. let then love and beauty meet, making one divine concent constant as the sounds and sweet, that enchant the firmament. [ ] balanced. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . sweet, come again! your happy sight, so much desired since you from hence are now retired, i seek in vain: still i must mourn, and pine in longing pain, till you, my life's delight, again vouchsafe your wish'd return. if true desire, or faithful vow of endless love, thy heart inflamed may kindly move with equal fire; o then my joys, so long distraught, shall rest, reposèd soft in thy chaste breast, exempt from all annoys. you had the power my wand'ring thoughts first to restrain, you first did hear my love speak plain; a child before, now it is grown confirmed, do you it[ ] keep! and let 't safe in your bosom sleep, there ever made your own! and till we meet, teach absence inward art to find, both to disturb and please the mind! such thoughts are sweet: and such remain in hearts whose flames are true; then such will i retain, till you to me return again. [ ] old ed. "do you keep it." from william corkine's _airs_, . sweet cupid, ripen her desire, thy joyful harvest may begin; if age approach a little nigher, 'twill be too late to get it in. cold winter storms lay standing corn, which once too ripe will never rise, and lovers wish themselves unborn, when all their joys lie in their eyes. then, sweet, let us embrace and kiss: shall beauty shale[ ] upon the ground? if age bereave us of this bliss, then will no more such sport be found. [ ] shell, husk (as peas). from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . sweet heart, arise! why do you sleep when lovers wanton sports do keep? the sun doth shine, the birds do sing, and may delight and joy doth bring: then join we hands and dance till night, 'tis pity love should want his right. from robert jones' _musical dream_, . sweet kate of late ran away and left me plaining. abide! (i cried) or i die with thy disdaining. te hee, quoth she; make no fool of me; men, i know, have oaths at pleasure, but, their hopes attainèd, they bewray they feignèd, and their oaths are kept at leisure. unkind, i find thy delight is in tormenting: abide! (i cried) or i die with thy consenting. te hee, quoth she, make no fool of me; men, i know, have oaths at pleasure, but, their hopes attainèd, they bewray they feignèd, and their oaths are kept at leisure. her words, like swords, cut my sorry heart in sunder, her flouts with doubts kept my heart-affections under. te hee, quoth she, what a fool is he stands in awe of once denying! cause i had enough to become more rough, so i did--o happy trying! from john wilbye's _madrigals_, . sweet love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory, subdue her heart who makes me glad and sorry; out of thy golden quiver, take thou thy strongest arrow that will through bone and marrow, and me and thee of grief and fear deliver: but come behind, for, if she look upon thee, alas! poor love, then thou art woe-begone thee. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . sweet love, i will no more abuse thee, nor with my voice accuse thee; but tune my notes unto thy praise and tell the world love ne'er decays. sweet love doth concord ever cherish: what wanteth concord soon must perish. from robert jones' _ultimum vale, or third book of airs_ ( ). sweet love, my only treasure, for service long unfeignèd wherein i nought have gainèd, vouchsafe this little pleasure, to tell me in what part my lady keeps her heart. if in her hair so slender, like golden nets entwinèd which fire and art have finèd, her thrall my heart i render for ever to abide with locks so dainty tied. if in her eyes she bind it, wherein that fire was framèd by which it is inflamèd, i dare not look to find it: i only wish it sight to see that pleasant light. but if her breast have deignèd with kindness to receive it, i am content to leave it though death thereby were gainèd: then, lady, take your own that lives by you alone. from john dowland's _pilgrim's solace_, . (the first stanza is found in a poem of donne.) sweet, stay awhile; why will you rise? the light you see comes from your eyes; the day breaks not, it is my heart, to think that you and i must part. o stay! or else my joys must die and perish in their infancy. dear, let me die in this fair breast, far sweeter than the ph[oe]nix nest. love raise desire by his sweet charms within this circle of thine arms! and let thy blissful kisses cherish mine infant joys that else must perish. from thomas vautor's _songs of divers airs and natures_, . _tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o._ sweet suffolk owl, so trimly dight with feathers like a lady bright, thou sing'st alone, sitting by night, te whit, te whoo! thy note, that forth so freely rolls, with shrill command the mouse controls, and sings a dirge for dying souls, te whit, te whoo! from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of five and six parts_, . take here my heart, i give it thee for ever! no better pledge can love to love deliver. fear not, my dear, it will not fly away, for hope and love command my heart to stay. but if thou doubt, desire will make it range: love but my heart, my heart will never change. from farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . take time while time doth last, mark how fair fadeth fast; beware if envy reign, take heed of proud disdain; hold fast now in thy youth, regard thy vowèd truth, lest, when thou waxeth old, friends fail and love grow cold. from _deuteromelia_, . the fly she sat in shamble-row and shambled with her heels i trow; and then came in sir cranion with legs so long and many a one; and said "jove speed, dame fly, dame fly": "marry, you be welcome, sir," quoth she: "the master humble bee hath sent me to thee to wit and if you will his true love be." but she said "nay, that may not be, for i must have the butterfly, for and a greater lord there may not be." but at the last consent did she. and there was bid to this wedding all flies in the field and worms creeping. the snail she came crawling all over the plain, with all her jolly trinkets in her train. ten bees there came, all clad in gold, and all the rest did them behold; but the thornbud refused this sight to see, and to a cow-plat away flies she. but where now shall this wedding be?-- for and hey-nonny-no in an old ivy-tree. and where now shall we bake our bread?-- for and hey-nonny-no in an old horse-head. and where now shall we brew our ale?-- but even within one walnut-shale. and also where shall we our dinner make?-- but even upon a galled horse-back: for there we shall have good company with humbling and bumbling and much melody. when ended was this wedding-day, the bee he took his fly away, and laid her down upon the marsh between one marigold and the long grass. and there they begot good master gnat and made him the heir of all,--that's flat. from thomas weelkes' _airs or fantastic spirits_, . _audivere, lyce_.--horace. the gods have heard my vows, fond lyce, whose fair brows wont scorn with such disdain my love, my tears, my pain. fa la! but now those spring-tide roses are turn'd to winter-posies, to rue and thyme and sage, fitting thy shrivell'd age. fa la! now, youths, with hot desire see, see, that flameless fire, which erst your hearts so burned, quick into ashes turned. fa la! from _pammelia_, _the household-bird with the red stomacher._--donne. the lark, linnet and nightingale to sing some say are best; yet merrily sings little robin, pretty robin with the red breast. from richard carlton's _madrigals_, . the love of change hath changed the world throughout, and what is counted good but that is strange? new things wax old, old new, all turns about, and all things change except the love of change. yet find i not that love of change in me, but as i am so will i always be. from john dowland's _third and last book of songs and airs_, . the lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall, the fly her spleen, the little spark his heat; and slender hairs cast shadows, though but small, and bees have stings, although they be not great; seas have their source, and so have shallow springs; and love is love, in beggars and in kings! where waters smoothest run, deep are the fords; the dial stirs, yet none perceives it move; the firmest faith is in the fewest words; the turtles cannot sing, and yet they love; true hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues to speak; they hear, and see, and sigh, and then they break! from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . the man of life upright, whose guiltless heart is free from all dishonest deeds, or thought of vanity; the man whose silent days in harmless joys are spent, whom hopes cannot delude nor sorrow discontent: that man needs neither towers nor armour for defence, nor secret vaults to fly from thunder's violence: he only can behold with unaffrighted eyes the horrors of the deep and terrors of the skies. thus scorning all the cares that fate or fortune brings, he makes the heaven his book, his wisdom heavenly things; good thoughts his only friends, his wealth a well-spent age, the earth his sober inn and quiet pilgrimage. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . the greedy hawk with sudden sight of lure doth stoop in hope to have her wishèd prey; so many men do stoop to sights unsure, and courteous speech doth keep them at the bay: let them beware lest friendly looks be like the lure whereat the soaring hawk did strike. from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets and songs_, . the match that's made for just and true respects, with evenness both of years and parentage, of force must bring forth many good effects. pari jugo dulcis tractus. for where chaste love and liking sets the plant, and concord waters with a firm good-will, of no good thing there can be any want. pari jugo dulcis tractus. sound is the knot that chastity hath tied, sweet is the music unity doth make, sure is the store that plenty doth provide. pari jugo dulcis tractus. where chasteness fails there concord will decay, where concord fleets there plenty will decease, where plenty wants there love will wear away. pari jugo dulcis tractus. i, chastity, restrain all strange desires; i, concord, keep the course of sound consent; i, plenty, spare and spend as cause requires. pari jugo dulcis tractus. make much of us, all ye that married be; speak well of us, all ye that mind to be; the time may come to want and wish all three. pari jugo dulcis tractus. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . the nightingale so pleasant and so gay in greenwood groves delights to make his dwelling, in fields to fly, chanting his roundelay, at liberty, against the cage rebelling; but my poor heart with sorrows over swelling, through bondage vile, binding my freedom short, no pleasure takes in these his sports excelling, nor in his song receiveth no comfort. from thomas bateson's _first set of english madrigals_, . (by sir philip sidney.) the nightingale, so soon as april bringeth unto her rested sense a perfect waking, white late-bare earth proud of her clothing springeth, sings out her woes, a thorn her songbook making; and mournfully bewailing, her throat in tunes expresseth: while grief her heart oppresseth, for tereus' force o'er her chaste will prevailing. from thomas campion's _second book of airs_ (circ. ). the peaceful western wind the winter storms hath tamed, and nature in each kind the kind heat hath inflamed: the forward buds so sweetly breathe out of their earthly bowers, that heaven, which views their pomp beneath, would fain be decked with flowers. see how the morning smiles on her bright eastern hill, and with soft steps beguiles them that lie slumbering still! the music-loving birds are come from cliffs and rocks unknown, to see the trees and briars bloom that late were overthrown.[ ] what saturn did destroy, love's queen revives again; and now her naked boy doth in the fields remain, where he such pleasing change doth view in every living thing, as if the world were born anew to gratify the spring. if all things life present, why die my comforts then? why suffers my content? am i the worst of men? o, beauty, be not thou accused too justly in this case! unkindly if true love be used, 'twill yield thee little grace. [ ] old ed. "overflown." from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). there is a garden in her face where roses and white lilies grow; a heavenly paradise is that place wherein all pleasant fruits doth flow. there cherries grow which none may buy, till "cherry ripe" themselves do cry. those cherries fairly do enclose of orient pearl a double row, which when her lovely laughter shows, they look like rose-buds filled with snow; yet them nor peer nor prince can buy, till "cherry ripe" themselves do cry. her eyes like angels watch them still, her brows like bended bows do stand, threatening with piercing frowns to kill all that attempt with eye or hand those sacred cherries to come nigh till "cherry ripe" themselves do cry. from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . there is a lady sweet and kind, was never face so pleased my mind; i did but see her passing by, and yet i love her till i die. her gesture, motion and her smiles her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, beguiles my heart, i know not why, and yet i love her till i die. her free behaviour, winning looks will make a lawyer burn his books; i touched her not, alas! not i, and yet i love her till i die. had i her fast betwixt mine arms, judge you that think such sports were harms; were't any harm? no, no, fie, fie, for i will love her till i die. should i remain confinèd there so long as ph[oe]bus in his sphere, i to request, she to deny, yet would i love her till i die. cupid is wingèd and doth range, her country so my love doth change: but change she earth, or change she sky, yet will i love her till i die. from _melismata_, . there were three ravens sat on a tree,-- down-a-down, hey down, hey down! there were three ravens sat on a tree,-- with a down! there were three ravens sat on a tree,-- they were as black as they might be: with a down, derry derry derry down down! the one of them said to his make[ ]-- where shall we our breakfast take? down in yonder greenè field there lies a knight slain under his shield. his hounds they lie down at his feet: so well they their master keep. his hawks they fly so eagerly, there's no fowl dare him come nigh. down there comes a fallow doe, great with young as she might go. she lift up his bloody head, and kist his wounds that were so red. she gat him upon her back and carried him to earthen lake. she buried him before the prime; she was dead ere even-time. god send every gentleman such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman! with a down, derry. [ ] old ed. "mate"; but "make," which is required for the rhyme, was a recognised form of "mate." from robert jones' _ultimum vale or third book of airs_ ( ). think'st thou, kate, to put me down with a 'no' or with a frown? since love holds my heart in bands i must do as love commands. love commands the hands to dare when the tongue of speech is spare, chiefest lesson in love's school,-- put it in adventure, fool! fools are they that fainting flinch for a squeak, a scratch, a pinch: women's words have double sense: 'stand away!'--a simple fence. if thy mistress swear she'll cry, fear her not, she'll swear and lie: such sweet oaths no sorrow bring till the prick of conscience sting. from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). think'st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning? parrots so can learn to prate, our speech by pieces gleaning: nurses teach their children so about the time of weaning. learn to speak first, then to woo, to wooing much pertaineth: he that courts us, wanting art, soon falters when he feigneth, looks asquint on his discourse and smiles when he complaineth. skilful anglers hide their hooks, fit baits for every season; but with crooked pins fish thou, as babes do that want reason: gudgeons only can be caught with such poor tricks of treason. ruth forgive me (if i erred) from human heart's compassion, when i laughed sometimes too much to see thy foolish fashion: but, alas, who less could do that found so good occasion! from john wilbye's _madrigals_, . thou art but young, thou say'st, and love's delight thou weigh'st not: o, take time while thou may'st, lest when thou would'st thou may'st not. if love shall then assail thee, a double anguish will torment thee; and thou wilt wish (but wishes all will fail thee,) "o me! that i were young again!" and so repent thee. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . (ascribed to dr. donne.) thou art not fair, for all thy red and white, for all those rosy ornaments in thee; thou art not sweet, tho' made of mere delight, nor fair, nor sweet--unless thou pity me. i will not soothe thy fancies, thou shalt prove that beauty is no beauty without love. yet love not me, nor seek not to allure my thoughts with beauty were it more divine; thy smiles and kisses i cannot endure, i'll not be wrapped up in those arms of thine: now show it, if thou be a woman right,-- embrace and kiss and love me in despite. from john danyel's _songs for the lute, viol, and voice_, . thou pretty bird, how do i see thy silly state and mine agree! for thou a prisoner art; so is my heart. thou sing'st to her, and so do i address my music to her ear that's merciless; but herein doth the difference lie,-- that thou art grac'd, so am not i; thou singing liv'st, and i must singing die. from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs of sadness and piety_, . though amaryllis dance in green like fairy queen, and sing full clear; corinna can, with smiling cheer. yet since their eyes make heart so sore, hey ho! chil love no more. my sheep are lost for want of food and i so wood[ ] that all the day i sit and watch a herd-maid gay; who laughs to see me sigh so sore, hey ho! chil love no more. her loving looks, her beauty bright, is such delight! that all in vain i love to like, and lose my gain for her, that thanks me not therefore. hey ho! chil love no more. ah wanton eyes! my friendly foes and cause of woes; your sweet desire breeds flames of ice, and freeze in fire! ye scorn to see me weep so sore! hey ho! chil love no more. love ye who list, i force him not: since god is wot, the more i wail, the less my sighs and tears prevail. what shall i do? but say therefore, hey ho! chil love no more. [ ] distracted. from thomas weelkes' _airs or fantastic spirits_, . though my carriage be but careless, though my looks be of the sternest, yet my passions are compareless; when i love, i love in earnest. no; my wits are not so wild, but a gentle soul may yoke me; nor my heart so hard compiled, but it melts, if love provoke me. from robert jones' _musical dream_, . (this song is also printed in thomas campion's _two books of airs_, circ. .) though your strangeness frets my heart, yet must i not complain; you persuade me 'tis but art which secret love must feign; if another you affect, 'tis but a toy, t' avoid suspect. is this fair excusing? o no, all is abusing. when your wish'd sight i desire, suspicion you pretend, causeless you yourself retire whilst i in vain attend, thus a lover, as you say, still made more eager by delay. is this fair excusing? o no, all is abusing. when another holds your hand you'll swear i hold your heart; whilst my rival close doth stand and i sit far apart, i am nearer yet than they, hid in your bosom, as you say. is this fair excusing? o no, all is abusing. would a rival then i were or[ ] else a secret friend, so much lesser should i fear and not so much attend. they enjoy you, every one, yet must i seem your friend alone. is this fair excusing? o no, all is abusing. [ ] old ed. "some." from giles farnaby's _canzonets_, . thrice blessèd be the giver that gave sweet love that golden quiver, and live he long among the gods anointed that made the arrow-heads sharp-pointed: if either of them both had quailèd, she of my love and i of hers had failèd. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air, thrice sit thou mute in the enchanted chair, then thrice-three times tie up this true love's knot, and murmur soft "she will or she will not." go, burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire, these screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar, this cypress gathered at a dead man's grave, that all my fears and cares an end may have. then come, you fairies! dance with me a round! melt her hard heart with your melodious sound! --in vain are all the charms i can devise: she hath an art to break them with her eyes. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). thus i resolve and time hath taught me so: since she is fair and ever kind to me, though she be wild and wanton-like in show, those little stains in youth i will not see. that she be constant, heaven i oft implore; if prayers prevail not, i can do no more. palm-tree the more you press, the more it grows; leave it alone, it will not much exceed: free beauty, if you strive to yoke, you lose, and for affection strange distaste you breed. what nature hath not taught no art can frame; wild-born be wild still, though by force you tame. from john wilbye's _madrigals_, . thus saith my chloris bright when we of love sit down and talk together:-- "beware of love, dear; love is a walking sprite, and love is this and that and, o, i know not what, and comes and goes again i wot not whether."[ ] no, no, these are but bugs to breed amazing, for in her eyes i saw his torch-light blazing. [ ] old form of "whither." from thomas morley's _first book of ballets to five voices_, . thus saith my galatea: love long hath been deluded, when shall it be concluded? the young nymphs all are wedded: ah, then why do i tarry? oh, let me die or marry. from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). to his sweet lute apollo sang the motions of the spheres, the wondrous orders of the stars whose course divides the years, and all the mysteries above; but none of this could midas move: which purchased him his ass's ears. then pan with his rude pipe began the country wealth t' advance, to boast of cattle, flocks of sheep, and goats on hills that dance, with much more of this churlish kind, that quite transported midas' mind, and held him wrapt in trance. this wrong the god of music scorned from such a sottish judge, and bent his angry bow at pan, which made the piper trudge: then midas' head he so did trim that every age yet talks of him and ph[oe]bus' right revengèd grudge. from robert dowland's _musical banquet_, . (the lines are assigned to robert deveureux, earl of essex.) to plead my faith, where faith hath no reward, to move remorse where favour is not borne, to heap complaints where she doth not regard, were fruitless, bootless, vain, and yield but scorn. i lovèd her whom all the world admired, i was refused of her that can love none, and my vain hopes which far too high aspired is dead and buried and for ever gone. forget my name since you have scorned my love, and woman-like do not too late lament: since for your sake i do all mischief prove, i none accuse nor nothing do repent: i was as fond as ever she was fair, yet loved i not more than i now despair. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . to shorten winter's sadness see where the nymphs with gladness fa la la! disguisèd all are coming, right wantonly a-mumming. fa la la! though masks encloud their beauty, yet give the eye her duty. fa la la! when heaven is dark it shineth and unto love inclineth. fa la la! from john dowland's _second book of songs and airs_, . toss not my soul, o love, 'twixt hope and fear! show me some ground where i may firmly stand, or surely fall! i care not which appear, so one will close me in a certain band. when once of ill the uttermost is known; the strength of sorrow quite is overthrown! take me, assurance, to thy blissful hold! or thou despair, unto thy darkest cell! each hath full rest: the one, in joys enroll'd; th' other, in that he fears no more, is well. when once the uttermost of ill is known, the strength of sorrow quite is overthrown. from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). turn all thy thoughts to eyes, turn all thy hairs to ears, change all thy friends to spies and all thy joys to fears; true love will yet be free in spite of jealousy. turn darkness into day, conjectures into truth, believe what th' envious say, let age interpret youth: true love will yet be free in spite of jealousy. wrest every word and look, rack every hidden thought; or fish with golden hook, true love cannot be caught: for that will still be free in spite of jealousy. from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . unto the temple of thy beauty, and to the tomb where pity lies, i, pilgrim-clad with zeal and duty, do offer up my heart, mine eyes. my heart, lo! in the quenchless fire, on love's burning altar lies, conducted thither by desire to be beauty's sacrifice. but pity on thy sable hearse, mine eyes the tears of sorrow shed; what though tears cannot fate reverse, yet are they duties to the dead. o, mistress, in thy sanctuary why wouldst thou suffer cold disdain to use his frozen cruelty, and gentle pity to be slain? pity that to thy beauty fled, and with thy beauty should have lived, ah, in thy heart lies burièd, and nevermore may be revived; yet this last favour, dear, extend, to accept these vows, these tears i shed, duties which i thy pilgrim send, to beauty living, pity dead. from thomas weelkes' _airs or fantastic spirits_, . upon a hill the bonny boy sweet thyrsis sweetly played, and called his lambs their master's joy, and more he would have said; but love that gives the lover wings withdrew his mind from other things. his pipe and he could not agree, for milla was his note; the silly pipe could never get this lovely name by rote: with that they both fell in a sound,[ ] he fell a-sleep, his pipe to ground. [ ] swoon. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . upon a summer's day love went to swim, and cast himself into a sea of tears; the clouds called in their light, and heaven waxed dim, and sighs did raise a tempest, causing fears; the naked boy could not so wield his arms, but that the waves were masters of his might, and threatened him to work far greater harms if he devisèd not to scape by flight: then for a boat his quiver stood instead, his bow unbent did serve him for a mast, whereby to sail his cloth of veil he spread, his shafts for oars on either board he cast: from shipwreck safe this wag got thus to shore, and sware to bathe in lovers' tears no more. from thomas campion's _second book of airs_ (circ. ). vain men! whose follies make a god of love; whose blindness, beauty doth immortal deem, praise not what you desire, but what you prove; count those things good that are, not those that seem. i cannot call her true, that's false to me; nor make of women, more than women be. how fair an entrance breaks the way to love! how rich the golden hope, and gay delight! what heart cannot a modest beauty move? who seeing clear day once will dream of night? she seemed a saint, that brake her faith with me; but proved a woman, as all other be. so bitter is their sweet that true content unhappy men _in_ them may never find: ah! but _without_ them, none. both must consent, else uncouth are the joys of either kind. let us then praise their good, forget their ill! men must be men, and women women still. from francis pilkington's _second set of madrigals_, . wake, sleepy thyrsis, wake for love and venus' sake! come, let us mount the hills which zephyrus with cool breath fills; or let us tread new alleys, in yonder shady valleys. rise, rise, rise, rise! lighten thy heavy eyes: see how the streams do glide and the green meads divide: but stream nor fire shall part this and this joinèd heart. from _deuteromelia_, . we be soldiers three, _pardona moy je vous an pree_, lately come forth of the low country with never a penny of money. fa la la la lantido dilly. here, good fellow, i drink to thee, _pardona moy je vous an pree_, to all good fellows wherever they be, with never a penny of money. and he that will not pledge me this, _pardona moy je vous an pree_, pays for the shot whatever it is, with never a penny of money. charge it again, boy, charge it again, _pardona moy je vous an pree_, as long as there is any ink in thy pen, with never a penny of money. from _deuteromelia_, . 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, the round, shall we go dance the round? and he that is a bully boy come pledge me on this ground! we care not for those martial men that do our states disdain; but we care for the merchant men who do our states maintain: to them we dance this round, around, to them we dance this round; and he that is a bully boy come pledge me on this ground! from _egerton ms., _. we must not part as others do, with sighs and tears, as we were two: though with these outward forms we part, we keep each other in our heart. what search hath found a being, where i am not, if that thou be there? true love hath wings, and can as soon survey the world as sun and moon, and everywhere our triumphs keep o'er absence which makes others weep: by which alone a power is given to live on earth, as they in heaven. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals to five voices_, . we shepherds sing, we pipe, we play, with pretty sport we pass the day: fa la! we care for no gold, but with our fold we dance and prance as pleasure would. fa la! from william byrd's _psalms, songs, and sonnets_, . wedded to will is witless, and seldom he is skilful that bears the name of wise and yet is wilful. to govern he is fitless that deals not by election, but by his fond affection. o that it might be treason for men to rule by will and not by reason. from thomas tomkins' _songs of three, four, five, and six parts_, . weep no more, thou sorry boy; love's pleased and anger'd with a toy. love a thousand passion brings, laughs and weeps, and sighs and sings. if _she_ smiles, he dancing goes, and thinks not on his future woes: if _she_ chide with angry eye, sits down, and sighs "ah me, i die!" yet again, as soon revived, joys as much as late he grieved. change there is of joy and sadness, sorrow much, but more of gladness. then weep no more, thou sorry boy, turn thy tears to weeping joy. sigh no more "ah me! i die!" but dance, and sing, and ti-hy cry. from john rowland's _third and last book of songs or airs_, . weep you no more, sad fountains; what need you flow so fast? look how the snowy mountains heaven's sun doth gently waste! but my sun's heavenly eyes, view not your weeping, that now lies sleeping softly, now softly lies sleeping. sleep is a reconciling, a rest that peace begets; doth not the sun rise smiling when fair at ev'n he sets? rest you then, rest, sad eyes! melt not in weeping, while she lies sleeping, softly, now softly lies sleeping. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals to five voices_, . welcome, sweet pleasure, my wealth and treasure; to haste our playing there's no delaying, no no! this mirth delights me when sorrow frights me. then sing we all fa la la la la! sorrow, content thee, mirth must prevent thee: though much thou grievest thou none relievest. no no! joy, come delight me, though sorrow spite me. then sing we all fa la la la la! grief is disdainful, sottish and painful: then wait on pleasure, and lose no leisure. no no! heart's ease it lendeth and comfort sendeth. then sing we all fa la la la la! from john mundy's _songs and psalms_, . were i a king, i might command content; were i obscure, unknown should be my cares: and were i dead, no thoughts should me torment, nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears. a doubtful choice, of three things one to crave; a kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me, but thy faults i curious find and speak because i love thee; patience is a thing divine, and far, i grant, above me. foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, than th' obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting; friendship is the glass of truth, our hidden stains detecting. while i use of eyes enjoy and inward light of reason, thy observer will i be and censor, but in season; hidden mischief to conceal in state and love is treason. from _pammelia_, . what hap had i to marry a shrow! for she hath given me many a blow, and how to please her alack i do not know. from morn to even her tongue ne'er lies, sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries, yet i can scarce keep her talents[ ] from mine eyes. if i go abroad and late come in,-- "sir knave," saith she, "where have you been?" and do i well or ill she claps me on the skin. [ ] old form of "talons." from orlando gibbons' _first set of madrigals_, . (ascribed to sir walter raleigh.) what is our life? a play of passion: our mirth? the music of division. our mothers' wombs the tyring-houses be where we are drest for this short comedy: heaven the judicious sharp spectator is that sits and marks whoe'er doth act amiss: our graves, that hide us from the searching sun, are like drawn curtains when the play is done: thus march we playing to our latest rest, only we die in earnest,--that's no jest. from john wilbye's _madrigals_, . what needeth all this travail and turmoiling, short'ning the life's sweet pleasure to seek this far-fetched treasure in those hot climates under ph[oe]bus broiling? o fools, can you not see a traffic nearer in my sweet lady's face, where nature showeth whatever treasure eye sees or heart knoweth? rubies and diamonds dainty and orient pearls such plenty, coral and ambergreece sweeter and dearer than which the south seas or moluccas lend us, or either indies, east or west, do send us! from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs_, . what pleasure have great princes more dainty to their choice than herdsmen 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 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: whence conscience judgeth plainly, they spend no money vainly. o 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. from john dowland's _third and last book of songs or airs_, . 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. and love itself is but a jest devised by idle heads, to catch young fancies in the nest, and lay them in fool's beds; that being hatched in 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 feignèd 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! from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . what then is love, sings corydon, since phyllida is grown so coy? a flattering glass to gaze upon, a busy jest, a serious toy, a flower still budding, never blown, a scanty dearth in fullest store yielding least fruit where most is sown. my daily note shall be therefore-- heigh ho, chil love no more. 'tis like a morning dewy rose spread fairly to the sun's arise, but when his beams he doth disclose that which then flourish'd quickly dies; it is a seld-fed dying hope, a promised bliss, a salveless sore, an aimless mark, and erring scope. my daily note shall be therefore,-- heigh ho, chil love no more. 'tis like a lamp shining to all, whilst in itself it doth decay; it seems to free whom it doth thrall, and lead our pathless thoughts astray. it is the spring of wintered hearts parched by the summer's heat before faint hope to kindly warmth converts. my daily note shall be therefore-- heigh ho, chil love no more. from richard carlton's _madrigals_, . when flora fair the pleasant tidings bringeth of summer sweet with herbs and flowers adornèd, the nightingale upon the hawthorn singeth and boreas' blasts the birds and beasts have scornèd; when fresh aurora with her colours painted, mingled with spears of gold, the sun appearing, delights the hearts that are with love acquainted, and maying maids have then their time of cheering; all creatures then with summer are delighted, the beasts, the birds, the fish with scale of silver; then stately dames by lovers are invited to walk in meads or row upon the river. i all alone am from these joys exilèd, no summer grows where love yet never smilèd. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . when i was otherwise than now i am, i lovèd more but skillèd not so much fair words and smiles could have contented then, my simple age and ignorance was such: but at the length experience made me wonder that hearts and tongues did lodge so far asunder. as watermen which on the thames do row, look to the east but west keeps on the way; my sovereign sweet her count'nance settled so, to feed my hope while she her snares might lay: and when she saw that i was in her danger, good god, how soon she provèd then a ranger! i could not choose but laugh, although too late, to see great craft decypher'd in a toy; i love her still, but such conditions hate which so profanes my paradise of joy. love whets the wits, whose pain is but a pleasure; a toy, by fits to play withal at leisure. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . when thou must home to shades of underground, and there arrived, a new admirèd guest, the beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, white iope, blithe helen, and the rest, to hear the stories of thy finished love from that smooth tongue whose music hell can move; then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, of tourneys and great challenges of knights, and all these triumphs for thy beauty sake: when thou hast told these honours done to thee, then tell, o tell, how thou didst murder me. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . {deinos erôs, deinos; ti de to pleon, ên palin eipô, kai palin, oimôzôn pollaki, deinos erôs?} meleag. when younglings first on cupid fix their sight, and see him naked, blindfold, and a boy, though bow and shafts and firebrand be his might, yet ween they he can work them none annoy; and therefore with his purple wings they play, for glorious seemeth love though light as feather, and when they have done they ween to scape away, for blind men, say they, shoot they know not whither. but when by proof they find that he did see, and that his wound did rather dim their sight, they wonder more how such a lad as he should be of such surpassing power and might. but ants have galls, so hath the bee his sting: then shield me, heavens, from such a subtle thing! from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . where most my thoughts, there least mine eye is striking; where least i come there most my heart abideth; where most i love i never show my liking; from what my mind doth hold my body slideth; i show least care where most my care dependeth; a coy regard where most my soul attendeth. despiteful thus unto myself i languish, and in disdain myself from joy i banish. these secret thoughts enwrap me so in anguish that life, i hope, will soon from body vanish, and to some rest will quickly be conveyèd that on no joy, while so i lived, hath stayèd. from martin pearson's _mottects or grave chamber-music_, . a mourning-song for the death of sir fulke greville, lord brooke. where shall a sorrow great enough be sought for this sad ruin which the fates have wrought, unless the fates themselves should weep and wish their curbless power had been controlled in this? for thy loss, worthiest lord, no mourning eye has flood enough; no muse nor elegy enough expression to thy worth can lend; no, though thy sidney had survived his friend. dead, noble brooke shall be to us a name of grief and honour still, whose deathless fame such virtue purchased as makes us to be unjust to nature in lamenting thee; wailing an old man's fate as if in pride and heat of youth he had untimely died. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . {skênê pas ho bios, kai paignion.} pallad. whether men do laugh or weep, whether they do wake or sleep, whether they die young or old, whether they feel heat or cold; there is underneath the sun nothing in true earnest done. all our pride is but a jest, none are worst and none are best; grief and joy and hope and fear play their pageants everywhere: vain opinion all doth sway, and the world is but a play. powers above in clouds do sit, mocking our poor apish wit, that so lamely with such state their high glory imitate. no ill can be felt but pain, and that happy men disdain. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . while that the sun with his beams hot scorchèd the fruits in vale and mountain, philon, the shepherd, late forgot sitting beside a chrystal fountain in shadow of a green oak-tree, upon his pipe this song play'd he: adieu, love! adieu, love! untrue love! untrue love, untrue love! adieu, love! your mind is light, soon lost for new love. so long as i was in your sight, i was your heart, your soul, your treasure; and evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd, burning in flames beyond all measure. three days endured your love for me, and it was lost in other three. adieu, love! adieu, love! untrue love! untrue love, untrue love! adieu, love! your mind is light, soon lost for new love. another shepherd you did see, to whom your heart was soon enchainèd; full soon your love was leapt from me, full soon my place he had obtainèd: soon came a third your love to win; and we were out, and he was in. adieu, love! adieu, love! untrue love! untrue love, untrue love! adieu, love! your mind is light, soon lost for new love. sure, you have made me passing glad that you your mind so soon removèd, before that i the leisure had to choose you for my best belovèd: for all my love was past and done two days, before it was begun. adieu, love! adieu, love! untrue love! untrue love, untrue love! adieu, love! your mind is light, soon lost for new love. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . whilst youthful sports are lasting, to feasting turn our fasting. fa la la! with revels and with wassails make grief and care our vassals. fa la la! for youth it well beseemeth that pleasure he esteemeth. fa la la! and sullen age is hated that mirth would have abated. fa la la! from john dowland's _second book of songs or airs_, . white as lilies was her face: when she smilèd she beguilèd, quitting faith with foul disgrace. virtue's service thus neglected. heart with sorrows hath infected. when i swore my heart her own, she disdainèd; i complainèd, yet she left me overthrown: careless of my bitter grieving, ruthless, bent to no relieving. vows and oaths and faith assured, constant ever, changing never,-- yet she could not be procured to believe my pains exceeding from her scant respect proceeding. o that love should have the art, by surmises, and disguises, to destroy a faithful heart; or that wanton-looking women should reward their friends as foemen. all in vain is ladies' love-- quickly choosèd. shortly loosèd; for their pride is to remove. out, alas! their looks first won us, and their pride hath straight undone us. to thyself, the sweetest fair! thou hast wounded, and confounded changeless faith with foul despair; and my service hast envièd and my succours hast denièd. by thine error thou hast lost heart unfeignèd, truth unstainèd. and the swain that lovèd most, more assured in love than many, move despised in love than any. for my heart, though set at nought, since you will it, spoil and kill it! i will never change my thought: but grieve that beauty e'er was born thus to answer love with scorn. from francis pilkington's _first book of songs or airs_, . whither so fast? see how the kindly flowers perfume the air, and all to make thee stay: the climbing wood-bine, clipping all these bowers, clips thee likewise for fear thou pass away; fortune our friend, our foe will not gainsay. stay but awhile, ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; she her endymion, i'll my ph[oe]be kiss. fear not, the ground seeks but to kiss thy feet; hark, hark, how philomela sweetly sings! whilst water-wanton fishes as they meet strike crotchet time amidst these crystal springs, and zephyrus amongst the leaves sweet murmur rings. stay but awhile, ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; she her endymion, i'll my ph[oe]be kiss. see how the helitrope, herb of the sun, though he himself long since be gone to bed, is not of force thine eye's bright beams to shun, but with their warmth his goldy leaves unspread, and on my knee invites thee rest thy head. stay but awhile, ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; she her endymion, i'll my ph[oe]be kiss. from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs_, . who likes to love, let him take heed! and wot you why? among the gods it is decreed that love shall die; and every wight that takes his part shall forfeit each a mourning heart. the cause is this, as i have heard: a sort of dames, whose beauty he did not regard nor secret flames, complained before the gods above that gold corrupts the god of love. the gods did storm to hear this news, and there they swore, that sith he did such dames abuse he should no more be god of love, but that he should both die and forfeit all his gold. his bow and shafts they took away before his eyes, and gave these dames a longer day for to devise who should them keep, and they be bound that love for gold should not be found. these ladies striving long, at last they did agree to give them to a maiden chaste, whom i did see, who with the same did pierce my breast: her beauty's rare, and so i rest. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . . who made thee, hob, forsake the plough and fall in love? . sweet beauty, which hath power to bow the gods above. . what dost thou serve? . a shepherdess; one such as hath no peer, i guess. . what is her name who bears thy heart within her breast? . silvana fair, of high desert, whom i love best. . o, hob, i fear she looks too high. . yet love i must, or else i die. from thomas bateson's _first set of english madrigals_, . who prostrate lies at women's feet. and calls them darlings dear and sweet; protesting love, and craving grace, and praising oft a foolish face; are oftentimes deceived at last, then catch at nought and hold it fast. from john farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . who would have thought that face of thine had been so full of doubleness, or that within those crystal eyn had been so much unstableness? thy face so fair, thy look so strange! who would have thought of such a change? from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of five and six parts_, . why are you ladies staying, and your lords gone a-maying? run apace and meet them and with your garlands greet them. 'twere pity they should miss you, for they will sweetly kiss you. from john dowland's _first book of songs or airs_, . wilt thou, unkind! thus 'reave me of my heart and so leave me? farewell! but yet, or ere i part, o cruel, kiss me, sweet, my jewel! farewell! hope by disdain grows cheerless, fear doth love, love doth fear; beauty peerless, farewell! if no delays can move thee, life shall die, death shall live still to love thee. farewell! yet be thou mindful ever! heat from fire, fire from heat, none can sever. farewell! true love cannot be changèd, though delight from desert be estrangèd. farewell! from thomas campion's _two books of airs_ (circ. ). wise men patience never want, good men pity cannot hide; feeble spirits only vaunt of revenge, the poorest pride: he alone forgive that can bears the true soul of a man. some there are debate that seek, making trouble their content; happy if they wrong the meek, vex them that to peace are bent: such undo the common tie of mankind, society. kindness grown is lately cold, conscience hath forgot her part; blessèd times were known of old long ere law became an art: shame deterred, not statutes then; honest love was law to men. deeds from love, and words, that flow, foster like kind april showers; in the warm sun all things grow, wholesome fruits and pleasant flowers: all so thrives his gentle rays whereon human love displays. from john dowland's _second book of songs or airs_, . woeful heart, with grief oppressèd! since my fortunes most distressèd from my joys hath me removèd, follow those sweet eyes adorèd! those sweet eyes wherein are storèd all my pleasures best belovèd. fly my breast--leave me forsaken-- wherein grief his seat hath taken, all his arrows through me darting! thou mayst live by her sunshining: i shall suffer no more pining by thy loss than by her parting. from thomas greaves' _songs of sundry kinds_, . ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes to lovers' plaints with heart-sore throbs immixed, when as my dear this way her pleasure takes, tell her with tears how firm my love is fixed; and, philomel, report my timerous fears, and, echo, sound my heigh-ho's in her ears: but if she asks if i for love will die, tell her, good faith, good faith, good faith,--not i. from farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . you blessèd bowers whose green leaves now are spreading, shadow the sunshine from my mistress' face, and you, sweet roses, only for her bedding when weary she doth take her resting-place; you fair white lilies and pretty flowers all, give your attendance at my mistress' call. from thomas morley's _first book of ballets_, . you that wont to my pipe's sound daintily to tread your ground, jolly shepherds and nymphs sweet, (lirum, lirum.) here met together under the weather, hand in hand uniting, the lovely god come greet. (lirum, lirum) lo, triumphing, brave comes he, all in pomp and majesty, monarch of the world and king. (lirum, lirum.) let whoso list him dare to resist him, we our voices uniting, of his high acts will sing. (lirum, lirum.) from thomas bateson's _first set of english madrigals_, . your shining eyes and golden hair, your lily-rosèd lips so fair; your various beauties which excel, men cannot choose but like them well: yet when for them they say they'll die, believe them not,--they do but lie. notes. _page_ . thomas weelkes was organist of winchester college in , and of chichester cathedral in . his first collection, "madrigals to three, four, five, or six voices," was published in . here first appeared the verses (fraudulently ascribed, in "the passionate pilgrim," , to shakespeare), "my flocks feed not." in weelkes published "ballets and madrigals to five voices," which was followed in by "madrigals of five and six parts." prefixed to the last-named work is the following dedicatory epistle:-- "to the truly noble, virtuous, and honorable, my very good lord henry, lord winsor, baron of bradenham. my lord, in the college at winchester, where i live, i have heard learned men say that some philosophers have mistaken the soul of man for an harmony: let the precedent of their error be a privilege for mine. i see not, if souls do not partly consist of music, how it should come to pass that so noble a spirit as your's, so perfectly tuned to so perpetual a _tenor_ of excellence as it is, should descend to the notice of a quality lying single in so low a personage as myself. but in music the _base_ part is no disgrace to the best ears' attendancy. i confess my conscience is untoucht with any other arts, and i hope my confession is unsuspected; many of us musicians think it as much praise to be somewhat more than musicians as it is for gold to be somewhat more than gold, and if _jack cade_ were alive, yet some of us might live, unless we should think, as the artisans in the universities of poland and germany think, that the latin tongue comes by reflection. i hope your lordship will pardon this presumption of mine; the rather, because i know before nobility i am to deal sincerely; and this small faculty of mine, because it is alone in me, and without the assistance of other more confident sciences, is the more to be favoured and the rather to be received into your honour's protection; so shall i observe you with as humble and as true an heart, as he whose knowledge is as large as the world's creation, and as earnestly pray for you to the world's creator. your honor's in all humble service, thomas weelkes." in appeared weelkes' last work, "airs or fantastic spirits for three voices," a collection of lively and humorous ditties. oliphant writes:--"for originality of ideas, and ingenuity of construction in part writing, (i allude more especially to his ballets,) weelkes in my opinion leaves all other composers of his time far behind." the verses in weelkes' song-books are never heavy or laboured; they are always bright, cheerful, and arch. _page_ . robert jones was a famous performer on the lute. he had a share in the management of the theatre in the whitefriars (collier's "annals of the stage," i. ). his works are of the highest rarity. the delightful lyrics in jones' song-books have escaped the notice of all the editors of anthologies. _page_ . thomas morley, who was a pupil of william byrd, was the author of the first systematic treatise on music published in this country--"a plain and easy introduction to practical music," , quaintly set down in form of a dialogue. the verses in his collections are mere airy trifles, and hardly bear to be separated from the music. "about the maypole new," &c., is a translation of some italian lines, beginning-- "al suon d'una sampogn' e d'una citera, sopra l'herbette floride dansava tirsi con l'amata cloride," &c. in morley's "canzonets to three voices," , we have the following pleasant description of the preparations for a country wedding:-- "arise, get up, my dear, make haste, begone thee: lo! where the bride, fair daphne, tarries on thee. hark! o hark! yon merry maidens squealing spice-cakes, sops-in-wine are a-dealing. run, then run apace and get a bride-lace and gilt rosemary branch the while there yet is catching and then hold fast for fear of old snatching. alas! my dear, why weep ye? o fear not that, dear love, the next day keep we. list, yon minstrels! hark how fine they firk it, and how the maidens jerk it! with kate and will, tom and gill, now a skip, then a trip, finely fet aloft, there again as oft; hey ho! blessed holiday! all for daphne's wedding day!" _page_ . john wilbye is styled by oliphant "the first of madrigal writers." he published his "first set of english madrigals" in , and his "second set" in . the second set was dedicated to the unfortunate lady arabella stuart. the composer concludes his dedicatory epistle with the prayer, "i beseech the almighty to make you in all the passages of your life truly happy, as you are in the world's true opinion, virtuous." in the very year when the epistle was written the gifted patroness of art and learning was accused before the privy council and ordered to be kept in close confinement. she made her escape, but after a few hours was captured at sea in her flight to dunkirk, brought back to london, and committed to the tower, where she died of a broken heart in . it is pleasant to think that the song-book dedicated to her honour may have cheered her in the long hours of solitude. the collection consists chiefly of love-lyrics; but such verses as "happy, o happy he," &c. (p. ) and "draw on, sweet night" (p. ), must have been carefully cherished by the poor captive. _page_ . "april is in my mistress' face."--compare robert greene's verses in "perimedes, the blacksmith," :-- "fair is my love, for april in her face, her lovely breasts september claims his part, and lordly july in her eyes takes place: but cold december dwelleth in her heart: blest be the months that set my thoughts on fire, accurs'd that month that hindereth my desire!" _page_ . "the urchins' dance" is from the anonymous play "the maid's metamorphosis," . in the same play are the following dainty verses;-- "_ fairy._ i do come about the copse leaping upon flowers' tops; then i get upon a fly, she carries me above the sky, and trip and go! _ fairy._ when a dew-drop falleth down and doth light upon my crown, then i shake my head and skip and about i trip. _ fairy._ when i feel a girl a-sleep, underneath her frock i peep, there to sport, and there i play; then i bite her like a flea, and about i skip." thomas ravenscroft, compiler of the "brief discourse," won his spurs at a very early age. he took his degree of bachelor of music before he had reached his fifteenth year, as we learn from some commendatory verses prefixed to the "brief discourse;"-- "non vidit tria lustra puer, quin arte probatus, vita laudatus, sumpsit in arte gradum." he was twenty-two when he published the "brief discourse" in : but in be had published "melismata, musical fancies fitting the court, city, and country humours," and he edited two collections that appeared in --"pammelia" and "deuteromelia." "pammelia" is the earliest english printed collection of catches, rounds, and canons; both words and music were for the most part older than the date of publication. "deuteromelia" was intended as a continuation of "pammelia." _page_ . robert dowland, editor of "a musical banquet," was a son of john dowland; he succeeded his father as one of the court musicians in , and was alive in . _page_ . thomas ford, when he published his "music of sundry kinds," , was a musician in the suite of prince henry. at the accession of charles i. he was appointed one of his musicians, and he died in --the year before his royal patron was beheaded. _page_ . "little lawn then serve[d] the pawn."--the pawn was a corridor, serving as a bazaar, in the royal exchange (gresham's). _page_ . "farewell, false love, the oracle of lies."--"j. c." in "alcilia," , writes:-- "love is honey mixed with gall, a thraldom free, a freedom thrall; a bitter sweet, a pleasant sour, got in a year, lost in an hour; a peaceful war, a warlike peace, whose wealth brings want, whose want increase; full long pursuit and little gain, uncertain pleasure, certain pain; regard of neither right nor wrong, for short delights repentance long. love is the sickness of the thought, conceit of pleasure dearly bought; a restless passion of the mind, a labyrinth of arrows blind: a sugared poison, fair deceit, a bait for fools, a furious heat; a chilling cold, a wondrous passion, exceeding man's imagination; which none can tell in whole or part, but only he that feels the smart." robert greene has a somewhat similar description of love ("what thing is love? it is a power divine," &c.) in "menaphon," . _page_ . "fond wanton youths."--this piece is also printed in "the golden garland of princely delights," , where it is headed "of the inconveniences by marriage," and is directed to be sung to the tune of "when troy town." _page_ , l. . "their _longings_ must not be beguiled."--the original gives "their _laughings_" (which is unintelligible). _page_ . it was at wanstead house, a seat of the earl of leicester, that sidney wrote his masque the "lady of the may" in honour of queen elizabeth's visit in . "was raleigh retired there," writes mr. w. j. linton (_rare poems_, p. ), "during some season of her displeasure? there is a look of him about this song, not unlike the lines to cynthia; and what mistress but majesty should appoint his place of retirement? 'wanstead, my mistress saith this is the doom.'" the two lines that close each stanza are from a song in sidney's "arcadia." _page_ . "who, known to all, unknown to himself dies." from seneca's "thyestes:"-- "qui notus nimis omnibus ignotus moritur sibi." _page_ . "how many things."--i have given four of john maynard's "twelve wonders of the world" (cf. pp. - , ); and, if i am not mistaken, the reader will like to see the remaining eight. there is much freshness and piquancy in these quaint old rhymes, which were written by no less a poet than sir john davies. "the divine. my calling is divine, and i from god am sent; i will no chop-church be, nor pay my patron rent, nor yield to sacrilege; but like the kind true mother, rather will lose all the child than part it with another. much wealth i will not seek, nor worldly masters serve, so to grow rich and fat while my poor flock doth starve. the soldier. my occupation is the noble trade of kings the trial that decides the highest right of things. though mars my master be, i do not venus love, nor honour bacchus oft, nor often swear by jove. of speaking of myself i all occasion shun, and rather love to do, than boast what i have done. the lawyer. the law my calling is; my robe, my tongue, my pen wealth and opinion gain and make me judge of men. the known dishonest cause, i never did defend nor spun out suits in length, but wish'd and sought an end; nor counsel did bewray, nor of both parties take, nor ever took i fee for which i never spake. the physician. i study to uphold the slippery state of man, who dies when we have done the best and all we can. from practice and from books i draw my learned skill, not from the known receipt or 'pothecary's bill. the earth my faults doth hide, the world my cures doth see, what youth and time effects is oft ascribed to me. the merchant. my trade doth everything to every land supply, discovers unknown coasts, strange countries doth ally. i never did forestall, i never did engross, nor custom did withdraw though i return'd with loss. i thrive by fair exchange, by selling and by buying, and not by jewish use, reprisal, fraud, or lying. the country gentleman. though strange outlandish spirits praise towns and countries scorn, the country is my home, i dwell where i was born. there profit and command with pleasure i partake, yet do not hawks and dogs my sole companions make. i rule, but not oppress; end quarrels, not maintain; see towns, but dwell not there to abridge my charge or train. the wife. the first of all our sex came from the side of man, i thither am return'd from whence our sex began. i do not visit oft, nor many when i do, i tell my mind to few and that in counsel too. i seem not sick in health, nor sullen but in sorrow; i care for somewhat else than what to wear to-morrow. the widow. my dying husband knew how much his death would grieve me, and therefore left me wealth to comfort and relieve me. though i no more will have, i must not love disdain; penelope her self did suitors entertain. and yet to draw on such as are of best esteem, nor younger than i am nor richer will i seem." _page_ . "i have house and land in kent."--this admirable song has been frequently reprinted. miss de vaynes, in her very valuable "kentish garland" (i., ), observes:--"we have met with no other song in the kentish dialect except jan ploughshare's" (printed on p. , vol. i., of the "garland"). rimbault in his "little book of songs and ballads" ( ), gives the following lines from an old ms. (temp. henry viii.):-- "joan, quoth john, when will this be? tell me when wilt thou marry me, my corn and eke my calf and rents, my lands and all my tenements? say, joan, quoth john, what wilt thou do? i cannot come every day to woo?" david herd printed a fragment of a scotch song that was founded on the english song:-- "i hae layen three herring a' sa't, bonny lass, gin ze'll take me, tell me now, and i hae brew'n three pickles o' ma't and i cannae cum ilka day to woo. _to woo, to woo, to lilt and to woo, and i cannae cum ilka day to woo_. i hae a wee ca'f that wad fain be a cow, bonny lassie, gin ye'll take me, tell me now, i hae a wee gryce that wad fain be a sow, and i cannae cum ilka day to woo. _to woo, to woo, to lilt and to woo, and i cannae cum ilka day to woo_." _page_ . "i joy not in no earthly bliss."--these stanzas are usually printed with "my mind to me a kingdom is" (p. ), and the whole poem has been attributed to sir edward dyer. _page_ . "i weigh not fortune's frown nor smile."--these lines (which seem to have been modelled on "i joy not in no earthly bliss") are by joshua sylvester. in the second stanza, "i sound not at the news of wreck," _sound_ is an old form of _swoon_. _page_ . "if women could be fair."--this poem is ascribed to edward, earl of oxford, in rawlinson, ms. , fol. . _page_ . "in darkness let me dwell."--these lines are also found in robert dowland's "musical banquet," , set to music by john dowland. _page_ . "in the merry month of may."--first printed in "the honorable entertainment given to the queen's majesty in progress at elvetham in hampshire, by the right honorable the earl of hertford," , under the title of "the ploughman's song." _page_ . "it was the frog in the well."--there are several versions of this old ditty: the following is from kirkpatrick sharpe's "ballad book," :-- "there lived a puddy in a well, and a merry mouse in a mill. puddy he'd a wooin ride, sword and pistol by his side. puddy came to the mouse's wonne, 'mistress mouse, are you within?' 'yes, kind sir, i am within; saftly do i sit and spin.' 'madam, i am come to woo; marriage i must have of you.' 'marriage i will grant you nane, until uncle rotten he comes hame.' 'uncle rotten's now come hame; fy! gar busk the bride alang.' lord rotten sat at the head o' the table, because he was baith stout and able. wha is't that sits next the wa', but lady mouse, baith jimp and sma'? what is't that sits next the bride, but the sola puddy wi' his yellow side? syne came the deuk, but and the drake; the deuk took puddy, and garred him squaik. then cam in the carl cat, wi' a fiddle on his back. 'want ye ony music here?' the puddy he swam doun the brook; the drake he catched him in his fluke. the cat he pu'd lord rotten doun; the kittens they did claw his croun. but lady mouse, baith jimp and sma', crept into a hole beneath the wa'; 'squeak!' quoth she, 'i'm weel awa.'" doubtless ravenscroft's version is more ancient. a ballad entitled "a most strange weddinge of the frogge and the mouse" was licensed for printing in . _page_ . "lady, when i behold."--gracefully paraphrased from an italian original:-- "quand' io miro le rose, ch'in voi natura pose; e quelle che v' ha l'arte nel vago seno sparte; non so conoscer poi se voi le rose, o sian le rose in voi." _page_ . john danyel is supposed to have been a brother of samuel daniel, the poet. he took his degree of bachelor of music in . "at the commencement of the reign of charles the first he was one of the court musicians, and his name occurs among the 'musicians for the lutes and voices' in a privy seal, dated december th, , exempting the musicians belonging to the court from the payment of subsidies" (rimbault). _page_ . "then all at once _for our town_ cries."--"i should imagine," says oliphant, "that there was occasionally a sort of friendly contention in the sports between neighbouring villages; which idea is rather corroborated by a passage from an old play called the 'vow-breaker' by samson, : 'let the major play the hobby-horse an' he will; i hope _our town lads_ cannot want a hobby-horse.'" in an old play. "the country girl," (first printed in ), attributed to that shadowy personage antony brewer, we have an allusion to this pleasant form of rivalry:-- "_abraham._ sister gillian,--i have the rarest news for you. _gillian._ for me? 'tis well. and what news have you got, sir? _abr._ skipping news, lipping news, tripping news. _gil._ how! dancing, brother abram, dancing? _abr._ prancing, advancing, dancing. nay, 'tis a match, a match upon a wager. _gil._ a match. who be they? _abr._ why all the wenches of _our town_ edmonton, and all the mad wenches of waltham. _gil._ a match, and leave me out! when, when is't, brother? _abr._ marry, e'en this morning:--they are now going to't helter-skelter. [_a treble plays within_. _gil._ and leave me out! where, brother, where? _abr._ why there, sister gillian; there, at our own door almost,--on the green there, close by the may-pole. hark! you may hear them hither." (sig. d.) the stage-direction at the entrance of the dancers runs thus:--"enter six country wenches, all red petticoats, white stitch'd bodies, in their smock-sleeves, the fiddler before them, and gillian with her tippet up in the midst of them dancing." _page_ . "it was the purest light of heaven" &c.--i am reminded of a fine passage in drayton's "barons' wars," canto vi.:-- "looking upon proud phaeton wrapped in fire, the gentle queen did much bewail his fall; but mortimer commended his desire to lose one poor life or to govern all. 'what though,' quoth he, 'he madly did aspire and his great mind made him proud fortune's thrall? yet, in despight when she her worst had done, _he perish'd in the chariot of the sun_.'" _page_ . "the bellman's song."--in "robin goodfellow; his mad pranks and merry jests," , we have another specimen of a bellman's song:-- "sometimes would he go like a bellman in the night, and with many pretty verses delight the ears of those that waked at his bell-ringing: his verses were these:-- maids in your smocks, look well to your locks, and your tinder-box, your wheels and your rocks, your hens and your cocks, your cows and your ox, and beware of the fox. when the bellman knocks put out your fire and candle-light, so they shall not you affright. may you dream of your delights, in your sleeps see pleasing sights! good rest to all, both old and young: the bellman now hath done his song. then would he go laughing _ho ho ho!_ as his use was." _page_ . "that kisses were the _seals of love_."--every reader will recall "but my kisses bring again, bring again. _seals of love_ but sealed in vain, sealed in vain." (the first stanza is found among the poems of sir philip sidney.) _page_ . "my prime of youth."--this song is also set to music in richard alison's "hour's recreation," , and michael este's "madrigals of three, four, and five parts," . it is printed in "reliquiæ: wottonianæ" as "by chidick tychborn, being young and then in the tower, the night before his execution." chidiock tychbourne of southampton was executed with ballard and babington in . _page_ . "my sweetest lesbia."--the first stanza is an elegant paraphrase from catullus, though the last line fails to render the rhythmical sweetness long-drawn-out of "nox est perpetua una dormienda." _page_ . "my thoughts are winged with hopes."--this piece is also found in "england's helicon." a ms. copy, in a commonplace book found at hamburg, is signed "w. s." i have frequently met with these initials in volumes of ms. poetry of the early part of the seventeenth century. the following pretty verses in add. ms. , , fol. , are subscribed "w. s.":-- "o when will cupid show such art to strike two lovers with one dart? i'm ice to him or he to me; two hearts alike there seldom be. if ten thousand meet together, scarce one face is like another: if scarce two faces can agree, two hearts alike there seldom be." there is not the slightest ground for identifying "w. s." with shakespeare. mr. linton ("rare poems," p. ) conjectures that "my thoughts are winged with hopes"--which has the heading "to cynthia" in "england's helicon"--may be by raleigh. _page_ . "now each creature."--the first stanza of "an ode" by samuel daniel, originally printed in the edition of "delia." "now god be with old simeon."--here is another round from "pammelia":-- "come drink to me, and i to thee. and then shall we full well agree. i've loved the jolly tankard, full seven winters and more; i loved it so long that i went upon the score. who loveth not the tankard, he is no honest man; and he is no right soldier, that loveth not the can. tap the cannikin, troll the cannikin, toss the cannikin, turn the cannikin! hold now, good son, and fill us a fresh can, that we may quaff it round from man to man." good honest verse, but ill-suited to these degenerate, tea-drinking days. _page_ . "now i see thy looks were feignèd."--first printed in "the ph[oe]nix nest," , subscribed "t. l. gent," _i.e._ thomas lodge, one of the most brilliant of elizabethan lyrists. _page_ . "shall we play barley-break."--the fullest description of the rustic game of barley-break is to be found in the first book of sidney's "arcadia." _page_ . "now let her change." this song is also set to music in robert jones' "ultimum vale" ( ). _page_ . "now what is love" &c.--this poem originally appeared in "the ph[oe]nix nest," ; it is also printed (in form of a dialogue) in "england's helicon," , and davison's "poetical rhapsody," . it is ascribed to raleigh in a ms. list of davison's. see canon hannah's edition of raleigh's poems. _page_ . "oft have i mused."--this poem was printed in davison's "poetical rhapsody," . _page_ . "our country-swains in the morris-dance."--in morley's "madrigals to four voices," , there is a lively description of the morris-dance:-- "ho! who comes here with bag-piping and drumming? o, 'tis i see the morris-dance a coming. come, ladies, out, o come, come quickly, and see about how trim they dance and trickly: hey! there again: hark! how the bells they shake it! now _for our town_! once there, now for our town and take it: soft awhile, not away so fast, they melt them! piper be hang'd, knave! look, the dancers swelt them. out, there, stand out!--you come too far (i say) in-- there give the hobby-horse more room to play in!" "i woo with tears and _ne'er the near_."--_ne'er the near_ (a proverbial expression) = never the nigher. _page_ . "when they came home sis _floted_ cream."--i suppose the meaning is that sis skimmed the cream from the milk. halliwell (_arch. dict._) gives "flotten-milk. same as flet-mitte" and "flet-mitte" is a north-country term for skimmed milk. "since first i saw."--this exquisite song is also found in "the golden garland of princely delights," . _page_ . "sweet love, my only treasure."--printed in davison's "poetical rhapsody," , where it is subscribed with the mysterious initials "a. w." _page_ . "sweet, stay awhile."--i suspect that this stanza does not really belong to donne's "break of day;" it is not found in ms. copies of donne's poems, nor in any edition prior to that of . probably donne's verses were written as a companion-piece to the present poem. _page_ . "yet merrily sings little robin."--the loveliest of all verses in praise of robin redbreast are in chapman's "tears of peace," :-- "whose face _the bird_ hid _that loves humans best, that hath the bugle eyes and rosy breast, and is the yellow autumn's nightingale_." _page_ . "the love of change."--this is the first stanza of a poem which is printed entire (in six stanzas) in davison's "poetical rhapsody," . _page_ . "the lowest trees have tops."--printed in davison's "poetical rhapsody" with the signature "incerto." _page_ . "the man of life upright."--in some old ms. copies this poem is ascribed to francis bacon: see hannah's "poems of raleigh and wotton," p. . canon hannah makes no mention of campion's claim. campion distinctly tells us that he wrote both the verses and the music of his songs: and i have no doubt that he was the author of the present lyric, which has more merit than any of bacon's poems. in an epigram printed in his "observations in the art of english poetry," , there is a striking image that reappears in the present poem:-- "a wise man wary lives yet most secure, sorrows move not him greatly, nor delights, fortune and death he scorning only makes _th' earth his sober inn_, but still heaven his home." (sig. c ). henceforward let nobody claim "the man of life upright" for bacon. _page_ . "the nightingale so pleasant and so gay."--"according to peacham," says oliphant ("_musa madrigalesca_," p. ), "there was a virtuous contention between w. byrd and ferrabosco who of the two should best set these words; in which according to his (peacham's) opinion, ferrabosco succeeded so well that 'it could not be bettered for sweetness of ayre and depth of judgment.'" _page_ . "the nightingale so soon as april bringeth."--from the first stanza of a poem printed in the third edition of sidney's "arcadia," . _page_ . "there is a garden in her face."--this poem is also set to music in alison's "hour's recreation," , and robert jones' "ultimum vale" ( ). herrick's dainty verses "cherry-ripe" are well-known:-- "cherry-ripe, 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, whose plantations fully show all the year where cherries grow." _page_ . "there is a lady sweet and kind."--printed also in "the golden garland of princely delights," . _page_ . "there were three ravens."--the north-country version of this noble dirge contains some verses of appalling intensity:-- "his horse is to the huntin gane his hounds to bring the wild deer hame; his lady's ta'en another mate, so we may mak our dinner sweet. "o we'll sit on his bonny breast-bane, and we'll pyke out his bonny gray een; wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, we'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. "_mony a ane for him makes mane, but none sall ken where he is gane: ower his banes when they are bare, the wind sall blaw for evermair_." _page_ . "think'st thou to seduce me," &c.--in william corkine's "airs," , this song is found with considerable variations. corkine gives only three stanzas. the first stanza agrees closely with campion's text; the second and third stanzas run thus:-- "learn to speak first, then to woo, to wooing much pertaineth; he that hath not art to hide, soon falters when he feigneth, and, as one that wants his wits, he smiles when he complaineth. "if with wit we be deceived our faults may be excusèd, seeming good with flattery graced is but of few refusèd, but of all accursed are they that are by fools abusèd." _page_ . "thou art not fair for all thy red and white."--these lines are printed in dr. grosart's edition of donne's poems, vol. ii. p. . they are ascribed to donne in an early ms.; but i see no reason for depriving campion of them. (the first stanza is also set to music in thomas vautor's "airs," .) _page_ . "though amaryllis dance in green."--also printed in "england's helicon," . _page_ . "we must not part as others do."--these lines are very much in donne's manner. the ms. from which they are taken (egerton ms. ) contains some undoubted poems of donne. _page_ . "were i a king."--canon hannah prints these verses (in his "poems of raleigh and wotton," p. ) from a ms. copy, in which they are assigned to edward earl of oxford. appended in the ms. are the following answers:-- "answered thus by sir p. s. wert thou a king, yet not command content, sith empire none thy mind could yet suffice; wert thou obscure, still cares would thee torment; but wert thou dead all care and sorrow dies. an easy choice, of these three which to crave: no kingdom, nor a cottage, but a grave. "another of another mind. a king? oh, boon for my aspiring mind, a cottage makes a country swad rejoice: and as for death, i like him in his kind but god forbid that he should be my choice! a kingdom or a cottage or a grave,-- nor last, nor next, but first and best i crave; the rest i can, whenas i list, enjoy, till then salute me thus--_vive le roy_! "another of another mind. the greatest kings do least command content; the greatest cares do still attend a crown; a grave all happy fortunes doth prevent making the noble equal with the clown: a quiet country life to lead i crave; a cottage then; no kingdom nor a grave." _page_ . "what is our life?"--a ms. copy of these verses is subscribed "s^r w. r.", _i.e._, sir walter raleigh. see hannah's "poems of raleigh and wotton," p. . compare the sombre verses, signed "ignoto," in "reliquiæ wottonianæ":-- "man's life's a tragedy; his mother's womb, from which he enters, is the tiring-room; this spacious earth the theatre, and the stage that country which he lives in: passions, rage, folly and vice are actors; the first cry the prologue to the ensuing tragedy; the former act consisteth of dumb shows; the second, he to more perfection grows; i' the third he is a man and doth begin to nurture vice and act the deeds of sin; i' the fourth declines; i' the fifth diseases clog and trouble him; then death's his epilogue." _page_ . "what needeth all this travail and turmoiling?"--suggested by spenser's fifteenth sonnet:-- "ye tradefull merchants that with weary toyle do seeke most pretious things to make your gain, and both the indias of their treasure spoile, what needeth you to seeke so farre in vaine? for loe! my love doth in her selfe containe all this worlds riches that may farre be found. if saphyres, loe! her eies be saphyres plaine; if rubies, loe! hir lips be rubies sound; if pearles, hir teeth be pearles, both pure and round; if yvorie, her forehead yvory weene; if gold, her locks are finest gold on ground; if silver, her faire hands are silver sheene: but that which fairest is but few behold, her mind, adornd with vertues manifold." _page_ , l. . "and fortune's fate not fearing."--oliphant boldly reads, for the sake of the rhyme, "and _fickle fortune scorning_."--in "england's helicon" the text is the same as in the song-book. _page_ , l. . "and when she saw that i was in her danger."--_within one's danger_ = to be in a person's power or control. l. . "white _iope_."--campion must have had in his mind a passage of propertius (ii. );-- "sunt apud infernos tot millia formosarum: pulchra sit in superis, si licet, una locis. vobiscum est _iope_, vobiscum candida tyro, vobiscum europe, nec proba pasiphae." see hertzberg's note on that passage. _page_ . "while that the sun."--also printed in "england's helicon," . list of song-books. alison, richard. _an hour's recreation in music_, . attye, john. _first book of airs of four parts_, . bateson, thomas. _first set of english madrigals_, . byrd, william. _psalms, sonnets, and songs of sadness and piety_, . _songs of sundry natures_, . _psalms, songs, and sonnets_, . campion, thomas. _see_ rosseter, philip. _two books of airs_ [circ. ]. _the third and fourth book of airs_ [circ. ]. carlton, richard. _madrigals to five voices_, . coprario, john. _funeral tears for the death of the right honourable the earl of devonshire_, . corkine, william. _airs to sing and play to the lute and bass-viol_, . _the second book of airs_, . danyel, john. _songs for the lute, viol, and voice_, . dowland, john. _the first book of songs or airs of four parts_, . _the second book of songs or airs, of two, four, and five parts_, . _the third and last book of songs or airs_, . _a pilgrims solace_, . dowland, robert. _a musical banquet furnished with variety of delicious airs_, . earsden, john and mason, george. _the airs that were sung and played at brougham castle in westmoreland_, . egerton, ms. . este, michael. _madrigals to three four and five parts_, . farmer, john. _the first set of english madrigals to four voices_, . farnaby, giles. _canzonets to four voices_, . ford, thomas. _music of sundry kinds_, . gibbons, orlando. _the first set of madrigals and mottets_, . greaves, thomas. _songs of sundry kinds_, . jones, robert. _the first took of airs_, . _the second book of songs and airs_, . _ultimum vale, or the third book of airs_, . _a musical dream, or the fourth book of airs_, . lichfild, henry. _the first set of madrigals to five parts_, . maynard, john. _the xii wonders of the world_, . morley, thomas. _canzonets or little short songs to three voices_, . _madrigals to four voices_, ; . _the first book of ballets to five voices_, . mundy, john. _songs and psalms_, . peerson, martin. _mottects, or grave chamber-music_, . pilkington, francis. _the first book of songs or airs_, . _the first set of madrigals and pastorals_, . _the second set of madrigals_, . ravenscroft, thomas. _pammelia; music's miscellany or mixed variety of pleasant roundelays_, . _deuteromelia; or the second part of music's melody_, . _melismata; musical fancies fitting the court, city, and country humours_, . _brief discourse of the true use of charact'ring the degrees, &c._, . rosseter, philip and campion, thomas. _a book of airs_, . tomkins, thomas. _songs of three, four, five, and six parts_, . vautor, thomas. _the first set: being songs of divers airs and natures, of five and six parts_, . ward, john. _the first set of english madrigals to three, four, five and six parts_, . weelkes, thomas. _madrigals to three, four, five and six voices_, . _ballets and madrigals to five voices_, . _madrigals of five and six parts_, . _madrigals of six parts_, . _airs or fantastic spirits for three voices_, . wilbye, john. _the first set of english madrigals to three, four, five and six voices_, . _the second set of english madrigals to three, four, five and six voices_, . yonge, nicholas. _musica transalpina: the second book of madrigals to five and six voices_, . youll, henry. _canzonets to three voices_, . chiswick press:--c. whittingham and co. tooks court, chancery lane. transcriber's notes greek has been transliterated in this version of the e-text, and is surrounded by braces, {like this}. a caret (^) is used to indicate a superscript in "s^r w. r." "... land in kent (malismata)" corrected to "melismata". "... full of all heavenby fire" corrected to "heavenly fire". "she of my love and i of hers had failed" corrected to "failèd". minor punctuation omissions have been silently corrected. inconsistencies in the spelling and hyphenation of words between different songs have been retained. english songs and ballads compiled by t w. h. crosland london grant richards leicester square edinburgh: printed by t. and a. constable first impression april second impression april l note english songs and ballads' must not be regarded as 'a choice,' but simply as a bringing together of poetical pieces which are, presumably, well known to the average person,--that is to say, the compiler has endeavoured to illustrate the general taste rather than his own preference. index of first lines (transcriber's note: no author is cited for the first song in the collection, "my swete sweting." page references in the "index of first lines" and in the "index of authors" have been expunged since they do not apply to this electronic version; please use electronic searches to locate poems.) about the sweet bag of a bee a chieftain to the highlands bound ae fond kiss, and then we sever agincourt, agincourt ah, my swete swetyng alas! my love, you do me wrong allen-a-dale has no faggot for burning all in the downs the fleet was moor'd all ye woods, and trees, and bowers and did you not hear of a jolly young waterman an old song made by an aged old pate a parrot from the spanish main arm, arm, arm, arm, the scouts are all come in a simple child as i came thro' sandgate ask me no more where jove bestows ask me no more, the moon may draw the sea a spirit haunts the year's last hours as thro' the land at eve we went a sweet disorder in the dress attend all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise a weary lot is thine, fair maid a well there is in the west country a wet sheet and a flowing sea beauty clear and fair be it right or wrong, these men among believe me, if all those endearing young charms bird of the wilderness blame not my lute! for he must sound blow, blow, thou winter wind blow high, blow low, let tempests tear break, break, break busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride but are ye sure the news is true call for the robin-redbreast and the wren cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, i cry cold's the wind, and wet's the rain come all ye jolly shepherds come, cheerful day, part of my life to me come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer come follow, follow me come into the garden, maud come live with me and be my love come not, when i am dead come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving dear is my little native vale doubt thou the stars are fire drink to me only with thine eyes duncan gray came here to woo faintly as tolls the evening chime fair daffodils, we weep to see fair pledges of a fruitful tree fair stood the wind for france fear no more the heat o' the sun flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow for auld lang syne, my dear four and twenty bonny boys from oberon, in fairy land from the forests and highlands from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested full fathom five thy father lies gather the rose-buds while ye may god lyaeus, ever young god prosper long our noble king god save our gracious king go fetch to me a pint o' wine go, lovely rose good-morrow to the day so fair good people all, of every sort go where glory waits thee green fields of england, wheresoe'er hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be hang fear, cast away care hark! now everything is still hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings he is gone on the mountain her arms across her breast she laid here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling her eyes the glow-worm lend thee here's a health unto his majesty here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen hide me, o twilight air home they brought her warrior dead ho! why dost thou shiver and shake how should i your true love know i arise from dreams of thee i cannot eat but little meat i come from haunts of coot and hern i come, i come! ye have called me long i knew an old wife lean and poor i lov'd a lass, a fair one i'm lonesome since i cross'd the hill i'm sitting on the stile, mary in going to my naked bed in good king charles's golden days in her ear he whispered gaily in the merry month of may in wakefield there lives a jolly pinder i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he is there for honest poverty i tell thee, dick, where i have been it is an ancient mariner it is the miller's daughter i travelled among unknown men it was a blind beggar had long lost his sight it was a friar of orders gray it was a lover and his lass it was a summer evening it was the frog in the well it was the time when lilies blow i've seen the smiling i wander'd by the brook-side john anderson, my jo, john john gilpin was a citizen kentish sir byng stood for his king king death was a rare old fellow lassie wi' the lint-white locks lawn as white as driven snow lay a garland on my hearse let me the canakin clink, clink let the bells ring, and let the boys sing lithe and listen, gentlemen long the proud spaniards had vaunted to conquer us lord, thou hast given me a cell love wakes and weeps maxwelltown braes are bonnie men of england who inherit mine be a cot beside the hill move eastward, happy earth, and leave my banks they are furnished with bees my heart is sair, i darena tell my heart is wasted with my woe my mind to me a kingdom is o, willie brew'd a peck o' maut napoleon's banners at boulogne no stir in the air, no stir in the sea not a drum was heard, not a funeral note now glory to the lord of hosts, from whom all glories are now, now the mirth comes now ponder well, you parents dear now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white now the hungry lion roars of all the girls that are so smart of a' the airts the wind can blaw of nelson and the north oft i had heard of lucy gray oft in the stilly night oh, call my brother back to me oh, mary, go and call the cattle home oh! the days are gone when beauty bright oh, the sweet contentment oh where, and oh where, is your highland laddie gone o jenny's a' weet, poor body o listen, listen, ladies gay o mistress mine, where are you roaming o, my luve 's like a red red rose o nanny, wilt thou go with me on either side the river lie on linden when the sun was low, on that deep-retiring shore on the banks of allan water orpheus with his lute made trees o sing unto my roundelay o swallow, swallow, flying south our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered over hill, over dale o waly, waly up the bank o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms o whistle and i'll come to ye, my lad o world! o life! o time! o, young lochinvar is come out of the west pack clouds, away, and welcome, day pibroch of donuil dhu piping down the valleys wild proud maisie in the wood queen and huntress, chaste and fair red rows the nith 'tween bank and brae rich and rare were the gems she wore rose cheek'd laura, come scots wha hae wi' wallace bled shall i, wasting in despair she dwelt among untrodden ways she is a winsome wee thing she is far from the land where her young hero sleeps she stood breast high among the corn she walks in beauty like the night sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more sing his praises, that doth keep some asked me where the rubies grew some talk of alexander, and some of hercules some years of late, in eighty-eight so now is come our joyfullest part so, we'll go no more a-roving spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king still to be neat, still to be drest sweet and low, sweet and low sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright sweet emma moreland of yonder town tell me not, sweet, i am unkind tell me, where is fancy bred the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold the boy stood on the burning deck the breaking waves dashed high the bride cam' out o' the byre the deil cam' fiddlin' thro' the toun the feathered songster chanticleer the fountains mingle with the river the glories of our blood and state the harp that once through tara's halls the king sits in dunfermline town the laird o' cockpen, he's proud an' he 's great the lawns were dry in euston park the minstrel boy to the war is gone there be none of beauty's daughters there came to the beach a poor exile of erin, there come seven gypsies on a day there is a garden in her face there is not in the wide world a valley so sweet there was a youth, a well beloved youth there was three kings into the east there were three ladies play'd at the ba' there were three sailors of bristol city the splendour falls on castle walls the stars are with the voyager the stately homes of england the time i've lost in wooing they grew in beauty side by side three fishers went sailing out into the west tiger, tiger, burning bright 'tis the last rose of summer toll for the brave turn, gentle hermit of the dale 'twas in the prime of summer time under the greenwood tree was this fair face the cause, quoth she wha 'll buy my caller herrin' when all among the thundering drums when all is done and said when britain first, at heaven's command when cats run home, and light is come when daffodils begin to peer, when daisies pied and violets blue, when hercules did use to spin when icicles hang by the wall when love with unconfined wings when o'er the hill the eastern star when the british warrior queen when the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye 's come hame when this old cap was new when we two parted where gang ye, thou silly auld carle where the bee sucks, there lurk i while larks with little wing who is sylvia? what is she why does your brand so drop with blood why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears why so pale and wan, fond lover with fingers weary and worn ye gentlemen of england ye little birds that sit and sing ye mariners of england you are old, father william, the young man cried you spotted snakes with double tongue index of authors anonymous barnard, lady anne beaumont and fletcher blake, william bloomfield, robert breton, nicholas browning, robert burns, robert byron, lord campbell, thomas campion, thomas carew, thomas carey, henry chalkhill, john chatterton, thomas clough, arthur hugh cockburn, mrs coleridge, samuel taylor cowper, william cunningham, allan dalrymple, sir david dibdin, charles drayton, michael dufferin, lady edwardes, richard fletcher, john garrick, david gay, john goldsmith, oliver hamilton, william hemans, felicia herbert, george herrick, robert heywood, thomas hogg, james, holcroft, thomas hood, thomas houghton, lord jonson, ben keats, john kingsley, rev. charles lovelace, richard macaulay, lord marlowe, christopher mickle, william julius moore, thomas nairne, lady nash, thomas parker, martin percy, thomas proctor, b.w. rogers, samuel ross, alexander scott, sir walter shakespeare, william shelley, percy bysshe shenstone, william shirley, james sidney, sir philip southey, robert still, john suckling, sir john tennyson, lord thackeray, william makepeace thompson, james vaux, lord waller, edmund webster, john wither, george wolfe, charles wordsworth, william wyatt, sir thomas songs and ballads my swete sweting ah, my swete swetyng! my lytyle prety swetyng, my swetyng will i love wherever i go; she is so proper and pure, full stedfast, stabill and demure, there is none such, ye may be sure, as my swete swetyng. in all this world, as thynketh me, is none so pleasant to my eye, that i am glad soe ofte to see, as my swete swetyng. when i behold my swetyng swete, her face, her hands, her minion fete, they seme to me there is none so swete, as my swete swetyng. above all other prayse must i, and love my pretty pygsnye, for none i fynd so womanly as my swete swetyng. _lord vaux_ thinking when all is done and said, in the end thus shall you find, he most of all doth bathe in bliss that hath a quiet mind: and, clear from worldly cares, to deem can be content the sweetest time in all his life in thinking to be spent. the body subject is to fickle fortune's power, and to a million of mishaps is casual every hour: and death in time doth change it to a clod of clay; whenas the mind, which is divine, runs never to decay. companion none is like unto the mind alone; for many have been harmed by speech through thinking, few, or none. fear oftentimes restraineth words, but makes not thought to cease; and he speaks best that hath the skill when for to hold his peace. our wealth leaves us at death; our kinsmen at the grave; but virtues of the mind unto the heavens with us we have. wherefore, for virtue's sake, i can be well content, the sweetest time of all my life to deem in thinking spent. _richard edwardes_ the falling out of faithful friends in going to my naked bed as one that would have slept, i heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept; she sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, that would not cease, but cried still, in sucking at her breast. she was full weary of her watch, and grieved with her child; she rocked it and rated it, till that on her it smiled: then did she say, now have i found this proverb true to prove the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. then took i paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write, in register for to remain, of such a worthy wight; as she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat, much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat. and proved plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life, could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife: then kissèd she her little babe, and sware by god above, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. she said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright, until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might; when manhood shall be matched so that fear can take no place, then weary works make warriors each other to embrace, and leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout, that might before have lived in peace their time and nature out: then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. she said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt, that met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt; since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed, and force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed; so noble nature can well end the work she hath begun, and bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some: thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. i marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout, to see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about; some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can smoothly smile, and some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile; some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout, yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out: thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. _sir thomas wyatt_ the lover's lute blame not my lute! for he must sound of this or that as liketh me; for lack of wit the lute is bound to give such tunes as pleaseth me; though my songs be somewhat strange, and speak such words as touch my change, blame not my lute! my lute, alas! doth not offend, though that perforce he must agree to sound such tunes as i intend to sing to them that heareth me; then though my songs be somewhat plain, and toucheth some that use to feign, blame not my lute! my lute and strings may not deny, but as i strike they must obey; break not them so wrongfully, but wreak thyself some other way; and though the songs which i indite do quit thy change with rightful spite, blame not my lute! spite asketh spite, and changing change, and falsed faith must needs be known; the faults so great, the case so strange; of right it must abroad be blown: then since that by thine own desert my songs do tell how true thou art, blame not my lute! blame but thyself that hast misdone, and well deserved to have blame; change thou thy way, so evil begone, and then my lute shall sound that same; but if till then my fingers play, by thy desert their wonted way, blame not my lute! farewell! unknown; for though thou break my strings in spite with great disdain, yet have i found out for thy sake, strings for to string my lute again: and if perchance this silly rhyme do make thee blush at any time, blame not my lute! _christopher marlowe_ the passionate shepherd to his love come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield. there will we sit upon the rocks and see the shepherds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals. there will i make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies, a cap of flowers, and a kirtle embroider'd all 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. a belt of straw and ivy buds with coral clasps and amber studs: and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me and be my love. thy silver dishes for thy meat as precious as the gods do eat, shall on an ivory table be prepared each day for thee and me. 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. _john still_ jolly good ale and old i cannot eat but little meat, my stomach is not good; but sure i think that i can drink with him that wears a hood. though i go bare, take ye no care, i nothing am 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 not desire, no frost nor snow, no wind, i trow, can hurt me if i wold; i am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd of jolly good ale and old. and tib, my wife, that as her life loveth well good ale to seek, full oft drinks she till ye may see the tears run down her cheek. then doth she trowl to me the bowl even as a maltworm should, and saith, 'sweetheart, i took my part of this jolly good ale and 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 scour'd bowls, or have them lustily troll'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. _nicholas breton_ phillida and corydon in the merry month of may, in a morn by break of day, with a troop of damsels playing forth i went forsooth a-maying. when anon by a wood side, where, as may was in his pride, i espied, all alone, phillida and corydon. much ado there was, god wot! he would love, and she would not, she said, never man was true: he says none was false to you; he said he had lov'd her long; she says love should have no wrong, corydon would kiss her then; she says, maids must kiss no men, till they do for good and all, when she made the shepherd call all the heavens to witness truth, never lov'd a truer youth. then with many a pretty oath, yea and nay, faith and troth, such as silly shepherds use, when they will not love abuse; love, which had been long deluded, was with kisses sweet concluded; and phillida with garlands gay was made the lady of may. _thomas nash_ spring spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! the palm and may make country houses gay, lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, and we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. the fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, in every street these tunes our ears do greet, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! spring! the sweet spring! _sir edward dyer_ my mind to me a kingdom is my mind to me a kingdom is, such perfect joy therein i find, that it excels all other bliss that god or nature hath assigned: though much i want that most would have, yet still my mind forbids to crave. no princely port, nor wealthy store, nor force to win a victory; no wily wit to salve a sore, no shape to win a loving eye; to none of these i yield as thrall, for why, my mind despise them all. i see that plenty surfeits oft, and hasty climbers soonest fall; i see that such as are aloft, mishap doth threaten most of all; these get with toil, and keep with fear: such cares my mind can never bear. i press to bear no haughty sway; i wish no more than may suffice; i do no more than well i may, look what i want, my mind supplies; lo, thus i triumph like a king, my mind's content with any thing. i laugh not at another's loss, nor grudge not at another's gain; no worldly waves my mind can toss; i brook that is another's bane; i fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; i loathe not life, nor dread mine end. my wealth is health and perfect ease, and conscience clear my chief defence, i never seek by bribes to please, nor by desert to give offence; thus do i live, thus will i die; would all do so as well as i! _james shirley_ death the leveller the glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things; there is no armour against fate; death lays his icy hand on kings: sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade. some men with swords may reap the field, and plant fresh laurels where they 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. the garlands wither on your brow; then boast no more your mighty deeds; upon death's purple altar now see where the victor-victim bleeds: your heads must come to the cold tomb; only the actions of the just smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. _thomas heywood_ ye little birds that sit and sing yz, little birds that sit and sing amidst the shady valleys, 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. o fly! make haste! see, see, she falls into a pretty slumber! sing round about her rosy bed that waking she may wonder: say to her, 'tis her lover true that sendeth love to you, to you! and when you hear her kind reply, return with pleasant warblings. pack clouds, away pack clouds, away, and welcome, day! with night we banish sorrow. sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft to give my love good-morrow! 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 good-morrow! to give my love good-morrow notes from them all i'll borrow. wake from thy nest, robin red-breast! sing, birds, in every furrow! and from each bill let music shrill give my fair love good-morrow! blackbird and thrush in every bush, stare, linnet, and cocksparrow, you pretty elves, among yourselves sing my fair love good-morrow! to give my love good-morrow! sing, birds, in every furrow! _beaumont and fletcher_ sleep come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving lock me in delight awhile; let some pleasing dreams beguile all my fancies; that from thence i may feel an influence all my powers of care bereaving! though but a shadow, but a sliding, let me know some little joy! we that suffer long annoy are contented with a thought through an idle fancy wrought: o let my joys have some abiding! song to pan all ye woods, and trees, and bowers, all ye virtues and ye powers that inhabit in the lakes, in the pleasant springs or brakes, move your feet to our sound, whilst we greet, all this ground, with his honour and his name that defends our flocks from blame. he is great and he is just, he is ever good, and must thus be honoured. daffodillies, roses, pinks, and loved lilies, let us fling, whilst we sing, ever holy, ever holy, ever honoured, ever young! thus great pan is ever sung. aspatia's song lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew; maidens, willow branches bear; say, i died true. my love was false, but i was firm from my hour of birth. upon my buried body lie lightly, gentle earth! _john fletcher_ beauty clear and fair beauty clear and fair, where the air rather like a perfume dwells; where the violet and the rose their blue veins and blush disclose, and come to honour nothing else: where to live near and planted there is to live, and still live new; where to gain a favour is more than light, perpetual bliss-- make me live by serving you! dear, again back recall to this light, a stranger to himself and all! both the wonder and the story shall be yours, and eke the glory; i am your servant, and your thrall. let the bells ring, and let the boys sing let the bells ring, and let the boys sing, the young lasses skip and play; let the cups go round, till round goes the ground, our learned old vicar will stay. let the pig turn merrily, merrily, ah and let the fat goose swim; for verily, verily, verily, oh! our vicar this day shall be trim. the stewed cock shall crow, cock-a-loodle-loo, a loud cock-a-loodle shall he crow; the duck and the drake shall swim in a lake of onions and claret below. our wives shall be neat, to bring in our meat to thee our most noble adviser; our pains shall be great, and bottles shall sweat, and we ourselves will be wiser. we'll labour and smirk, we'll kiss and we'll drink, and tithes shall come thicker and thicker; we'll fall to our plough, and have children enow, and thou shalt be learned old vicar. weep no more weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, sorrow calls no time that's gone: violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain makes not fresh nor grow again. trim thy locks, look cheerfully; fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. joys as winged dreams fly fast, why should sadness longer last? grief is but a wound to woe; gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe. pan sing his praises that doth keep our flocks from harm, pan, the father of our sheep; and arm in arm tread we softly in a round, whilst the hollow neighbouring ground fills the music with her sound. pan, o great god pan, to thee thus do we sing! thou who keep'st us chaste and free as the young spring: ever be thy honour spoke, from that place the morn is broke, to that place day doth unyoke! god lyaeus god lyaeus, ever young, ever honour'd, ever sung, stain'd with blood of lusty grapes, in a thousand lusty shapes dance upon the mazer's brim, in the crimson liquor swim; from thy plenteous hand divine let a river run with wine: god of youth, let this day here enter neither care nor fear. a battle-song arm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in; keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. behold from yonder hill the foe appears; bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears! like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring; o view the wings of horse the meadows scouring! the vanguard marches bravely. hark, the drums! dub, dub! they meet, they meet, and now the battle comes: see how the arrows fly that darken all the sky! hark how the trumpets sound! hark how the hills rebound-- tara, tara, tara, tara, tara! hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in! the battle totters; now the wounds begin: o how they cry! o how they die! room for the valiant memnon, armed with thunder! see how he breaks the ranks asunder! they fly! they fly! eumenes has the chase, and brave polybius makes good his place: to the plains, to the woods, to the rocks, to the floods, they fly for succour. follow, follow, follow! hark how the soldiers hollow! hey, hey! brave diodes is dead, and all his soldiers fled; the battle 's won, and lost, that many a life hath cost. _anonymous_ my lady greensleeves alas! my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously; and i have loved you so long, delighting in your company. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! i bought thee petticoats of the best, the cloth so fine as fine as might be; i gave thee jewels for thy chest, and all this cost i spent on thee. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! thy smock of silk, both fair and white, with gold embroidered gorgeously; thy petticoat of sendal right: and these i bought thee gladly. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! greensleeves now farewell! adieu! god i pray to prosper thee! for i am still thy lover true: come once again and love me! greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! _sir philip sidney_ my true love my true love hath my heart, and i have his, by just exchange one for another given: i hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; there never was a better bargain driven: my true love hath my heart, and i have his. his heart in me keeps him and me in one, my heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: he loves my heart, for once it was his own, i cherish his because in me it bides: my true love hath my heart, and i have his. _john webster_ dirge call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, since o'er shady groves they hover, and with leaves and flowers do cover the friendless bodies of unburied men. call unto his funeral dole the ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, to rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, and (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; but keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, for with his nails he'll dig them up again. the shrouding hark! now everything is still, the screech-owl and the whistler shrill, call upon our dame aloud, and bid her quickly don her shroud! much you had of land and rent; your length in clay's now competent: a long war disturb'd your mind; here your perfect peace is sign'd. of what is't fools make such vain keeping? sin their conception, their birth weeping, their life a general mist of error, their death a hideous storm of terror. strew your hair with powders sweet, don clean linen, bathe your feet, and--the foul fiend more to check-- a crucifix let bless your neck; 'tis now full tide 'tween night and day; end your groan and come away. _thomas dekker_ content art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? o sweet content! art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? o punishment! dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd to add to golden numbers, golden numbers? o sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content! work apace, apace, apace, apace; honest labour bears a lovely face; then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? o sweet content! swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? o punishment! then he that patiently want's burden bears no burden bears, but is a king, a king! o sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content! work apace, apace, apace, apace; honest labour bears a lovely face; then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! troll the bowl cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, saint hugh be our good speed! ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, nor helps good hearts in need. troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, and here, kind mate, to thee! let's sing a dirge for saint hugh's soul, and down it merrily. down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, hey derry derry down-a-down. ho! well done, to let me come, ring compass, gentle joy! troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, and here, kind mate, to thee! let's sing a dirge for saint hugh's soul, and down it merrily. cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, saint hugh be our good speed! ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, nor helps good hearts in need. _anonymous_ sir patrick spens the king sits in dunfermline toun, drinking the blude-red wine; oh whare will i get a gude sailor, to sail this ship o' mine?' then up and spake an eldern knight sat at the king's right knee; 'sir patrick spens is the best sailor that ever sail'd the sea.' the king has written a braid letter, and seal'd it wi' his hand, and sent it to sir patrick spens was walking on the strand. 'to noroway, to noroway, to noroway o'er the faem; the king's daughter to noroway, 'tis thou maun tak' her hame.' the first line that sir patrick read, a loud laugh laughed he; the neist line that sir patrick read, the tear blinded his ee. 'o wha is this has done this deed, and tauld the king o' me, to send us out at this time o' the year, to sail upon the sea?' 'be't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet, our ship maun sail the faem; the king's daughter to noroway, 'tis we maun tak' her hame.' they hoisted their sails on monenday morn, wi' a' the speed they may; and they hae landed in noroway upon a wodensday. they hadna been a week, a week, in noroway but twae, when that the lords o' noroway began aloud to say-- 'ye scotisman spend a' our king's gowd, and a' our queenis fee.' 'ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud, sae loud 's i hear ye lee!' 'for i brought as much o' the white monie as gane my men and me, and a half-fou o' the gude red gowd, out owre the sea with me. 'mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a', our gude ship sails the morn.' 'o say na sae, my master dear, i fear a deadlie storm. 'i saw the new moon late yestreen, wi' the auld moon in her arm; and if we gang to sea, master, i fear we'll come to harm!' they hadna sail'd a league, a league, a league but barely three, when the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud and gurly grew the sea. the ankers brak, and the tap-masts lap, it was sic a deadlie storm; and the waves cam' owre the broken ship, till a' her sides were torn. 'o whare will i get a gude sailor will tak' the helm in hand, till i get up to the tall tap-mast, to see if i can spy land.' 'o here am i, a sailor gude, to tak' the helm in hand, till ye get up to the tall tap-mast, but i fear ye'll ne'er spy land.' he hadna gane a step, a step, a step but barely ane, when a bout flew out o' the gude ship's side, and the saut sea it cam in. 'gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, anither o' the twine, and wap them into our gude ship's side, and letna the sea come in.' they fetch'd a wab o' the silken claith, anither o' the twine, and they wapp'd them into the gude ship's side, but aye the sea cam' in. o laith, laith were our scots lords' sons to weet their coal-black shoon, but lang ere a' the play was play'd, they wat their hats abune. and mony was the feather-bed that fluttered on the faem, and mony was the gude lord's son that never mair cam' hame. o lang, lang may the ladies sit, wi' their fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand. and lang, lang may the maidens sit, wi' the gowd kaims in their hair, a' waiting for their ain dear loves, for them they'll see nae mair. half owre, half owre to aberdour 'tis fifty fathom deep, and there lies gude sir patrick spens wi' the scots lords at his feet. the beggar's daughter of bednall-green part i it was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, he had a fair daughter of beauty most bright; and many a gallant brave suitor had she, for none was so comely as pretty bessee. and though she was of favour most faire, yet seeing she was but a poor beggar's heyre, of ancyent housekeepers despised was she, whose sons came as suitors to pretty bessee. wherefore in great sorrow fair bessy did say, good father, and mother, let me go away to seek out my fortune, whatever it be, this suite then they granted to pretty bessee. then bessy, that was of beauty so bright, all cladd in grey russet, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted she; who sighed and sobbed for pretty bessee. she went till she came to stratford-le-bow; then knew she not whither, nor which way to go: with tears she lamented her hard destinie, so sad and so heavy was pretty bessee. she kept on her journey until it was day, and went unto rumford along the high way; where at the queen's arms entertained was she: so fair and well-favoured was pretty bessee. she had not been there a month to an end, but master and mistress and all was her friend: and every brave gallant, that once did her see, was straightway enamour'd of pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daily her love was extolled; her beauty was blazed in every degree; so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy she showed herself courteous and modestly coy and at her commandment still would they be; so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. four suitors at once unto her did go; they craved her favour, but still she said no; i would not wish gentles to marry with me; yet ever they honoured pretty bessee. the first of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguised in the night: the second a gentleman of good degree, who wooed and sued for pretty bessee. a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, he was the third suitor, and proper withal: her master's own son the fourth man must be, who swore he would die for pretty bessee. and, if thou wilt marry with me, quoth the knight, i'll make thee a lady with joy and delight; my heart's so enthralled by thy beautie, that soon i shall die for pretty bessee. the gentleman said, come, marry with me, as fine as a lady my bessy shall be: my life is distressed: o hear me, quoth he; and grant me thy love, my pretty bessee. let me be thy husband; the merchant did say, thou shalt live in london both gallant and gay; my ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee. then bessy she sighed, and thus she did say, my father and mother i mean to obey; first get their good will, and be faithful to me, and then you shall marry your pretty bessee. to every one this answer she made, wherefore unto her they joyfully said, this thing to fulfil we all do agree; but where dwells thy father, my pretty bessee? my father, she said, is soon to be seen: the silly blind beggar of bednall-green, that daily sits begging for charitie, he is the good father of pretty bessee. his marks and his tokens are known very well; he always is led with a dog and a bell: a silly old man, god knoweth, is he, yet he is the father of pretty bessee. nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for me. nor, quoth the innholder, my wife thou shalt be: i loth, said the gentle, a beggar's degree, and therefore adieu, my pretty bessee. why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, i weigh not true love by the weight of the purse, and beauty is beauty in every degree; then welcome unto me, my pretty bessee. with thee to thy father forthwith i will go. nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be so; a poor beggar's daughter no lady shall be, then take thy adieu of pretty bessee. but soon after this, by break of the day the knight had from rumford stole bessy away. the young men of rumford, as thick as might be, rode after to fetch again pretty bessee. as swift as the wind to ryde they were seen, until they came near unto bednall-green; and as the knight lighted most courteouslie, they all fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescue came speedily over the plain, or else the young knight for his love had been slain. this fray being ended, then straightway he see his kinsmen come railing at pretty bessee. then spake the blind beggar, although i be poor, yet rail not against my child at my own door: though she be not decked in velvet and pearl, yet will i drop angels with you for my girl. and then, if my gold may better her birth, and equal the gold that you lay on the earth, then neither rail nor grudge you to see the blind beggar's daughter a lady to be. but first you shall promise, and have it well known, the gold that you drop shall all be your own. with that they replied, contented be we. then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty bessee. with that an angel he cast on the ground, and dropped in angels full three thousand pound; and oftentimes it was proved most plain, for the gentlemen's one, the beggar dropt twain: so that the place, wherein they did sit, with gold it was covered every whit. the gentlemen then having dropt all their store, said, now, beggar, hold, for we have no more, thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright. then marry, quoth he, my girl to this knight; and here, added he, i will now throw you down a hundred pounds more to buy her a gown. the gentlemen all, that this treasure had seen, admired the beggar of bednall-green: and all those, that were her suitors before, their flesh for very anger they tore. thus was fair bessy matched to the knight, and then made a lady in others' despite: a fairer lady there never was seen, than the blind beggar's daughter of bednall-green. but of their sumptuous marriage and feast, what brave lords and knights thither were prest, the second fitt shall set forth to your sight with marvellous pleasure and wished delight. part ii of a blind beggar's daughter most bright, that late was betrothed unto a young knight; all the discourse thereof you did see: but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. within a gorgeous palace most brave, adorned with all the cost they could have, this wedding was kept most sumptuouslie, and all for the credit of pretty bessee. all kind of dainties and delicates sweet were bought for the banquet, as it was most meet; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. this marriage through england was spread by report, so that a great number thereto did resort of nobles and gentles in every degree; and all for the fame of pretty bessee. to church then went this gallant young knight; his bride followed after, an angel most bright, with troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen, as went with sweet bessy of bednall-green. this marriage being solemnized then, with musick performed by the skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sat down at that tide, each one admiring the beautiful bride. now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talk, and to reason a number begun: they talked of the blind beggar's daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spake the nobles, 'much marvel have we, this jolly blind beggar we cannot here see.' my lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, he is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. 'the praise of a woman in question to bring before her own face, were a flattering thing, but we think thy father's baseness,' quoth they, 'might by thy beauty be clean put away.' they had no sooner these pleasant words spoke, but in comes the beggar clad in a silk cloak; a fair velvet cap, and a feather had he, and now a musician forsooth he would be. he had a dainty lute under his arm, he touched the strings, which made such a charm, says, please you to hear any musick of me, i'll sing you a song of pretty bessee. with that his lute he twanged straightway, and thereon began most sweetly to play; and after that lessons were played two or three, he strain'd out this song most delicatelie. 'a poor beggar's daughter did dwell on a green, who for her fairness might well be a queen: a blithe bonny lass, and a dainty was she, and many one called her pretty bessee. 'her father he had no goods, nor no land, but begged for a penny all day with his hand; and yet to her marriage he gave thousands three, and still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee. 'and if any one here her birth do disdain, her father is ready, with might and with main, to prove she is come of noble degree: therefore never flout at pretty bessee.' with that the lords and the company round with hearty laughter were ready to swound; at last said the lords, full well we may see, the bride and the beggar's beholden to thee. on this the bride all blushing did rise, the pearly drops standing within her fair eyes, 'o pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth she, that through blind affection thus doteth on me.' 'if this be thy father,' the nobles did say, 'well may he be proud of this happy day; yet by his countenance well may we see, his birth and his fortune did never agree: 'and therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray (and look that the truth thou to us do say) thy birth and thy parentage, what it may be; for the love that thou bearest to pretty bessee.' 'then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, one song more to sing, and then i have done; and if that it may not win good report, then do not give me a _groat_ for my sport. 'sir simon de montfort my subject shall be; once chief of all the great barons was he, yet fortune so cruel this lord did abase, now lost and forgotten are he and his race. 'when the barons in arms did king henry oppose, sir simon de montfort their leader they chose; a leader of courage undaunted was he, and ofttimes he made their enemies flee. 'at length in the battle on evesham plain, the barons were routed, and montfort was slain; most fatal that battle did prove unto thee, though thou wast not born then, my pretty bessee! 'along with the nobles, that fell at that tide, his eldest son henry, who fought by his side, was felled by a blow he received in the fight; a blow that deprived him for ever of sight. 'among the dead bodies all lifeless he lay, till evening drew on of the following day, when by a young lady discovered was he; and this was thy mother, my pretty bessee. 'a baron's fair daughter stept forth in the night to search for her father, who fell in the fight, and seeing young montfort, where gasping he lay, was moved with pity, and brought him away. 'in secret she nurst him, and swaged his pain, while he through the realm was believed to be slain: at length his fair bride she consented to be, and made him glad father of pretty bessee. 'and now, lest our foes our lives should betray, we clothed ourselves in beggars' array; her jewels she sold, and hither came we: all our comfort and care was our pretty bessee. 'and here have we lived in fortune's despite, though poor, yet contented with humble delight: full forty winters thus have i been a silly blind beggar of bednall-green. 'and here, noble lords, is ended the song of one, that once to your own rank did belong: and thus have you learned a secret from me, that ne'er had been known, but for pretty bessee.' now when the fair company every one, had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown, they all were amazed, as well they might be, both at the blind beggar, and pretty bessee. with that the fair bride they all did embrace, saying, sure thou art come of an honourable race thy father likewise is of noble degree, and thou art well worthy a lady to be. thus was the feast ended with joy and delight, a bridegroom most happy then was the knight, in joy and felicitie long lived he, all with his fair lady, the pretty bessee. the babes in the wood now ponder well, you parents dear, these words, which i shall write; a doleful story you shall hear, in time brought forth to light. a gentleman of good account in norfolk dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate. sore sick he was, and like to die, no help his life could save; his wife by him as sick did lie, and both possest one grave. no love between these two was lost, each was to other kind, in love they liv'd, in love they died, and left two babes behind: the one a fine and pretty boy, not passing three yeares old; the other a girl more young than he, and fram'd in beauty's mould. the father left his little son, as plainly doth appeare, when he to perfect age should come, three hundred pounds a yeare. and to his little daughter jane five hundred pounds in gold, to be paid down on marriage-day, which might not be controll'd: but if the children came to die, ere they to age should come, their uncle should possesse their wealth; for so the will did run. now, brother, said the dying man, look to my children dear; be good unto my boy and girl, no friends else have they here: to god and you i recommend my children dear this daye; but little while be sure we have within this world to stay. you must be father and mother both, and uncle all in one; god knows what will become of them, when i am dead and gone. with that bespake their mother dear, o brother kind, quoth she, you are the man must bring our babes to wealth or miserie: and if you keep them carefully, then god will you reward; but if you otherwise should deal, god will your deeds regard. with lips as cold as any stone, they kist their children small: god bless you both, my children dear; with that the tears did fall. these speeches then their brother spake to this sick couple there, the keeping of your little ones, sweet sister, do not feare; god never prosper me nor mine, nor aught else that i have, if i do wrong your children dear, wheli you are laid in grave. the parents being dead and gone, the children home he takes, and brings them straite unto his house, where much of them he makes. he had not kept these pretty babes a twelvemonth and a day, but, for their wealth, he did devise to make them both away. he bargain'd with two ruffians strong, which were of furious mood, that they should take these children young, and slay them in a wood. he told his wife an artful tale, he would the children send to be brought up in fair london, with one that was his friend. away then went those pretty babes, rejoycing at that tide, rejoycing with a merry mind, they should on cock-horse ride. they prate and prattle pleasantly, as they rode on the way, to those that should their butchers be, and work their lives' decay: so that the pretty speech they had, made murder's heart relent; and they that undertook the deed, full sore did now repent. yet one of them, more hard of heart, did vow to do his charge, because the wretch, that hired him, had paid him very large. the other won't agree thereto, so here they fall to strife; with one another they did fight, about the children's life: and he that was of mildest mood, did slay the other there, within an unfrequented wood; the babes did quake for fear! he took the children by the hand, tears standing in their eye, and bade them straightway follow him, and look they did not cry: and two long miles he led them on, while they for food complain: stay here, quoth he, i'll bring you bread, when i come back again. the pretty babes, with hand in hand, went wandering up and down; but never more could see the man approaching from the town; their pretty lips with black-berries, were all besmear'd and dyed, and when they saw the darksome night, they sat them down and cryed. thus wandered these poor innocents, till death did end their grief, in one another's arms they died, as wanting due relief: no burial this pretty pair of any man receives, till robin-redbreast piously did cover them with leaves. and now the heavy wrath of god upon their uncle fell; yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, his conscience felt an hell: his barns were fir'd, his goods consum'd, his lands were barren made; his cattle died within the field, and nothing with him stayd. and in a voyage to portugal two of his sons did die; and to conclude, himself was brought to want and misery: he pawn'd and mortgaged all his land ere seven years came about. and now at length this wicked act did by this means come out: the fellow, that did take in hand these children for to kill, was for a robbery judg'd to die, such was god's blessed will: who did confess the very truth, as here hath been display'd: their uncle having died in gaol, where he for debt was laid. you that executors be made, and overseers eke, of children that be fatherless, and infants mild and meek; take you example by this thing, and yield to each his right, lest god with such like misery your wicked minds requite. robin hood and the pinder of wakefield in wakefield there lives a jolly pinder, in wakefield, all on a green; 'there is neither knight nor squire,' said the pinder, 'nor baron that is so bold, dare make a trespasse to the town of wakefield, but his pledge goes to the pinfold.' all this beheard three witty young men, 'twas robin hood, scarlet, and john; with that they spied the jolly pinder, as he sate under a thorn. 'now turn again, turn again,' said the pinder, 'for a wrong way have you gone; for you have forsaken the king his highway, and made a path over the corn.' 'oh, that were great shame,' said jolly robin, `we being three, and thou but one': the pinder leapt back then thirty good foot, 'twas thirty good foot and one. he leaned his back fast unto a thorn, and his foot unto a stone, and there he fought a long summer's day, a summer's day so long, till that their swords, on their broad bucklers, were broken fast unto their hands. ................................... 'hold thy hand, hold thy hand,' said robin hood, 'and my merry men every one; for this is one of the best pinders that ever i try'd with sword. 'and wilt thou forsake thy pinder his craft, and live in the green wood with me?' ................................... 'at michaelmas next my covenant comes out, when every man gathers his fee; i'le take my blew blade all in my hand, and plod to the green wood with thee.' 'hast thou either meat or drink,' said robin hood, 'for my merry men and me?' ................................... 'i have both bread and beef,' said the pinder, 'and good ale of the best'; 'and that is meat good enough,' said robin hood, for such unbidden guest. o wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft and go to the green wood with me? 'thou shalt have a livery twice in the year, the one green, the other brown shall be.' 'if michaelmas day were once come and gone, and my master had paid me my fee, then would i set as little by him as my master doth set by me.' the nut-brown maid _he_. be it right or wrong, these men among on women do complain; affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain, to love them well; for never a deal they love a man again: for let a man do what he can, their favour to attain, yet, if a new do them pursue, their first true lover then laboureth for nought; for from their thought he is a banished man. _she_. i say not nay, but that all day it is both written and said, that woman's faith is, as who saith, all utterly decayed; but, nevertheless, right good witnèss in this case might be laid, that they love true, and continùe: record the nut-brown maid: which, when her love came, her to prove, to her to make his moan, would not depart; for in her heart she loved but him alone. _he_. then between us let us discuss what was all the manner between them two: we will also tell all the pain, and fear, that she was in. now i begin, so that ye me answèr; wherefore, all ye, that present be, i pray you give an ear. 'i am the knight; i come by night, as secret as i can; saying, alas! thus standeth the case, i am a banished man.' she. and i your will for to fulfil in this will not refuse; trustying to show, in words few, that men have an ill use (to their own shame) women to blame, and causeless them accuse; therefore to you i answer now, all women to excuse, mine own heart dear, with you what cheer i pray you, tell anon; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. it standeth so; a deed is done whereof great harm shall grow: my destiny is for to die a shameful death, i trow; or else to flee. the one must be; none other way i know, but to withdraw as an outlaw, and take me to my bow. wherefore adieu, my own heart true! none other rede i can: for i must to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. o lord, what is this worldis bliss, that changeth as the moon! my summer's day in lusty may is derked before the noon. i hear you say, farewell: nay, nay, we depart not so soon, why say ye so? whither will ye go? alas! what have you done? all my welfare to sorrow and care should change, if you were gone; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. i can believe, it shall you grieve, and somewhat you distrain; but, afterward, your paines hard within a day or twain shall soon aslake; and ye shall take comfort to you again. why should ye ought? for to make thought, your labour were in vain. and thus i do; and pray you to, as hartely, as i can; for i must to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. now, sith that ye have showed to me the secret of your mind, i shall be plain to you again, like as ye shall me find. sith it is so, that ye will go, i will not live behind; shall never be said, the nut-brown maid was to her love unkind: make you ready, for so am i, although it were anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind, i love but you alone. _he_. yet i you rede to take good heed what men will think, and say: of young and old it shall be told, that ye be gone away, your wanton will for to fulfil, in green-wood you to play; and that ye might for your delight no longer make delay. rather than ye should thus for me be called an ill woman, yet would i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. though it be sung of old and young, that i should be to blame, theirs be the charge, that speak so large in hurting of my name: for i will prove that faithful love it is devoid of shame; in your distress, and heaviness, to part with you, the same: and sure all those, that do not so, true lovers are they none; for, in my mind, of all mankind, i love but you alone. _he_. i counsel you, remember how, it is no maiden's law, nothing to doubt, but to run out to wood with an outlaw: for ye must there in your hand bear a bow, ready to draw, and, as a thief, thus must you live, ever in dread and awe; whereby to you great harm might grow: yet had i liever than, that i did to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. i think not nay, but as ye say, it is no maiden's lore: but love may make me for your sake, as i have said before, to come on foot, to hunt, and shoot to get us meat in store; for so that i your company may have, i ask no more: from which to part, it maketh my heart as cold as any stone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. for an outlàw this is the law, that men him take and bind; without pitie, hangèd to be, and waver with the wind. if i had need (as god forbid!) what socours could ye find? forsooth, i trow, ye and your bow for fear would draw behind: and no marvèl; for little avail were in your counsel then: wherefore i will to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. right well know ye that woman be but feeble for to fight; no womanhede it is indeed to be bold as a knight: yet, in such fear if that ye were with enemies day or night, i would withstand, with bow in hand, to grieve them as i might, and you to save; as women have from death men many one; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. yet take good heed; for ever i dread that ye could not sustain the thorny ways, the deep valleys, the snow, the frost, the rain, the cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, we must lodge on the plain; and, us above, no other roof but a brake bush, or twain: which soon should grieve you, i believe, and ye would gladly than that i had to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. sith i have here been partynere with you of joy and bliss, i must alsò part of your woe endure, as reason is: yet am i sure of one pleasure; and shortly, it is this: that, where ye be, me seemeth, pardè, i could not fare amiss. without more speech, i you beseech that we were soon agone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. if you go thyder, ye must consider, when ye have lust to dine, there shall no meat be for you gete, neither beer, ale, nor wine; no slakes clean, to lie between, made of thread and twine; none other house but leaves and boughs, to cover your head and mine, lo, mine heart sweet, this evil diéte should make you pale and wan; wherefore i will to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. among the wild deer, such an archère as men say that ye be, ne may not fail of good vitayle, where is so great plentè: and water clear of the rivere shall be full sweet to me; with which in hele i shall right wele endure, as ye shall see; and, or we go, a bed or two i can provide anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. lo yet, before, ye must do more, if ye will go with me: as cut your hair up by your ear, your kirtle by the knee; with bow in hand, for to withstand your enemies, if need be: and this same night before daylight. to woodward will i flee. if that ye will all this fulfil, do it shortly as ye can: else will i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. i shall as now do more for you than 'longeth to womanhede; to shote my hair, a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need. o my sweet mother, before all other for you i have most dread! but now, adieu! i must ensue, where fortune doth me lead. all this make ye: now let us flee; the day cometh fast upon; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, and i shall tell you why, your appetite is to be light of love, i well espy: for, like as ye have said to me, in likewise hardily ye would answere whosoever it were, in way of company. it is said of old, soon hot, soon cold; and so is a womàn. wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man. _she_. if ye take heed, it is no need such words to say by me; for oft ye prayed, and long assayed, or i loved you, pardè and though that i of ancestry a baron's daughter be, yet have you proved how i you loved, a squire of low degree; and ever shall, whatso befall; to die therefore anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. a baron's child to be beguil'd! it were a cursèd deed; to be felàwe with an outlàw! almighty god forbid! yet better were the poor squyère alone to forest yede, than ye shall say another day, that, by my cursèd rede, ye were betrayed: wherefore, good maid, the best rede that i can, is, that i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. whatever befall, i never shall of this thing be upbraid: but if ye go, and leave me so, then have ye me betrayed. remember you well, how that ye deal; for, if ye, as ye said, be so unkind, to leave behind, your love, the nut-brown maid, trust me truly, that i shall die soon after ye be gone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. if that ye went, ye should repent; for in the forest now i have purvayed me of a maid, whom i love more than you; another more fair than ever ye were, i dare it well avow; and of you both each should be wroth with other, as i trow: it were mine ease to live in peace; so will i, if i can; wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man. _she_. though in the wood i understood ye had a paramour, all this may nought remove my thought, but that i will be yours: and she shall find me soft and kind, and courteous every hour; glad to fulfil all that she will command me to my power: for had ye, lo, an hundred mo, yet would i be that one, for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. mine own dear love, i see the prove that ye be kind and true; of maid, and wife, in all my life, the best that ever i knew. be merry and glad, be no more sad, the case is changèd new; for it were ruth, that, for your truth, ye should have cause to rue. be not dismayed; whatsoever i said to you when i began; i will not to the green-wood go; i am no banished man. _she_. these tidings be more glad to me, than to be made a queen, if i were sure they should endure; but it is often seen, when men will break promise, they speak the wordis on the spleen. ye shape some wile me to beguile, and steal from me, i ween: then were the case worse than it was, and i more wobegone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. ye shall not need further to dread; i will not disparàge you (god defend), sith ye descend of so great lineàge. now understand; to westmoreland, which is my heritàge, i will you bring; and with a ring, by way of marriage i will you take, and lady make, as shortly as i can. thus have you won an erle's son, and not a banished man. _here may ye see, that woman be in love, meek, kind, and stable: let never man reprove them than, or call them variable; but rather pray god that we may to them be comfortable; which sometimes proveth such, as he loveth, if they be charitable. for sith men would that women should be meek to them each one; much more ought they to god obey, and serve but him alone._ sir hugh of lincoln four and twenty bonny boys were playing at the ba'; then up and started sweet sir hugh, the flower amang them a'. he hit the ba' a kick wi's fit, and kept it wi' his knee, that up into the jew's window he gart the bonny ba' flee. 'cast doun the ba' to me, fair maid, cast doun the ba' to me '; 'o ne'er a bit o' the ba' ye get till ye cum up to me. 'cum up, sweet hugh, cum up, dear hugh, cum up and get the ba''; 'i canna cum, i darna cum, without my playferes twa.' 'cum up, sweet hugh, cum up, dear hugh, cum up and play wi' me'; i canna cum, i darna cum, without my playferes three.' she's gane into the jew's garden, where the grass grew lang and green; she pow'd an apple red and white, to wyle the young thing in. she wyl'd him into ae chamber, she wyl'd him into twa; she wyl'd him to her ain chamber, the fairest o' them a'. she laid him on a dressing-board where she did sometimes dine; she put a penknife in his heart and dressed him like a swine. then out and cam the thick, thick blude, then out and cam the thin; then out and cam the bonny heart's blude, where a' the life lay in. she row'd him in a cake of lead, bad him lie still and sleep; she cast him into the jew's draw-well, was fifty fadom deep. she's tane her mantle about her head, her pike-staff in her hand; and prayed heaven to be her guide unto some uncouth land. his mither she cam to the jew's castle, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' she cam into the jew's garden, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' she cam unto the jew's draw-well, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' 'how can i speak, how dare i speak, how can i speak to thee? the jew's penknife sticks in my heart, i canna speak to thee. 'gang hame, gang hame, o mither dear, and shape my winding-sheet, and at the birks of mirryland town there you and i shall meet.' when bells were rung and mass was sung, and a' men bound for bed, every mither had her son, but sweet sir hugh was dead. the gypsy countess there come seven gypsies on a day, oh, but they sang bonny, o! and they sang so sweet, and they sang so clear, down cam the earl's ladie, o. they gave to her the nutmeg, and they gave to her the ginger; but she gave to them a far better thing, the seven gold rings off her fingers. when the earl he did come home, enquiring for his ladie, one of the servants made this reply, 'she's awa with the gypsie laddie.' 'come saddle for me the brown,' he said, 'for the black was ne'er so speedy, and i will travel night and day till i find out my ladie.' 'will you come home, my dear?' he said, oh will you come home, my honey? and by the point of my broad sword, a hand i'll ne'er lay on you.' 'last night i lay on a good feather-bed, and my own wedded lord beside me, and to-night i'll lie in the ash-corner, with the gypsies all around me. 'they took off my high-heeled shoes, that were made of spanish leather, and i have put on coarse lowland brogues, to trip it o'er the heather.' 'the earl of cashan is lying sick; not one hair i'm sorry; i'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips than all his gold and his money.' there were three ladies there were three ladies play'd at the ba', with a hey, hey, an' a lilly gay. bye cam three lords an' woo'd them a', whan the roses smelled sae sweetly. the first o' them was clad in yellow: 'o fair may, will ye be my marrow?' whan the roses smelled sae sweetly. the niest o' them was clad i' ried: o fair may, will ye be my bride?' the thrid o' them was clad i' green: he said, 'o fair may, will ye be my queen?' the heir of linne part i lithe and listen, gentlemen, to sing a song i will begin: it is of a lord of faire scotlànd, which was the unthrifty heir of linne. his father was a right good lord, his mother a lady of high degree; but they, alas! were dead, him froe, and he lov'd keeping companie. to spend the day with merry cheer, to drinke and revell every night, to card and dice from eve to morne, it was, i weep, his heart's delight. to ride, to run, to rant, to roar, to alwaye spend and never spare, i wot, an' it were the king himself, of gold and fee he mote be bare. so fares the unthrifty lord of linne till all his gold is gone and spent; and he maun sell his lands so broad, his house, and lands, and all his rent. his father had a keen stewàrde, and john o' the scales was called he: but john is become a gentel-man, and john has got both gold and fee. says, welcome, welcome, lord of linne, let nought disturb thy merry cheer; if thou wilt sell thy lands soe broad, good store of gold i 'll give thee here. my gold is gone, my money is spent; my land now take it unto thee: give me the gold, good john o' the scales, and thine for aye my land shall be. then john he did him to record draw, and john he cast him a gods-pennie; but for every pound that john agreed, the land, i wis, was well worth three. he told him the gold upon the bord, he was right glad his land to win: the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now i'll be the lord of linne. thus he bath sold his land so broad, both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, all but a poor and lonesome lodge, that stood far off in a lonely glen. for so he to his father hight. my son, when i am gone, said he, then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, and thou wilt spend thy gold so free: but swear me now upon the roode, that lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; for when all the world doth frown on thee, thou there shalt find a faithful friend. the heir of linne is full of gold: and come with me, my friends, said he, let 's drinke, and rant, and merry make, and he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. they ranted, drank, and merry made, till all his gold it waxed thin; and then his friends they slunk away; they left the unthrifty heir of linne. he had never a penny left in his purse, never a penny left but three, and one was brass, another was lead, and another it was white money. 'now well-aday,' said the heir of linne, 'now well-aday, and woe is me, for when i was the lord of linne, i never wanted gold nor fee. 'but many a trusty friend have i, and why should i feel dole or care? i'll borrow of them all by turns, so need i not be never bare.' but one, i wis, was not at home; anther had payd his gold away; another call'd him thriftless loon, and bade him sharply wend his way. now well-aday, said the heir of linne, now well-aday, and woe is me! for when i had my lands so broad, on me they liv'd right merrilee. to beg my bread from door to door i wis, it were a burning shame: to rob and steal it were a sin: to work my limbs i cannot frame. now i'll away to that lonesome lodge, for there my father bade me wend; when all the world should frown on me, i there shold find a trusty friend. part ii away then hied the heir of linne o'er hill and holt and moor and fen, untill he came to the lonesome lodge, that stud so lowe in a lonely glenne. he looked up, he looked down, in hope some comfort for to win: but bare and lothly were the walls. here's sorry cheer, quo' the heir of linne. the little window dim and dark was hung with ivy, brere, and yew; no shimmering sun here ever shone; no wholesome breeze here ever blew. nor chair, nor table he mote spy, no cheerful hearth, no welcome bed, nought save a rope with a running noose, that dangling hung up o'er his head. and over it in broad lettèrs, these words were written so plain to see: 'ah! graceless wretch, hast spent thine all, and brought thyself to penurie? 'and this my boding mind misgave i therefore left this trusty friend let it now shield thy foule disgrace, and all thy shame and sorrows end.' sorely shent wi' this rebuke, sorely shent was the heir of lime; his heart, i wis, was near to burst with guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. never a word spake the heir of lime, never a word he spake but three: 'this is a trusty friend indeed, and is right welcome unto me' then round his neck the cord he drew, and sprang aloft with his bodie: when lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, and to the ground came tumbing he. astonished lay the heir of linne nor knewe if he were live or dead: at length he looked, and saw a bill, and in it a key of gold so redd. he took the bill, and lookt it on, strait good comfort found he there: it told him of a hole in the wall, in which there stood three chests in-fere. two were full of the beaten gold, the third was full of white monèy; and over them in broad lettèrs these words were written so plain to see: 'once more, my son, i set thee clear; amend thy life and follies past; for but thou amend thee of thy life, that rope must be thy end at last.' and let it be,' said the heir of linne; 'and let it be, but if i amend: for here i will make mine avow, this read shall guide me to the end.' away then went with a merry cheer, away then went the heir of linne; i wis, he neither ceas'd nor stayed, till john o' the scales' house he did win. and when he came to john o' the scales, up at the window then looked he: there sate three lords upon a row, were drinking of the wine so free. and john himself sate at the bord-head, because now lord of linne was he. 'i pray thee,' he said, 'good john o' the scales, one forty pence for to lend me.' 'away, away, thou thriftless loone; away, away, this may not be: for a curse upon my head he said, if ever i trust thee one pennie.' then bespake the heir of linne, to john o' the scales' wife then spake he: 'madame, some alms on me bestow, i pray for sweet saint charitie.' 'away, away, thou thriftless loone, i swear thou gettest no alms of me; for if we shold hang any losel here, the first we would begin with thee.' then bespake a good fellowe, which sat at john o' the scales his bord; sayd, 'turn again, thou heir of linne; some time thou wast a well good lord: 'some time a good fellow thou hast been, and sparedst not thy gold and fee: therefore i'll lend thee forty pence, and other forty if need be. 'and ever, i pray thee, john o' the scales, to let him sit in thy companie: for well i wot thou hadst his land, and a good bargain it was to thee.' up then spake him john o' the scales, all hot he answered him againe: 'now a curse upon my head, he said, but i did lose by that bargaine. 'and here i proffer thee, heir of linne, before these lords so fair and free, thou shalt have it back again better cheap, by a hundred markes, than i had it of thee. 'i draw you to record, lords, he said. with that he cast him a god's pennie: now by my fay, sayd the heir of linne, and here, good john, is thy money.' and he pull'd forth three bags of gold, and layd them down upon the board: all woebegone was john o' the scales, soe sheet he could say never a word. he told him forth the good red gold, he told it forth with mickle dinne, the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now i'm again the lord of linne. sayes, 'have thou here, thou good fellowe, forty pence thou didst lend me: now i am again the lord of linne, and forty pounds i will give thee. 'i'll make thee keeper of my forest, both of the wild deere and the tame; for unless i reward thy bounteous heart, i wis, good fellowe, i were to blame.' 'now well-aday!' sayth john o' the scales: 'now well-aday! and woe is my life!' 'yesterday i was lady of linne, now i'm but john o' the scales his wife.' 'now fare thee well, said the heir of linne; farewell now, john o' the scales, said he. a curse light on me, if ever again i bring my lands in jeopardy.' the old and young courtier an old song made by an aged old pate, of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greats estate, that kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, and an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; like an old courtier of the queen's and the queen's old courtier. with an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; they every quarter paid their old servants their wages, and never knew what belong'd to coachman, footmen, nor pages, but kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; like an old courtier... with an old study fill'd full of learned old books, with an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks. with an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, and an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks: like an old courtier... with an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns and bows, with old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, and an old frize coat to cover his worship's trunk hose, and a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; like an old courtier... with a good old fashion, when christmasse was come, to call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, with good chear enough to furnish every old room, and old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb, like an old courtier... with an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, that never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds, who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, and when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; like an old courtier... but to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind, to be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: but in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd; like a young courtier of the king's and the king's young courtier. like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, and takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land, and gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; like a young courtier... with a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, who never knew what belong'd to good housekeeping, or care, who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air, and seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair; like a young courtier... with a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good, with a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, and a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood; like a young courtier... with a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays, and a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, with a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, and a new french cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys; like a young courtier... with a new fashion, when christmas is drawing on, on a new journey to london straight we all must begone, and leave none to keep house, but our new porter john, who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; like a young courtier... with a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat, with a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, with a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat; like a young courtier... with new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold, for which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; and this is the course most of our new gallants hold, which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold, among the young courtiers of the king, among the king's young courtiers. the winning of cales long the proud spaniards had vaunted to conquer us, threatning our country with fyer and sword; often preparing their navy most sumptuous with as great plenty as spain could afford. dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums; tantara, tantara, the englishman comes. to the seas presentlye went our lord admiral, with knights couragious and captains full good; the brave earl of essex, a prosperous general, with him prepared to pass the salt flood. at plymouth speedilye, took they ship valiantlye, braver ships never were seen under sayle, with their fair colours spread, and streamers o'er their head. now bragging spaniards, take heed of your tayle. unto cales cunninglye, came we most speedilye, where the kinges navy securelye did ryde; being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks, ere any spaniards our coming descryde. great was the crying, the running and ryding, which at that season was made in that place; the beacons were fyred, as need then required; to hyde their great treasure they had little space. there you might see their ships, how they were fyred fast, and how their men drowned themselves in the sea; there you might hear them cry, wayle and weep piteously, when they saw no shift to 'scape thence away. the great st. philip, the pryde of the spaniards, was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea; but the st. andrew, and eke the st. matthew, wee took in fight manfullye and brought away. the earl of essex, most valiant and hardye, with horsemen and footmen march'd up to the town; the spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed, did fly for their savegard, and durst not come down. now, quoth the noble earl, courage my soldiers all, fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have; and be well rewarded all from the great to the small; but look that the women and children you save. the spaniards at that sight, thinking it vain to fight, hung upp flags of truce and yielded the towne; wee marched in presentlye, decking the walls on hye, with english colours which purchas'd renowne. entering the houses then, of the most richest men, for gold and treasure we searched eche day; in some places we did find, pyes baking left behind, meate at fire rosting, and folkes run away. full of rich merchandize, every shop catch'd our eyes, damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre: which soldiers measur'd out by the length of their swords; of all commodities eche had a share. thus cales was taken, and our brave general march'd to the market-place, where he did stand: there many prisoners fell to our several shares, many crav'd mercye, and mercye they fannd. when our brave general saw they delayed all, and would not ransome their towne as they said, with their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds, their joint-stools and tables a fire we made; and when the town burned all in a flame, with tara, tantara, away we all came. the bailiff's daughter of islington there was a youth, a well-beloved youth, and he was a squire's son; he loved the bayliffe's daughter dear, that lived in islington. yet she was coy and would not believe that he did love her so, no nor at any time would she any countenance to him show. but when his friends did understand his fond and foolish mind, they sent him up to faire london an apprentice for to bind. and when he had been seven long years, and never his love could see: many a tear have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of me. then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and play, all but the bayliffe's daughter dear; she secretly stole away. she pulled off her gown of green, and put on ragged attire, and to faire london she would go her true love to enquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and dry, she sat her down upon a green bank, and her true love came riding bye. she started up, with a colour so redd, catching hold of his bridle-reine; one penny, one penny, kind sir, she said, will ease me of much pain. before i give you one penny, sweet-heart, pray tell me where you were born. at islington, kind sir, said she, where i have had many a scorn. i prythe, sweet-heart, then tell to me, o tell me, whether you know, the bayliffe's daughter of islington. she is dead, sir, long ago. if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will unto some far country, where no man shall me know. o stay, o stay, thou goodly youth, she standeth by thy side; she is here alive, she is not dead, and ready to be thy bride. o farewell grief, and welcome joy, ten thousand times therefore; for now i have found mine own true love. whom i thought i should never see more. chevy chase part i god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safeties all! a woeful hunting once there did in chevy chase befall. to drive the deer, with hound and horn, earl percy took the way; the child may rue, that is unborn, the hunting of that day! the stout earl of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods, three summer days to take; the chiefest harts in chevy chase, to kill and bear away. these tidings to earl douglas came in scotland, where he lay. who sent earl percy present word, he would prevent his sport. the english earl, not fearing that, did to the woods resort with fifteen hundred bowmen bold, all chosen men of might, who knew full well, in time of need, to aim their shafts aright. the gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, to chase the fallow deer. on monday, they began to hunt, ere daylight did appear; and long before high noon they had a hundred fat bucks slain: then, having dined, the drovers went to rouse the deer again. the hounds ran swiftly through the woods, the nimble deer to take, that with their cries the hills and dales an echo shrill did make. lord percy, to the quarry went, to view the slaughtered deer, quoth he, 'earl douglas promiséd this day to meet me here: 'but if i thought he would not come, no longer would i stay!' with that, a brave young gentleman, thus to the earl did say: 'lo! yonder doth earl douglas come! his men in armour bright! full twenty hundred scottish spears all marching in our sight! 'all pleasant men of tividale, fast by the river tweed.' 'o, cease your sports!' earl percy said, and take your bows with speed; 'and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance; for there was never champion yet, in scotland, nor in france, 'that ever did on horseback come; and, if my hap it were, i durst encounter man for man, with him to break a spear!' earl douglas, on his milk-white steed, most like a baron bold, rode foremost of his company, whose armour shone like gold. 'show me,' said he, whose men you be, that hunt so boldly here? that, without my consent, do chase and kill my fallow deer?' the first man that did answer make, was noble percy he, who said, 'we list not to declare, nor show, whose men we be: 'yet we will spend our dearest blood thy chiefest harts to slay.' then douglas swore a solemn oath, and thus in rage did say: 'ere thus i will outbraved be, one of us two shall die: i know thee well! an earl thou art, lord percy. so am i. 'but, trust me, percy, pity it were, and great offence, to kill any of these, our guiltless men! for they have done no ill. 'let thou and i, the battle try; and set our men aside.' 'accursed be he,' earl percy said, 'by whom it is denied!' then stepped a gallant squire forth, witherington was his name, who said, 'i would not have it told to henry our king, for shame, 'that e'er my captain fought on foot, and i stood looking on. you be two earls,' quoth witherington, 'and i a squire alone. 'i'll do the best that do i may, while i have power to stand: while i have power to wield my sword, i'll fight with heart and hand.' our english archers bent their bows, their hearts were good and true. at the first flight of arrows sent, full fourscore scots they slew. 'to drive the deer with hound and horn!' douglas bade on the bent. two captains moved, with mickle might, their spears to shivers went. they closed full fast on every side; no slackness there was found: but many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o, christ! it was a grief to see, and likewise for to hear, the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there. at last, these two stout earls did meet. like captains of great might, like lions wood, they laid on load, and made a cruel fight: they fought, until they both did sweat, with swords of tempered steel, till blood adown their cheeks, like rain, they trickling down did feel. 'yield thee, o percy,' douglas said, 'in faith! i will thee bring, where thou shalt high advanced be, by james, our scottish king! 'thy ransom i will freely give! and this report of thee, "thou art the most courageous knight that ever i did see!"' 'no, douglas,' quoth earl percy then, thy proffer i do scorn; i will not yield to any scot that ever yet was born!' with that, there came an arrow keen out of an english bow, which struck earl douglas to the heart, a deep and deadly blow. who never said more words than these, 'fight on, my merry men all! for why? my life is at an end, lord percy sees my fall!' then leaving life, earl percy took the dead man by the hand, who said, 'earl douglas, for thy sake, would i had lost my land! 'o, christ! my very heart doth bleed for sorrow, for thy sake, for, sure, a more redoubted knight mischance could never take!' a knight, amongst the scots there was, which saw earl douglas die; who straight in heart did vow revenge upon the lord percy. part ii sir hugh montgomery was he called; who, with a spear most bright, well mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight. and passed the english archers all, without or dread or fear; and through earl percy's body then he thrust his hateful spear. with such a vehement force and might, he did his body gore: the staff ran through the other side, a large cloth-yard and more. thus did both those nobles die, whose courage none could stain. an english archer then perceived the noble earl was slain. he had a good bow in his hand, made of a trusty tree. an arrow of a cloth-yard long, up to the head drew he. against sir hugh montgomery, so right the shaft he set; the grey-goose wing that was thereon, in his heart's blood was wet. this fight did last from break of day till setting of the sun: for when they rang the evening bell, the battle scarce was done. with stout earl percy there were slain sir john of egerton, sir robert ratcliff, and sir john, sir james, that bold baron. and with sir george and stout sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph raby there was slain, whose prowess did surmount. for witherington needs must i wail, as one in doleful dumps, for when his legs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumps. and with earl douglas there were slain sir hugh montgomery; and sir charles murray, that from field one foot would never flee. sir charles murray of ratcliff, too, his sister's son was he: sir david lamb, so well esteemed, but savèd he could not be. and the lord maxwell, in like case, did with earl douglas die. of twenty hundred scottish spears scarce fifty-five did fly. of fifteen hundred englishmen, went home but fifty-three; the rest in chevy chase were slain, under the greenwood tree. next day did many widows come their husbands to bewail: they washed their wounds in brinish tears; but all would not prevail! their bodies, bathed in purple blood, they bore with them away. they kissed them, dead, a thousand times, ere they were clad in clay. the news was brought to edinborough, where scotland's king did reign, that brave earl douglas suddenly was with an arrow slain. 'o, heavy news!' king james did say, scotland may witness be, i have not any captain more of such account as he!' like tidings to king henry came, within as short a space, that percy of northumberland, was slain in chevy chase. 'now, god be with him!' said our king, sith it will no better be; i trust i have, within my realm, five hundred as good as he! 'yet shall not scots, nor scotland, say but i will vengeance take; and be revengèd on them all, for brave earl percy's sake.' this vow the king did well perform after, on humbledown, in one day fifty knights were slain, with lords of great renown; and of the rest, of small account, did many thousands die. thus endeth the hunting in chevy chase, made by the earl percy. god save our king; and bless this land with plenty, joy, and peace! and grant henceforth, that foul debate 'twixt noblemen may cease! _michael drayton_ the battle of agincourt fair stood the wind for france when we our sails advance, nor now to prove our chance longer will tarry; but putting to the main, at kaux, the mouth of seine, with all his martial train, landed king harry. and taking many a fort, furnish'd in warlike sort march'd towards agincourt in happy hour; skirmishing day by day with those that stopp'd his way, where the french gen'ral lay with all his power. which in his height of pride, king henry to deride, his ransom to provide to the king sending; which he neglects the while, as from a nation vile yet with an angry smile, their fall portending. and turning to his men, quoth our brave henry then, though they to one be ten, be not amazed. yet, have we well begun, battles so bravely won have ever to the sun by fame been raised. and for myself, quoth he, this my full rest shall be, england ne'er mourn for me, nor more esteem me. victor i will remain, or on this earth lie slain, never shall she sustain loss to redeem me. poictiers and cressy tell, when most their pride did swell, under our swords they fell, no less our skill is, than when our grandsire great, claiming the regal seat, by many a warlike feat, lop'd the french lilies. the duke of york so dread, the eager vanward led; with the main henry sped, amongst his henchmen. excester had the rear, a braver man not there, o lord, how hot they were on the false frenchmen! they now to fight are gone, armour on armour shone, drum now to drum did groan, to hear, was wonder; that with cries they make, the very earth did shake, trumpet to trumpet spake, thunder to thunder. well it thine age became, o noble erpingham, which did the signal aim to our hid forces: when from a meadow by, like a storm suddenly, the english archery stuck the french horses. with spanish yew so strong, arrows a cloth-yard long, that like to serpents stung piercing the weather; none from his fellow starts, but playing manly parts, and like true english hearts, stuck close together. when down their bows they threw, and forth their bilbows drew, and on the french they flew, not one was tardy; arms were from shoulders sent, scalps to the teeth were rent, down the french peasants went, our men were hardy. this while our noble king, his broad sword brandishing, down the french host did ding, as to o'erwhelm it; and many a deep wound lent, his arms with blood besprent, and many a cruel dent bruised his helmet. glo'ster, that duke so good, next of the royal blood, for famous england stood, with his brave brother; clarence, in steel so bright, though but a maiden knight, yet in that furious fight scarce such another. warwick in blood did wade, oxford the foe invade, and cruel slaughter made, still as they ran up; suffolk his axe did ply, beaumont and willoughby bare them right doughtily, ferrers and fanhope. upon saint crispin's day fought was this noble fray, which fame did not delay to england to carry; o when shall englishmen with such acts fill a pen, or england breed again such a king harry? _anonymous_ song of the english bowmen agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt, where english slew and hurt all their french foemen? with their pikes and bills brown, how the french were beat down, shot by our bowmen? agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt, never to be forgot, or known to no men? where english cloth-yard arrows killed the french like tame sparrows, slain by our bowmen? agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? english of every sort, high men and low men, fought that day wondrous well, all our old stories tell, thanks to our bowmen! agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? where our fifth harry taught frenchmen to know men: and, when the day was done, thousands there fell to one good english bowman! agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? dear was the vict'ry bought by fifty yeomen. ask any english wench, they were worth all the french, rare english bowmen! _william shakespeare_ winter when icicles hang by the wall, and dick the shepherd blows his nail, and tom bears logs into the hall, and milk comes frozen home in pail; when blood is nipt, and ways be foul, then nightly sings the staring owl tu-whit! tu-who! a merry note! while greasy joan doth keel the pot. when all about the wind doth blow, and coughing drowns the parson's saw, and birds sit brooding in the snow, and marian's nose looks red and raw; when roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, then nightly sings the staring owl tu-whit! tu-who! a merry note! while greasy joan doth keel the pot. ingratitude brow, 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, that dost not bite so nigh as benefits forgot: though thou the waters warp, thy sting is not so sharp as friend remember'd not. 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. fidele fear no more the heat o' the sun nor the furious winter's rages; thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone and ta'en thy wages; golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust. fear no more the frown o' the great, thou art past the tyrant's stroke; care no more to clothe and eat; to thee the reed is as the oak: the sceptre, learning, physic, must all follow this, and come to dust. fear no more the lightning-flash nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; fear not slander, censure rash; thou hast finish'd joy and moan: all lovers young, all lovers must consign to thee, and come to dust. under the greenwood tree under the greenwood 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. sylvia who is sylvia? what is she, that all our swains commend her? holy, fair, and wise is she; the heaven such grace did lend her, that she might admirèd be. is she kind as she is fair? for beauty lives with kindness, love doth to her eyes repair, to help him of his blindness, and, being help'd, inhabits there. then to sylvia let us sing, that sylvia is excelling; she excels each mortal thing upon the dull earth dwelling: to her let us garlands bring. song come away, come away, death, and in sad cypress let me be laid; fly away, fly away, breath; i am slain by a fair cruel maid. my shroud of white, stuck all with yew, o, prepare it; my part of death no one so true did share it. not a flower, not a flower sweet, on my black coffin let there be strown; not a friend, not a friend greet my poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. a thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me, o, where sad true lover ne'er find my grave to weep there. a sea dirge full fathom five thy father lies: of his bones are coral made; those are pearls that were his eyes: nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange. sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: hark! now i hear them,-- ding, dong, bell. ophelia's song how should i your true love know from another one? by his cockle hat and staff, and his sandal shoon. he is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone; at his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a stone. white his shroud as the mountain snow, larded with sweet flowers; which bewept to the grave did go with true-love showers. and will he not come again? and will he not come again? no, no, he is dead: go to thy death-bed: he never will come again. his beard was as white as snow, all flaxen was his poll: he is gone, he is gone, and we cast away moan: god ha' mercy on his soul! when daisies pied 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, cuckob; cuckoo, cuckoo: o word of fear, unpleasing to a married ear! it was a lover it was a lover and his lass, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, that o'er the green cornfield did pass in the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: sweet lovers love the spring. between the acres of the rye, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, these pretty country folks would lie, in spring time, etc. this carol they began that hour, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, how that a life was but a flower in spring time, etc. and therefore take the present time, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino; for love is crowned with the prime in spring time, etc. sweet and twenty o mistress mine, where are you roaming? o, stay and hear; your true love 's coming, that can sing both high and low: trip no further, pretty sweeting; journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man's son doth know. what is love? 'tis not hereafter; present mirth hath present laughter; what's to come is still unsure: in delay there lies no plenty; then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, youth's a stuff will not endure. music orpheus with his lute made trees, and the mountain tops that freeze, bow themselves when he did sing: to his music plants and flowers ever sprung; as sun and showers there had made a lasting spring. every thing that heard him play, even the billows of the sea, hung their heads, and then lay by. in sweet music is such art, killing-care and grief-of-heart fall asleep, or hearing, die. the pedlar lawn as white as driven snow; cypress black as e'er was crow; gloves as sweet as damask roses; masks for faces and for noses; bugle bracelet, necklace amber, perfume for a lady's chamber; golden quoifs and stomachers, for my lads to give their dears: pins and poking-sticks of steel, what maids lack from head to heel: come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: come buy. soldier's song and let me the canakin clink, clink; and let me the canakin clink: a soldier's a man; a life's but a span; why, then, let a soldier drink. king stephen was a worthy peer, his breeches cost him but a crown; he held them sixpence all too dear, with that he call'd the tailor lown. he was a wight of high renown, and thou art but of low degree: 'tis pride that pulls the country down; then take thine auld cloak about thee. doubt not doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt i love. ariel where the bee sucks, there lurk i; in a cowslip's bell i lie; there i couch when owls do cry. on the bat's back i do fly after summer merrily. merrily, merrily shall i live now under the blossom that hangs on the bough. sigh no more, ladies 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 mo 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. the sweet o' the year when daffodils begin to peer, with heigh! the doxy over the dale, why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; for the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. the white sheet bleaching on the hedge, with heigh! the sweet birds, o, how they sing! doth set my pugging tooth on edge; for a quart of ale is a dish for a king. the lark, that tirra-lyra chants, with heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, are summer songs for me and my aunts, while we lie tumbling in the hay. but shall i go mourn for that, my dear? the pale moon shines by night: and when i wander here and there, i then do most go right. if tinkers may have leave to live, and bear the sow-skin budget, then my account i well may give, and in the stocks avouch it. hark! hark! the lark! hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, and phoebus 'gins arise, his steeds to water at those springs, on chalic'd flowers that lies; and winking mary-buds begin to ope their golden eyes; with every thing that pretty bin; my lady sweet, arise. over hill, over dale over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier, over park, over pale, thorough flood, thorough fire, i do wander everywhere, swifter than the moon's sphere; and i serve the fairy queen, to dew her orbs upon the green. the cowslips tall her pensioners be: in their gold coats spots you see; those be rubies, fairy favours, in those freckles live their savours; i must go seek some dewdrops here, and hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. one in ten was this fair face the cause, quoth she, why the grecians sacked troy? fond done, done fond, was this king priam's joy? with that she sighèd as she stood, with that she sighèd as she stood, and gave this sentence then; among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten. puck now the hungry lion roars, and the wolf behowls the moon; whilst the heavy ploughman snores, all with weary task fordone. now the wasted brands do glow, while the screech-owl, screeching loud, puts the wretch, that lies in woe, in remembrance of a shroud. now it is the time of night that the graves, all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide; and we fairies, that do run by the triple hecate's team, from the presence of the sun, following darkness like a dream, now are frolic; not a mouse shall disturb this hallow'd house: i am sent with broom before, to sweep the dust behind the door. through the house give glimmering light, by the dead and drowsy fire: every elf and fairy sprite hop as light as bird from brier; and this ditty, after me, sing, and dance it trippingly. first, rehearse your song by rote, to each word a warbling note: hand in hand, with fairy grace, will we sing, and bless this place. lullaby you spotted snakes with double tongue, thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, come not near our fairy queen. philomel, with melody sing in our sweet lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. never harm, nor spell nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh; so, good-night, with lullaby. weaving spiders, come not here; hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! beetles black, approach not near; worm nor snail, do no offence. philomel, with melody sing in our sweet lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. never harm, nor spell nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh; so, good-night, with lullaby. song tell me where is fancy bred, or in the heart or in the head how begot, how nourishèd? reply, reply. it is engender'd in the eyes, with gazing fed: and fancy dies in the cradle where it lies. let us all ring fancy's knell: i'll begin it,--ding, dong, bell. ding, dong, bell. _thomas campion_ cherry-ripe 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 enclose of orient pearl a double row, which, when her lovely laughter shows, they look like rosebuds fill'd with snow; yet them no peer nor prince may buy till 'cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. her eyes like angels watch them still, her brows like bended bows do stand, threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill all that approach with eye or hand these sacred cherries to come nigh, till cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. laura rose-cheeked laura, come; sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's silent music, either other sweetly gracing. lovely forms do flow from consent divinely framed; heaven is music, and thy beauty's birth is heavenly. these dull notes we sing discords need for helps to grace them, only beauty purely loving knows no discord, but still moves delight, like clear springs renewed by flowing, ever perfect, ever in them- selves eternal. come, cheerful day come, cheerful day, part of my life to me; for while thou view'st me with thy fading light part of my life doth still depart with thee, and i still onward haste to my last night: time's fatal wings do ever forward fly so every day we live, a day we die. but o ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest, how are my days deprived of life in you when heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest, by feignèd death life sweetly to renew; part of my life, in that, you life deny: so every day we live, a day we die. follow thy fair sun follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! though thou be black as night and she made all of light, yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! follow her, whose light thy light depriveth! though here thou liv'st disgraced, and she in heaven is placed, yet follow her whose light the world reviveth! follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth, that so have scorchèd thee as thou still black must be till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth. follow her, while yet her glory shineth! there comes a luckless night that will dim all her light; --and this the black unhappy shade divineth. follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd! the sun must have his shade, till both at once do fade, the sun still proved, the shadow still disdained. _ben jonson_ to celia drink to me only with thine eyes, and i will pledge with mine, or leave a kiss but in the cup and i'll not look for wine. the thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink 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 could not wither'd be; but thou thereon didst only breathe and sent'st it back to me; since when it grows, and smells, i swear, not of itself, but thee! song from 'cynthia's revels' queen and huntress, chaste and fair, now the sun is laid to sleep, seated in thy silver chair, state in wonted manner keep. hesperus entreats thy light, goddess excellently bright! earth, let not thy envious shade dare itself to interpose; cynthia's shining orb was made heaven to clear, when day did close. bless us then with wishèd sight, goddess excellently bright! lay thy bow of pearl apart, and thy crystal-shining quiver, give unto the flying hart space to breathe how short soever; thou that mak'st a day of night, goddess excellently bright! the sweet neglect still to be neat, still to be drest, as you were going to a feast: still to be poud'red, still perfum'd: lady, it is to be presum'd, though art's hid causes are not found, all is not sweet, all is not sound. give me a looke, give me a face, that makes simplicitie a grace; robes loosely flowing, haire as free: such sweet neglect more taketh me, than all th' adulteries of art, that strike mine eyes, but not my heart. _anonymous_ the weaver's song wren hercules did use to spin, and pallas wrought upon the loom, our trade to flourish did begin, while conscience went not selling broom; then love and friendship did agree to keep the bands of amity. when princes' sons kept sheep in field, and queens made cakes of wheated flour, the men to lucre did not yield, which brought good cheer in every bower; then love and friendship... but when the gyants huge and high, did fight with spears like weavers' beams, then they in iron beds did lye, and brought poor men to hard extreams; yet love and friendship... then david took his sling and stone, not fearing great goliah's strength, he pierc't his brains, and broke the bone, though he were fifty foot of length; for love and friendship... but while the greeks besieged troy, penelope apace did spin; and weavers wrought with mickle joy, though little gains were coming in; for love and friendship... had helen then sate carding wooll, (whose beauteous face did breed such strife), she had not been sir paris' trull, nor caused so many to lose their life; yet we by love did still agree to hold the bands of amity. or had king priam's wanton son been making quills with sweet content, he had not then his friends undone, when he to greece a-gadding went; for love and friendship... the cedar-trees endure more storms then little shrubs that sprout on high; the weavers live more void of harms then princes of great dignity; while love and friendship doth agree... the shepherd sitting in the field doth tune his pipe with heart's delight; when princes watch with spear and shield, the poor man soundly sleeps all night; while love and friendship doth agree... yet this by proof is daily try'd, for god's good gifts we are ingrate, and no man through the world so wide lives well contented with his state; no love and friendship we can see to hold the bands of amity. the honest fellow hang fear, cast away care, the parish is bound to find us thou and i, and all must die, and leave this world behind us. the bells shall ring, the clerk shall sing, and the good old wife shall winds us; and the sexton shall lay our bodies in the clay, where nobody shall find us. robin goodfellow from oberon, in fairy land, the king of ghosts and shadows there, mad robin i, at his command, am sent to view the night-sports here. what revel rout is kept about, in every corner where i go, i will o'ersee, and merry be, and make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! more swift than lightning can i fly about this airy welkin soon, and, in a minute's space, descry each thing that's done below the moon. there's not a hag or host shall wag, or cry, ware goblins! where i go; but robin i their feats will spy, and send them home with ho, ho, ho! whene'er such wanderers i meet, as from their night-sports they trudge home, with counterfeiting voice i greet, and call them on with me to roam: through woods, through lakes; through bogs, through brakes; or else, unseen, with them i go, all in the nick, to play some trick, and frolic it, with ho, ho, ho! sometimes i meet them like a man, sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; and to a horse i turn me can, to trip and trot about them round. but if to ride my back they stride, more swift than wind away i go, o'er hedge and lands, through pools and ponds, i hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho! when lads and lasses merry be, with possets and with junkets fine; unseen of all the company, i eat their cakes and sip their wine! and, to make sport, i puff and snort: and out the candles i do blow: the maids i kiss, they shriek--who's this? i answer nought but ho, ho, ho! yet now and then, the maids to please, at midnight i card up their wool; and, while they sleep and take their ease, with wheel to threads their flax i pull. i grind at mill their malt up still; i dress their hemp; i spin their tow; if any wake, and would me take, i wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! when any need to borrow aught, we lend them what they do require: and, for the use demand we nought; our own is all we do desire. if to repay they do delay, abroad amongst them then i go, and night by night, i them affright, with pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho! when lazy queans have nought to do, but study how to cog and lie: to make debate and mischief too, 'twixt one another secretly: i mark their gloze, and it disclose to them whom they have wrongèd so: when i have done, i get me gone, and leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho! when men do traps and engines set in loop-holes, where the vermin creep, who from their folds and houses get their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep; i spy the gin, and enter in, and seem a vermin taken so; but when they there approach me near, i leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho! by wells and rills, in meadows green, we nightly dance our heyday guise; and to our fairy king and queen, we chant our moonlight minstrelsies. when larks 'gin sing, away we fling; and babes new born steal as we go; and elf in bed we leave in stead, and wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho! from hag-bred merlin's time, have i thus nightly revelled to and fro; and for my pranks men call me by the name of robin good-fellow. fiends, ghosts, and sprites, who haunt the nights, the hags and goblins do me know and beldames old my feats have told, so vale, vale; ho, ho, ho! time's alteration when this old cap was new, 'tis since two hundred year 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 shewn, when this old cap was new. now pride hath banished all, unto our land's reproach, when he whose means is small, maintains both horse and coach: instead of a hundred men, the coach allows but two; this was not thought on then, when this old cap was new. good hospitality was cherished then of many now poor men starve and die, and are not helped 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. where'er you travelled then, you might meet on the way brave knights and gentlemen, clad in their country gray; 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 scorned; fond fangles then none knew; then modesty women adorned, when this old cap was new. a man might then behold, at christmas, in each hall, good fires to curb the cold, and meat for great and small: the neighbours were friendly bidden, and all had welcome true; the poor from the gates were not chidden when this old cap was new. black jacks to every man were filled 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 no brawn nor souse, when this old cap was new. we took not such delight in cups of silver fine; none under the degree of a knight in plate drank beer or wine: now each mechanical man hath a cupboard of plate for a show; which was a rare thing then, when this old cap was new. then bribery was unborn, no simony men did use; christians did usury scorn, devised among the jews. the lawyers to be fee'd at that time hardly knew; for man with man agreed, when this old cap was new. no captain then caroused, nor spent poor soldiers' pay; they were not so abused as they are at this day: of seven days they make eight, to keep from them 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. 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. _george wither_ shall i, wasting in despair 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 griev'd or pin'd 'cause i see a woman kind? or a well-disposed nature joinèd 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? 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? i loved a lass, a fair one 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! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. her hair like gold did glister, each eye was like a star, she did surpass her sister, which pass'd all others far; she would me honey call, she'd, oh--she'd kiss me too: but now, alas! she's 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! she's 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! she's 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! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. to maidens' vows and swearing henceforth no credit give; you may give them the hearing, but never them believe; they are as false as fair, unconstant, frail, untrue: for mine, alas! hath left me, falero, lero, loo. christmas so now is come our joyfullest part; let every man be jolly; each room with ivy-leaves is dressed, and every post with holly. though some churls at our mirth repine, round your foreheads garlands twine, drown sorrow in a cup of wine, and let us all be merry! now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, and christmas-blocks are burning; their ovens they with baked meat choke, and all their spits are turning. without the door let sorrow lie; and, if for cold it hap to die, we'll bury it in a christmas pie and evermore be merry! rank misers now do sparing shun; their hall of music soundeth; and dogs thence with whole shoulders run; so all things there aboundeth. the country folks themselves advance with crowdy-muttons out of france; and jack shall pipe, and jill shall dance, and all the town be merry! good farmers in the country nurse the poor that else were undone; some landlords spend their money worse, on lust and pride in london. there the roysters they do play, drab and dice their lands away, which may be ours another day, and therefore let's be merry! the client now his suit forbears; the prisoner's heart is easèd; the debtor drinks away his cares, and for the time is pleasèd. though other's purses be more fat, why should we pine or grieve at that? hang sorrow! care will kill a cat, and therefore let's be merry! hark! now the wags abroad do call each other forth to rambling; anon you'll see them in the hall, for nuts and apples scrambling. hark! how the roofs with laughter sound; anon they'll think the house goes round, for they the cellar's depth have found, and there they will be merry! the wenches with their wassail bowls about the streets are singing; the boys are come to catch the owls; the wild mare in is bringing; our kitchen-boy hath broke his box; and to the dealing of the ox our honest neighbours come by flocks, and here they will be merry! now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have, and mate with everybody; the honest now may play the knave, and wise men play the noddy. some youths will now a-mumming go, some others play at rowland-bo, and twenty other game, boys, mo, because they will be merry! then wherefore, in these merry days, should we, i pray, be duller? no, let us sing some roundelays to make our mirth the fuller: and, while we thus inspirèd sing, let all the streets with echoes ring; woods, and hills, and everything, bear witness we are merry! _thomas carew_ ask me no more ask me no more where jove bestows, when june is past, the fading rose; for in your beauties orient deep these flowers, as in their causes, sleep. ask me no more, whither do stray the golden atoms of the day; for, in pure love, heaven did prepare those powders to enrich your hair. ask me no more, whither doth haste the nightingale, when may is past; for in your sweet dividing throat she winters, and keeps warm her note. ask me no more, where those stars light, that downwards fall in dead of night; for in your eyes they sit, and there fixed become, as in their sphere. ask me no more, if east or west, the phoenix builds her spicy nest; for unto you at last she flies, and in your fragrant bosom dies. _robert herrick_ night-piece to julia her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, the shooting stars attend thee; and the elves also, whose little eyes glow like the sparks of fire, befriend thee! no will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee, nor snake or slow-worm bite thee! but on, on thy way, not making a stay, since ghost there is none to affright thee. let not the dark thee cumber; what though the moon does slumber? the stars of the night will lend thee their light, like tapers clear without number. then julia let me woo thee, thus, thus to come unto me; and, when i shall meet thy silvery feet, my soul i'll pour into thee. the mad maid's song good-morrow to the day so fair, good-morrow, sir, to you; good-morrow to my 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. i'll seek him in your bonnet brave; i'll seek him in your eyes; nay, now i think they've made his grave in the bed of strawberries. i'll 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. to blossoms fair pledges of a fruitful tree, why do you fall so fast? your date is not so past, but you may stay yet here awhile, to blush and gently smile, and go at last. what! were ye born to be an hour or half's delight, and so to bid good-night? 'tis pity nature brought ye forth merely to show your worth, and lose you quite. but you are lovely leaves, where we may read how soon things have their end, though ne'er so brave: and after they have shown their pride, like you awhile, they glide into the grave. to daffodils fair daffodils, we weep to see you haste away so soon; as yet the early-rising sun has not attained his noon: stay, stay, until the hast'ning day has run but to the even-song; and having prayed together, we will go with you along! we have short time to stay as you; we have as short a spring; as quick a growth to meet decay, as you or any thing: we die, as your hours do; and dry away like to the summer's rain, or as the pearls of morning-dew, ne'er to be found again. julia some asked me where the rubies grew, and nothing did i say, but with my finger pointed to the lips of julia. some asked how pearls did grow, and where, then spake i to my girl, to part her lips, and show me there the quarelets of pearl. one asked me where the roses grew, i bade him not go seek; but forthwith bade my julia shew a bud in either cheek. to the virgins, to make much of their time gather the rose-buds while ye may, old time is still a-flying, and this same flower that smiles to-day, to-morrow will be dying. the glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, the higher he s a-getting, the sooner will his race be run, and nearer he's to setting. that age is best which is the first, when youth and blood are warmer; but, being spent, the worse, and worst time shall succeed the former. then be not coy, but use your time, and while you may, go marry; for, having lost but once your prime, you may for ever tarry. twelfth night, or king and queen now, now the mirth comes, with the cake full of plums, where bean's the king of the sport here; beside, we must know, the pea also must revel as queen in the court here. begin then to choose, this night, as ye use, who shall for the present delight here; be a king by the lot, and who shall not be twelfth-day queen for the night here. which known, let us make joy-sops with the cake; and let not a man then be seen here, who unurged will not drink, to the base from the brink, a health to the king and the queen here. next crown the bowl full with gentle lamb's-wool; add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, with store of ale, too; and thus ye must do to make the wassail a swinger. give them to the king and queen wassailing; and though with ale ye be wet here; yet part ye from hence, as free from offence, as when ye innocent met here. the bag of the bee about the sweet bag of a bee, two cupids fell at odds; and whose the pretty prize should be, they vowed to ask the gods. which venus hearing, thither came, and for their boldness stript them; and taking thence from each his flame, with rods of myrtle whipt them. which done, to still their wanton cries, when quiet grown she'ad seen them, she kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes and gave the bag between them. a thanksgiving for his house lord, thou hast given me a cell wherein to dwell; a little house, whose humble roof is weatherproof; under the spars of which i lie both soft and dry. where thou, my chamber for to ward, hast set a guard of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep me while i sleep. low is my porch, as is my fate, both void of state; and yet the threshold of my door is worn by the poor, who hither come, and freely get good words or meat. like as my parlour, so my hall, and kitchen small; a little buttery, and therein a little bin, which keeps my little loaf of bread unchipt, unflead. some brittle sticks of thorn or brier make me a fire, close by whose living coal i sit, and glow like it. lord, i confess, too, when i dine the pulse is thine, and all those other bits that be there placed by thee. the worts, the purslain, and the mess of water-cress, which of thy kindness thou hast sent: and my content makes those, and my beloved beet, to be more sweet. 'tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth with guiltless mirth; and giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, spiced to the brink. lord,'tis thy plenty-dropping hand that sows my land: all this, and better, dost thou send me for this end: that i should render for my part a thankful heart, which, fired with incense, i resign as wholly thine: but the acceptance--that must be, o lord, by thee. to primroses, filled with morning dew why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears speak grief in you, who were but born just as the modest morn teemed her refreshing dew? alas! you have not known that shower that mars a flower, nor felt the unkind breath of a blasting wind; nor are ye worn with years, or warped as we, who think it strange to see such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known the reason why ye droop and weep; is it for want of sleep, or childish lullaby? or that ye have not seen as yet the violet? or brought a kiss from that sweet heart to this? no, no; this sorrow shown by your tears shed, would have this lecture read-- 'that things of greatest, so of meanest worth, conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.' delight in disorder a sweet disorder in the dress [a happy kind of carelessness;] a lawn about the shoulders thrown into a fine distraction; an erring lace, which here and there enthralls the crimson stomacher; a cuff neglectful, and thereby ribands that flow confusedly; a winning wave, deserving note in the tempestuous petticoat; a careless shoe-string, in whose tie i see a wild civility; do more bewitch me, than when art is too precise in every part. cherry ripe cherry ripe, 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; whose plantations fully show all the year where cherries grow. _george herbert_ virtue sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright the bridal of the earth and sky; the 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; thy music shows ye have your closes; and all must die. only a sweet and virtuous soul, like seasoned timber never gives; but, though the whole world turn to coal, then chiefly lives. _anonymous_ the spanish armado some years of late, in eighty-eight, as i do well remember, it was, some say, the middle of may, and some say in september, and some say in september. the spanish train launch'd forth amain, with many a fine bravado, their (as they thought, but it prov'd not) invincible armado, invincible armado. there was a man that dwelt in spain who shot well with a gun a, don pedro hight, as black a wight as the knight of the sun a, as the knight of the sun a. king philip made him admiral, and bid him not to stay a, but to destroy both man and boy and so to come away a, and so to come away a. their navy was well victualled with bisket, pease, and bacon, they brought two ships, well fraught with whips, but i think they were mistaken, but i think they were mistaken. their men were young, munition strong, and to do us more harm a, they thought it meet to joyn their fleet all with the prince of parma, all with the prince of parma. they coasted round about our land, and so came in by dover: but we had men set on 'em then, and threw the rascals over, and threw the rascals over. the queen was then at tilbury, what could we more desire a? sir francis drake for her sweet sake did set them all on fire a, did set them all on fire a. then straight they fled by sea and land, that one man kill'd threescore a, and had not they all run away, in truth he had kill'd more a, in truth he had kill'd more a. then let them neither bray nor boast, but if they come again a, let them take heed they do not speed as they did you know when a, as they did you know when a. _sir john suckling_ a ballad upon a wedding i tell thee, dick, where i have been; where i the rarest things have seen; oh, things without compare! such sights again can not be found in any place on english ground, be it at wake or faer. at charing cross, hard by the way where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, there is a house with stairs; and there did i see coming down such folks as are not in our town; vorty at least, in pairs. amongst the rest one pest'lent fine (his beard no bigger tho' than thine) walk'd on before the rest; our landlord looks like nothing to him; the king (god bless him),'twould undo him, should he go still so drest. at course-a-park, without all doubt, he should have first been taken out by all the maids i' the town: though lusty roger there had been, or little george upon the green, or vincent of the crown. but wot you what? the youth was going to make an end of all his wooing: the parson for him staid: yet by his leave, for all his haste, he did not so much wish all past, perchance as did the maid. the maid (and thereby hangs a tale) for such a maid no whitson-ale could ever yet produce; no grape that's kindly ripe could be so round, so plump, so soft as she, nor half so full of juyce. her finger was so small, the ring would not stay on which they did bring; it was too wide a peck: and, to say truth (for out it must), it look'd like the great collar (just) about our young colt's neck. her feet beneath her petticoat, like little mice stole in and out, as if they fear'd the light: but oh! she dances such a way; no sun upon an easter day is half as fine a sight. her cheeks so rare, a white was on, no daisie make comparison (who sees them is undone); for streaks of red were mingled there, such as are on a kath'rine pear, the side that's next the sun. her lips were red; and one was thin, compared to what was next her chin (some bee had stung it newly); but, dick, her eyes so guard her face, i durst no more upon them gaze, than on a sun in july. her mouth so small, when she does speak, thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break that they might passage get; but she so handled still the matter, they came as good as ours, or better, and are not spent a whit. passion, oh me! how i run on! there's that that would be thought upon, i trow, beside the bride. the business of the kitchen's great; for it is fit that men should eat, nor was it there denied. just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, and all the waiters in a trice his summons did obey; each serving man, with dish in hand, march'd boldly up like our train'd band, presented, and away. when all the meat was on the table, what man of knife, or teeth, was able to stay to be entreated? and this the very reason was, before the parson could say grace the company was seated. now hats fly off, and youths carouse; healths first go round, and then the house, the bride's came thick and thick; and when 'twas named another's health, perhaps he made it her's by stealth, (and who could help it, dick?) o' th' sudden up they rise and dance; then sit again, and sigh, and glance: then dance again, and kiss: thus several ways the time did pass, till ev'ry woman wish'd her place, and ev'ry man wish'd his. by this time all were stolen aside to counsel and undress the bride; but that he must not know: but yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, and did not mean to stay behind above an hour or so. why so pale and wan? 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! _edmund waller_ go, lovely rose! 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 hadst thou sprung in deserts, where no men abide, thou must have uncommended died. small is the worth of beauty from the light retired: bid her come forth, suffer herself to be desired, and not blush so to be admired. then die! that she the common fate of all things rare may read in thee: how small a part of time they share that are so wondrous sweet and fair! _anonymous_ the frog he would a-wooing ride it was the frog in the well, humble dum, humble dum, and the merry mouse in the mill, tweedle, tweedle, twino. the frog would a-wooing ride, humble dum, humble dum, sword and buckler by his side, tweedle, tweedle, twino. when upon his high horse set, humble dum, humble dum, his boots they shone as black as jet, tweedle, tweedle, twino. when he came to the merry mill pin, lady mouse beene you within? then came out the dusty mouse, i am lady of this house; hast thou any mind of me? i have e'en great mind of thee. who shall this marriage make? our lord, which is the rat. what shall we have to our supper? three beans in a pound of butter. but, when supper they were at, the frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat, then came in tib, our cat, and caught the mouse e'en by the back, then did they separate the frog leapt on the floor so flat; then came in dick, our drake, and drew the frog e'en to the lake, the rat he ran up the wall, and so the company parted all. _richard lovelace_ to althea, from prison when love with unconfinèd wings hovers within my gates, and my divine althea brings to whisper at my grates; when i lie tangled in her hair, and fetter'd to her eye, the birds that wanton in the air know no such liberty. when flowing cups run swiftly round, with no allaying thames, our careless heads with roses bound, our hearts with loyal flames; when thirsty grief in wine we steep, when healths and draughts are free,_-- fishes that tipple in the deep know no such liberty. when linnet-like confinèd, 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. to lucasta, on going to the wars 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. _martin parker_ ye gentlemen of england ye gentlemen of england that live at home at ease, ah! little do ye 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 winds do blow. if enemies oppose us when england is at war with any foreign nation, we fear not wound or scar; 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 winds do blow. then courage, all brave mariners, and never be dismay'd; while 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 winds do blow. _anonymous_ the fairy queen come follow, follow me, you, fairy elves that be: which circle on the greene, come follow mab your queene. hand in hand let's dance around, for this place is fairye ground. when mortals are at rest, and snoring in their nest; unheard, and unespy'd, through key-holes we do glide; over tables, stools, and shelves, we trip it with our fairy elves. and, if the house be foul with platter, dish, or bowl, upstairs we nimbly creep, and find the sluts asleep; there we pinch their armes and thighes; none escapes, nor none espies. but if the house be swept, and from uncleanness kept, we praise the houshold maid, and duely she is paid: for we use before we goe to drop a tester in her shoe. upon a mushroome'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 snailes, between two cockles stew'd, is meat that's easily chew'd; tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice, do make a dish that's wondrous nice. the grasshopper, gnat, and fly, serve for our minstrelsie; grace said, we dance a while, and so the time beguile: and if the moon doth hide her head, the gloe-worm lights us home to bed. on tops of dewie grasse so nimbly do we passe; the young and tender stalk ne'er bends when we do walk: yet in the morning may be seen where we the night before have been. _john chalkhill_ the praise of a countryman's life 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 tried, 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 trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; no emperor so merrily does pass his time away: then care away, and wend along with me. to recompense our tillage the heavens afford us showers, 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. _anonymous_ here's a health here's a health unto his majesty, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ confusion to his enemies, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ and he that will not drink his health, i wish him neither wit nor wealth, nor yet a rope to hang himself, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ _john gay_ black-eyed susan all in the downs the fleet was moor'd, the streamers waving in the wind, when black-eyed susan came on board, oh, where shall i my true-love find? tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, does my sweet william sail among your crew?' william, who high upon the yard rock'd by the billows to and fro, soon as the 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 kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head: her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, 'adieu!' she cried, and wav'd her lily hand. _anonymous_ annie laurie maxwellton braes are bonnie, where early fa's the dew, and 'twas there that annie laurie gied me her promise true; gied me her promise true, which ne'er forgot shall be, and for bonnie annie laurie, i'd lay me doon and dee. her brow is like the snaw-flake, her neck is like the swan, her face it is the fairest that e'er the sun shone on; that e'er the sun shone on, and dark blue is her e'e; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doon and dee. like dew on the gowan lying, is the fa' of her fairy feet; and like winds in summer sighing, her voice is low and sweet; her voice is low and sweet, and she's a' the world to me; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doon and dee. james thomson rule britannia when britain first at heaven's command arose from out the azure main, this was the charter of her land, and guardian angels sang the strain: rule britannia! britannia rules the waves! britons never shall 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! still more majestic shalt thou rise, more dreadful from each foreign stroke; as the last blast which tears the skies serves but to root thy native oak. thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; all their attempts to bend thee down will but arouse thy generous flame, and work their woe and thy renown. to thee belongs the rural reign; thy cities shall with commerce shine; all thine shall be the subject main, and every shore it circles thine. 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! britannia rules the waves! britons never shall be slaves! _anonymous_ waly, waly, but love be bonny o waly, waly up the bank, and waly, waly down the brae, and waly, waly yon burn-side, where i and my love wont to gae. i lean'd my back unto an aik, and thought it was a trusty tree, but first it bow'd, and syne it brak, sae my true love did lightly me. o waly, waly, but love is bonny, a little time while it is new, but when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, and fades away like morning dew. oh! wherefore should i busk my head? or wherefore should i kame my hair? for my true love has me forsook, and says he'll never love me mair. now arthur seat shall be my bed, the sheets shall ne'er be fil'd by me, saint anton's well shall be my drink, since my true love's forsaken me. martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, and shake the green leaves off the tree? oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come? for of my life i am weary. 'tis not the frost that freezes fell, nor blowing snow's inclemency; 'tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, but my love's heart grown cauld to me. when we came in by glasgow town, we were a comely sight to see; my love was clad in the black velvet, and i mysel' in cramasie. but had i wist before i kiss'd that love had been so ill to win, i'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, and pinn'd it with a silver pin. and oh! if my young babe were born, and set upon the nurse's knee, and i mysel' were dead and gane, wi' the green grass growin' over me! _henry carey_ sally in our alley of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like pretty sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. there's ne'er a lady in the land is half so sweet as sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. her father he makes cabbage nets, and through the streets doth cry them; her mother she sells laces long to such as please to buy them: but sure such folk can have no part in such a girl as sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. when she is by, i leave my work, i love her so sincerely; my master comes, like any turk, and bangs me most severely: but let him bang, long as he will, i'll bear it all for sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. of all the days are in the week, i dearly love but one day, and that's the day that comes betwixt a saturday and monday; for then i'm dress'd, in all my best, to walk abroad with sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. my master carries me to church, and often i am blamèd, because i leave him in the lurch, soon as the text is namèd: i leave the church in sermon time, and slink away to sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. when christmas comes about again, o then i shall have money; i'll hoard it up and, box and all, i'll give unto my honey: i would it were ten thousand pounds, i'd give it all to sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. my master and the neighbours all, make game of me and sally, and but for she i'd better be a slave, and row a galley: but when my seven long years are out, o then i'll marry sally, and then how happily we'll live-- but not in our alley. _william hamilton_ the braes of yarrow busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, and think nae mair on the braes of yarrow. where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? where gat ye that winsome marrow? i gat her where i daurna weel be seen, pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow; nor let thy heart lament to leive pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? and why daur ye nae mair weel be seen pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow? lang mann she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, and lang maun i nae mair weel be seen pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. for she has tint her luver, luver dear, her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; and i hae slain the comliest swain that eir pu'd birks on the braes of yarrow. why rins thy stream, o yarrow, yarrow, reid? why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? and why yon melancholious weids hung on the bonny birks of yarrow? what's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? what's yonder floats? o dule and sorrow! o 'tis he the comely swain i slew upon the duleful braes of yarrow. wash, o wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, his wounds in tears with dule and sorrow; and wrap his limbs in mourning weids, and lay him on the braes of yarrow. then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; and weep around in waeful wise his hapless fate on the braes of yarrow! curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, my arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, the fatal spear that pierc'd his breast, his comely breast, on the braes of yarrow. did i not warn thee, not to, not to luve? and warn from fight? but to my sorrow too rashly bauld a stronger arm thou mett'st, and fell on the braes of yarrow. sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, yellow on yarrow's bank the gowan; fair hangs the apple frae the rock, sweet the wave of yarrow flowin'! flows yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows tweed, as green its grass, its gowan as yellow, as sweet smells on its braes the birk, the apple frae its rocks as mellow. fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, in flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; tho' he was fair, and weel beluv'd again than me he never luv'd thee better. busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, busk ye, and luve me on the banks of tweed, and think nae mair on the braes of yarrow. how can i busk a bonny bonny bride? how can i busk a winsome marrow? how luve him on the banks of tweed, that slew my luve on the braes of yarrow? o yarrow fields, may never never rain, nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, for there was basely slain my luve, my luve, as he had not been a lover. the boy put on his robes, his robes of green, his purple vest--'twas my awn sewing: ah! wretched me! i little, little kenn'd he was in these to meet his ruin. the boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, unheedful of my dule and sorrow: but ere the toofall of the night he lay a corpse on the braes of yarrow. much i rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day; i sang, my voice the woods returning: but lang ere night the spear was flown, that slew my luve, and left me mourning. what can my barbarous barbarous father do, but with his cruel rage pursue me? my luver's blood is on thy spear how canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? my happy sisters may be, may be proud with cruel and ungentle scoffin', may bid me seek on yarrow braes my luver nailed in his coffin. my brother douglas may upbraid, upbraid, and strive with threatning words to muve me: my luver's blood is on thy spear how canst thou ever bid me luve thee? yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, with bridal sheets my body cover, unbar, ye bridal maids, the door! let in the expected husband-lover. but who the expected husband husband is? his hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter. ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after? pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, o lay his cold head on my pillow! take aff, take aff these bridal weids, and crown my careful head with willow. pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd, o could my warmth to life restore thee! ye'd lye all night between my breasts-- no youth lay ever there before thee! pale, pale indeed, o luvely luvely youth, forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, and lye all night between my breists, no youth shall ever lye there after. a. return, return, o mournful, mournful bride return and dry thy useless sorrow! thy luver heeds none of thy sighs, he lyes a corpse on the braes of yarrow. _william shenstone_ the shepherd's home my banks they are furnished with bees, whose murmur invites one to sleep; my grottoes are shaded with trees, and my hills are white over with sheep. i seldom have met with a loss, such health do my fountains bestow; my fountains all bordered with moss, where the harebells and violets blow. not a pine in the grove is there seen, but with tendrils of woodbine is bound; not a beech's more beautiful green, but a sweet-briar entwines it around. not my fields in the prime of the year, more charms than my cattle unfold; not a brook that is limpid and clear, but it glitters with fishes of gold. i have found out a gift for my fair, i have found where the wood-pigeons breed; but let me such plunder forbear, she will say 'twas a barbarous deed; for he ne'er could be true, she averred, who would rob a poor bird of its young; and i loved her the more when i heard such tenderness fall from her tongue. _william cowper_ the diverting history of john gilpin john gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown, a train-band captain eke was he of famous london town. john gilpin's spouse said to her dear: 'though wedded we have been these twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen. 'to-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair unto the bell at edmonton all in a chaise and pair. 'my sister, and my sister's child, myself and children three, will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after we.' he soon replied: 'i do admire of womankind but one, and you are she, my dearest dear; therefore, it shall be done. 'i am a linen-draper bold, as all the world doth know, and my good friend the calender will lend his horse to go.' quoth mrs. gilpin: 'that's well said; and for that wine is dear, we will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear.' john gilpin kissed his loving wife; o'erjoyed was he to find that, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind. the morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed to drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud. so three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in; six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin. smack went the whip, round went the wheels, were never folk so glad; the stones did rattle underneath, as if cheapside were mad. john gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane, and up he got, in haste to ride, but soon came down again; for saddle-tree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin, when, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in. so down he came; for loss of time, although it grieved him sore, yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more. 'twas long before the customers were suited to their mind, when betty screaming came down stairs: the wine is left behind!' 'good lack!' quoth he--'et bring it me, my leathern belt likewise, in which i bear my trusty sword when i do exercise.' now mrs. gilpin--careful soul!-- had two stone-bottles found, to hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound. each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew, and hung a bottle on each side, to make his balance true. then over all, that he might be equipped from top to toe, his long red cloak, well brushed and neat, he manfully did throw. now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed, full slowly pacing o'er the stones with caution and good heed. but finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet, the snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat. so, 'fair and softly,' john he cried, but john he cried in vain; that trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein. so stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright, he grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his might. his horse, which never in that sort had handled been before, what thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more. away went gilpin, neck or nought; away went hat and wig; he little dreamt when he set out of running such a rig. the wind did blow, the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay, till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away. then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung; a bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung. the dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all; and every soul cried out: 'well done!' as loud as he could bawl. away went gilpin--who but he? his fame soon spread around; he carries weight! he rides a race! 'tis for a thousand pound! and still, as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view how in a trice the turnpike-men their gates wide open threw. and now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low, the bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow. down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen, which made his horse's flanks to smoke as they had basted been. but still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced; for all might see the bottle necks still dangling at his waist. thus all through merry islington these gambols he did play, until he came unto the wash of edmonton so gay; and there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way, just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play. at edmonton his loving wife from the balcony spied her tender husband, wondering much to see how he did ride. 'stop, stop, john gilpin!--here's the house'-- they all aloud did cry; the dinner waits, and we are tired! said gilpin: so am i!' but yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there; for why? his owner had a house full ten miles off, at ware. so like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong; so did he fly--which brings me to the middle of my song. away went gilpin out of breath, and sore against his will, till at his friend the calender's his horse at last stood still. the calender, amazed to see his neighbour in such trim, laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him: 'what news? what news? your tidings tell-- tell me you must and shall say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all?' now gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke; and thus unto the calendar in merry guise he spoke: 'i came because your horse would come; and, if i well forebode, my hat and wig will soon be here-- they are upon the road.' the calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin, returned him not a single word, but to the house went in; whence straight he came with hat and wig; a wig that flowed behind, a hat not much the worse for wear, each comely in its kind. he held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit: `my head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit. but let me scrape the dirt away that hangs upon your face: and stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case.' said john: 'it is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare if wife should dine at edmonton, and i should dine at ware.' so turning to his horse, he said: 'i am in haste to dine; 'twas for your pleasure you came here, you shall go back for mine.' ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! for which he paid full dear; for, while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear; whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar, and galloped off with all his might, as he had done before. away went gilpin, and away went gilpin's hat and wig; he lost them sooner than at first; for why?--they were too big. now mrs. gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down into the country far away, she pulled out half-a-crown; and thus unto the youth she said that drove them to the bell: 'this shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well.' the youth did ride, and soon did meet john coming back amain; whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein; but not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, the frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run. away went gilpin, and away went post-boy at his heels, the post-boy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels. six gentlemen upon the road thus seeing gilpin fly, with post-boy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry: stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman not one of them was mute; and all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit. and now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space; the tollmen thinking as before that gilpin rode a race. and so he did, and won it too, for he got first to town; nor stopped till where he had got up he did again get down. now let us sing, long live the king, and gilpin, long live he; and, when he next doth ride abroad, may i be there to see! the' royal george' 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. 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 thunders 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. boadicea when the british warrior queen, bleeding from the roman rods, sought, with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods, sage beneath the spreading oak sat the druid, hoary chief; every burning word he spoke full of rage, and full of grief. 'princess, if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues. 'rome shall perish--write that word in the blood that she has spilt; perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, deep in ruin as in guilt. 'rome, for empire far renown'd, tramples on a thousand states; soon her pride shall kiss the ground-- hark! the gaul is at her gates! 'other romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name; sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame. 'then the progeny that springs from the forests of our land, arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command. 'regions caesar never knew thy posterity shall sway; where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they.' such the bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire, bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre. she, with all a monarch's pride, felt them in her bosom glow; rush'd to battle, fought, and died; dying hurl'd them at the foe. 'ruffians, pitiless as proud, heaven awards the vengeance due empire is on us bestow'd, shame and ruin wait for you.' _david garrick_ hearts of oak 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, hearts of oak 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 we wish them to stay, they never see us but they wish us away; if they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, for if they won't fight us, we cannot do more. hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, we always are ready, steady, boys, steady, we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. still britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, her standard be justice, her watchword 'be free'; then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, we always are ready, steady, boys, steady, we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. _oliver goldsmith_ an elegy on the death of a mad dog good people all, of every sort, give ear unto my song; and if you find it wondrous short, it cannot hold you long. in islington there was a man, of whom the world might say, that still a godly race he ran whene'er he went to pray. a kind and gentle heart he had, to comfort friends and foes; the naked every day he clad, when he put on his clothes. and in that town a dog was found, as many dogs there be, both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree. this dog and man at first were friends; but when a pique began, the dog, to gain his private ends, went mad, and bit the man. around from all the neighbouring streets the wondering neighbours ran, and swore the dog had lost his wits, to bite so good a man. the wound it seem'd both sore and sad to every christian eye: and while they swore the dog was mad, they swore the man would die. but soon a wonder came to light, that show'd the rogues they lied, the man recover'd of the bite, the dog it was that died. edwin and angelina 'turn, gentle hermit of the dale, and guide my lonely way, to where yon taper cheers the vale with hospitable ray. 'for here forlorn and lost i tread, with fainting steps and slow; where wilds immeasurably spread, seem lengthening as i go.' 'forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 'to tempt the dangerous gloom; for yonder phantom only flies to lure thee to thy doom. 'here, to the houseless child of want, my door is open still: and though my portion is but scant, i give it with goodwill. 'then turn to-night, and freely share whate'er my cell bestows; my rushy couch and frugal fare, my blessing and repose. 'no flocks that range the valley free, to slaughter i condemn; taught by that power that pities me, i learn to pity them. but from the mountain's grassy side, a guiltless feast i bring; a script, with herbs and fruits supplied, and water from the spring. then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; all earth-born cares are wrong: man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long.' soft as the dew from heaven descends, his gentle accents fell; the modest stranger lowly bends, and follows to the cell. far in a wilderness obscure, the lonely mansion lay; a refuge to the neighbouring poor, and strangers led astray. no stores beneath its humble thatch required a master's care; the wicket, opening with a latch, received the harmless pair. and now, when busy crowds retire, to take their evening rest, the hermit trimmed his little fire, and cheered his pensive guest; and spread his vegetable store, and gaily pressed and smiled; and, skilled in legendary lore, the lingering hours beguiled. around, in sympathetic mirth, its tricks the kitten tries; the cricket chirrups in the hearth, the crackling fagot flies. but nothing could a charm impart, to soothe the stranger's woe; for grief was heavy at his heart, and tears began to flow. his rising cares the hermit spied, with answering care opprest: 'and whence, unhappy youth,' he cried, 'the sorrows of thy breast? 'from better habitations spurned, reluctant dost thou rove? or grieve for friendship unreturned, or unregarded love? 'alas! the joys that fortune brings are trifling, and decay; and those who prize the paltry things more trifling still than they. 'and what is friendship but a name: a charm that lulls to sleep! a shade that follows wealth or fame, and leaves the wretch to weep! 'and love is still an emptier sound, the modern fair-one's jest; on earth unseen, or only found to warm the turtle's nest. 'for shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, and spurn the sex,' he said: but while he spoke, a rising blush his love-lorn guest betrayed. surprised he sees new beauties rise, swift mantling to the view, like colours o'er the morning skies, as bright, as transient too. the bashful look, the rising breast, alternate spread alarms; the lovely stranger stands confest a maid in all her charms. 'and ah! forgive a stranger rude, a wretch forlorn,' she cried, whose feet unhallowed thus intrude where heaven and you reside. 'but let a maid thy pity share, whom love has taught to stray: who seeks for rest, but finds despair companion of her way. 'my father lived beside the tyne, a wealthy lord was he; and all his wealth was marked as mine he had but only me. 'to win me from his tender arms, unnumbered suitors came; who praised me for imputed charms, and felt, or feigned, a flame. each hour a mercenary crowd with richest proffers strove; amongst the rest young edwin bowed, but never talked of love. 'in humblest, simplest habit clad, no wealth nor power had he; wisdom and worth were all he had; but these were all to me. 'the blossom opening to the day, the dews of heaven refined, could nought of purity display, to emulate his mind. 'the dew, the blossoms of the tree, with charms inconstant shine; their charms were his; but, woe to me, their constancy was mine. 'for still i tried each fickle art, importunate and vain; and while his passion touched my heart, i triumphed in his pain. 'till quite dejected with my scorn, he left me to my pride; and sought a solitude forlorn, in secret, where he died! 'but mine the sorrow, mine the fault, and well my life shall pay: i'll seek the solitude he sought, and stretch me where he lay. 'and there, forlorn, despairing, hid, i'll lay me down and die: 'twas so for me that edwin did, and so for him will i.' forbid it, heaven!' the hermit cried, and clasped her to his breast: the wondering fair one turned to chide 'twas edwin's self that prest! 'turn, angelina, ever dear, my charmer, turn to see thy own, thy long-lost edwin here, restored to love and thee. thus let me hold thee to my heart, and every care resign; and shall we never, never part, my life--my all that's mine? 'no, never from this hour to part, we'll live and love so true; the sigh that rends thy constant heart, shall break thy edwin's too.' _lady anne barnard_ auld robin gray when the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame, and a' the weary warld to rest are gane, the waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. young jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, but saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside; to make the crown a pound my jamie gaed to sea, and the crown and the pound--they were baith for me. he hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, when my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away; my mither she fell sick--my jamie was at sea, and auld robin gray came a courting me. my father couldna work--my mither couldna spin-- i toiled day and night, but their bread i couldna win; auld rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, said: 'jeanie, o for their sakes, will ye no marry me?' my heart it said na, and i looked for jamie back, but hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack, his ship was a wrack--why didna jamie die, or why am i spared to cry wae is me? my father urged me sair--my mither didna speak, but she looked in my face till my heart was like to break; they gied him my hand--my heart was in the sea-- and so robin gray he was gudeman to me. i hadna been his wife a week but only four, when, mournfu' as i sat on the stane at my door, i saw my jamie's ghaist, for i couldna think it he till he said: 'i'm come hame, love, to marry thee!' oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', i gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa'-- i wish that i were dead, but i'm na like to die, for, though my heart is broken, i'm but young, wae is me! i gang like a ghaist, and i carena much to spin, i darena think o' jamie, for that wad be a sin, but i'll do my best a gude wife to be, for, oh! robin gray, he is kind to me. _alexander ross_ woo'd, and married, and a'. the bride cam' out o' the byre, and, oh, as she dighted her cheeks: 'sirs, i'm to be married the night, and have neither blankets nor sheets; have neither blankets nor sheets, nor scarce a coverlet too; the bride that has a' thing to borrow, has e'en right muckle ado.' woo'd, and married, and a', married, and woo'd, and a'! and was she nae very weel off, that was woo'd, and married, and a'? out spake the bride's father, as he cam' in frae the pleugh: 'oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, and ye'se get gear eneugh; the stirk stands i' the tether, and our braw bawsint yaud, will carry ye hame your corn-- what wad ye be at, ye jaud?' out spake the bride's mither: what deil needs a' this pride? i hadna a plack in my pouch that night i was a bride; my gown was linsey-woolsey, and ne'er a sark ava; and ye hae ribbons and buskins, mae than ane or twa.' out spake the bride's brither, as he cam' in wi' the kye: 'poor willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, had he kent ye as weel as i; for ye're baith proud and saucy, and no for a poor man's wife; gin i canna get a better, i'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.' _anonymous_ the british grenadiers some talk of alexander, and some of hercules, of hector and lysander, and such great names as these, but of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare, with a tow, 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, for the british grenadiers! whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades, we throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears, sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the british grenadiers! and when the siege is over, we to the town repair, the townsmen cry, hurrah, 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, the british grenadiers! then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes, may they and their commanders live happy all their years, with a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the british grenadiers! _anonymous_ here 's to the maiden here 's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; now to the widow of fifty; here's to the flaunting extravagant quean and here's to the housewife that 's thrifty. let the toast pass, drink to the lass, i'll 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. 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. 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, drink to the lass, i'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. _thomas chatterton_ bristow tragedy the feathered songster chanticleer had wound his bugle-horn, and told the early villager the coming of the morn: king edward saw the ruddy streaks of light eclipse the gray, and heard the raven's croaking throat, proclaim the fated day. 'thou'rt right,' quoth he, for by the god that sits enthroned on high! charles bawdin, and his fellows twain, to-day shall surely die.' then with a jug of nappy ale his knights did on him wait; 'go tell the traitor, that to-day he leaves this mortal state.' sir canterlone then bended low, with heart brimful of woe; he journeyed to the castle-gate, and to sir charles did go. but when he came, his children twain, and eke his loving wife, with briny tears did wet the floor, for good sir charles's life. 'o good sir charles,' said canterlone, 'bad tidings i do bring.' 'speak boldly, man,' said brave sir charles 'what says the traitor-king?' 'i grieve to tell: before yon sun does from the welkin fly, he hath upon his honour sworn, that thou shalt surely die.' 'we all must die,' said brave sir charles, of that i'm not afraid; what boots to live a little space? thank jesus, i'm prepared. 'but tell thy king, for mine he's not, i'd sooner die to-day, than live his slave, as many are, though i should live for aye.' then canterlone he did go out, to tell the mayor straight to get all things in readiness for good sir charles's fate. then mr. canynge sought the king, and fell down on his knee; 'i'm come,' quoth he, unto your grace, to move your clemency.' 'then,' quoth the king, your tale speak out, you have been much our friend: whatever your request may be, we will to it attend.' my noble liege, all my request is for a noble knight, who, though mayhap he has done wrong, he thought it still was right. he has a spouse and children twain; all ruined are for aye, if that you are resolved to let charles bawdin die to-day.' 'speak not of such a traitor vile,' the king in fury said; 'before the evening-star doth shine, bawdin shall lose his head: 'justice does loudly for him call, and he shall have his meed: speak, mr. canynge, what thing else at present do you need?' 'my noble liege,' good canynge said, leave justice to our god, and lay the iron rule aside; be thine the olive rod. 'was god to search our hearts and reins, the best were sinners great; christ's vicar only knows no sin, in all this mortal state. let mercy rule thine infant reign, 'twill fix thy crown full sure; from race to race thy family all sovereigns shall endure. but if with blood and slaughter thou begin thy infant reign, thy crown upon thy children's brows will never long remain.' 'canynge, away! this traitor vile has scorned my power and me; how canst thou, then, for such a man entreat my clemency?' 'my noble liege, the truly brave will valorous actions prize: respect a brave and noble mind, although in enemies.' 'canynge, away! by god in heaven that did me being give, i will not taste a bit of bread whilst this sir charles doth live! 'by mary, and all saints in heaven, this sun shall be his last!' then canynge dropped a briny tear, and from the presence passed. with heart brimful of gnawing grief, he to sir charles did go, and sat him down upon a stool, and tears began to flow. we all must die,' said brave sir charles; 'what boots it how or when? death is the sure, the certain fate, of all we mortal men. 'say why, my friend, thy honest soul runs over at thine eye; is it for my most welcome doom that thou dost child-like cry?' saith godly canynge: 'i do weep, that thou so soon must die, and leave thy sons and helpless wife 'tis this that wets mine eye.' 'then dry the tears that out thine eye from godly fountains spring; death i despise, and all the power of edward, traitor-king. 'when through the tyrant's welcome means i shall resign my life, the god i serve will soon provide for both my sons and wife. 'before i saw the lightsome sun, this was appointed me; shall mortal man repine or grudge what god ordains to be? 'how oft in battle have i stood, when thousands died around; when smoking streams of crimson blood imbrued the fattened ground? 'how did i know that every dart that cut the airy way, might not find passage to my heart, and close mine eyes for aye? 'and shall i now, for fear of death, look wan and be dismayed? no! from my heart fly childish fear; be all the man displayed. 'ah, godlike henry, god forefend, and guard thee and thy son, if 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, why, then his will be done. 'my honest friend, my fault has been to serve god and my prince; and that i no time-server am, my death will soon convince. 'in london city was i born, of parents of great note; my father did a noble arms emblazon on his coat: 'i make no doubt but he is gone where soon i hope to go, where we for ever shall be blest, from out the reach of woe. 'he taught me justice and the laws with pity to unite; and eke he taught me how to know the wrong cause from the right: 'he taught me with a prudent hand to feed the hungry poor, nor let my servants drive away the hungry from my door: 'and none can say but all my life i have his wordis kept; and summed the actions of the day each night before i slept. 'i have a spouse, go ask of her if i defiled her bed? i have a king, and none can lay black treason on my head. 'in lent, and on the holy eve, from flesh i did refrain; why should i then appear dismayed to leave this world of pain? 'no, hapless henry, i rejoice i shall not see thy death; most willingly in thy just cause do i resign my breath. 'oh, fickle people! ruined land! thou wilt ken peace no moe; while richard's sons exalt themselves, thy brooks with blood will flow. 'say, were ye tired of godly peace, and godly henry's reign, that you did chop your easy days for those of blood and pain? 'what though i on a sledge be drawn, and mangled by a hind, i do defy the traitor's power; he cannot harm my mind: 'what though, uphoisted on a pole, my limbs shall rot in air, and no rich monument of brass charles bawdin's name shall bear; 'yet in the holy book above, which time can't eat away, there with the servants of the lord my name shall live for aye. 'then welcome death, for life eterne i leave this mortal life: farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, my sons and loving wife! 'now death as welcome to me comes as e'er the month of may; now would i even wish to live, with my dear wife to stay. saith canynge 'tis a goodly thing to be prepared to die; and from this world of pain and grief to god in heaven to fly.' and now the bell began to toll, and clarions to sound; sir charles he heard the horses' feet a-prancing on the ground. and just before the officers, his loving wife came in, weeping unfeignèd tears of woe with loud and dismal din. 'sweet florence, now i pray forbear, in quiet let me die; pray god that every christian soul may look on death as i. 'sweet florence, why these briny tears? they wash my soul away, and almost make me wish for life, with thee, sweet dame, to stay. ''tis but a journey i shall go unto the land of bliss; now, as a proof of husband's love receive this holy kiss.' then florence, faltering in her say, trembling these wordis spoke: 'ah, cruel edward! bloody king! my heart is well-nigh broke. 'ah, sweet sir charles, why wilt thou go without thy loving wife? the cruel axe that cuts thy neck,' it eke shall end my life.' and now the officers came in to bring sir charles away, who turnèd to his loving wife, and thus to her did say: 'i go to life, and not to death; trust thou in god above, and teach thy sons to fear the lord, and in their hearts him love. 'teach them to run the noble race that i their father run. florence, should death thee take--adieu! ye officers, lead on.' then florence raved as any mad, and did her tresses tear; 'o stay, my husband, lord, and life!' sir charles then dropped a tear. till tirèd out with raving loud, she fell upon the floor; sir charles exerted all his might, and marched from out the door. upon a sledge he mounted then, with looks full brave and sweet; looks that enshone no more concern than any in the street. before him went the council-men, in scarlet robes and gold, and tassels spangling in the sun, much glorious to behold: the friars of saint augustine next appearèd to the sight, all clad in homely russet weeds, of godly monkish plight: in different parts a godly psalm most sweetly they did chant; behind their back six minstrels came, who tuned the strange bataunt. then five-and-twenty archers came; each one the bow did bend, from rescue of king henry's friends sir charles for to defend. bold as a lion came sir charles, drawn on a cloth-laid sledde, by two black steeds in trappings white, with plumes upon their head. behind him five-and-twenty more of archers strong and stout, with bended bow each one in hand, marchèd in goodly rout. saint james's friars marchèd next, each one his part did chant; behind their backs six minstrels came, who tuned the strange bataunt. then came the mayor and aldermen, in cloth of scarlet decked; and their attending men each one, like eastern princes tricked. and after them a multitude of citizens did throng; the windows were all full of heads, as he did pass along. and when he came to the high cross, sir charles did turn and say: o thou that savest man from sin, wash my soul clean this day.' at the great minster window sat the king in mickle state, to see charles bawdin go along to his most welcome fate. soon as the sledde drew nigh enough, that edward he might hear, the brave sir charles he did stand up, and thus his words declare: 'thou seest me, edward! traitor vile! exposed to infamy; but be assured, disloyal man, i'm greater now than thee. by foul proceedings, murder, blood, thou wearest now a crown; and hast appointed me to die by power not thine own. 'thou thinkest i shall die to-day; i have been dead till now, and soon shall live to wear a crown for aye upon my brow; 'whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, shalt rule this fickle land, to let them know how wide the rule 'twixt king and tyrant hand. 'thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! shall fall on thy own head'-- from out of hearing of the king departed then the sledde. king edward's soul rushed to his face, he turned his head away, and to his brother gloucester he thus did speak and say: 'to him that so-much-dreaded death no ghastly terrors bring; behold the man! he spake the truth; he's greater than a king!' 'so let him die!' duke richard said; 'and may each one our foes bend down their necks to bloody axe, and feed the carrion crows.' and now the horses gently drew sir charles up the high hill; the axe did glister in the sun, his precious blood to spill. sir charles did up the scaffold go, as up a gilded car of victory, by valorous chiefs gained in the bloody war. and to the people he did say: 'behold you see me die, for serving loyally my king, my king most rightfully. 'as long as edward rules this land, no quiet you will know; your sons and husbands shall be slain, and brooks with blood shall flow. 'you leave your good and lawful king when in adversity; like me, unto the true cause stick, and for the true cause die.' then he, with priests, upon his knees, a prayer to god did make, beseeching him unto himself his parting soul to take. then, kneeling down, he laid his head most seemly on the block; which from his body fair at once the able headsman stroke: and out the blood began to flow, and round the scaffold twine; and tears, enough to wash't away, did flow from each man's eyne. the bloody axe his body fair into four partis cut; and every part, and eke his head, upon a pole was put. one part did rot on kinwulph-hill, one on the minster-tower, and one from off the castle-gate the crowen did devour. the other on saint paul's good gate, a dreary spectacle; his head was placed on the high cross, in high street most noble. thus was the end of bawdin's fate: god prosper long our king, and grant he may, with bawdin's soul, in heaven god s mercy sing! minstrel's song in ella oh, sing unto my roundelay; oh, drop the briny tear with me; dance no more at holiday, like a running river be; my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. black his hair as the winter night, white his neck as summer snow, ruddy his face as the morning light, cold he lies in the grave below: my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. sweet his tongue as throstle's note, quick in dance as thought was he; deft his tabor, cudgel stout; oh! he lies by the willow-tree. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. hark! the raven flaps his wing, in the briered dell below; hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, to the nightmares as they go. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. see! the white moon shines on high; whiter is my true-love's shroud; whiter than the morning sky, whiter than the evening cloud. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. here, upon my true-love's grave, shall the garish flowers be laid, nor one holy saint to save all the sorrows of a maid. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. with my hands i'll bind the briers, round his holy corse to gre; elfin-fairy, light your fires, here my body still shall be. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. come with acorn cup and thorn, drain my heart's blood all away; life and all its good i scorn, dance by night, or feast by day, my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. water-witches, crowned with reytes, bear me to your deadly tide. i die--i come--my true-love waits. thus the damsel spake, and died. _william blake_ the piper piping down the valleys wild, piping songs of pleasant glee, on a cloud i saw a child, and he, laughing, said to me, 'pipe a song about a lamb,' so i piped with merry cheer; piper, pipe that song again,' so i piped: he wept to hear. drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, sing thy songs of happy cheer.' so i sang the same again, while he wept with joy to hear. 'piper, sit thee down and write in a book that all may read.' so he vanish'd from my sight: and i plu ck'd a hollow reed, and i made a rural pen, and i stain'd the water clear, and i wrote my happy songs every child may joy to hear. the tiger tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? in what distant deeps or skies burnt the ardour of thine eyes? on what wings dare he aspire-- what the hand dare seize the fire? and what shoulder, and what art could twist the sinews of thy heart? and when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand form'd thy dread feet? what the hammer, what the chain, in what furnace was thy brain? did god smile his work to see? did he who made the lamb make thee? _robert burns_ scots wha hae scots, wha hae wi' wallace bled, scots, wham bruce has aften led; welcome to your gory bed, or to victorie! now's the day, and now's the hour; see the front of battle lour; see approach proud edward's power-- chains and slaverie! wha will be a traitor knave? wha can fill a coward's grave? wha sae base as be a slave? let him turn and flee! wha for scotland's king and law freedom's sword will strongly draw, free-man stand, or free-man fa'? let him follow me! by oppression's woes and pains! by your sons in servile chains! we will drain our dearest veins, but they shall be free! lay the proud usurpers low! tyrants fall in every foe! liberty's in every blow! let us do, or die! for a' that is there, for honest poverty, that hings his head, and a' that; the coward-slave, we pass him by, we dare be poor for a' that! for a' that, and a' that; our toils obscure, and a' that; the rank is but the guinea's stamp: the man's the gowd for a' that. what tho' on hamely fare we dine, wear hoddin grey, and a' that; gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, a man's a man for a' that. for a' that, and a' that, their tinsel show, and a' that; the honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, is king o' men for a' that. ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,' wha struts, and stares, and a' that; tho' hundreds worship at his word, he's but a coof for a' that: for a' that, and a' that, his riband, star, an' a' that, the man of independent mind, he looks and laughs at a' that. a prince can mak' a belted knight, a marquis, duke, an' a' that; but an honest man's aboon his might, guid faith he mauna fa' that! for a' that, an' a' that, their dignities, and a' that, the pith o sense an' pride o' worth, are higher rank than a' that. then let us pray that come it may, as come it will for a' that; that sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, may bear the gree, an' a' that. for a' that, and a' that, it's comin' yet, for a' that, that man to man, the warld o'er, shall brothers be for a' that. a red, red rose o, my luve 's like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in june: o, my luve's like the melodie that's sweetly play'd in tune. as fair art thou, my bonie lass, so deep in luve am i: and i will luve thee still, my dear, till a' the seas gang dry. till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi' the sun: i will luve thee still, my dear, while the sands o' life shall run. and fare thee weel, my only luve, and fare thee weel awhile! and i will come again, my luve tho' it were ten thousand mile! comin' thro' the rye o, jenny's a' weet, poor body, jenny's seldom dry; she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye. comin' thro' the rye, poor body, comin' thro' the rye, she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye! gin a body meet a body-- comin' thro' the rye; gin a body kiss a body-- need a body cry? gin a body meet a body comin' thro' the glen, gin a body kiss a body need the warld ken? jenny 's a' weet, poor body; jenny 's seldom dry; she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye. phillis the fair while larks with little wing fann'd the pure air, tasting the breathing spring, forth i did fare: gay the sun's golden eye peep'd o'er the mountains high; 'such thy morn,' did i cry, 'phillis the fair!' in each bird's careless song glad did i share; while yon wild flowers among, chance led me there: sweet to the opening day, rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 'such thy bloom,' did i say, 'phillis the fair!' down in a shady walk, doves cooing were, i mark'd the cruel hawk caught in a snare; so kind may fortune be, such make his destiny, he who would injure thee, phillis the fair! ae fond kiss ae fond kiss, and then we sever; ae fareweel, alas! for ever! deep in heart-wrung tears i'll pledge thee, warring sighs and groans i'll wage thee. who shall say that fortune grieves him, while the star of hope she leaves him? me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; dark despair around benights me. i'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, naething could resist my nancy; but to see her was to love her; love but her, and love for ever. had we never loved sae kindly, had we never loved sae blindly, never met--or never parted, we had ne'er been broken-hearted. fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! thine be ilka joy and treasure, peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! ae fond kiss, and then we sever; ae fareweel, alas! for ever! deep in heart-wrung tears i'll pledge thee, warring sighs and groans i'll wage thee! my bonny mary go fetch to me a pint o' wine, and fill it in a silver tassie; that i may drink, before i go, a service to my bonny lassie; the boat rocks at the pier o' leith, fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; the ship rides by the berwick law, and i maun leave my bonny mary. the trumpets sound, the banners fly, the glittering spears are ranked ready; the shouts o' war are heard afar, the battle closes thick and bloody; but it's not the roar o' sea or shore wad make me langer wish to tarry; nor shouts o' war that's heard afar it's leaving thee, my bonny mary. afton water flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes, flow gently, i'll sing thee a song in thy praise; my mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, flow gently, sweet afton, disturb not her dream. thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, i charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. how lofty, sweet afton, thy neighbouring hills, far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; there daily i wander as noon rises high, my flocks and my mary's sweet cot in my eye. how pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; there oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, the sweet-scented birk shades my mary and me. thy crystal stream, afton, how lovely it glides, and winds by the cot where my mary resides; how wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, as gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes, flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; my mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, flow gently, sweet afton, disturb not her dream. for the sake of somebody my heart is sair, i daurna tell, my heart is sair for somebody; i could wake a winter night, for the sake o' somebody! oh-hon! for somebody! oh-hey! for somebody! i could range the world around, for the sake o' somebody. ye powers that smile on virtuous love, o, sweetly smile on somebody! frae ilka danger keep him free, and send me safe my somebody. oh-hon! for somebody! oh-hey! for somebody! i wad do--what wad i not? for the sake o' somebody! whistle, and i 'll come to ye, my lad o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad; o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad: tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad. but warily tent, when ye come to court me, and come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, and come as ye were na comin' to me. at kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie but steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee, yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, and whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; but court na anither, tho jokin' ye be, for fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad; o whistle, and i 'll come to ye, my lad: tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad. the de'il's awa' wi' the exciseman the de'il cam fiddling thro' the town, and danc'd awa wi' the exciseman; and ilka wife cry'd 'auld mahoun, we wish you luck o' your prize, man. 'we'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, we'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; and monie thanks to the muckle black de'il that danc'd awa wi' the exciseman. 'there's threesome reels, and foursome reels, there's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; but the ae best dance that cam to our lan', was--the de'il 's awa wi' the exciseman. we'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, we'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; and monie thanks to the muckle black de'il that danc'd awa wi' the exciseman.' lassie wi' the lint-white locks lassie wi' the lint-white locks, bonie lassie, artless lassie, wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? wilt thou be my dearie o? now nature cleeds the flowery lea, and a' is young and sweet like thee; o wilt thou share its joys wi' me, and say thou'lt be my dearie o? lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . . and when the welcome simmer-shower has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, we'll to the breathing woodbine bower at sultry noon, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . . when cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, the weary shearer's hameward way, thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, and talk o' love, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . . and when the howling wintry blast disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; enclasped to my faithfu' breast, i'll comfort thee, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks, bonie lassie, artless lassie, wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? wilt thou be my dearie o? i love my jean of a' the airts the wind can blaw, i dearly like the west, for there the bonie lassie lives, the lassie i lo'e best: there wild woods grow, and rivers row, and monie a hill between; but day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my jean. i see her in the dewy flowers, i see her sweet and fair: i hear her in the tunefu' birds, i hear her charm the air: there's not a bonie flower that springs by fountain, shaw, or green; there's not a bonie bird that sings, but, minds me o' my jean. the happy trio o, willie brew'd a peck o' maut, and rob and allan cam to pree; three blither hearts that lee-lang night, ye wad na find in christendie. we are na fou, we're no that fou, but just a drappie in our ee: the cock may craw, the day may daw, and aye we'll taste the barley bree. here are we met, three merry boys, three merry boys, i trove, are we; and monie a night we've merry been, and monie mae we hope to be! it is the moon, i ken her horn, that's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; she shines sae bright to wyle us hame, but by my sooth she'll wait a wee! wha first shall rise to gang awa, a cuckold, coward loun is he! wha first beside his chair shall fa', he is the king amang us three! we are na fou, we're no that fou, but just a drappie in our ee: the cock may craw, the day may daw, and aye we'll taste the barley bree. john anderson my jo john anderson my jo, john, when we were first acquent, your locks were like the raven, your bonie brow was brent; but now your brow is beld, john, your locks are like the snaw; but blessings on your frosty pow, john anderson my jo. john anderson my jo, john we clamb the hill thegither; and monie a canty day, john, we've had wi' ane anither: now we maun totter down, john, but hand in hand we'll go, and sleep thegither at the foot, john anderson my jo. my wife's a winsome wee thing she is a winsome wee thing, she is a handsome wee thing, she is a bonie wee thing, this sweet wee wife o' mine. i never saw a fairer, i never lo'ed a dearer, and neist my heart i'll wear her, for fear my jewel tine. she is a winsome wee thing, she is a handsome wee thing, she is a bonie wee thing, this sweet wee wife o' mine. the warld's wrack, we share o't, the warstle and the care o't; wi' her i'll blythely bear it, and think my lot divine. duncan gray duncan gray came here to woo, ha, ha, the wooing o't, on blithe yule night when we were fou, ha, ha, the wooing o't. maggie coost her head fu' high, look'd asklent and unco skeigh, gart poor duncan stand abeigh; ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan fleech'd, and duncan pray'd; ha, ha, the wooing o't, meg was deaf as ailsa craig, ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan sigh'd baith out and in, grat his een baith bleer't and blin', spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; ha, ha, the wooing o't. time and chance are but a tide, ha, ha, the wooing o't, slighted love is sair to bide, ha, ha, the wooing o't. shall i, like a fool, quoth he, for a haughty hizzie die? she may gae to--france for me! ha, ha, the wooing o't. how it comes let doctors tell, ha, ha, the wooing o't, meg grew sick--as he grew well, ha, ha, the wooing o't. something in her bosom wrings, for relief a sigh she brings; and o, her een, they spak sic things! ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan was a lad o' grace, ha, ha, the wooing o't, maggie's was a piteous case, ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan couldna be her death, swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; now they 're crouse and cantie baith! ha, ha, the wooing o't. my ain kind dearie o when o'er the hill the eastern star tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; and owsen frae the furrow'd field return sae dowf and wearie o; down by the burn, where scented birks wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, i 'll meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. in mirkest glen, at midnight hour, i'd rove, and ne'er be eerie o, if thro' that glen i gaed to thee, my ain kind dearie o. altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, and i were ne'er sae wearie o, i'd meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. the hunter lo'es the morning sun, to rouse the mountain deer, my jo; at noon the fisher seeks the glen, along the burn to steer, my jo; gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, it maks my heart sae cheery o, to meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. the thorn from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested a sprig her fair breast to adorn, from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested, a sprig her fair breast to adorn. no! by heav'n! i exclaimed, may i perish, if ever i plant in that bosom a thorn! when i show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, she blushed like the dawning of morn, when i show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, she blushed like the dawning of morn. yes! i'll consent, she replied, if you promise, that no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn. john barleycorn there was three kings into the east, three kings both great and high, and they hae sworn a solemn oath, john barleycorn should die. they took a plough and plough'd him down, put clods upon his head, and they hae sworn a solemn oath, john barleycorn was dead. but the cheerful spring came kindly on, and showers began to fall; john barleycorn got up again, and sore surpris'd them all. the sultry suns of summer came, and he grew thick and strong, his head well-armed wi' pointed spears, that no one should him wrong. the sober autumn enter'd mild, when he grew wan and pale; his bending joints and drooping head show'd he began to fail. his colour sicken'd more and more, he faded into age; and then his enemies began to show their deadly rage. they 've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, and cut him by the knee; and tied him fast upon the cart, like a rogue for forgerie. they laid him down upon his back, and cudgell'd him full sore; they hung him up before the storm, and turn'd him o'er and o'er. they filled up a darksome pit with water to the brim, they heavèd in john barleycorn, there let him sink or swim. they laid him out upon the floor, to work him further woe, and still as signs of life appear'd, they toss'd him to and fro. they wasted, o'er a scorching flame, the marrow of his bones; but a miller used him worst of all, for he crush'd him between two stones. and they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, and drank it round and round; and still the more and more they drank, their joy did more abound. john barleycorn was a hero bold, of noble enterprise; for if you do but taste his blood, 'twill make your courage rise. 'twill make a man forget his woe; 'twill heighten all his joy; 'twill make the widow's heart to sing, tho' the tear were in her eye. then let us toast john barleycorn, each man a glass in hand; and may his great prosperity ne'er fail in old scotland! _anonymous_ the banks of allan water on the banks of allan water, when the sweet spring time did fall, was the miller's lovely daughter, fairest of them all. for his bride a soldier sought her, and a winning tongue had he, on the banks of allan water, none so gay as she. on the banks of allan water, when brown autumn spread his store, there i saw the miller's daughter, but she smiled no more. for the summer grief had brought her, and the soldier false was he, on the banks of allan water, none so sad as she. on the banks of allan water, when the winter snow fell fast, still was seen the miller's daughter, chilling blew the blast. but the miller's lovely daughter, both from cold and care was free, on the banks of allan water, there a corse lay she. _samuel rogers_ dear is my little native vale 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 nuts at liberty. in orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, that breathe a gale of fragrance round, i charm the fairy-footed hours with my loved lute's romantic sound; or crowns of living laurel weave for those that win the race at eve. the shepherd's horn at break of day, the ballet danced in twilight glade, the canzonet and roundelay sung in the silent greenwood shade: these simple joys, that never fail, shall bind me to my native vale. a wish 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 ivied 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 beneath the trees, where first our marriage-vows were given, with merry peals shall swell the breeze, and point with taper spire to heaven. _robert bloomfield_ the fakenham ghost the lawns were dry in euston park; (here truth inspires my tale) the lonely footpath, still and dark, led over hill and dale. benighted was an ancient dame, and fearful haste she made to gain the vale of fakenham and hail its willow shade. her footsteps knew no idle stops, but followed faster still, and echoed to the darksome copse that whispered on the hill; where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed, bespoke a peopled shade, and many a wing the foliage brushed, and hovering circuits made. the dappled herd of grazing deer, that sought the shades by day, now started from her path with fear, and gave the stranger way. darker it grew; and darker fears came o'er her troubled mind-- when now a short quick step she hears come patting close behind. she turned; it stopped; nought could she see upon the gloomy plain! but as she strove the sprite to flee, she heard the same again. now terror seized her quaking frame, for, where the path was bare, the trotting ghost kept on the same she muttered many a prayer. yet once again, amidst her fright, she tried what sight could do; when through the cheating glooms of night a monster stood in view. regardless of whate'er she felt, it followed down the plain! she owned her sins, and down she knelt and said her prayers again. then on she sped; and hope grew strong, the white park gate in view; which pushing hard, so long it swung that ghost and all passed through. loud fell the gate against the post! her heart-strings like to crack; for much she feared the grisly ghost would leap upon her back. still on, pat, pat, the goblin went, as it had done before; her strength and resolution spent, she fainted at the door. out came her husband, much surprised, out came her daughter dear; good-natured souls! all unadvised of what they had to fear. the candle's gleam pierced through the night, some short space o'er the green; and there the little trotting sprite distinctly might be seen. an ass's foal had lost its dam within the spacious park; and simple as the playful lamb had followed in the dark. no goblin he; no imp of sin; no crimes had ever known; they took the shaggy stranger in, and reared him as their own. his little hoofs would rattle round upon the cottage floor; the matron learned to love the sound that frightened her before. a favourite the ghost became, and 'twas his fate to thrive; and long he lived and spread his fame, and kept the joke alive. for many a laugh went through the vale; and some conviction too: each thought some other goblin tale, perhaps, was just as true. _anonymous_ the keel row as i came thro' sandgate, thro' sandgate, thro' sandgate, as i came thro' sandgate i heard a lassie sing, o weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, o weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in. o wha 's like my johnny, sae leith, sae blythe, sae bonny? he's foremost among the mony keel lads o' coaly tyne: he'll set and row so tightly, or in the dance--so sprightly-- he'll cut and shuffle sightly; 'tis true,--were he not mine. he wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet; he wears a blue bonnet, and a dimple in his chin: and weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row; and weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in. the blue bell of scotland oh where, and oh where, is your highland laddie gone? he's gone to fight the french for king george upon the throne; and it's oh, in my heart, how i wish him safe at home! oh where, and oh where, does your highland laddie dwell? he dwells in merry scotland, at the sign of the blue bell; and it's oh, in my heart, that i love my laddie well. in what clothes, in what clothes is your highland laddie clad? his bonnet's of the saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid; and it's oh, in my heart, that i love my highland lad. suppose, oh, suppose that your highland lad should die? the bagpipes shall play over him, and i'll lay me down and cry; and it's oh, in my heart, i wish he may not die. _lady nairne_ the laird o' cockpen the laird o' cockpen he's proud an' he's great, his mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state; he wanted a wife his braw house to keep, but favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. doon by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, at his table-head he thocht she 'd look well; m'cleish's ae dochter, o' clavers-ha' lee, a penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. his wig was weel pouther'd, as gude as when new; his waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; he put on a ring, a sword, an' cocked hat, an' wha could refuse the laird wi' a' that? he took the grey mare, he rade cannilie, an' rapped at the yett o' clavers-ha' lee; 'gae tell mistress jean to come speedily ben,-- she's wanted to speak wi' the laird o' cockpen.' mistress jean she was makin' the elder-flow'r wine; 'an' what brings the laird at sic a like time?' she put aff her apron, an' on her silk goon, her mutch wi' red ribbons, an' gaed awa doon. an' when she cam' ben he bowed fu' low, an' what was his errand he soon let her know; amazed was the laird when the lady said na!' an' wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'! dumfounder'd was he, but nae sigh did he gi'e, he mounted his mare an' he rade cannilie; an' often he thocht, as he gaed through the glen, 'she's daft to refuse the laird o' cockpen!' caller herrin' wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; wha'll buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth? when ye were sleepin' on your pillows, dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows, darkling as they faced the billows, a' to fill the woven willows? buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they 're no brought here without brave darin'; buy my caller herrin', hauled thro' wind and rain. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . . wha'll buy my caller herrin'? oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; wives and mithers, maist despairin', ca' them lives o' men. wha ll buy my caller herrin'? . . . when the creel o' herrin' passes, ladies, clad in silks and laces, gather in their braw pelisses, cast their heads, and screw their faces. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . . caller herrin's no got lightlie, ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', gow has set you a' a-singin' wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . . neebour wives, now tent my tellin', when the bonnie fish ye're sellin', at ae word be in yer dealin'-- truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they 're bonnie fish and halesome farin' wha 'll buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth? _charles dibdin_ tom bowling here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling, the darling of our crew; no more he'll hear the tempest howling, for death has broach'd 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 blithe 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 despatches, in vain tom's life has doff'd, for, though his body's under hatches, his soul has gone aloft. blow high, blow low blow high, blow low, let tempests tear the mainmast 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. and on that night when all the crew the mem'ry of their former lives o'er flowing cans of flip renew, and drink their sweethearts and their wives, i'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; and, as the ship rolls through the sea, the burthen of my song shall be blow high, blow low. the jolly young waterman and did you not hear of a jolly young waterman, who at blackfriars bridge us'd for to ply, and he feather'd his oars with such skill and dexterity, winning each heart and delighting each eye. he look'd so neat and row'd so steadily, the maidens all flock'd to his boat so readily, and he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, that this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. what sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry, 'twas cleaned out so nice and so painted withall, he always was first oars when the fine city ladies, in a party to ranelagh went, or vauxhall. and oft-times would they be giggling and leering, but 'twas all one to tom their jibing and jeering, for loving or liking he little did care, for this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. and yet but to see how strangely things happen, as he row'd along thinking of nothing at all, he was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, that she smil'd, and so straightway in love he did fall. and would this young damsel e'en banish his sorrow, he'd wed her to-night, before even to-morrow, and how should this waterman ever know care, when he's married and never in want of a fare? _samuel taylor coleridge_ the rime of the ancient mariner part i [an ancient mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.] it is an ancient mariner, and he stoppeth one of three. 'by thy long grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 'the bridegroom's doors are opened wide, and i am next of kin; the guests are met, the feast is set: may'st hear the merry din.' he holds him with his skinny hand, 'there was a ship,' quoth he. hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' eftsoons his hand dropt he. [the wedding-guest is spellbound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.] he holds him with his glittering eye-- the wedding-guest stood still, and listens like a three years' child: the mariner hath his will. the wedding-guest sat on a stone: he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. 'the ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, merrily did we drop below the kirk, below the hill, below the lighthouse top. [the mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the line.] 'the sun came up upon the left, out of the sea came he! and he shone bright, and on the right, went down into the sea. higher and higher every day, till over the mast at noon'-- the wedding-guest here beat his breast, for he heard the loud bassoon. [the wedding-guest heareth the bridal music; but the mariner continueth his tale.] the bride hath paced into the hall, red as a rose is she; nodding their heads before her goes the merry minstrelsy. the wedding-guest he beat his breast, yet he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. [the ship drawn by a storm toward the south pole.] 'and now the storm-blast came, and he was tyrannous and strong: he struck with his o'ertaking wings, and chased us south along. with sloping masts and dipping prow, as who pursued with yell and blow still treads the shadow of his foe and forward bends his head, the ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, and southward aye we fled. and now there came both mist sand snow, and it grew wondrous cold: and ice, mast-high, came floating by, as green as emerald. [the land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.] and through the drifts the snowy clifts did send a dismal sheen: nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-- the ice was all between. the ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around: it cracked and growled, and roared and howled, like noises in a swound! [till a great sea-bird, called the albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.] at length did cross an albatross: thorough the fog it came; as if it had been a christian soul, we hailed it in god's name. it ate the food it ne'er had eat, and round and round it flew. the ice did split with a thunder-fit; the helmsman steered us through! [and lo! the albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward, through fog and floating ice.] and a good south wind sprung up behind; the albatross did follow, and every day, for food or play, came to the mariners' hollo! in mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, it perched for vespers nine; whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, glimmered the white moon-shine.' [the ancient mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.] 'god save thee, ancient mariner! from the fiends, that plague thee thus!-- why look'st thou so?'--'with my cross-bow i shot the albatross! part ii 'the sun now rose upon the right: out of the sea came he, still hid in mist, and on the left went down into the sea. and the good south wind still blew behind, but no sweet bird did follow, nor any day, for food or play, came to the mariners' hollo! [his shipmates cry out against the ancient mariner, for killing the bird of good luck.] and i had done a hellish thing, and it would work 'em woe; for all averred, i had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow. "ah wretch," said they, "the bird to slay, that made the breeze to blow!" [but when the fog cleared off, they justify the same. and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.] nor dim nor red, like god's own head, the glorious sun uprist: then all averred, i had killed the bird that brought the fog and mist. "'twas right," said they, "such birds to slay, that bring the fog and mist." [the fair breeze continues; the ship enters the pacific ocean and sails northward, even till it reaches the line.] the fair breeze blew the white foam flew, the furrow streamed off free: we were the first that ever burst into that silent sea. [the ship hath been suddenly becalmed.] down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'twas sad as sad could be; and we did speak only to break the silence of the sea! all in a hot and copper sky, the bloody sun, at noon, right up above the mast did stand, no bigger than the moon. day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion; as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. [and the albatross begins to be avenged.] water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink; water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. the very deep did rot: o christ that ever this should be! yea, slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea. about, about, in reel and rout the death-fires danced at night; the water, like a witch's oils, burnt green, and blue, and white. [a spirit had followed them: one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned jew, josephus, and the platonic constantinopolitan, michael psellus, may be consulted. they are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.] and some in dreams assurèd were of the spirit that plagued us so: nine fathom deep he had followed us from the land of mist and snow. and every tongue, through utter drought, was withered at the root; we could not speak, no more than if we had been choked with soot. [the shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.] ah! well a-day! what evil looks had i from old and young! instead of the cross, the albatross about my neck was hung. part iii [the ancient mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.] 'here passed a weary time. each throat was parched, and glazed each eye. a weary time! a weary time! how glazed each weary eye! when looking westward i beheld a something in the sky. at first it seemed a little speck, and then it seemed a mist: it moved and moved, and took at last a certain shape, i wist. a speck, a mist, a shape, i wist! and still it neared and neared: as if it dodged a water-sprite, it plunged and tacked and veered. [at its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.] with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, we could nor laugh nor wail; through utter drought all dumb we stood! i bit my arm, i sucked the blood, and cried, "a sail! a sail!" [a flash of joy.] with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, agape they heard me call: gramercy! they for joy did grin, and all at once their breath drew in, as they were drinking all. [and horror follows. for can it be a _ship_ that comes onward without wind or tide?] "see! see!" (i cried) "she tacks no more! hither to work us weal; without a breeze, without a tide, she steadies with upright keel!" the western wave was all a-flame, the day was well nigh done! almost upon the western wave rested the broad bright sun; when that strange shape drove suddenly betwixt us and the sun. [it seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.] and straight the sun was flecked with bars, (heaven's mother send us grace!) as if through a dungeon grate he peered, with broad and burning face. "alas!" (thought i, and my heart beat loud) "how fast she nears and nears! are those her sails that glance in the sun, like restless gossameres?" [and its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting sun. the spectre- woman and her death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship. like vessel, like crew!] 'are those her ribs through which the sun did peer, as through a grate? and is that woman all her crew? is that a death? and are there two? is death that woman's mate?" her lips were red, her looks were free, her locks were yellow as gold: her skin was as white as leprosy, the night-mare life-in-death was she, who thicks man's blood with cold. [death and life-in-death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient mariner.] the naked hulk alongside came, and the twain were casting dice; "the game is done! i 'ye won, i've won!" quoth she, and whistles thrice. the sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: at one stride comes the dark; with far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, off shot the spectre-bark. we listened and looked sideways up! fear at my heart, as at a cup, my life-blood seemed to sip! the stars were dim, and thick the night, the steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; from the sails the dew did drip-- till clomb above the eastern bar the hornèd moon, with one bright star within the nether tip. [at the rising of the moon, one after another, his shipmates drop down dead.] one after one, by the star-dogged moon, too quick for groan or sigh, each turned his face with a ghastly pang, and cursed me with his eye. four times fifty living men, (and i heard nor sigh nor groan) with heavy thump, a lifeless lump, they dropped down one by one. [but life-in-death begins her work on the ancient mariner.] the souls did from their bodies fly,-- they fled to bliss or woe! and every soul, it passed me by, like the whizz of my cross-bow! part iv [the wedding-guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him; but the ancient mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.] 'i fear thee, ancient mariner! i fear thy skinny hand! and thou art long, and lank, and brown, as is the ribbed sea-sand. i fear thee and thy glittering eye, and thy skinny hand, so brown.'-- 'fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest! this body dropt not down. alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide wide sea! and never a saint took pity on my soul in agony. [he despiseth the creatures of the calm, and envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.] the many men, so beautiful! and they all dead did lie: and a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did i. i looked upon the rotting sea, and drew my eyes away; i looked upon the rotting deck, and there the dead men lay. i looked to heaven, and tried to pray; but or ever a prayer had gusht, a wicked whisper came, and made my heart as dry as dust. i closed my lids, and kept them close, and the balls like pulses beat; for the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, lay like a load on my weary eye, and the dead were at my feet. [but the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.] the cold sweat melted from their limbs, nor rot nor reek did they: the look with which they looked on me had never passed away. an orphan's curse would drag to hell a spirit from on high; but oh! more horrible than that is the curse in a dead man's eye! seven days, seven nights, i saw that curse, and yet i could not die. [in his loneliness and fixedness, he yearneth towards the moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest and their native country, and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.] the moving moon went up the sky, and nowhere did abide: softly she was going up, and a star or two beside. her beams bemocked the sultry main, like april hoar-frost spread; but where the ship's huge shadow lay, the charmed water burnt alway a still and awful red. [by the light of the moon he beholdeth god's creatures of the great calm.] beyond the shadow of the ship, i watched the water-snakes: they moved in tracks of shining white, and when they reared, the elfish light fell off in hoary flakes. within the shadow of the ship i watched their rich attire: blue, glossy green, and velvet black, they coiled and swam; and every track was a flash of golden fire. [their beauty and their happiness. he blesseth them in his heart.] o happy living things! no tongue their beauty might declare: a spring of love gushed from my heart, and i blessed them unaware! sure my kind saint took pity on me, and i blessed them unaware. [the spell begins to break.] the selfsame moment i could pray; and from my neck so free the albatross fell off, and sank like lead into the sea. part v 'oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole! to mary queen the praise be given! she sent the gentle sleep from heaven, that slid into my soul. [by grace of the holy mother, the ancient mariner is refreshed with rain.] the silly buckets on the deck, that had so long remained, i dreamt that they were filled with dew; and when i awoke, it rained. my lips were wet, my throat was cold, my garments all were dank; sure i had drunken in my dreams, and still my body drank. i moved, and could not feel my limbs: i was so light--almost i thought that i had died in sleep and was a blessed ghost. [he heareth sounds, and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.] and soon i heard a roaring wind: it did not come anear; but with its sound it shook the sails, that were so thin and sere. the upper air burst into life, and a hundred fire-flags sheen; to and fro they were hurried about; and to and fro, and in and out, the wan stars danced between. and the coming wind did roar more loud, and the sails did sigh like sedge; and the rain poured down from one black cloud; the moon was at its edge. the thick black cloud was cleft, and still the moon was at its side: like waters shot from some high crag, the, lightning fell with never a jag, a river steep and wide. [the bodies of the ship's crew are inspirited, and the ship moves on;] the loud wind never reached the ship, yet now the ship moved on! beneath the lightning and the moon the dead men gave a groan. they groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, nor spake, nor moved their eyes; it had been strange, even in a dream, to have seen those dead men rise. the helmsman steered, the ship moved on; yet never a breeze up blew; the mariners all 'gan work the ropes, where they were wont to do: they raised their limbs like lifeless tools-- we were a ghastly crew. the body of my brother's son stood by me, knee to knee: the body and i pulled at one rope, but he said nought to me.' [but not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.] 'i fear thee, ancient mariner!' 'be calm, thou wedding-guest! 'twas not those souls that fled in pain, which to their corses came again, but a troop of spirits blest: for when it dawned--they dropped their arms, and clustered round the mast; sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, and from their bodies passed. around, around, flew each sweet sound, then darted to the sun; slowly the sounds came back again, now mixed, now one by one. sometimes a-dropping from the sky i heard the sky-lark sing; sometimes all little birds that are, how they seemed to fill the sea and air with their sweet jargoning! and now 'twas like all instruments, now like a lonely flute; and now it is an angel's song, that makes the heavens be mute. it ceased; yet still the sails made on a pleasant noise till noon, a noise like of a hidden brook in the leafy month of june, that to the sleeping woods all night singeth a quiet tune. till noon we quietly sailed on, yet never a breeze did breathe: slowly and smoothly went the ship, moved onward from beneath. [the lonesome spirit from the south pole carries on the ship as far as the line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.] under the keel nine fathom deep, from the land of mist and snow, the spirit slid; and it was he that made the ship to go. the sails at noon left off their tune, and the ship stood still also. the sun, right up above the mast, had fixed her to the ocean; but in a minute she 'gan stir, with a short uneasy motion-- backwards and forwards half her length, with a short uneasy motion. then like a pawing horse let go, she made a sudden bound: it flung the blood into my head, and i fell down in a swound. [the polar spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient mariner hath been accorded to the polar spirit, who returneth southward.] how long in that same fit i lay, i have not to declare; but ere my living life returned, i heard, and in my soul discerned two voices in the air. "is it he?" quoth one, "is this the man? by him who died on cross, with his cruel bow he laid full low the harmless albatross. the spirit who bideth by himself in the land of mist and snow, he loved the bird that loved the man who shot him with his bow." the other was a softer voice, as soft as honey-dew: quoth he, "the man hath penance done, and penance more will do." part vi _first voice_ "but tell me, tell me! speak again, thy soft response renewing-- what makes that ship drive on so fast? what is the ocean doing?" _second voice_ "still as a slave before his lord, the ocean hath no blast; his great bright eye most silently up to the moon is cast-- if he may know which way to go; for she guides him smooth or grim. see, brother, see! how graciously she looketh down on him." [the mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward, faster than human life could endure.] _first voice_ "but why drives on that ship so fast, without or wave or wind?" _second voice_ "the air is cut away before, and closes from behind. fly, brother, fly! more high, more high or we shall be belated: for slow and slow that ship will go, when the mariner's trance is abated." [the supernatural motion is retarded; the mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.] i woke, and we were sailing on as in a gentle weather: 'twas night, calm night, the moon was high the dead men stood together. all stood together on the deck, for a charnel-dungeon fitter: all fixed on me their stony eyes, that in the moon did glitter. the pang, the curse, with which they died, had never passed away: i could not draw my eyes from theirs, nor turn them up to pray. [the curse is finally expiated,] and now this spell was snapt: once more i viewed the ocean green, and looked far forth, yet little saw of what had else been seen. like one, that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round, walks on, and turns no more his head; because he knows, a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread. but soon there breathed a wind on me nor sound nor motion made: its path was not upon the sea, in ripple or in shade. it raised my hair, it fanned my cheek like a meadow-gale of spring-- it mingled strangely with my fears, yet it felt like a welcoming. swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, yet she sailed softly too: sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-- on me alone it blew. [and the ancient mariner beholdeth his native country.] oh dream of joy! is this indeed the lighthouse top i see? is this the hill? is this the kirk? is this mine own countree? we drifted o'er the harbour-bar, and i with sobs did pray-- "o let me be awake, my god! or let me sleep alway." the harbour-bay was clear as glass, so smoothly it was strewn! and on the bay the moonlight lay, and the shadow of the moon. the rock shone bright, the kirk no less, that stands above the rock: the moonlight steeped in silentness the steady weathercock. [the angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, and appear in their own forms of light.] and the bay was white with silent light, till rising from the same, full many shapes, that shadows were, in crimson colours came. a little distance from the prow those crimson shadows were: i turned my eyes upon the deck-- oh, christ! what saw i there! each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, and, by the holy rood! a man all light, a seraph-man, on every corse there stood. this seraph-band, each waved his hand: it was a heavenly sight! they stood as signals to the land, each one a lovely light: this seraph-band, each waved his hand, no voice did they impart no voice; but oh! the silence sank like music on my heart. but soon i heard the dash of oars, i heard the pilot's cheer; my head was turned perforce away, and i saw a boat appear. the pilot, and the pilot's boy, i heard them coming fast: dear lord in heaven! it was a joy the dead men could not blast. i saw a third--i heard his voice: it is the hermit good! he singeth loud his godly hymns that he makes in the wood. he'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away the albatross's blood. part vii [the hermit of the wood] 'this hermit good lives in that wood which slopes down to the sea. how loudly his sweet voice he rears! he loves to talk of marineres that come from a far countree. he kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-- he hath a cushion plump: it is the moss that wholly hides the rotted old oak stump. the skiff-boat neared: i heard them talk, "why, this is strange, i trow! where are those lights so many and fair, that signal made but now?" [approacheth the ship with wonder.] "strange, by my faith!" the hermit said-- "and they answered not our cheer! the with the planks look warped and see those sails, how thin they are and sere! i never saw aught like to them, unless perchance it were brown skeletons of leaves that lag my forest-brook along: when the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, and the owlet whoops to the wolf below, that eats the she-wolf's young." "dear lord! it hath a fiendish look" (the pilot made reply) "i am a-feared"--"push on, push on!" said the hermit cheerily. the boat came closer to the ship, but i nor spake nor stirred; the boat came close beneath the ship, and straight a sound was heard. [the ship suddenly sinketh.] under the water it rumbled on, still louder and more dread: it reached the ship, it split the bay; the ship went down like lead. [the ancient mariner is saved in the pilot's boat.] stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, which sky and ocean smote, like one that hath been seven days drowned, my body lay afloat; but swift as dreams, myself i found within the pilot's boat. upon the whirl, where sank the ship, the boat spun round and round; and all was still, save that the hill was telling of the sound. i moved my lips--the pilot shrieked and fell down in a fit; the holy hermit raised his eyes, and prayed where he did sit. i took the oars: the pilot's boy, who now doth crazy go, laughed loud and long, and all the while his eyes went to and fro. "ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain i see, the devil knows how to row." and now, all in my own countree, i stood on the firm land! the hermit stepped forth from the boat, and scarcely he could stand. [the ancient mariner earnestly entreateth the hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.] "o shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" the hermit crossed his brow. "say quick," quoth he, "i bid thee say-- what manner of man art thou?" forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched with a woful agony, which forced me to begin my tale; and then it left me free. [and ever and anon throughout his future life and agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,] since then, at an uncertain hour, that agony returns; and till my ghastly tale is told, this heart within me burns. i pass, like night, from land to land; i have strange power of speech; that moment that his face i see, i know the man that must hear me: to him my tale i teach. what loud uproar bursts from that door the wedding-guests are there; but in the garden-bower the bride and bride-maids singing are; and hark the little vesper bell, which biddeth me to prayer! o wedding-guest! this soul hath been alone on a wide wide sea: so lonely 'twas, that god himself scarce seemed there to be. o sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'tis sweeter far to me, to walk together to the kirk with a goodly company!-- to walk together to the kirk, and all together pray, while each to his great father bends, old men, and babes, and loving friends, and youths and maidens gay! [and to teach by his own example, love and reverence to all things that god made and loveth.] farewell, farewell! but this i tell to thee, thou wedding-guest! he prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast. he prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small; for the dear god who loveth us, he made and loveth all.' the mariner, whose eye is bright, whose beard with age is hoar, is gone; and now the wedding-guest turned from the bridegroom's door. he went like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense forlorn: a sadder and a wiser man, he rose the morrow morn. _anonymous_ the vicar of bray in good king charles's golden days, when loyalty no harm meant, a zealous high churchman was i, and so i got preferment; to teach my flock i never miss'd, kings were by god appointed; and damn'd are those who do resist, or touch the lord's anointed. and this is law, that i'll maintain, until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign, i'll be the vicar of bray, sir. when royal james obtained the crown, and pop'ry 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. when william was our king declared, to ease the nation's grievance, with this new wind about i steered, 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. 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 thought the church in danger was, by such prevarication. when george in pudding-time came o'er, and moderate men looked big, sir, i turned 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 every day abjured the pope and the pretender. the 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 falter, and george my lawful king shall be, until the times do alter. and this is law, that i'll maintain, until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign, i'll be the vicar of bray, sir. _william julius mickle_ there 's nae luck about the house but are ye sure the news is true? and are ye sure he's weel? is this a time to think o' wark? ye jauds, fling by your wheel. there 's nae luck about the house, there 's nae luck at a', there's nae luck about the house, when our gudeman's awa'. is this a time to think o' wark, when colin 's at the door? rax down my cloak--i'll to the key, and see him come ashore. rise up and make a clean fireside, put on the mickle pat; gie little kate her cotton goun, and jock his sunday's coat. and mak their shoon as black as slaes, their stockins white as snaw; it's a' to pleasure our gudeman he likes to see them braw. there are twa hens into the crib, hae fed this month and mair, mak haste and thraw their necks about, that colin weel may fare. bring down to me my bigonet, my bishop's sattin gown, for i maun tell the bailie's wife, that colin's come to town. my turkey slippers i'll put on, my stockins pearl blue it's a' to pleasure our gudeman, for he's baith leal and true. sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue; his breath's like caller air; his very fit has music in't as he comes up the stair. and will i see his face again? and will i hear him speak? i'm downright dizzy wi' the thought: in troth, i'm like to greet. _anonymous_ the girl i left behind me i'm lonesome since i cross'd the hill, and o'er the moor and valley; such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, since parting with my sally. i seek no more the fine or gay, for each does but remind me how swift the hours did pass away, with the girl i've left behind me. oh, ne'er shall i forget the night the stars were bright above me, and gently lent their silv'ry light when first she vowed to love me. but now i'm bound to brighton camp kind heaven, then, pray guide me, and send me safely back again to the girl i've left behind me. my mind her form shall still retain, in sleeping, or in waking, until i see my love again, for whom my heart is breaking. if ever i return that way, and she should not decline me, i evermore will live and stay with the girl i've left behind me. _sir david dalrymple_ edward! edward! 'why does your brand so drop with blood? edward! edward! why does your brand so drop with blood? and why so sad go ye, o?' 'o! i have killed my hawk so good, mother! mother! o! i have killed my hawk so good, and i have no more but he, o!' 'your hawk's blood was never so red, edward! edward! your hawk's blood was never so red, my dear son, i tell thee, o!' 'o! i have killed my red roan steed, mother! mother! o! i have killed my red roan steed, that once was fair and free, o!' 'your steed was old and ye have got more, edward! edward! your steed was old and ye have got more,-- some other dule you drie, o!' 'o! i have killed my father dear, mother! mother! o! i have killed my father dear, alas, and woe is me, o!' 'and what penance will ye drie for that? edward! edward? and what penance will ye drie for that? my dear son, now tell me, o!' i'll set my feet in yonder boat, mother! mother! i'll set my feet in yonder boat, and i'll fare over the sea, o!' 'and what will you do with your towers and your hall? edward! edward! and what will you do with your towers and your hall? they were so fair to see, o!' 'i'll let them stand till they down fall, mother! mother! i'll let them stand till they down fall, for here never more must i be, o!' 'and what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? edward! edward! and what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? when you go over the sea, o!' 'the world's room, let them beg through life, mother! mother! the world's room, let them beg through life, for them never more will i see, o! 'and what will you leave to your own mother dear? edward! edward! and what will you leave to your own mother dear? my dear son, now tell me, o!' 'the curse of hell from me shall you bear, mother! mother! the curse of hell from me shall you bear, such counsels you gave to me, o!' _thomas percy_ nanny, wilt thou go with me? o nanny, 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 drest in silken sheen, no longer deck'd with jewels rare,-- say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? o nanny, 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? oh, can that soft and gentle mien extremes of hardship learn to bear, nor sad, regret each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? o nanny, canst thou love so true, through perils keen with me to go, or when thy swain mishap shall rue, to share with him the pang of woe? say, should disease or pain befall, wilt thou assume the nurse's care nor wistful those gay scenes recall, where thou wert fairest of the fair? and when at last thy love shall die, wilt thou receive his parting breath, wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, and cheer with smiles the bed of death? and wilt thou o'er his breathless clay strew flowers and drop the tender tear, nor then regret those scenes so gay, where thou wert fairest of the fair? the friar of orders gray 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?' 'oh, 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.' 'o 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. they 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!' 'oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, some ghostly comfort seek; let not vain sorrows rive thy heart, nor tears bedew thy cheek.' oh, 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'll ever 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 shower will ne'er make grow again. 'our joys as winged dreams do fly, why then should sorrow last? since grief but aggravates thy loss, grieve not for what is past.' 'oh, 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? 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, oh, he was ever true! 'and art thou dead, thou much lov'd 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'll lay, and thrice i'll kiss the green-grass turf that wraps his breathless clay.' 'yet stay, fair lady, rest a while beneath this cloister wall; see, through the thorn blows cold the wind and drizzly rain doth fall.' oh, stay me not, thou holy friar; oh, 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 pearly tears' for see, beneath this gown of grey 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 pass'd 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.' robert southey the inchcape rock no stir in the air, no stir in the sea, the ship was still as she could be, her sails from heaven received no motion, her keel was steady in the ocean. without either sign or sound of their shock the waves how'd over the inchcape rock; so little they rose, so little they fell, they did not move the inchcape bell. the worthy abbot of aberbrothock had placed that bell on the inchcape rock; on a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, and over the waves its warning rung. when the rock was hid by the surge's swell, the mariners heard the warning bell; and then they knew the perilous rock, and bless'd the abbot of aberbrothock. the sun in heaven was shining gay, all things were joyful on that day; the sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round, and there was joyaunce in the sound. the buoy of the inchcape bell was seen, a darker speck on the ocean green; sir ralph the rover walk'd his deck, and he fixed his eye on the darker speck. he felt the cheering power of spring, it made him whistle, it made him sing; his heart was mirthful to excess, but the rover's mirth was wickedness. his eye was on the inchcape float, quoth he, 'my men, put out the boat, and row me to the inch cape rock, and i'll plague the abbot of aberbrothock.' the boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, and to the inchcape rock they go; sir ralph bent over from the boat, and he cut the bell from the inchcape float. down sank the bell with a gurgling sound, the bubbles arose and burst around; quoth sir ralph, 'the next who comes to the rock won't bless the abbot of aberbrothock.' sir ralph the rover sail'd away, he scour'd the seas for many a day; and now grown rich with plunder'd store, he steers his course for scotland's shore. so thick a haze o'erspreads the sky they cannot see the sun on high; the wind hath blown a gale all day, at evening it hath died away. on deck the rover takes his stand, so dark it is they see no land; quoth sir ralph, it will be lighter soon, for there is the dawn of the rising moon.' canst hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar? for methinks we should be near the shore.' 'now where we are i cannot tell, but i wish i could hear the inchcape bell.' they hear no sound, the swell is strong; though the wind hath fallen they drift along, till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,-- 'oh christ! it is the inchcape rock!' sir ralph the rover tore his hair; he curst himself in his despair; but the waves rush in on every side, and the vessel sinks beneath the tide. the well of st. keyne a well there is in the west country, and a clearer one never was seen; there is not a wife in the west country but has heard of the well of st. keyne. an oak and an elm tree stand beside, and behind doth an ash-tree grow, and a willow from the bank above droops to the water below. a traveller came to the well of st. keyne; joyfully he drew nigh, for from cock-crow he had been travelling, and there was not a cloud in the sky. he drank of the water so cool and clear, for thirsty and hot was he, and he sat down upon the bank under the willow-tree. there came a man from the house hard by at the well to fill his pail; on the well-side he rested it, and he bade the stranger hail. 'now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he, for an if thou hast a wife, the happiest draught thou hast drunk this day that ever thou didst in thy life. 'or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, ever here in cornwall been? for an if she have, i'll venture my life she has drunk of the well of st. keyne.' i have left a good woman who never was here,' the stranger he made reply, 'but that my draught should be the better for that, i pray you answer me why?' 'st. keyne,' quoth the cornish-man, 'many a time drank of this crystal well, and before the angel summon'd her, she laid on the water a spell. if the husband, of this gifted well, shall drink before his wife, a happy man thenceforth is he, for he shall be master for life. 'but if the wife shall drink of it first, god help the husband then!' the stranger stoopt to the well of st. keyne, and drank of the water again. 'you drank of the well i warrant betimes?' he to the cornish-man said: but the cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, and sheepishly shook his head. 'i hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, and left my wife in the porch; but i' faith she had been wiser than me, for she took a bottle to church.' the battle of blenheim it was a summer evening, old kaspar's work was done, and he before his cottage door was sitting in the sun, and by sported on the green his little grandchild wilhelmine. she saw her brother peterkin roll something large and round, which he beside the rivulet in playing there had found; he came to ask what he had found, that was so large, and smooth, and round. old kaspar took it from the boy, who stood expectant by; and then the old man shook his head, and with a natural sigh, 'tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'who fell in that great victory. 'i find them in the garden, for there's many here about; and often when i go to plough, the ploughshare turns them out! for many thousand men,' said he, were slain in that great victory.' now tell us what 'twas all about,' young peterkin he cries; and little wilhelmine looks up with wonder-waiting eyes; now tell us all about the war, and what they fought each other for.' it was the english,' kaspar cried, who put the french to rout; but what they fought each other for, i could not well make out; but everybody said,' quoth he, that 'twas a famous victory. my father lived at blenheim then, yon little stream hard by; they burnt his dwelling to the ground, and he was forced to fly; so with his wife and child he fled, nor had he where to rest his head. with fire and sword the country round was wasted far and wide, and many a tender mother then, and new-born baby, died; but things like that, you know, must be at every famous victory. they say it was a shocking sight after the field was won; for many thousand bodies here lay rotting in the sun; but things like that, you know, must be after a famous victory; great praise the duke of marlbro' won, and our good prince eugene.'-- 'why, 'twas a very wicked thing!' said little wilhelmine. nay--nay--my little girl,' quoth he, it was a famous victory; 'and everybody praised the duke who this great fight did win.' 'but what good came of it at last?' quoth little peterkin. 'why, that i cannot tell,' said he, 'but 'twas a famous victory.' father william you are old, father william, the young man cried, the few locks that are left you are gray; you are hale, father william, a hearty old man, now tell me the reason, i pray. in the days of my youth, father william replied, i remember'd that youth would fly fast, and abused not my health and my vigour at first, that i never might need them at last. you are old, father william, the young man cried, and pleasures with youth pass away, and yet you lament not the days that are gone, now tell me the reason, i pray. in the days of my youth, father william replied, i remember'd that youth could not last; i thought of the future, whatever i did, that i never might grieve for the past. you are old, father william, the young man cried, and life must be hastening away; you are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! now tell me the reason, i pray. i am cheerful, young man, father william replied; let the cause thy attention engage: in the days of my youth i remember'd my god! and he hath not forgotten my age. _mrs. cockburn_ the flowers of the forest i've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling; i've felt all its favours, and found its decay: sweet was its blessing, kind its caressing; but now it is fled--it is fled far away. i've seen the forest adorned the foremost with flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; sae bonny was their blooming! their scent the air perfuming! but now they are withered and weeded away. i've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, and loud tempest storming before the mid-day, i've seen tweed's silver streams, shining in the sunny beams, grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. o fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting? oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? nae mair your smiles can cheer me, nae mair your frowns can fear me; for the flowers of the forest are a' wede away. _william wordsworth_ lucy gray oft i had heard of lucy gray; and, when i crossed the wild, i chanced to see at break of day, the solitary child. no mate, no comrade, lucy knew; she dwelt on a wide moor, --the sweetest thing that ever grew beside a human door! you yet may spy the fawn at play, the hare upon the green; but the sweet face of lucy gray will never more be seen. 'to-night will be a stormy night-- you to the town must go; and take a lantern, child, to light your mother through the snow.' 'that, father, will i gladly do! 'tis scarcely afternoon the minster-clock has just struck two, and yonder is the moon.' at this the father raised his hook and snapped a fagot band; he plied his work;--and lucy took the lantern in her hand. not blither is the mountain roe: with many a wanton stroke her feet disperse the powdery snow, that rises up like smoke. the storm came on before its time: she wandered up and down: and many a hill did lucy climb; but never reached the town. the wretched parents all that night, went shouting far and wide; but there was neither sound nor sight to serve them for a guide. at daybreak on a hill they stood that overlooked the moor; and thence they saw the bridge of wood, a furlong from the door. and, turning homeward, now they cried, 'in heaven we all shall meet!' --when in the snow the mother spied the print of lucy's feet. then downward from the steep hill's edge they tracked the footmarks small; and through the broken hawthorn hedge, and by the long stone wall: and then an open field they crossed: the marks were still the same; they tracked them on, nor ever lost; and to the bridge they came. they followed from the snowy bank the footmarks, one by one, into the middle of the plank; and further there were none! --yet some maintain that to this day she is a living child; that you may see sweet lucy gray upon the lonesome wild. o'er rough and smooth she trips along, and never looks behind; and sings a solitary song that whistles in the wind. we are seven a simple child that lightly draws its breath, and feels its life in every limb, what should it know of death? i met a little cottage girl: she was eight years old, she said; her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head. she had a rustic, woodland air, and she was wildly clad; her eyes were fair, and very fair; --her beauty made me glad. sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?' 'how many? seven in all,' she said, and wondering looked at me. 'and where are they? i pray you tell.' she answered, 'seven are we; and two of us at conway dwell, and two are gone to sea. 'two of us in the churchyard lie, my sister and my brother; and, in the churchyard cottage, i dwell near them with my mother.' 'you say that two at conway dwell, and two are gone to sea, yet ye are seven!--i pray you tell, sweet maid, how this may be?' then did the little maid reply, 'seven boys and girls are we; two of us in the churchyard lie, beneath the churchyard tree.' 'you run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive; if two are in the churchyard laid, then ye are only five.' 'their graves are green, they may be seen,' the little maid replied, twelve steps or more from my mother's door, and they are side by side. 'my stockings there i often knit, my kerchief there i hem; and there upon the ground i sit-- i sit and sing to them. 'and often after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair, i take my little porringer, and eat my supper there. 'the first that died was little jane; in bed she moaning lay, till god released her of her pain: and then she went away. 'so in the churchyard she was laid; and all the summer dry, together round her grave we played, my brother john and i. 'and when the ground was white with snow, and i could run and slide, my brother john was forced to go, and he lies by her side.' 'how many are you, then,' said i, 'if they two are in heaven?' the little maiden did reply, 'o master! we are seven.' 'but they are dead: those two are dead! their spirits are in heaven!' 'twas throwing words away: for still the little maid would have her will, and said, 'nay, we are seven!' she dwelt among untrodden ways she dwelt among the untrodden ways beside the springs of dove, a maid whom there were none to praise and very few to love: a violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye! fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky. she lived unknown, and few could know when lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and oh, the difference to me! i travelled among unknown men i travell'd among unknown men, in lands beyond the sea; nor, england! did i know till then what love i bore to thee. 'tis past, the melancholy dream! nor will i quit thy shore a second time; for still i seem to love thee more and more. among thy mountains did i feel the joy of my desire; and she i cherish'd turn'd her wheel beside an english fire. thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd, the bowers where lucy play'd; and thine too is the last green field that lucy's eyes survey'd. _sir walter scott_ lochinvar o, young lochinvar is come out of the west, through all the wide border his steed was the best, and save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; he rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar. he stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, he swam the eske river where ford there was none; but, ere he alighted at netherby gate, the bride had consented, the gallant came late for a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, was to wed the fair ellen of brave lochinvar. so boldly he entered the netherby hall, among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (for the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), o come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal, young lord lochinvar?' 'i long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; love swells like the solway, but ebbs like its tide-- and now i am come, with this lost love of mine, to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. there are maidens in scotland more lovely by far, that would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar.' the bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, he quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, she looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. he took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- 'now tread we a measure!' said young lochinvar. so stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a galliard did grace; while her mother did fret, and her father did fume, and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; and the bride-maidens whispered, ''twere better by far to have matched our fair cousin with young lochinvar.' one touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, when they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; so light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, so light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'she is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; they'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young lochinvar. there was mounting 'mong graemes of the netherby clan; forsters, fenwicks, and musgraves, they rode and they ran: there was racing, and chasing, on cannobie lee, but the lost bride of netherby ne'er did they see. so daring in love, and so dauntless in war, have ye e'er heard of gallant like young lochinvar? coronach he is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest, like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest, the font, reappearing, from the rain-drops shall borrow, but to us comes no cheering, to duncan no morrow! the hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary, but the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory. the autumn winds rushing, waft the leaves that are searest, but our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest. fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber, red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber! like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and for ever! a weary lot is thine 'a weary lot is thine, fair maid, a weary lot is thine! to pull the thorn thy brow to braid, and press the rue for wine! a lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, a feather of the blue, a doublet of the lincoln green,-- no more of me you knew, my love! no more of me you knew. 'this morn is merry june, i trow, the rose is budding fain; but she shall bloom in winter snow, ere we two meet again.' he turned his charger as he spake, upon the river shore, he gave his bridle-reins a shake, said adieu for evermore, my love. and adieu for evermore.' allen-a-dale allen-a-dale has no fagot for burning, allen-a-dale has no furrow for turning, allen-a-dale has no fleece for the spinning, yet allen-a-dale has red gold for the winning. come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! and tell me the craft of bold allen-a-dale. the baron of ravensworth prances in pride, and he views his domains upon arkindale side. the mere for his net, and the land for his game, the chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, are less free to lord dacre than allen-a-dale. allen-a-dale was ne'er belted a knight, though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; allen-a-dale is no baron or lord, yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; and the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil, who at rere-cross on stanmore meets allen-a-dale. allen-a-dale to his wooing is come; the mother, she asked of his household and home: 'though the castle of richmond stand fair on the hill, my hall,' quoth bold allen, 'shows gallanter still; 'tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, and with all its bright spangles!' said allen-a-dale. the father was steel, and the mother was stone; they lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; but loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry: he had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, and she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, and the youth it was told by was allen-a-dale. pibroch of donuil dhu pibroch of donuil dhu, pibroch of donuil, wake thy wild voice anew, summon clan conuil. come away, come away, hark to the summons! come in your war array, gentles and commons! come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky; the war-pipe and pennon are at inverlochy. come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one; come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one! leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar. leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges; come with your fighting-gear, broadswords and targes. come as the winds come, when forests are rended: come as the waves come, when navies are stranded. faster come, faster come, faster and faster; chief, vassal, page, and groom, tenant and master. fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set; pibroch of donuil dhu, knell for the onset! song from 'the pirate' love wakes and weeps while beauty sleeps! o for music's softest numbers, to prompt a theme for beauty's dream, soft as the pillow of her slumbers! through groves of palm sigh gales of balm, fire-flies on the air are wheeling; while through the gloom comes soft perfume, the distant beds of flowers revealing. o wake and live! no dreams can give a shadowed bliss, the real excelling; no longer sleep, from lattice peep, and list the tale that love is telling! rosabelle 'o listen, listen, ladies gay! no haughty feat of arms i tell; soft is the note, and sad the lay that mourns the lovely rosabelle. 'moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! and, gentle ladye, deign to stay! rest thee in castle ravensheuch, nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. the blackening wave is edged with white; to inch and rock the sea-mews fly; the fishers have heard the water-sprite, whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. last night the gifted seer did view a wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; then stay thee, fair, in ravensheuch; why cross the gloomy firth to-day? ''tis not because lord lindesay's heir to-night at roslin leads the ball, but that my ladye-mother there sits lonely in her castle-hall. 'tis not because the ring they ride, and lindesay at the ring rides well, but that my sire the wine will chide if 'tis not fill'd by rosabelle.' --o'er roslin all that dreary night a wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'twas broader than the watch-fire's light, and redder than the bright moonbeam. it glared on roslin's castled rock, it ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'twas seen from dryden's groves of oak, and seen from cavern'd hawthornden. seem'd all on fire that chapel proud where roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, each baron, for a sable shroud, sheathed in his iron panoply. seem'd all on fire within, around, deep sacristy and altar's pale; shone every pillar foliage-bound, and glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carvéd buttress fair-- so still they blaze, when fate is nigh the lordly line of high saint clair. there are twenty of roslin's barons bold lie buried within that proud chapelle; each one the holy vault doth hold but the sea holds lovely rosabelle. and each saint clair was buried there, with candle, with book, and with knell; but the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung the dirge of lovely rosabelle. proud maisie proud maisie is in the wood, walking so early; sweet robin sits on the bush, singing so rarely. 'tell me, thou bonny bird, when shall i marry me?'-- 'when six braw gentlemen kirkward shall carry ye.' 'who makes the bridal bed, birdie, say truly?'-- 'the grey-headed sexton that delves the grave duly. the glowworm o'er grave and stone shall light thee steady; the owl from the steeple sing welcome, proud lady.' _thomas campbell_ lord ullin's daughter a chieftain to the highlands bound, cries,'boatman, do not tarry! and i'll give thee a silver pound to row us o'er the ferry.' 'now, who be ye would cross lochgyle, this dark and stormy water?' 'oh, i'm the chief of ulva's isle, and this lord ullin's daughter. 'and fast before her father's men three days we've fled together; for, should he find us in the glen my blood would stain the heather. 'his horsemen hard behind us ride; should they our steps discover, then who will cheer my bonny bride when they have slain her lover?' out spoke the hardy island wight, 'i'll go, my chief--i'm ready it is not for your silver bright; but for your winsome lady: 'and by my word, the bonny bird in danger shall not tarry; so, though the waves are raging white, i'll row you o'er the ferry.' by this the storm grew loud apace, the water-wraith was shrieking; and in the scowl of heaven each face grew dark as they were speaking. but still as wilder blew the wind, and as the night grew drearer, adown the glen rode armed men, their trampling sounded nearer. oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'though tempests round us gather; i'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.' the boat has left a stormy land, a stormy sea before her,-- when, oh! too strong for human hand, the tempest gathered o'er her. and still they rowed amidst the roar of waters fast prevailing; lord ullin reached that fatal shore, his wrath was changed to wailing. for sore dismayed through storm and shade, his child he did discover: one lovely hand she stretched for aid, and one was round her lover. come back! come back!' he cried in grief, across this stormy water; and i'll forgive your highland chief, my daughter!--oh! my daughter!' 'twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, return or aid preventing; the waters wild went o'er his child, and he was left lamenting. the soldier's dream our bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered and the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; and thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, the weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. when reposing that night on my pallet of straw, by the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, at the dead of the night a sweet vision i saw, and thrice ere the morning i dreamt it again. methought from the battlefield's dreadful array, far, far i had roamed on a desolate track; 'twas autumn--and sunshine arose on the way to the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. i flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft in life's morning march, when my bosom was young; i heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, and knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly i swore from my home and my weeping friends never to part; my little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, and my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. stay, stay with us--rest, thou art weary and worn'; and fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; but sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, and the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. exile of erin there came to the beach a poor exile of erin, the dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: for his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing to wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. but the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, for it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, he sang the bold anthem of erin go bragh. sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, the wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; but i have no refuge from famine and danger, a home and a country remain not to me. never again in the green sunny bowers, where my forefathers lived, shall i spend the sweet hours, or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, and strike to the numbers of erin go bragh! erin my country! though sad and forsaken, in dreams i revisit thy sea-beaten shore; but alas! in a fair foreign land i awaken, and sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me in a mansion of peace--where no perils can chase me? never again shall my brothers embrace me? they died to defend me, or live to deplore! where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? where is the mother that looked on my childhood? and where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, why did it doat on a fast fading treasure? tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure, but rapture and beauty they cannot recall. yet all its sad recollection suppressing, one dying wish my lone bosom can draw: erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! land of my forefathers! erin go bragh! buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, green be thy fields--sweetest isle of the ocean! and thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion erin mavournin!--erin go bragh! ye mariners of england ye mariners of england, that guard our native seas; whose flag has braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze! your glorious standard launch again to match another foe; and sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! the spirits of your fathers shall start from every wave; for the deck it was their field of fame, and ocean was their grave: where blake and mighty nelson fell, your manly hearts shall glow, as ye sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain wave, her home is on the deep. with thunders from her native oak she quells the floods below, as they roar on the shore, when the stormy winds do blow; when the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! the meteor flag of england shall yet terrific burn, till danger's troubled night depart, and the star of peace return; then, then, ye ocean warriors, our song and feast shall flow to the fame of your name, when the storm has ceased to blow; when the fiery fight is heard no more, and the storm has ceased to blow. the battle of the baltic of nelson and the north sing the glorious day's renown, when to battle fierce came forth all the might of denmark's crown, and her arms along the deep proudly shone: by each gun the lighted brand in a bold, determined hand; and the prince of all the land led them on. like leviathans afloat, lay their bulwarks on the brine, while the sign of battle flew o'er the lofty british line: it was ten of april morn by the chime, as they drifted on their path; there was silence deep as death, and the boldest held his breath for a time. but the might of england flushed, to anticipate the scene; and her van the fleeter rushed o'er the deadly space between. hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun from its adamantine lips spread a death-shade round the ships, like the hurricane eclipse of the sun. again! again! again! and the havoc did not slack, till a feebler cheer the dane to our cheering sent us back; their shots along the deep slowly boom: then ceased, and all is wail, as they strike the shattered sail; or, in conflagration pale, light the gloom. out spoke the victor then, as he hailed them o'er the wave: 'ye are brothers! we are men! and we conquer but to save: so peace instead of death let us bring; but yield, proud foe, thy fleet, with the crews, at england's feet, and make submission meet to our king.' then denmark blessed our chief, that he gave her wounds repose; and the sounds of joy and grief from her people wildly rose, as death withdrew his shades from the day; while the sun looked smiling bright o'er a wide and woeful sight, where the fires of funeral light died away. now joy, old england raise, for the tidings of thy might, by the festal cities' blaze, whilst the wine-cup shines in light; and yet amidst that joy and uproar let us think of them that sleep, full many a fathom deep, by thy wild and stormy steep, elsinore! brave hearts! to britain's pride once so faithful and so true, on the deck of fame that died, with the gallant good riou: soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave; while the billow mournful rolls, and the mermaid's song condoles, singing glory to the souls of the brave. napoleon and the sailor napoleon's banners at boulogne arm'd in our island every freeman, his navy chanced to capture one poor british seaman. they suffer'd him--i know not how-- unprison'd on the shore to roam; and aye was bent his longing brow on england's home. his eye, methinks, pursued the flight of birds to britain half-way over; with envy they could reach the white dear cliffs of dover. a stormy midnight watch, he thought, than this sojourn would have been dearer, if but the storm his vessel brought to england nearer. at last, when care had banish'd sleep, he saw one morning--dreaming--doating, an empty hogshead from the deep come shoreward floating; he hid it in a cave, and wrought the livelong day laborious; lurking until he launch'd a tiny boat by mighty working. heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond description wretched: such a wherry perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond, or cross'd a ferry. for ploughing in the salt sea-field, it would have made the boldest shudder; untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, no sail--no rudder. from neighbouring woods he interlaced his sorry skiff with wattled willows; and thus equipp'd he would have pass'd the foaming billows-- but frenchmen caught him on the beach, his little argo sorely jeering; till tidings of him chanced to reach napoleon's hearing. with folded arms napoleon stood, serene alike in peace and danger; and in his wonted attitude, address'd the stranger:-- rash man that wouldst yon channel pass on twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; thy heart with some sweet british lass must be impassion'd.' 'i have no sweetheart,' said the lad; but--absent long from one another-- great was the longing that i had to see my mother!' 'and so thou shalt,' napoleon said, 'ye've both my favour fairly won; a noble mother must have bred so brave a son.' he gave the tar a piece of gold, and with a flag of truce commanded he should be shipp'd to england old, and safely landed. our sailor oft could scantly shift to find a dinner plain and hearty; but never changed the coin and gift of bonaparte. the parrot a parrot, from the spanish main, full young and early caged came o'er, with bright wings, to the bleak domain of mullah's shore. to spicy groves where he had won his plumage of resplendent hue, his native fruits, and skies, and sun, he bade adieu. for these he changed the smoke of turf, a heathery land and misty sky, and turned on rocks and raging surf his golden eye. but petted in our climate cold, he lived and chattered many a day: until with age, from green and gold his wings grew grey. at last when blind, and seeming dumb, he scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, a spanish stranger chanced to come to mullah's shore; he hail'd the bird in spanish speech, the bird in spanish speech replied; flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, dropt down, and died. hohenlinden on linden when the sun was low, all bloodless lay the untrodden snow; and dark as winter was the flow of iser rolling rapidly. but linden saw another sight when the drum beat at dead of night, commanding fires of death to light the darkness of her scenery. by torch and trumpet fast arrayed, each horseman drew his battle blade, and furious every charger neighed to join the dreadful revelry. then shook the hill, with thunder riven; then rushed the steed, to battle driven; and louder than the bolts of heaven far flashed the red artillery. but redder yet that light shall glow on linden's hills of stained snow, and bloodier yet the torrent flow of iser rolling rapidly. 'tis morn, but scarce yon level sun can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, where furious frank and fiery hun shout in their sulph'rous canopy. the combat deepens. on, ye brave, who rush to glory or the grave! wave, munich, all thy banners wave, and charge with all thy chivalry. few, few shall part where many meet; the snow shall be their winding-sheet; and every turf beneath their feet shall be a soldier's sepulchre. men of england men of england! who inherit rights that cost your sires their blood men whose undegenerate spirit has been proved on land and flood: yours are hampden's, russell's glory, sidney's matchless shade is yours,-- martyrs in heroic story, worth a thousand agincourts! we're the sons of sires that baffled crown'd and mitred tyranny: they defied the field and scaffold, for their birthright--so will we. _james hogg_ when the kye comes hame come all ye jolly shepherds that whistle through the glen, i'll tell ye of a secret that courtiers dinna ken; what is the greatest bliss that the tongue o' man can name? 'tis to woo a bonny lassie when the kye comes hame. when the kye comes hame, when the kye comes hame, tween the gloamin' and the mirk, when the kye comes hame. 'tis not beneath the coronet, nor canopy of state, 'tis not on couch of velvet, nor arbour of the great-- 'tis beneath the spreading birk, in the glen without the name, wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, when the kye comes hame. see yonder pawky shepherd that lingers on the hill-- his yowes are in the fauld, and his lambs are lying still; yet he downa gang to bed, for his heart is in a flame to meet his bonny lassie when the kye comes hame. when the little wee bit heart rises high in the breast, and the little wee bit stars rise bright in the east, o there's a joy sae dear, that the heart can hardly frame, wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, when the kye comes hame. then since all nature joins in this love without alloy, o' wha wad prove a traitor to nature's dearest joy? or wha wad choose a crown, wi' its pearls and its fame, and miss his bonny lassie when the kye comes hame? when the kye comes hame, when the kye comes hame, 'tween the gloamin' and the mirk, when the kye comes hame. the skylark bird of the wilderness, blithesome and cumberless, sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place-- o to abide in the desert with thee! wild is thy lay and loud, far in the downy cloud, love gives it energy, love gave it birth, where, on thy dewy wing, where art thou journeying? thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. o'er fell and fountain sheen, o'er moor and mountain green, o'er the red streamer that heralds the day, over the cloudlet dim, over the rainbow's rim, musical cherub, soar, singing, away! then, when the gloaming comes, low in the heather blooms, sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place-- o to abide in the desert with thee! _allan cunningham_ the young maxwell 'where gang ye, thou silly auld carle? and what do you carry there?' i'm gaun to the hillside, thou sodger gentleman, to shift my sheep their lair.' ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle, an' a gude lang stride took he: 'i trow thou to be a feck auld carle, will ye shaw the way to me?' and he has gane wi' the silly auld carle, adown by the greenwood side; 'light down and gang, thou sodger gentleman, for here ye canny ride.' he drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed, an' lightly down he sprang: of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat, whare the gowden tassels hang. he has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle, an' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree; an' wha was it but the young maxwell! an' his gude brown sword drew he! 'thou killed my father, thou vile south'ron! an' ye killed my brethren three! whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister, i loved as the light o' my e'e! 'draw out thy sword, thou vile south'ron red wat wi' blude o' my kin! that sword it crapped the bonniest flower e'er lifted its head to the sun! 'there's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father! there's twa for my brethren three! an' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister, wham i loved as the light o' my e'e.' hame, hame, hame hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! when the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, the larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! the green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa', the bonny white rose it is withering an' a'; but i'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, an' green it will grow in my ain countrie. hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie! o there's naught frae ruin my country can save, but the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, that a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie, may rise again and fight for their ain countrie. hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! the great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save, the new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; but the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e, 'i'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.' hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie. a wet sheet and a flowing sea a wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast, and fills the white and rustling sail, and bends the gallant mast; and bends the gallant mast, my boys, while, like the eagle free, away the good ship flies, and leaves old england on the lee. o for a soft and gentle wind! i heard a landsman cry; but give to me the snoring breeze, and white waves heaving high; and white waves heaving high, my boys, the good ship tight and free-- the world of waters is our home, and merry men are we. there's tempest in yon hornèd moon, and lightning in yon cloud; and hark the music, mariners, the wind is piping loud; the wind is piping loud, my boys, the lightning flashing free-- while the hollow oak our palace is, our heritage the sea. my nanie o red rows the nith 'tween bank and brae, mirk is the night and rainie o, though heaven and earth should mix in storm, i'll gang and see my nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; my kind and winsome nanie o, she holds my heart in love's dear bands, and nane can do't but nanie o. in preaching-time sae meek she stands, sae saintly and sae bonny o, i cannot get ae glimpse of grace, for thieving looks at nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; the world's in love with nanie o; that heart is hardly worth the wear that wadna love my nanie o. my breast can scarce contain my heart, when dancing she moves finely o; i guess what heaven is by her eyes, they sparkle sae divinely o; my nanie o, my nanie o, the flower o' nithsdale's nanie o; love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, and says, i dwell with nanie o. tell not, thou star at grey daylight, o'er tinwald-tap sae bonny o, my footsteps 'mang the morning dew when coming frae my nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; nane ken o' me and nanie o; the stars and moon may tell't aboon, they winna wrang my nanie o! _thomas moore_ canadian boat-song faintly as tolls the evening chime, our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. soon as the woods on shore look dim, we'll sing at st. ann's our parting hymn. row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past! why should we yet our sail unfurl? there's not a breath the blue wave to curl! but, when the wind blows off the shore, oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past! ottawa's tide! this trembling moon shall see us float o'er thy surges soon. saint of this green isle, hear our prayers, oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past. go where glory waits thee go where glory waits thee, but while fame elates thee, oh, still remember me. when the praise thou meetest to thine ear is sweetest, oh, then remember me. other arms may press thee, dearer friends caress thee, all the joys that bless thee sweeter far may be; but when friends are nearest, and when joys are dearest, oh, then remember me. when at eve thou rovest by the star thou lovest, oh, then remember me. think, when home returning, bright we've seen it burning. oh, thus remember me. oft as summer closes, when thine eye reposes on its lingering roses, once so loved by thee, think of her who wove them, her who made thee love them, oh, then remember me. when, around thee dying, autumn leaves are lying, oh, then remember me. and, at night, when gazing on the gay hearth blazing, oh, still remember me. then, should music, stealing all the soul of feeling, to thy heart appealing, draw one tear from thee; then let memory bring thee strains i used to sing thee, oh, then remember me. the harp that once through tara's halls the harp that once through tara's halls, the soul of music shed, now hangs as mute on tara's walls as if that soul were fled. so sleeps the pride of former days, so glory's thrill is o'er, and hearts, that once beat high for praise, now feel that pulse no more. no more to chiefs and ladies bright the harp of tara swells: the chord alone, that breaks at night, its tale of ruin tells. thus freedom now so seldom wakes, the only throb she gives is when some heart indignant breaks, to show that still she lives. rich and rare were the gems she wore rich and rare were the gems she wore, and a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; but, oh! her beauty was far beyond her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. 'lady, dost thou not fear to stray, so lone and lovely, through this bleak way? are erin's sons so good or so cold, as not to be tempted by woman or gold?' sir knight! i feel not the least alarm, no son of erin will offer me harm: for, though they love women and golden store sir knight! they love honour and virtue more. on she went, and her maiden smile in safety lighted her round the green isle; and blest for ever is she who relied upon erin's honour and erin's pride. the meeting of the waters there is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, as that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, oh! no--it was something more exquisite still. 'twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, and who felt how the best charms of nature improve, when we see them reflected from looks that we love. she is far from the land she is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, and lovers are round her sighing; but coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, for her heart in his grave is lying. she sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, every note which he loved awaking;-- ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, how the heart of the minstrel is breaking. he had lived for his love, for his country he died, they were all that to life had entwined him; nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, nor long will his love stay behind him. oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest when they promise a glorious morrow; they'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, from her own loved island of sorrow. believe me, if all those endearing young charms believe me, if all those endearing young charms which i gaze on so fondly to-day, were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, like fairy-gifts fading away, thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, let thy loveliness fade as it will, and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still. it is not while beauty and youth are thine own, and thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, that the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, to which time will but make thee more dear; no, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, but as truly loves on to the close, as the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, the same look which she turned when he rose. love's young dream oh, the days are gone, when beauty bright my heart's chain wove; when my dream of life from morn till night was love, still love. new hope may bloom, and days may come of milder, calmer beam, but there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream; no, there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream. though the bard to purer fame may soar, when wild youth's past; though he wins the wise, who frown'd before, to smile at last; he'll never meet a joy so sweet, in all his noon of fame, as when first he sung to woman's ear his soul-felt flame, and, at every close, she blushed to hear the one loved name. no--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot which first love traced; still it lingering haunts the greenest spot on memory's waste. 'twas odour fled as soon as shed; 'twas morning's winged dream; 'twas a light there ne'er can shine again on life's dull stream: oh!'twas light that ne'er can shine again on life's dull stream. the last rose of summer 'tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone; all her lovely companions are faded and gone; no flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh, to reflect back her blushes, to give sigh for sigh. i'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem; since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them. thus kindly i scatter thy leaves o'er the bed, where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead. so soon may i follow, when friendships decay, and from love's shining circle the gems drop away! when true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown, oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone? the minstrel-boy the minstrel-boy to the war is gone, in the ranks of death you'll find him; his father's sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him.-- 'land of song!' said the warrior-bard, 'though all the world betrays thee, one sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, one faithful harp shall praise thee!' the minstrel fell--but the foeman's chain could not bring his proud soul under; the harp he loved ne'er spoke again, for he tore its cords asunder; and said, 'no chains shall sully thee, thou soul of love and bravery! thy songs were made for the brave and free, they shall never sound in slavery!' the time i've lost in wooing the time i've lost in wooing, in watching and pursuing the light that lies in woman's eyes, has been my heart's undoing. though wisdom oft has sought me, i scorned the lore she brought me, my only books were women's looks, and folly's all they'ye taught me. her smile when beauty granted, i hung with gaze enchanted, like him the sprite whom maids by night oft meet in glen that's haunted. like him, too, beauty won me; but while her eyes were on me, if once their ray was turned away, oh, winds could not outrun me. and are those follies going? and is my proud heart growing too cold or wise for brilliant eyes again to set it glowing? no--vain, alas! th'endeavour from bonds so sweet to sever;-- poor wisdom's chance against a glance is now as weak as ever. the light of other days oft in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, fond memory brings the light of other days around me: the smiles, the tears of boyhood's years, the words of love then spoken; the eyes that shone, now dimm'd and gone, the cheerful hearts now broken! thus in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, sad memory brings the light of other days around me. when i remember all the friends so link'd together, i've seen around me fall like leaves in wintry weather, i feel like one who treads alone some banquet-hall deserted, whose lights are fled whose garlands dead and all but he departed! thus in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, sad memory brings the light of other days around me. _lord byron_ the destruction of sennacherib the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; and the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, when the blue wave rolls nightly on deep galilee. like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, that host with their banners at sunset were seen: like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strown. for the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; and the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! and there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, but through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: and the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, and cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. and there lay the rider distorted and pale, with the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; and the tents were all silent, the banners alone, the lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. and the widows of ashur are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of baal; and the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword, hath melted like snow in the glance of the lord! when we two parted when we two parted in silence and tears, half broken-hearted to sever for years, pale grew thy cheek and cold, colder thy kiss; truly that hour foretold sorrow to this. the dew of the morning sank 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 knew 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 thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. if i should meet thee after long years, how should i greet thee?-- with silence and tears. song there be none of beauty's daughters with a magic like thee; and like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me: when, as if its sound were causing the charmed ocean's pausing, the waves lie still and gleaming, and the lull'd winds seem dreaming: and the midnight moon is weaving her bright chain o'er the deep; whose breast is gently heaving, as an infant's asleep: so the spirit bows before thee, to listen and adore thee; with a full but soft emotion, like the swell of summer's ocean. we'll go no more a-roving so, we'll go no more a-roving so late into the night, though the heart be still as loving, and the moon be still as bright. for the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast, and the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest. though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. she walks in beauty she walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes, and starry skies: and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes: thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. one shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace, which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place. and on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent. a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent! _b. w. procter_ king death king death was a rare old fellow, he sat where no sun could shine, and he lifted his hand so yellow, and poured 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, for the coal-black wine! the scholar left all his learning, the poet his fancied woes, and the beauty her bloom returning, like life to the fading rose. hurrah, for the coal-black wine! all came to the rare old fellow, who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, and he gave them his hand so yellow, and pledged them in death's black wine. hurrah, for the coal-black wine! song for twilight hide me, o twilight air, hide me from thought, from care, from all things foul or fair, until to-morrow! to-night i 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 shouldst 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. _charles wolfe_ the burial of sir john moore at corunna nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corpse to the rampart we hurried; not a soldier discharged his farewell shot o'er the grave where our hero we buried. we buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning; by the struggling moonbeam's misty light and the lantern dimly burning. no useless coffin enclosed his breast, not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; but he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him. few and short were the prayers we said, and we spoke not a word of sorrow; but we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow. we thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed and smoothed down his lonely pillow, that the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, and we far away on the billow! lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone and o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- but little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on in the grave where a briton has laid him. but half of our heavy task was done when the clock struck the hour for retiring: and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory; we carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, but we left him alone with his glory. _percy bysshe shelley_ i arise from dreams of thee i arise from dreams of thee, in the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright; i arise from dreams of thee, and a spirit in my feet has led me--who knows how? to thy chamber-window, sweet. the wandering airs they faint on the dark, the silent stream,-- the champetre odours fail, like sweet thoughts in a dream, the nightingale's complaint it dies upon her heart, as i must die on thine, o beloved as thou art! o lift me from the grass! i die, i faint, i fail. let thy love in kisses rain on my lips and eyelids pale. my cheek is cold and white, alas! my heart beats loud and fast. oh! press it close to thine again, where it will break at last. lament o world! o life! o time! on whose last steps i climb, trembling at that where i had stood before; when will return the glory of your prime? no more--oh, never more! out of the day and night a joy has taken flight: fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, move my faint heart with grief, but with delight no more--oh, never more! love's philosophy the fountains mingle with the river, and the rivers with the ocean, the winds of heaven mix for ever with a sweet emotion; nothing in the world is single; all things by a law divine in one another's being mingle-- why not i with thine? see the mountains kiss high heaven, and the waves clasp one another; no sister flower would be forgiven if it disdained its brother: and the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea;-- what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me? hymn of pan from the forests and highlands we come, we come; from the river-girt islands, where loud waves are dumb, listening to my sweet pipings. the wind in the reeds and the rushes, the bees on the bells of thyme, the birds on the myrtle bushes, the cicale above in the lime, and the lizards below in the grass, were as silent as ever old tmolus was, listening to my sweet pipings. liquid peneus was flowing, and all dark tempe lay in pelion's shadow, outgrowing the light of the dying day, speeded by my sweet pipings. the sileni and sylvans and fauns, and the nymphs of the woods and waves, to the edge of the moist river-lawns, and the brink of the dewy caves, and all that did then attend and follow, were silent with love, as you now, apollo, with envy of my sweet pipings. i sang of the dancing stars, i sang of the daedal earth, and of heaven, and the giant wars, and love, and death, and birth. and then i changed my pipings singing how down the vale of maenalus i pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: gods and men, we are all deluded thus; it breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. all wept--as i think both ye now would, if envy or age had not frozen your blood-- at the sorrow of my sweet pipings. _john keats_ la belle dame sans merci 'o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? the sedge has wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing. 'o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! so haggard and so woe-begone? the squirrel's granary is full, and the harvest's done. 'i see a lily on thy brow with anguish moist and fever-dew. and on thy cheeks a fading rose fast withereth too.' 'i met a lady in the meads, full beautiful--a faery's child, her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild. 'i made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; she look'd at me as she did love, and made sweet moan. 'i set her on my pacing steed and nothing else saw all day long, for sidelong would she bend, and sing a faery's song. 'she found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild and manna-dew, and sure in language strange she said, "i love thee true." 'she took me to her elfin grot, and there she wept and sigh'd full sore; and there i shut her wild wild eyes with kisses four. 'and there she lullèd me asleep, and there i dream'd--ah! woe betide the latest dream i ever dream'd on the cold hill's side. 'i saw pale kings and princes too, pale warriors, death-pale were they all: they cried--"la belle dame sans merci hath thee in thrall!" 'i saw their starved lips in the gloam with horrid warning gaped wide, and i awoke and found me here on the cold hill's side. 'and this is why i sojourn here alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing.' _thomas holcroft_ gaffer gray ho, why dost thou shiver and shake, gaffer gray? and why does thy nose look so blue? ''tis the weather that's cold, 'tis i'm grown very old, and my doublet is not very new, well-a-day!' then line thy worn doublet with ale, gaffer gray; and warm thy old heart with a glass. nay, but credit i've none, and my money's all gone; then say how may that come to pass? well-a-day!' hie away to the house on the brow, gaffer gray; and knock at the jolly priest's door. 'the priest often preaches against worldly riches, but ne'er gives a mite to the poor, well-a-day!' the lawyer lives under the hill, gaffer gray; warmly fenced both in back and in front. 'he will fasten his locks, and will threaten the stocks should he ever more find me in want, well-a-day!' the squire has fat beeves and brown ale, gaffer gray; and the season will welcome you there. 'his fat beeves and his beer, and his merry new year, are all for the flush and the fair, well-a-day!' my keg is but low, i confess, gaffer gray; what then? while it lasts, man, we'll live.' the poor man alone, when he hears the poor moan, of his morsel a morsel will give, well-a-day!' _felicia hemans_ the pilgrim fathers the breaking waves dash'd high on a stern and rock-bound coast; and the woods, against a stormy sky, their giant branches toss'd; and the heavy night hung dark, the hills and waters o'er, when a band of exiles moor'd their bark on the wild new england shore. not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came; not with the roll of the stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame;-- not as the flying come, in silence, and in fear;-- they shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer. amidst the storm they sang: till the stars heard, and the sea; and the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang, to the anthem of the free. the ocean-eagle soar'd from his nest, by the white wave's foam, and the rocking pines of the forest roar'd: such was their welcome home. there were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band: why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land? there was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; there was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. what sought they thus afar? bright jewels of the mine? the wealth of seas? the spoils of war?-- no--'twas a faith's pure shrine. yes, call it holy ground, which first their brave feet trod! they have left unstain'd what there they found-- freedom to worship god! the voice of spring i come, i come! ye have called me long, i come o'er the mountains with light and song; ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, by the winds which tell of the violet's birth, by the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, by the green leaves opening as i pass. i have breathed on the south, and the chestnut-flowers by thousands have burst from the forest-bowers; and the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, are veiled with wreaths on italian plains. --but it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, to speak of the ruin or the tomb! i have passed o'er the hills of the stormy north, and the larch has hung all his tassels forth, the fisher is out on the sunny sea, and the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, and the pine has a fringe of softer green, and the moss looks bright where my step has been. i have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, and called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, from the night-bird's lay through the starry time, in the groves of the soft hesperian clime, to the swan's wild note by the iceland lakes, when the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. from the streams and founts i have loosed the chain: they are sweeping on to the silvery main, they are flashing down from the mountain-brows, they are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, they are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, and the earth resounds with the joy of waves. come forth, o ye children of gladness, come! where the violets lie may now be your home. ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, and the bounding footstep, to meet me fly, with the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, come forth to the sunshine,--i may not stay. away from the dwellings of care-worn men, the waters are sparkling in wood and glen; away from the chamber and dusky hearth, the young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth, their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, and youth is abroad in my green domains. the homes of england the stately homes of england, how beautiful they stand, amidst their tall ancestral trees, o'er all the pleasant land! the deer across their greensward bound through shade and sunny gleam, and the swan glides past them with the sound of some rejoicing stream. the merry homes of england-- around their hearths by night, what gladsome looks of household love meet in the ruddy light! there woman's voice flows forth in song, or childhood's tale is told; or lips move tunefully along some glorious page of old. the blessed homes of england, how softly on their bowers, is laid the holy quietness that breathes from sabbath hours! solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime floats through their woods at morn, all other sounds in that still time of breeze and leaf are born. the cottage homes of england by thousands on her plains, they are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, and round the hamlet fanes. through glowing orchards forth they peep, each from its nook of leaves, and fearless there the lowly sleep, as the bird beneath their eaves. the free fair homes of england, long, long, in hut and hall, may hearts of native proof be reared to guard each hallowed wall. and green for ever be the groves, and bright the flowery sod, where first the child's glad spirit loves its country and its god. the child's first grief 'oh, call my brother back to me! i cannot play alone; the summer comes with flower and bee-- where is my brother gone? 'the butterfly is glancing bright across the sunbeam's track; i care not now to chase its flight oh, call my brother back! 'the flowers run wild-- the flowers we sow'd around our garden tree; our vine is drooping with its load oh, call him back to me!' 'he could not hear thy voice, fair child, he may not come to thee; the face that once like spring-time smiled, on earth no more thou'lt see. 'a rose's brief bright life of joy, such unto him was given; go--thou must play alone, my boy! thy brother is in heaven!' 'and has he left his birds and flowers, and must i call in vain? and, through the long, long summer hours, will he not come again? 'and by the brook, and in the glade, are all our wanderings o'er? oh, while my brother with me play'd, would i had loved him more!' the graves of a household they grew in beauty side by side, they filled one home with glee, their graves are severed far and wide, by mount, and stream, and sea. the same fond mother bent at night o'er each fair sleeping brow, she had each folded flower in sight, where are those dreamers now? one midst the forests of the west, by a dark stream, is laid; the indian knows his place of rest far in the cedar's shade. the sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, he lies where pearls lie deep, he was the loved of all, yet none o'er his low bed may weep. one sleeps where southern vines are drest above the noble slain; he wrapt his colours round his breast on a blood-red field of spain. and one, o'er her the myrtle showers its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; she faded midst italian flowers, the last of that bright band. and, parted thus, they rest--who played beneath the same green tree, whose voices mingled as they prayed around one parent knee! they that with smiles lit up the hall, and cheered with song the hearth, alas for love, if thou wert all, and nought beyond, oh earth! casabianca the boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled; the flame that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him o'er the dead. yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm; a creature of heroic blood, a proud, though child-like form. the flames roll'd on--he would not go, without his father's word; that father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. he call'd aloud--'say, father, say if yet my task is done?' he knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. 'speak, father!' once again he cried, if i may yet be gone!' --and but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames roll'd on. upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair; and look'd from that lone post of death, in still, yet brave despair: and shouted but once more aloud, 'my father! must i stay?' while o'er him fast, through sail and shroud the wreathing fires made way. they wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high, and stream'd above the gallant child, like banners in the sky. there came a burst of thunder sound-- the boy--oh, where was he? --ask of the winds that far around with fragments strew'd the sea! _thomas hood_ the dream of eugene aram 'twas in the prime of summer time, an evening calm and cool, and four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school: there were some that ran, and some that leapt, like troutlets in a pool. away they sped with gamesome minds, and souls untouch'd by sin; to a level mead they came, and there they drave the wickets in; pleasantly shone the setting sun over the town of lynn. like sportive deer they coursed about, and shouted as they ran-- turning to mirth all things of earth, as only boyhood can: but the usher sat remote from all, a melancholy man. his hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessed breeze; for a burning thought was in his brow, and his bosom ill at ease: so he lean'd his head on his hands, and read the book between his knees. leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, nor ever glanced aside; for the peace of his soul he read that book in the golden eventide: much study had made him very lean, and pale, and leaden-eyed. at last he shut the ponderous tome; with a fast and fervent grasp he strain'd the dusky covers close, and fix'd the brazen hasp: 'o heav'n, could i so close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp!' then leaping on his feet upright, some moody turns he took; now up the mead, then down the mead, and past a shady nook: and lo, he saw a little boy that pored upon a book. 'my gentle lad, what is't you read-- romance or fairy fable? or is it some historic page of kings and crowns unstable?' the young boy gave an upward glance-- 'it is the death of abel.' the usher took six hasty strides, as smit with sudden pain; six hasty strides beyond the place, then slowly back again: and down he sat beside the lad, and talked with him of cain; and long since then, of bloody men, whose deeds tradition saves; of lonely folk cut off unseen, and hid in sudden graves; of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, and murders done in caves; and how the sprites of injured men shriek upward from the sod-- ay, how the ghostly hand will point to show the burial clod; and unknown facts of guilty acts are seen in dreams from god. he told how murderers walk'd the earth beneath the curse of cain with crimson clouds before their eyes, and flames about their brain: for blood has left upon their souls its everlasting stain. 'and well,' quoth he, 'i know, for truth, their pangs must be extreme-- wo, wo, unutterable wo-- who spill life's sacred stream! for why? methought last night i wrought a murder in a dream! 'one that had never done me wrong-- a feeble man, and old; i led him to a lonely field, the moon shone clear and cold: now here, said i, this man shall die, and i will have his gold! 'two sudden blows with a ragged stick, and one with a heavy stone, one hurried gash with a hasty knife, and then the deed was done: there was nothing lying at my feet, but lifeless flesh and bone! 'nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, that could not do me ill; and yet i fear'd him all the more, for lying there so still: there was a manhood in his look that murder could not kill. 'and lo, the universal air seem'd lit with ghastly flame-- ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes were looking down in blame: i took the dead man by the hand, and call'd upon his name! 'oh me, it made me quake to see such sense within the slain! but when i touch'd the lifeless clay, the blood gush'd out amain! for every clot, a burning spot was scorching in my brain! 'my head was like an ardent coal, my heart as solid ice; my wretched, wretched soul, i knew, was at the devil's price: a dozen times i groan'd; the dead had never groan'd but twice. 'and now from forth the frowning sky, from the heaven's topmost height, i heard a voice--the awful voice of the blood-avenging sprite: "thou guilty man, take up thy dead, and hide it from my sight!" 'i took the dreary body up and cast it in a stream a sluggish water, black as ink, the depth was so extreme. my gentle boy, remember, this is nothing but a dream! 'down went the corse with a hollow plunge, and vanish'd in the pool; anon i cleansed my bloody hands, and washed my forehead cool, and sat among the urchins young that evening in the school. 'o heaven, to think of their white souls, and mine so black and grim! i could not share in childish prayer, nor join in evening hymn: like a devil of the pit i seem'd, 'mid holy cherubim! 'and peace went with them, one and all, and each calm pillow spread; but guilt was my grim chamberlain that lighted me to bed, and drew my midnight curtains round, with fingers bloody red! 'all night i lay in agony, in anguish dark and deep; my fever'd eyes i dared not close, but star'd aghast at sleep; for sin had render'd unto her the keys of hell to keep! 'all night i lay in agony, from weary chime to chime, with one besetting horrid hint, that rack'd me all the time-- a mighty yearning, like the first fierce impulse unto crime. 'one stern tyrannic thought that made all other thoughts its slave; stronger and stronger every pulse did that temptation crave-- still urging me to go and see the dead man in his grave. 'heavily i rose up--as soon as light was in the sky-- and sought the black accursed pool with a wild misgiving eye; and i saw the dead, in the river bed, for the faithless stream was dry! 'merrily rose the lark, and shook the dew-drop from its wing; but i never mark'd its morning flight, i never heard it sing: for i was stooping once again under the horrid thing. 'with breathless speed, like a soul in chase, i took him up and ran-- there was no time to dig a grave before the day began: in a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, i hid the murder'd man. 'and all that day i read in school, but my thought was otherwhere; as soon as the mid-day task was done, in secret i was there: and a mighty wind had swept the leaves, and still the corse was bare! 'then down i cast me on my face, and first began to weep; for i knew my secret then was one that earth refused to keep; or land, or sea, though he should be ten thousand fathoms deep. so wills the fierce avenging sprite, till blood for blood atones; ay, though he's buried in a cave, and trodden down with stones, and years have rotted off his flesh the world shall see his bones. oh me--that horrid, horrid dream besets me now awake! again, again, with a dizzy brain, the human life i take; and my red right hand grows raging hot, like cranmer's at the stake. 'and still no peace for the restless clay will wave or mould allow; the horrid thing pursues my soul-- it stands before me now the fearful boy looked up and saw huge drops upon his brow. that very night, while gentle sleep the urchin's eyelids kiss'd, two stern-faced men set out from lynn. through the cold and heavy mist; and eugene aram walk'd between, with gyves upon his wrist. the song of the shirt 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 the shirt. 'work--work--work while the cock is crowing aloof; and work--work--work till the stars shine through the roof it 's o! 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 i seam, and gusset, and band, band, and gusset, and seam, till over the buttons i fall asleep, and sew them on in a dream! 'o men with sisters dear! o 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-- 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 what are its wages? a bed of straw, a crust of bread--and rags. that shattered 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 benumbed, 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! 'oh, but for one short hour! a respite however brief! no blessèd 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 shirt!' the stars are with the voyager the stars are with the voyager, wherever he may sail; the moon is constant to her time, the sun will never fail, but follow, follow, round the world, the green earth and the sea; so love is with the lover's heart, wherever he may be. wherever he may be, the stars must daily lose their light, the moon will veil her in the shade, the sun will set at night; the sun may set, but constant love will shine when he's away, so that dull night is never night, and day is brighter day. ruth she stood breast high amid the corn, clasped by the golden light of morn, like the sweetheart of the sun, who many a glowing kiss had won. on her cheek an autumn flush deeply ripened--such a blush in the midst of brown was born-- like red poppies grown with corn. round her eyes her tresses fell, which were blackest none could tell, but long lashes veiled a light that had else been all too bright. and her hat, with shady brim, made her tressy forehead dim:-- hus she stood amid the stooks, praising god with sweetest looks:-- sure, i said, heav'n did not mean where i reap thou shouldst but glean, lay thy sheaf adown and come share my harvest and my home. _lord macaulay_ ivry now glory to the lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! and glory to our sovereign liege, king henry of navarre! now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of france! and thou, rochelle, our own rochelle, proud city of the waters, again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. as thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, for cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, hurrah! hurrah! for ivry, and henry of navarre. oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, we saw the army of the league drawn out in long array; with all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, and appenzel's stout infantry, and egmont's flemish spears. there rode the brood of false lorraine, the curses of our land; and dark mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: and, as we looked on them, we thought of seine's empurpled flood, and good coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; and we cried unto the living god, who rules the fate of war, to fight for his own holy name, and henry of navarre. the king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest; and he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. he looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; he looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, down all our line, a deafening shout, 'god save our lord the king.' 'and if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may for never saw i promise yet of such a bloody fray-- press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, and be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of navarre.' hurrah! the foes are moving! hark to the mingled din of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. the fiery duke is pricking fast across st. andre's plain, with all the hireling chivalry of guelders and almayne. now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of france, charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance! a thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, a thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; and in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding-star, amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of navarre. now, god be praised, the day is ours! mayenne hath turned his rein. d'aumale hath cried for quarter. the flemish count is slain. their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a biscay gale; the field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. and then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 'remember st. bartholomew,' was passed from man to man; but out spake gentle henry: no frenchman is my foe: down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.' oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, as our sovereign lord, king henry, the soldier of navarre! right well fought all the frenchmen who fought for france to-day; and many a lordly banner god gave them for a prey. but we of the religion have borne us best in fight; and the good lord of rosny hath ta'en the cornet white. our own true maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, the cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false lorraine. up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know how god hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe. then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for henry of navarre. ho! maidens of vienna! ho! matrons of lucerne! weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. ho! philip, send, for charity, thy mexican pistoles, that antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls! ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright; ho! burghers of saint genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. for our god hath crushed the tyrant, our god hath raised the slave, and mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; and glory to our sovereign lord, king henry of navarre. the armada attend, all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise: i sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, when that great fleet invincible, against her bore, in vain, the richest spoils of mexico, the stoutest hearts in spain. it was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, there came a gallant merchant ship full sail to plymouth bay; the crew had seen castile's black fleet, beyond aurigny's isle, at earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile. at sunrise she escaped their van, by god's especial grace; and the tall pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; the beacon blazed upon the roof of edgecombe's lofty hall; many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast; and with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post. with his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums: the yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and ample space, for there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace: and haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, as slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, and underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! so stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed picard field, bohemia's plume, and genoa's bow, and caesar's eagle shield; so glared he when, at agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, and crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades! thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide! our glorious _semper eadem_ the banner of our pride! the fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold the parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; such night in england ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. from eddystone to berwick bounds, from lynn to milford bay, that time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day; for swift to east, and swift to west, the warning radiance spread-- high on st. michael's mount it shone--it shone on beachy head. far o'er the deep the spaniard saw, along each southern shire, cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. the fisher left his skiff to rock on tamar's glittering waves, the rugged miners poured to war, from mendip's sunless caves; o'er longleat's towers, or cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, and roused the shepherds of stonehenge--the rangers of beaulieu. right sharp and quick the bells rang out all night from bristol town; and, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on clifton down. the sentinel on whitehall gate looked forth into the night, and saw, o erhanging richmond hill, that streak of blood-red light: the bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, and with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; at once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; at once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; from all the batteries of the tower pealed loud the voice of fear, and all the thousand masts of thames sent back a louder cheer: and from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, and the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each rousing street: and broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, as fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; and eastward straight, for wild blackheath, the warlike errand went; and roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of kent: southward, for surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright coursers forth; high on black hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; and on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; all night from tower to tower they sprang, all night from hill to hill; till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er derwent's rocky dales; till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of wales; till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on malvern's lonely height; till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the wrekin's crest of light; till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on ely's stately fane, and town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; till belvoir's lordly towers the sign to lincoln sent, and lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of trent; till skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on gaunt's embattled pile, and the red glare on skiddaw roused the burghers of carlisle. _lord tennyson_ lady clare it was the time when lilies blow, and clouds are highest up in air, lord ronald brought a lily-white doe to give his cousin, lady clare. i trove they did not part in scorn: lovers long-betroth'd were they: they two will wed the morrow morn; god's blessing on the day! 'he does not love me for my birth, nor for my lands so broad and fair; he loves me for my own true worth, and that is well,' said lady clare. in there came old alice the nurse, said, who was this that went from thee?' 'it was my cousin,' said lady clare, to-morrow he weds with me.' o god be thank'd!' said alice the nurse, that all comes round so just and fair: lord ronald is heir of all your lands, and you are not the lady clare.' 'are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?' said lady clare, that ye speak so wild?' as god's above,' said alice the nurse, i speak the truth: you are my child. 'the old earl's daughter died at my breast; i speak the truth, as i live by bread! i buried her like my own sweet child, and put my child in her stead.' falsely, falsely have ye done, o mother,' she said, 'if this be true, to keep the best man under the sun so many years from his due.' nay now, my child,' said alice the nurse, but keep the secret for your life, and all you have will be lord ronald's, when you are man and wife' 'if i'm a beggar born,' she said, i will speak out, for i dare not lie. pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, and fling the diamond necklace by.' 'nay now, my child,' said alice the nurse, 'but keep the secret all ye can.' she said, 'not so: but i will know if there be any faith in man.' 'nay now, what faith?' said alice the nurse, 'the man will cleave unto his right.' 'and he shall have it,' the lady replied, tho' i should die to-night.' 'yet give one kiss to your mother dear! alas, my child, i sinn'd for thee.' 'o mother, mother, mother,' she said, so strange it seems to me. 'yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, my mother dear, if this be so, and lay your hand upon my head, and bless me, mother, ere i go.' she clad herself in a russet gown, she was no longer lady clare: she went by dale, and she went by down, with a single rose in her hair. the lily-white doe lord ronald had brought leapt up from where she lay, ropt her head in the maiden's hand, and follow'd her all the way. down stept lord ronald from his tower: 'o lady clare, you shame your worth! why come you drest like a village maid, that are the flower of the earth?' 'if i come drest like a village maid, i am but as my fortunes are: i am a beggar born,' she said, and not the lady clare.' 'play me no tricks,' said lord ronald, for i am yours in word and in deed. play me no tricks,' said lord ronald, your riddle is hard to read.' o and proudly stood she up! her heart within her did not fail: she look'd into lord ronald's eyes, and told him all her nurse's tale. he laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: he turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood 'if you are not the heiress born, and i,' said he, the next in blood-- 'if you are not the heiress born, and i,' said he, the lawful heir, we two will wed to-morrow morn, and you shall still be lady clare.' the lord of burleigh in her ear he whispers gaily, 'if my heart by signs can tell, maiden, i have watch'd thee daily, and i think thou lov'st me well.' she replies, in accents fainter, 'there is none i love like thee.' he is but a landscape-painter, and a village maiden she. he to lips, that fondly falter, presses his without reproof: leads her to the village altar, and they leave her father's roof. 'i can make no marriage present: little can i give my wife. love will make our cottage pleasant, and i love thee more than life.' they by parks and lodges going see the lordly castles stand: summer woods, about them blowing, made a murmur in the land. from deep thought himself he rouses, says to her that loves him well, 'let us see these handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell.' so she goes by him attended, hears him lovingly converse, sees whatever fair and splendid lay betwixt his home and hers; parks with oak and chestnut shady, parks and order'd gardens great, ancient homes of lord and lady, built for pleasure and for state. all he shows her makes him dearer: evermore she seems to gaze on that cottage growing nearer, where they twain will spend their days. o but she will love him truly! he shall have a cheerful home; she will order all things duly, when beneath his roof they come. thus her heart rejoices greatly, till a gateway she discerns with armorial bearings stately, and beneath the gate she turns; sees a mansion more majestic than all those she saw before: many a gallant gay domestic bows before him at the door. and they speak in gentle murmur, when they answer to his call, while he treads with footstep firmer, leading on from hall to hall. and, while now she wonders blindly, nor the meaning can divine, proudly turns he round and kindly, 'all of this is mine and thine.' here he lives in state and bounty, lord of burleigh, fair and free, not a lord in all the county is so great a lord as he. all at once the colour flushes her sweet face from brow to chin: as it were with shame she blushes, and her spirit changed within. then her countenance all over pale again as death did prove: but he clasp'd her like a lover, and he cheer'd her soul with love. so she strove against her weakness, tho' at times her spirits sank: shaped her heart with woman's meekness to all duties of her rank: and a gentle consort made he, and her gentle mind was such that she grew a noble lady, and the people loved her much. but a trouble weigh'd upon her, and perplex'd her, night and morn, with the burthen of an honour unto which she was not born. faint she grew, and ever fainter, as she murmur'd, 'oh, that he were once more that landscape-painter, which did win my heart from me!' so she droop'd and droop'd before him, fading slowly from his side: three fair children first she bore him, then before her time she died. weeping, weeping late and early, walking up and pacing down, deeply mourn'd the lord of burleigh, burleigh-house by stamford-town. and he came to look upon her, and he look'd at her and said, 'bring the dress and put it on her, that she wore when she was wed.' then her people, softly treading, bore to earth her body, drest in the dress that she was wed in, that her spirit might have rest. edward gray sweet emma moreland of yonder town met me walking on yonder way, 'and have you lost your heart?' she said; and are you married yet, edward gray?' sweet emma moreland spoke to me: bitterly weeping i turn'd away: 'sweet emma moreland, love no more can touch the heart of edward gray. 'ellen adair she loved me well, against her father's and mother's will: to-day i sat for an hour and wept, by ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 'shy she was, and i thought her cold; thought her proud, and fled over the sea; fill'd i was with folly and spite, when ellen adair was dying for me. 'cruel, cruel the words i said! cruelly came they back to-day: "you're too slight and fickle," i said, "to trouble the heart of edward gray." 'there i put my face in the grass whisper'd, "listen to my despair: i repent me of all i did: speak a little, ellen adair!" 'then i took a pencil, and wrote on the mossy stone, as i lay, "here lies the body of ellen adair; and here the heart of edward gray!" 'love may come, and love may go, and fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: but i will love no more, no more, till ellen adair come back to me. 'bitterly wept i over the stone: bitterly weeping i turn'd away: there lies the body of ellen adair! and there the heart of edward gray!' the owl i when cats run home and light is come, and dew is cold upon the ground, and the far-off stream is dumb, and the whirring sail goes round, and the whirring sail goes round: alone and warming his five wits, the white owl in the belfry sits. ii when merry milkmaids click the latch, and rarely smells the new-mown hay, and the cock hath sung beneath the thatch twice or thrice his roundelay, twice or thrice his roundelay: alone and warming his five wits, the white owl in the belfry sits. oriana my heart is wasted with my woe, oriana. there is no rest for me below, oriana. when the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, and loud the norland whirlwinds blow, oriana, alone i wander to and fro, oriana. ere the light on dark was growing, oriana, at midnight the cock was crowing, oriana: winds were blowing, waters flowing, we heard the steeds to battle going, oriana; aloud the hollow bugle blowing, oriana. in the yew-wood black as night, oriana, ere i rode into the fight, oriana, while blissful tears blinded my sight by star-shine and by moonlight, oriana, i to thee my troth did plight, oriana. she stood upon the castle wall, oriana: she watch'd my crest among them all, oriana: she saw me fight, she heard me call, when forth there stept a foeman tall, oriana, atween me and the castle wall, oriana. the bitter arrow went aside, oriana: the false, false arrow went aside, oriana: the damned arrow glanced aside, and pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, oriana! thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, oriana! oh, narrow, narrow was the space, oriana. loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, oriana. oh, deathful stabs were dealt apace, the battle deepen'd in its place, oriana; but i was down upon my face, oriana. they should have stabb'd me where i lay, oriana! how could i rise and come away, oriana? how could i look upon the day? they should have stabb'd me where i lay oriana-- they should have trod me into clay, oriana. o breaking heart that will not break, oriana! o pale, pale face so sweet and meek, oriana! thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, and then the tears run down my cheek, oriana: what wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, oriana? i cry aloud: none hear my cries, oriana. thou comest atween me and the skies, oriana. i feel the tears of blood arise up from my heart unto my eyes, oriana. within my heart my arrow lies, oriana. o cursed hand! o cursed blow! oriana! o happy thou that liest low, oriana! all night the silence seems to flow beside me in my utter woe, oriana. a weary, weary way i go, oriana. when norland winds pipe down the sea, oriana, i walk, i dare not think of thee, oriana. thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, i dare not die and come to thee, oriana. i hear the roaring of the sea, oriana. the lady of shalott part i on either side the river lie long fields of barley and of rye, that clothe the wold and meet the sky; and thro' the field the road runs by to many-tower'd camelot; and up and down the people go, gazing where the lilies blow round an island there below, the island of shalott. willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver thro' the wave that runs for ever by the island in the river flowing down to camelot. four gray walls, and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle embowers the lady of shalott. by the margin, willow-veil'd, slide the heavy barges trail'd by slow horses; and unhail'd the shallop flitteth silken sail'd skimming down to camelot: but who hath seen her wave her hand? or at the casement seen her stand? or is she known in all the land, the lady of shalott? only reapers, reaping early in among the bearded barley, hear a song that echoes cheerly from the river winding clearly, down to tower'd camelot: and by the moon the reaper weary, piling sheaves in uplands airy, listening, whispers 'tis the fairy lady of shalott.' part ii there she weaves by night and day a magic web with colours gay. she has heard a whisper say, a curse is on her if she stay to look down to camelot. she knows not what the curse may be, and so she weaveth steadily, and little other care has she, the lady of shalott. and moving thro' a mirror clear that hangs before her all the year, shadows of the world appear. there she sees the highway near winding down to camelot: there the river eddy whirls, and there the surly village-churls, and the red cloaks of market girls, pass onward from shalott. sometimes a troop of damsels glad, an abbot on an ambling pad, sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, goes by to tower'd camelot; and sometimes thro' the mirror blue the knights come riding two and two she hath no loyal knight and true, the lady of shalott. but in her web she still delights to weave the mirror's magic sights, for often thro' the silent nights a funeral, with plumes and lights, and music, went to camelot: or when the moon was overhead, came two young lovers lately wed; 'i am half sick of shadows,' said the lady of shalott. part iii a bow-shot from her bower-eaves, he rode between the barley-sheaves, the sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, and flamed upon the brazen greaves of bold sir lancelot. a red-cross knight for ever kneel'd to a lady in his shield, that sparkled on the yellow field beside remote shalott. the gemmy bridle glitter'd free, like to some branch of stars we see hung in the golden galaxy. the bridle bells rang merrily as he rode down to camelot: and from his blazon'd baldric slung a mighty silver bugle hung, and as he rode his armour rung, beside remote shalott. all in the blue unclouded weather thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather the helmet and the helmet-feather burn'd like one burning flame together, as he rode down to camelot. as often thro' the purple night, below the starry clusters bright, some bearded meteor, trailing light, moves over still shalott. his broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; on burnish'd hooves his war-horse trod; from underneath his helmet flow'd his coal-black curls as on he rode, as he rode down to camelot. from the bank and from the river he flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'tirra lirra,' by the river sang sir lancelot. she left the web, she left the loom, she made three paces thro' the room, she saw the water-lily bloom, she saw the helmet and the plume, she look'd down to camelot. out flew the web and floated wide; the mirror crack'd from side to side; 'the curse is come upon me,' cried the lady of shalott. part iv in the stormy east-wind straining, the pale yellow woods were waning, the broad stream in his banks complaining, heavily the low sky raining over tower'd camelot; down she came and found a boat beneath a willow left afloat, and round about the prow she wrote _the lady of shalott._ and down the river's dim expanse-- like some bold seer in a trance, seeing all his own mischance-- with a glassy countenance did she look to camelot. and at the closing of the day she loosed the chain, and down she lay; the broad stream bore her far away, the lady of shalott. lying, robed in snowy white that loosely flew to left and right the leaves upon her falling light thro' the noises of the night she floated down to camelot. and as the boat-head wound along the willowy hills and fields among, they heard her singing her last song, the lady of shalott. heard a carol, mournful, holy, chanted loudly, chanted lowly, till her blood was frozen slowly, and her eyes were darken'd wholly, turn'd to tower'd camelot; for ere she reach'd upon the tide the first house by the water-side, singing in her song she died, the lady of shalott. under tower and balcony, by garden-wall and gallery, a gleaming shape she floated by, dead-pale between the houses high, silent into camelot. out upon the wharfs they came, knight and burgher, lord and dame, and round the prow they read her name, _the lady of shalott._ who is this? and what is here? and in the lighted palace near died the sound of royal cheer; and they cross'd themselves for fear, all the knights at camelot: but lancelot mused a little space; he said, 'she has a lovely face; god in his mercy lend her grace, the lady of shalott.' song move eastward, happy earth, and leave yon orange sunset waning slow: from fringes of the faded eve, o, happy planet, eastward go; till over thy dark shoulder glow thy silver sister-world, and rise to glass herself in dewy eyes that watch me from the glen below. ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, dip forward under starry light, and move me to my marriage-morn, and round again to happy night. break, break, break break, break, break, on thy cold grey stones, o sea! and i would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. o well for the fisherman's boy, that he shouts with his sister at play! o well for the sailor lad, that he sings in his boat on the bay. and the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill; but o for the touch of a vanish'd hand, and the sound of a voice that is still! break, break, break, at the foot of thy crags, o sea! but the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me. the goose i knew an old wife lean and poor, her rags scarce held together; there strode a stranger to the door, and it was windy weather. he held a goose upon his arm, he utter'd rhyme and reason, 'here, take the goose, and keep you warm it is a stormy season.' she caught the white goose by the leg, a goose--'twas no great matter. the goose let fall a golden egg with cackle and with clatter. she dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, and ran to tell her neighbours; and bless'd herself, and cursed herself, and rested from her labours. and feeding high, and living soft, grew plump and able-bodied; until the grave churchwarden doff'd, the parson smirk'd and nodded. so sitting, served by man and maid, she felt her heart grow prouder: but ah! the more the white goose laid it clack'd and cackled louder. it clutter'd here, it chuckled there; it stirr'd the old wife's mettle: she shifted in her elbow-chair, and hurl'd the pan and kettle. 'a quinsy choke thy cursed note!' then wax'd her anger stronger. 'go, take the goose, and wring her throat, i will not bear it longer.' then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; ran gaffer, stumbled gammer. the goose flew this way and flew that, and fill'd the house with clamour. as head and heels upon the floor they flounder'd all together, there strode a stranger to the door, and it was windy weather: he took the goose upon his arm, he utter'd words of scorning; 'so keep you cold, or keep you warm, it is a stormy morning.' the wild wind rang from park and plain, and round the attics rumbled, till all the tables danced again, and half the chimneys tumbled. the glass blew in, the fire blew out, the blast was hard and harder. her cap blew off, her gown blew up, and a whirlwind clear'd the larder; and while on all sides breaking loose her household fled the danger, quoth she, 'the devil take the goose, and god forget the stranger!' in autumn i a spirit haunts the year's last hours dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: to himself he talks; for at eventide, listening earnestly, at his work you may hear him sob and sigh in the walks; earthward he boweth the heavy stalks of the mouldering flowers: heavily hangs the broad sunflower over its grave i' the earth so chilly; heavily hangs the hollyhock, heavily hangs the tiger-lily. ii the air is damp, and hush'd, and close, as a sick man's room when he taketh repose an hour before death; my very heart faints and my whole soul grieves at the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, and the breath of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year's last rose. heavily hangs the broad sunflower over its grave i' the earth so chilly; heavily hangs the hollyhock, heavily hangs the tiger-lily. as through the land at eve we went as thro' the land at eve we went, and plucked the ripened ears, we fell out, my wife and i, we fell out, i know not why, and kissed again with tears. and blessings on the falling out that all the more endears, when we fall out with those we love, and kiss again with tears! for when we came where lies the child we lost in other years, there above the little grave, o there above the little grave, we kissed again with tears. the bugle 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. o hark, o hear! how thin and clear, and thinner, clearer, farther going! o 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. o love, they die in yon rich sky, they faint on hill or field or 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. home they brought her warrior dead home they brought her warrior dead: she nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: all her maidens, watching, said, 'she must weep or she will die.' then they praised him, soft and low, call'd him worthy to be loved, truest friend and noblest foe; yet she neither spoke nor moved. stole a maiden from her place, lightly to the warrior stept, took the face-cloth from the face; yet she neither moved nor wept. rose a nurse of ninety years, set his child upon her knee like summer tempest came her tears-- 'sweet my child, i live for thee.' the brook i come from haunts of coot and hern, i make a sudden sally, and sparkle out among the fern, to bicker down a valley. by thirty hills i hurry down, or slip between the ridges, by twenty thorps, a little town, and half a hundred bridges. till last by philip's farm i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i chatter over stony ways, in little sharps and trebles, i bubble into eddying bays, i babble on the pebbles. with many a curve my bank i fret by many a field and fallow, and many a fairy foreland set with willow-weed and mallow. i chatter, chatter, as i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, and here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling, and here and there a foamy flake upon me as i travel, with many a silvery waterbreak above the golden gravel, and draw them all along and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i steal by lawns and grassy plots, i slide by hazel covers, i move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers. i slip, i slide, i gloom, i glance, among my skimming swallows; i make the netted sunbeam dance against my sandy shallows. i murmur under moon and stars in brambly wildernesses; i linger by my shingly bars; i loiter round my tresses; and out again i curve and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. sweet and low sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, low, low, breathe and blow, wind of the western sea! over the rolling waters go, come from the dropping moon, and blow, blow him again to me; while my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. sleep and rest, sleep and rest, father will come to thee soon; rest, rest, on mother's breast, father will come to thee soon; father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west under the silver moon: sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. come into the garden, maud come into the garden, maud, for the black bat, night, has flown, come into the garden, maud, i am here at the gate alone; and the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, and the musk of the roses blown. for a breeze of morning moves, and the planet of love is on high, beginning to faint in the light that she loves on a bed of daffodil sky, to faint in the light of the sun she loves, to faint in his light, and to die. all night have the roses heard the flute, violin, bassoon; all night has the casement jessamine stirr'd to the dancers dancing in tune; till a silence fell with the waking bird, and a hush with the setting moon. i said to the lily, 'there is but one with whom she has heart to be gay. when will the dancers leave her alone? she is weary of dance and play.' now half to the setting moon are gone, and half to the rising day; low on the sand and loud on the stone the last wheel echoes away. i said to the rose, 'the brief night goes in babble and revel and wine. o young lord-lover, what sighs are those, for one that will never be thine? but mine, but mine,' so i sware to the rose, 'for ever and ever, mine.' and the soul of the rose went into my blood, as the music clash'd in the hall; and long by the garden lake i stood, for i heard your rivulet fall from the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, our wood, that is dearer than all; from the meadow your walks have left so sweet that whenever a march-wind sighs he sets the jewel-print of your feet in violets blue as your eyes, to the woody hollows in which we meet and the valleys of paradise. the slender acacia would not shake one long milk-bloom on the tree; the white lake-blossom fell into the lake, as the pimpernel dozed on the lea; but the rose was awake all night for your sake, knowing your promise to me; the lilies and roses were all awake, they sigh'd for the dawn and thee. queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, come hither, the dances are done, in gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, queen lily and rose in one; shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, to the flowers, and be their sun. there has fallen a splendid tear from the passion-flower at the gate. she is coming, my dove, my dear; she is coming, my life, my fate; the red rose cries, she is near, she is near'; and the white rose weeps, 'she is late'; the larkspur listens, i hear, i hear '; and the lily whispers, 'i wait.' she is coming, my own, my sweet, were it ever so airy a tread, my heart would hear her and beat, were it earth in an earthy bed; my dust would hear her and beat, had i lain for a century dead; would start and tremble under her feet, and blossom in purple and red. ask me no more ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; the cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, with fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; but o too fond, when have i answer'd thee? ask me no more. ask me no more: what answer should i give? i love not hollow cheek or faded eye: yet, o my friend, i will not have thee die! ask me no more, lest i should bid thee live; ask me no more. ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd i strove against the stream and all in vain: let the great river take me to the main: no more, dear love, for at a touch i yield; ask me no more. the soldier when all among the thundering drums thy soldier in the battle stands, thy face across his fancy comes and gives the battle to his hands: a moment while the trumpets blow, he sees his brood about thy knee-- the next--like fire he meets the foe, and strikes him dead for them and thee! tara ta tantara! dusk now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: the fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me. now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, and like a ghost she glimmers on to me. now lies the earth all danaë to the stars, and all thy heart lies open unto me. now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. now folds the lily all her sweetness up, and slips into the bosom of the lake: so fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip into my bosom and be lost in me. a farewell flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, thy tribute wave deliver: no more by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, a rivulet then a river: no where by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. but here will sigh thine alder-tree, and here thine aspen shiver; and here by thee will hum the bee, for ever and for ever. a thousand suns will stream on thee, a thousand moons will quiver; but not by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. the beggar maid her arms across her breast she laid; she was more fair than words can say: bare-footed came the beggar maid before the king cophetua. in robe and crown the king stept down, to meet and greet her on her way; 'it is no wonder,' said the lords, she is more beautiful than day.' as shines the moon in clouded skies, she in her poor attire was seen: one praised her ankles, one her eyes, one her dark hair and lovesome mien. so sweet a face, such angel grace, in all that land had never been cophetua sware a royal oath: 'this beggar maid shall be my queen!' come not, when i am dead come not, when i am dead, to drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, to trample round my fallen head, and vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. there let the wind sweep and the plover cry; but thou, go by. child, if it were thine error or thy crime i care no longer, being all unblest: wed whom thou wilt, but i am sick of time, and i desire to rest. pass on, weak heart, and leave me where i lie: go by, go by. o swallow, swallow 'o swallow, swallow, flying, flying south, fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, and tell her, tell her what i tell to thee. 'o tell her, swallow, thou that knowest each, that bright and fierce and fickle is the south, and dark and true and tender is the north. 'o swallow, swallow, if i could follow, and light upon her lattice, i would pipe and trill, and cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 'o were i thou that she might take me in, and lay me on her bosom, and her heart would rock the snowy cradle till i died. 'why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, delaying as the tender ash delays to clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 'o tell her, swallow, that thy brood is flown: say to her, i do but wanton in the south but in the north long since my nest is made. 'o tell her, brief is life but love is long, and brief the sun of summer in the north, and brief the moon of beauty in the south. 'o swallow, flying from the golden woods, fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, and tell her, tell her, that i follow thee.' the miller's daughter it is the miller's daughter, and she is grown so dear, so dear, that i would be the jewel that trembles at her ear: for hid in ringlets day and night, i'd touch her neck so warm and white. and i would be the girdle about her dainty dainty waist, and her heart would beat against me, in sorrow and in rest: and i should know if it beat right, i'd clasp it round so close and tight. and i would be the necklace, and all day long to fall and rise upon her balmy bosom, with her laughter or her sighs, and i would lie so light, so light, i scarce should be unclasp'd at night. _william makepeace thackeray_ little billee there were three sailors of bristol city who took a boat and went to sea, but first with beef and captain's biscuits and pickled pork they loaded she. there was gorging jack and guzzling jimmy, and the youngest he was little billee. now when they got as far as the equator they'd nothing left but one split pea. says gorging jack to guzzling jimmy, 'i am extremely hungaree.' to gorging jack says guzzling jimmy, 'we've nothing left; us must eat we.' says gorging jack to guzzling jimmy, 'with one another we shouldn't agree! 'there's little bill, he's young and tender, we're old and tough, so let's eat he.' 'oh, bill, we're going to kill and eat you, so undo the button of your chemie.' when bill received this information he used his pocket handkerchie. 'first let me say my catechism, which my poor mammy taught to me.' 'make haste, make haste,' says guzzling jimmy, while jack pulled out his snickersnee. so billy went up to the main-top gallant mast, and down he fell on his bended knee. he scarce had come to the twelfth commandment when up he jumps. 'there's land i see: 'there's jerusalem and madagascar, and north and south amerikee: 'there's the british flag a-riding at anchor, with admiral napier, k.c.b.' so when they got aboard of the admiral's, he hanged fat jack and flogged jimmee: but as for little bill, he made him the captain of a seventy-three. _arthur hugh clough_ green fields of england green fields of england! wheresoe'er across this watery waste we fare, one image at our hearts we bear, green fields of england, everywhere. sweet eyes in england, i must flee past where the waves' last confines be, ere your loved smile i cease to see, sweet eyes in england, dear to me. dear home in england, safe and fast, if but in thee my lot lie cast, the past shall seem a nothing past to thee, dear home, if won at last; dear home in england, won at last. _robert browning_ how they brought the good news from ghent to aix i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he' i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; 'speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through; behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear; at boom, a great yellow star came out to see; at duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; and from mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, so joris broke silence with 'yet there is time!' at aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper roland at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. and his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; and one eye's black intelligence--ever that glance o'er its white edge at me, his own master askance! and the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. by hasselt, dirck groaned; and cried joris, 'stay spur! your ross galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, we'll remember at aix--for one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw her stretched neck and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. so we were left galloping, joris and i, past looz and past tongres, no cloud in the sky; the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; till over by dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, and 'gallop,' gasped joris, 'for aix is in sight!' 'how they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and crop over; lay dead as a stone; and there was my roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-socket's rim. then i cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is, friends flocking round as i sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. marching along i kentish sir byng stood for his king, bidding the crop-headed parliament swing and, pressing a troop unable to stoop and see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, marched them along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. ii god for king charles! pym and such carles to the devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles. cavaliers, up! lips from the cup, hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup till you 're-- marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. iii hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell serve hazelrig, fiennes, and young harry as well! england, good cheer! rupert is near! kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! iv then, god for king charles! pym and his snarls to the devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! hold by the right, you double your might; so, onward to nottingham, fresh for the fight, marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. _lady dufferin_ the irish emigrant i'm sitting on the stile, mary, where we sat side by side, on a bright may morning long ago, when first you were my bride. the corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high, and the red was on your lip, mary, and the love light in your eye. the place is little changed, mary, the day's as bright as then; the lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again, but i miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your warm breath on my cheek, and i still keep listening for the words you never more may speak. 'tis but a step down yonder lane, the village church stands near, the church where we were wed, mary, i see the spire from here. but the grave-yard lies between, mary, and my step might break your rest, where i've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast. i'm very lonely now, mary, for the poor make no new friends; but, oh, they love the better the few our father sends. and you were all i had, mary, my blessing and my pride; there's nothing left to care for now, since my poor mary died. i'm bidding you a long farewell, my mary kind and true, but i'll not forget you, darling, in the land i'm going to. they say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there, but i'll not forget old ireland, were it fifty times less fair. _lord houghton_ song i wander'd by the brook-side, i wander'd by the mill,-- i could not hear the brook flow, the noisy wheel was still; there was no burr of grasshopper, nor chirp of any bird; but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. i sat beneath the elm-tree, i watch'd the long, long shade, and as it grew still longer i did not feel afraid; for i listen'd for a footfall, i listen'd for a word,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. he came not,--no, he came not; the night came on alone; the little stars sat one by one each on his golden throne; the evening air pass'd by my cheek, the leaves above were stirr'd,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. fast silent tears were flowing, when some one stood behind; a hand was on my shoulder, i knew its touch was kind: it drew me nearer, nearer; we did not speak a word,-- for the beating of our own hearts was all the sound we heard. the long-ago on that deep-retiring shore frequent pearls of beauty lie, where the passion-waves of yore fiercely beat and mounted high: sorrows that are sorrows still lose the bitter taste of woe; nothing's altogether ill in the griefs of long-ago. tombs where lonely love repines, ghastly tenements of tears, wear the look of happy shrines through the golden mist of years death, to those who trust in good, vindicates his hardest blow; oh! we would not, if we could, wake the sleep of long-ago! though the doom of swift decay shocks the soul where life is strong, though for frailer hearts the day lingers sad and overlong-- still the weight will find a leaven, still the spoiler's hand is slow, while the future has its heaven, and the past its long-ago. _rev. charles kingsley_ the sands of dee 'oh, mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, across the sands of dee.' the western wind was wild and dank with foam, and all alone went she. the western tide crept up along the sand, and o'er and o'er the sand, and round and round the sand, as far as eye could see. the rolling mist came down and hid the land: and never home came she. 'oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- a tress of golden hair, a drowned maiden's hair, above the nets at sea?' was never salmon yet that shone so fair among the stakes of dee. they rowed her in across the rolling foam, the cruel crawling foam, the cruel hungry foam, to her grave beside the sea. but still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, across the sands of dee. three fishers three fishers went sailing out into the west, out into the west, as the sun went down, each thought of the woman who loved him best, and the children stood watching them out of the town; for men must work, and women must weep, and there's little to earn, and many to keep, though the harbour-bar be moaning. three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, and they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, and the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; but men must work, and women must weep, though storms be sudden, and waters deep, and the harbour-bar be moaning. three corpses lie out on the shining sands, in the morning gleam, as the tide goes down, and the women are weeping and wringing their hands, for those who will never come home to the town. for men must work, and women must weep, and the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, and good-bye to the bar and its moaning. _robert burns_ auld lang syne for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne! should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to min'? should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne. we twa hae run about the braes, and pou'd the gowans fine, but we've wander'd mony a weary fit sin' auld lang syne. we twa hae paidl'd i' the burn frae morning sun till dine, but seas between us braid hae roar'd sin' auld lang syne. and here 's a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie 's a hand o' thine, and we 'll tak a right guid willie-waught for auld lang syne. and surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, and surely i'll be mine, and we 'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne. for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne! _henry carey_ god save the king god save our gracious king, long live our noble king, god save the king. send him victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign over us, god save the king. o lord our god, arise! scatter his enemies, and make them fall! confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks; on thee our hopes we fix god save us all. thy choicest gifts in store on him be pleased to pour, long may he reign! may he defend our laws, and ever give us cause to sing, with heart and voice, god save the king! [illustration] come lasses and lads frederick warne & co. ltd. r. caldecott's picture books london [illustration: come lasses and lads] [illustration] come lasses and lads, get leave of your dads, [illustration] and away to the may-pole hey: [illustration] for every he has got him a she, with a minstrel standing by. [illustration] for willy has gotten his jill, and johnny has got his jone, to jigg it, jigg it, jigg it, jigg it, jigg it up and down. [illustration] [illustration] "strike up," says watt; "agreed," says kate, "and i prithee, fiddler, play;" "content," says hodge, and so says madge, for this is a holiday! then every man did put his hat off to his lass, and every girl did curchy, curchy, curchy on the grass. [illustration] "begin," says hall; "ay, ay," says mall, "we'll lead up packington's pound:" "no, no," says noll, and so says doll, "we'll first have sellenger's round." then every man began to foot it round about, and every girl did jet it, jet it, jet it in and out. [illustration] [illustration] "you're out," says dick; "not i," says nick. "the fiddler played it false;" "'tis true," says hugh, and so says sue, and so says nimble alice. [illustration] the fiddler then began to play the tune again, and every girl did trip it, trip it, trip it to the men. [illustration] [illustration] then after an hour, they went to a bower, and played for ale and cakes, and kisses too--until they were due the lasses held the stakes. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] the girls did then begin to quarrel with the men, and bid them take their kisses back, and give them their own again, and bid them take their kisses back and give them their own again. [illustration] [illustration] now there they did stay the whole of the day, and tired the fiddler quite, with singing and playing, without any paying, from morning until night. [illustration] [illustration] they told the fiddler then, they'd pay him for his play, and each a -pence, -pence, -pence, gave him and went away [illustration] "good-night," says harry; "good-night," says mary; "good-night," says dolly to john; "good-night," says sue, to her sweetheart hugh, "good night," says everyone. [illustration] some walked and some did run, some loitered on the way, and bound themselves, by kisses twelve, to meet the next holiday, and bound themselves, by kisses twelve, to meet the next holiday. [illustration] [illustration] * * * * * randolph caldecott's picture books "the humour of randolph caldecott's drawings is simply irresistible, no healthy-minded man, woman, or child could look at them without laughing." _in square crown to, picture covers, with numerous coloured plates._ john gilpin the house that jack built the babes in the wood the mad dog three jovial huntsmen sing a song for sixpence the queen of hearts the farmer's boy the milkmaid hey-diddle-diddle and baby bunting a frog he would a-wooing go the fox jumps over the parson's gate come lasses and lads ride a cock horse to banbury cross, &c. mrs. mary blaize the great panjandrum himself _the above selections are also issued in four volumes, square crown to, attractive binding. each containing four different books, with their coloured pictures and innumerable outline sketches._ r. caldecott's picture book no. r. caldecott's picture book no. hey-diddle-diddle-picture book the panjandrum picture book randolph caldecott's collection of pictures and songs no. containing the first books listed above with their colour pictures and numerous outline sketches randolph caldecott's collection of pictures and songs no. containing the second books listed above with their colour pictures and numerous outline sketches london frederick warne & co. ltd. & new york. _the published prices of the above picture books can be obtained of all booksellers or from the illustrated catalogue of the publishers._ engraved and printed by edmund evans, ltd., clerkenwell road, london, e.c. . printed in great britain proofreaders the anti-slavery harp: a collection of songs for anti-slavery meetings compiled by william w. brown, a fugitive slave. . preface. the demand of the public for a cheap anti-slavery song-book, containing songs of a more recent composition, has induced me to collect together, and present to the public, the songs contained in this book. in making this collection, however, i am indebted to the authors of the "liberty minstrel," and "the anti-slavery melodies," but the larger portion of these songs has never before been published; some have never been in print. to all true friends of the slave, the anti-slavery harp is respectfully dedicated, w. w. brown. boston, june, . songs. have we not all one father? am i not a man and brother? air--bride's farewell. am i not a man and brother? ought i not, then, to be free? sell me not one to another, take not thus my liberty. christ our saviour, christ our saviour, died for me as well as thee. am i not a man and brother? have i not a soul to save? oh, do not my spirit smother, making me a wretched slave; god of mercy, god of mercy, let me fill a freeman's grave! yes, thou art a man and brother, though thou long hast groaned a slave, bound with cruel cords and tether from the cradle to the grave! yet the saviour, yet the saviour, bled and died all souls to save. yes, thou art a man and brother, though we long have told thee nay; and are bound to aid each other, all along our pilgrim way. come and welcome, come and welcome, join with us to praise and pray! o, pity the slave mother. air--araby's daughter. i pity the slave mother, careworn and weary, who sighs as she presses her babe to her breast; i lament her sad fate, all so hopeless and dreary, i lament for her woes, and her wrongs unredressed. o who can imagine her heart's deep emotion, as she thinks of her children about to be sold; you may picture the bounds of the rock-girdled ocean, but the grief of that mother can never be known. the mildew of slavery has blighted each blossom, that ever has bloomed in her path-way below; it has froze every fountain that gushed in her bosom, and chilled her heart's verdure with pitiless woe; her parents, her kindred, all crushed by oppression; her husband still doomed in its desert to stay; no arm to protect from the tyrant's aggression-- she must weep as she treads on her desolate way. o, slave mother, hope! see--the nation is shaking! the arm of the lord is awake to thy wrong! the slave-holder's heart now with terror is quaking, salvation and mercy to heaven belong! rejoice, o rejoice! for the child thou art rearing, may one day lift up its unmanacled form, while hope, to thy heart, like the rain-bow so cheering, is born, like the rain-bow, 'mid tempest and storm. the blind slave boy. air--sweet afton. come back to me, mother! why linger away from thy poor little blind boy, the long weary day! i mark every footstep, i list to each tone, and wonder my mother should leave me alone! there are voices of sorrow, and voices of glee, but there's no one to joy or to sorrow with me; for each hath of pleasure and trouble his share, and none for the poor little blind boy will care. my mother, come back to me! close to thy breast once more let thy poor little blind one be pressed; once more let me feel thy warm breath on my cheek, and hear thee in accents of tenderness speak! o mother! i've no one to love me--no heart can bear like thine own in my sorrows a part; no hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind, o! none like a mother can cherish the blind! poor blind one! no mother thy wailing can hear, no mother can hasten to banish thy fear; for the slave-owner drives her, o'er mountain and wild, and for one paltry dollar hath sold thee, poor child! ah! who can in language of mortals reveal the anguish that none but a mother can feel, when man in his vile lust of mammon hath trod on her child, who is stricken and smitten of god! blind, helpless, forsaken, with strangers alone, she hears in her anguish his piteous moan, as he eagerly listens--but listens in vain, to catch the loved tones of his mother again! the curse of the broken in spirit shall fall on the wretch who hath mingled this wormwood and gall, and his gain like a mildew shall blight and destroy, who hath torn from his mother the little blind boy! ye sons of freemen. air--marseilles hymn. ye sons of freemen wake to sadness, hark! hark, what myriads bid you rise; three millions of our race in madness break out in wails, in bitter cries, break out in wails, in bitter cries, must men whose hearts now bleed with anguish, yes, trembling slaves in freedom's land, endure the lash, nor raise a hand? must nature 'neath the whip-cord languish? have pity on the slave, take courage from god's word; pray on, pray on, all hearts resolved--these captives shall be free. the fearful storm--it threatens lowering, which god in mercy long delays; slaves yet may see their masters cowering, while whole plantations smoke and blaze! while whole plantations smoke and blaze; and we may now prevent the ruin, ere lawless force with guilty stride shall scatter vengeance far and wide-- with untold crimes their hands imbruing. have pity on the slave; take courage from god's word; pray on, pray on, all hearts resolved--these captives shall be free. with luxury and wealth surrounded, the southern masters proudly dare, with thirst of gold and power unbounded, to mete and vend god's light and air! to mete and vend god's light and air; like beasts of burden, slaves are loaded, till life's poor toilsome day is o'er; while they in vain for right implore; and shall they longer still be goaded? have pity on the slave; take courage from god's word; toil on, toil on, all hearts resolved--these captives shall be free. o liberty! can man e'er bind thee? can overseers quench thy flame? can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee, or threats thy heaven-born spirit tame? or threats thy heaven-born spirit tame? too long the slave has groaned, bewailing the power these heartless tyrants wield; yet free them not by sword or shield, for with men's hearts they're unavailing; have pity on the slave; take courage from god's word; toil on! toil on! all hearts resolved--these captives shall be free! freedom's star. air--silver moon. as i strayed from my cot at the close of the day, i turned my fond gaze to the sky; i beheld all the stars as so sweetly they lay, and but one fixed my heart or my eye. shine on, northern star, thou'rt beautiful and bright to the slave on his journey afar; for he speeds from his foes in the darkness of night, guided on by thy light, freedom's star. on thee he depends when he threads the dark woods ere the bloodhounds have hunted him back; thou leadest him on over mountains and floods, with thy beams shining full on his track. shine on, &c. unwelcome to him is the bright orb of day, as it glides o'er the earth and the sea; he seeks then to hide like a wild beast of prey, but with hope, rests his heart upon thee. shine on, &c. may never a cloud overshadow thy face, while the slave flies before his pursuer; gleam steadily on to the end of his race, till his body and soul are secure. shine on, &c. the liberty ball. air--rosin the bow. come all ye true friends of the nation, attend to humanity's call; come aid the poor slave's liberation, and roll on the liberty ball-- and roll on the liberty ball-- come aid the poor slave's liberation, and roll on the liberty ball. the liberty hosts are advancing-- for freedom to _all_ they declare; the down-trodden millions are sighing-- come, break up our gloom of despair. come break up our gloom of despair, &c. ye democrats, come to the rescue, and aid on the liberty cause, and millions will rise up and bless you, with heart-cheering songs of applause, with heart-cheering songs, &c. ye whigs, forsake slavery's minions, and boldly step into our ranks; we care not for party opinions, but invite all the friends of the banks,-- and invite all the friends of the banks, &c, and when we have formed the blest union we'll firmly march on, one and all-- we'll sing when we meet in communion, and _roll on_ the liberty ball, and roll on the liberty ball, dec. emancipation hymn of the west indian negroes. for the first of august celebration. praise we the lord! let songs resound to earth's remotest shore! songs of thanksgiving, songs of praise-- for we are slaves no more. praise we the lord! his power hath rent the chains that held us long! his voice is mighty, as of old, and still his arm is strong. praise we the lord! his wrath arose, his arm our fetters broke; the tyrant dropped the lash, and we to liberty awoke! praise we the lord! let holy songs rise from these happy isles!-- o! let us not unworthy prove, on whom his bounty smiles. and cease we not the fight of faith till all mankind be free; till mercy o'er the earth shall flow, as waters o'er the sea. then shall indeed messiah's reign through all the world extend; then swords to ploughshares shall be turned, and heaven with earth shall blend. over the mountain. over the mountain, and over the moor, hungry and weary i wander forlorn; my father is dead, and my mother is poor, and she grieves for the days that will never return; give me some food for my mother in charity; give me some food and then i will be gone. pity, kind gentlemen, friends of humanity, cold blows the wind and the night's coming on. call me not indolent beggar and bold enough, fain would i learn both to knit and to sew; i've two little brothers at home, when they're old enough, they will work hard for the gifts you bestow; pity, kind gentlemen, friends of humanity. cold blows the wind, and the night's coming on; give me some food for my mother in charity, give me some food, and then i will begone. jubilee song. air--away the bowl. our grateful hearts with joy o'erflow, hurra, hurra, hurra, we hail the despot's overthrow, hurra, hurra, hurra, no more he'll raise the gory lash, and sink it deep in human flesh, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra hurra, hurra, hurra. we raise the song in freedom's name, hurra, hurra, hurra, her glorious triumph we proclaim, hurra, hurra, hurra, beneath her feet lie slavery's chains, their power to curse no more remains, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra. with joy we'll make the air resound, hurra, hurra, hurra, that all may hear the gladsome sound, hurra, hurra, hurra, we glory at oppression's fall, the slave has burst his deadly thrall, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra. in mirthful glee we'll dance and sing, hurra, hurra, hurra, with shouts we'll make the welkin ring, hurra, hurra, hurra, shout! shout aloud! the bondsman's free! this, this is freedom's jubilee! hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra. spirit of freemen, wake. air--america. spirit of freemen, wake; no truce with slavery make, thy deadly foe; in fair disguises dressed, too long hast thou caress'd the serpent in thy breast, now lay him low. must e'en the press be dumb? must truth itself succumb? and thoughts be mute? shall law be set aside, the right of prayer denied, nature and god decried, and man called brute? what lover of her fame feels not his country's shame, in this dark hour? where are the patriots now, of honest heart and brow, who scorn the neck to bow to slavery's power? sons of the free! we call on you, in field and hall, to rise as one; your heaven-born rights maintain, nor let oppression's chain on human limbs remain;-- speak! and 't is done. the slave's lamentation. air--long, long ago. where are the friends that to me were so dear, long, long ago--long ago! where are the hopes that my heart used to cheer? long, long ago--long ago! i am degraded, for man was my foe, friends that i loved in the grave are laid low, all hope of freedom hath fled from me now, long, long ago--long, long ago! sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head-- long, long ago--long ago! o, how i wept when i found she was dead! long, long ago--long ago! she was my angel, my love and pride-- vainly to save her from torture i tried, poor broken heart! she rejoiced as she died, long, long ago--long, long ago! let me look back on the days of my youth-- long, long ago--long ago! master withheld from me knowledge and truth-- long, long ago--long ago! crushed all the hopes of my earliest day, sent me from father and mother away-- forbade me to read, nor allowed me to pray-- long, long ago--long, long ago! flight of the bondman. dedicated to william w. brown _and sung by the hutchinsons_ by elias smith. air--silver moon. from the crack of the rifle and baying of hound, takes the poor panting bondman his flight; his couch through the day is the cold damp ground, but northward he runs through the night. chorus. o, god speed the flight of the desolate slave, let his heart never yield to despair; there is room 'mong our hills for the true and the brave, let his lungs breathe our free northern air! o, sweet to the storm-driven sailor the light, streaming far o'er the dark swelling wave; but sweeter by far 'mong the lights of the night, is the star of the north to the slave. o, god speed, &c. cold and bleak are our mountains and chilling our winds, but warm as the soft southern gales be the hands and the hearts which the hunted one finds, 'mong our hills and our own winter vales. o, god speed, &c. then list to the 'plaint of the heart-broken thrall, ye blood-hounds, go back to your lair; may a free northern soil soon give freedom to _all_, who shall breathe in its pure mountain air. o, god speed, &c. the sweets of liberty. air--is there a heart, &c. is there a man that never sighed to set the prisoner free? is there a man that never prized the sweets of liberty? then let him, let him breathe unseen, or in a dungeon live; nor never, never know the sweets that liberty can give. is there a heart so cold in man, can galling fetters crave? is there a wretch so truly low, can stoop to be a slave? o, let him, then, in chains be bound, in chains and bondage live; nor never, never know the sweets that liberty can give. is there a breast so chilled in life, can nurse the coward's sigh? is there a creature so debased, would not for freedom die? o, let him then be doomed to crawl where only reptiles live; nor never, never know the sweets that liberty can give. ye spirits of the free. air--my faith looks up to thee. ye spirits of the free, can ye forever see your brother man a yoked and scourged slave, chains dragging to his grave, and raise no hand to save? say if you can. in pride and pomp to roll, shall tyrants from the soul god's image tear, and call the wreck their own,-- while, from the eternal throne, they shut the stifled groan and bitter prayer? shall he a slave be bound, whom god hath doubly crowned creation's lord? shall men of christian name, without a blush of shame, profess their tyrant claim from god's own word? no! at the battle cry, a host prepared to die, shall arm for fight-- but not with martial steel, grasped with a murderous zeal; no arms their foes shall feel, but love and light. firm on jehovah's laws, strong in their righteous cause, they march to save. and vain the tyrant's mail, against their battle-hail, till cease the woe and wail of tortured slave! colonization song. to the free colored people. air--spider and the fly. will you, will you be colonized? will you, will you be colonized? 'tis a land that with honey and milk doth abound, where the lash is not heard, and the scourge is not found. chorus, will you, &c. if you stay in this land where the white man has rule, you will starve by his hand, in both body and soul. chorus. for a nuisance you are, in this land of your birth, held down by his hand, and crushed to the earth. chorus. my religion is pure, and came from above, but i cannot consent the black negro to love. chorus. it is true there is judgment that hangs o'er the land, but 't will all turn aside, when you follow the plan. chorus. you're ignorant i know, in this land of your birth, and religion though pure, cannot move the curse. chorus. but only consent, though extorted by force, what a blessing you'll prove, on the african coast. chorus. i am an abolitionist. air--auld lang syne. i am an abolitionist! i glory in the name: though now by slavery's minions hiss'd and covered o'er with shame, it is a spell of light and power-- the watchword of the free:-- who spurns it in the trial-hour, a craven soul is he! i am an abolitionist! then urge me not to pause; for joyfully do i enlist in freedom's sacred cause: a nobler strife the world ne'er saw, th' enslaved to disenthral; i am a soldier for the war, whatever may befall! i am an abolitionist! oppression's deadly foe; in god's great strength will i resist, and lay the monster low; in god's great name do i demand, to all be freedom given, that peace and joy may fill the land, and songs go up to heaven! i am an abolitionist! no threats shall awe my soul, no perils cause me to desist, no bribes my acts control; a freeman will i live and die, in sunshine and in shade, and raise my voice for liberty, of nought on earth afraid. the bereaved mother. air--kathleen o'more. o, deep was the anguish of the slave mother's heart, when called from her darling for ever to part; so grieved that lone mother, that heart broken mother, in sorrow and woe. the lash of the master her deep sorrows mock, while the child of her bosom is sold on the block; yet loud shrieked that mother, poor heart broken mother, in sorrow and woe. the babe in return, for its fond mother cries, while the sound of their wailings, together arise; they shriek for each other, the child and the mother, in sorrow and woe. the harsh auctioneer, to sympathy cold, tears the babe from its mother and sells it for gold; while the infant and mother, loud shriek for each other, in sorrow and woe. at last came the parting of mother and child, her brain reeled with madness, that mother was wild; then the lash could not smother the shrieks of that mother of sorrow and woe. the child was borne off to a far distant clime, while the mother was left in anguish to pine; but reason departed, and she sank broken hearted, in sorrow and woe. that poor mourning mother, of reason bereft, soon ended her sorrows and sank cold in death; thus died that slave mother, poor heart broken mother, in sorrow and woe. o, list ye kind mothers to the cries of the slave; the parents and children implore you to save; go! rescue the mothers, the sisters and brothers, from sorrow and woe. the chase. air--sweet afton. quick, fly to the covert, thou hunted of men! for the bloodhounds are baying o'er mountain and glen; the riders are mounted, the loose rein is given, and curses of wrath are ascending to heaven. o, speed to thy footsteps! for ruin and death, like the hurricane's rage, gather thick round thy path; and the deep muttered curses grow loud and more loud, as horse after horse swells the thundering crowd. speed, speed, to thy footsteps! thy track has been found; now, _sport_ for the _rider_, and _blood_ for the _hound!_ through brake and through forest the man-prey is driven; o, help for the hopeless, thou merciful heaven! on! on to the mountain! they're baffled again, and hope for the woe-stricken still may remain; the fast-flagging steeds are all white with their foam, the bloodhounds have turned from the chase to their home. joy! joy to the wronged one! the haven he gains, escaped from his thraldom, and freed from his chains! the heaven-stamped image--the god-given soul-- no more shall the spoiler at pleasure control. o, shame to columbia, that on her bright plains, man pines in his fetters, and curses his chains! shame! shame! that her star-spangled banner should wave where the lash is made red in the blood of the slave. sons of old pilgrim fathers! and are ye thus dumb? shall tyranny triumph, and freedom succumb? while mothers are torn from their children apart, and agony sunders the cords of the heart? shall the sons of those sires that once spurned the chain, turn bloodhounds to hunt and make captive again? o, shame to your honor, and shame to your pride, and shame on your memory ever abide! will not your old sires start up from the ground, at the crack of the whip, and bay of the hound, and shaking their skeleton hands in your face, curse the germs that produced such a miscreant race? o, rouse ye for freedom, before on your path heaven pours without mixture the vials of wrath! loose every hard burden--break off every chain-- restore to the bondman his freedom again. fling out the anti-slavery flag. air--auld lang syne fling out the anti-slavery flag on every swelling breeze; and let its folds wave o'er the land, and o'er the raging seas, till all beneath the standard sheet, with new allegiance bow; and pledge themselves to onward bear the emblem of their vow. fling out the anti-slavery flag, and let it onward wave till it shall float o'er every clime, and liberate the slave; till, like a meteor flashing far, it bursts with glorious light, and with its heaven-born rays dispels the gloom of sorrow's night. fling out the anti-slavery flag, and let it not be furled, till like a planet of the skies, it sweeps around the world. and when each poor degraded slave, is gathered near and far; o, fix it on the azure arch, as hope's eternal star. fling out the anti-slavery flag, forever let it be the emblem to a holy cause, the banner of the free. and never from its guardian height, let it by man be driven, but let it float forever there, beneath the smiles of heaven. the yankee girl. she sings by her wheel at that low cottage door, which the long evening shadow is stretching before; with a music as sweet as the music which seems breathed softly and faintly in the ear of our dreams! how brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye, like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky! and lightly and freely her dark tresses play o'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they! who comes in his pride to that low cottage door-- the haughty and rich to the humble and poor? 'tis the great southern planter--the master who waves his whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves. "nay, ellen, for shame! let those yankee fools spin, who would pass for our slaves with a change of their skin; let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel too stupid for shame and too vulgar to feel! "but thou art too lovely and precious a gem to be bound to their burdens and sullied by them-- for shame, ellen, shame!--cast thy bondage aside, and away to the south, as my blessing and pride. "o, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, but where flowers are blossoming all the year long, where the shade of the palm-tree is over my home, and the lemon and orange are white in their bloom! "o, come to my home, where my servants shall all depart at thy bidding and come at thy call; they shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and awe, and each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law." o, could ye have seen her--that pride of our girls-- arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls, with a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel, and a glance like the sunshine that flashes on steel: "go back, haughty southron! thy treasures of gold are dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast sold! thy home may be lovely, but round it i hear the crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear! "and the sky of thy south may be brighter than ours, and greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy flowers; but, dearer the blast round our mountains which raves, than the sweet sunny zephyr which breathes over slaves! "full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel, with the iron of bondage on spirit and heel; yet know that the yankee girl sooner would be in _fetters_ with _them_, than in freedom with _thee!_" from tait's edinburgh magazine. jefferson's daughter. "it is asserted, on the authority of an american newspaper, that the daughter of thomas jefferson, late president of the united states, was sold at new orleans for $ , ."--morning chronicle. can the blood that, at lexington, poured o'er the plain, when the sons warred with tyrants their rights to uphold, can the tide of niagara wipe out the stain? no! jefferson's child has been bartered for gold! do you boast of your freedom? peace, babblers--be still; prate not of the goddess who scarce deigns to hear; have ye power to unbind? are ye wanting in will? must the groans of your bondman still torture the ear? the daughter of jefferson sold for a slave! the child of a freeman for dollars and francs! the roar of applause, when your orators rave, is lost in the sound of her chain, as it clanks. peace, then, ye blasphemers of liberty's name! though red was the blood by your forefathers spilt, still redder your cheeks should be mantled with shame, till the spirit of freedom shall cancel the guilt. but the brand of the slave is the tint of his skin, though his heart may beat loyal and true underneath; while the soul of the tyrant is rotten within, and his white the mere cloak to the blackness of death. are ye deaf to the plaints that each moment arise? is it thus ye forget the mild precepts of penn,-- unheeding the clamor that "maddens the skies," as ye trample the rights of your dark fellow-men? when the incense that glows before liberty's shrine, is unmixed with the blood of the galled and oppressed, o, then, and then only, the boast may be thine, that the stripes and stars wave o'er a land of the blest. the slave-auction--a fact. why stands she near the auction stand, that girl so young and fair; what brings her to this dismal place, why stands she weeping there? why does she raise that bitter cry? why hangs her head with shame, as now the auctioneer's rough voice, so rudely calls her name? but see! she grasps a manly hand, and in a voice so low, as scarcely to be heard, she says, 'my brother, must i go?' a moment's pause: then midst a wail of agonizing woe, his answer falls upon the ear, 'yes, sister, you must go!' 'no longer can my arm defend, no longer can i save my sister from the horrid fate that waits her as a slave!' ah! now i know why she is there, she came there to be sold! that lovely form, that noble mind, must be exchanged for gold! o god! my every heart-string cries, dost thou these scenes behold in this our boasted christian land, and must the truth be told? blush, christian, blush! for e'en the dark untutored heathen see thy inconsistency, and lo! they scorn thy god, and thee! get off the track. air--dan tucker. ho! the car emancipation rides majestic thro' our nation, bearing on its train the story, liberty! a nation's glory. roll it along, thro' the nation, freedom's car, emancipation! first of all the train, and greater, speeds the dauntless liberator, onward cheered amid hosannas, and the waving of free banners. roll it along! spread your banners, while the people shout hosannas. men of various predilections, frightened, run in all directions; merchants, editors, physicians, lawyers, priests, and politicians. get out of the way! every station! clear the track of 'mancipation! let the ministers and churches leave behind sectarian lurches; jump on board the car of freedom, ere it be too late to need them. sound the alarm! pulpits thunder! ere too late you see your blunder! politicians gazed, astounded, when, at first, our bell resounded; _freight trains_ are coming, tell these foxes, with our _votes_ and _ballot boxes_. jump for your lives! politicians, from your dangerous, false positions. all true friends of emancipation, haste to freedom's railroad station; quick into the cars get seated, all is ready and completed. put on the steam! all are crying, and the liberty flags are flying. now again the bell is tolling, soon you'll see the car-wheels rolling; hinder not their destination, chartered for emancipation. wood up the fire! keep it flashing, while the train goes onward dashing. hear the mighty car-wheels humming! now look out! _the engine's coming!_ church and statesmen! hear the thunder! clear the track or you'll fall under. get off the track! all are singing, while the _liberty bell_ is ringing. on, triumphant see them bearing, through sectarian rubbish tearing; the bell and whistle and the steaming, startle thousands from their dreaming. look out for the cars while the bell rings! ere the sound your funeral knell rings. see the people run to meet us; at the depots thousands greet us; all take seats with exultation, in the car emancipation. huzza! huzza!! emancipation soon will bless our happy nation, huzza! huzza! huzza!!! be free, o man, be free. the storm-winds wildly blowing, the bursting billows mock, as with their foam-crests glowing, they dash the sea-girt rock; amid the wild commotion, the revel of the sea, a voice is on the ocean, be free, o man, be free. behold the sea-brine leaping high in the murky air; list to the tempest sweeping in chainless fury there. what moves the mighty torrent, and bids it flow abroad? or turns the rapid current? what, but the voice of god? then, answer, is the spirit less noble or less free? from whom does it inherit the doom of slavery? when man can bind the waters, that they no longer roll, then let him forge the fetters to clog the human soul. till then a voice is stealing from earth and sea and sky, and to the soul revealing its immortality. the swift wind chants the numbers careering o'er the sea, and earth, aroused from slumbers, re-echoes, "man, be free." the fugitive slave to the christian. the fetters galled my weary soul-- a soul that seemed but thrown away; i spurned the tyrant's base control, resolved at last the man to play:-- the hounds are baying on my track; o christian! will you send me back? i felt the stripes, the lash i saw, red, dripping with a father's gore; and worst of all their lawless law, the insults that my mother bore! the hounds are baying on my track, o christian! will you send me back? where human law o'errules divine, beneath the sheriff's hammer fell my wife and babes,--i call them mine,-- and where they suffer, who can tell? the hounds are baying on my track, o christian! will you send me back? i seek a home where man is man, if such there be upon this earth, to draw my kindred, if i can, around its free, though humble hearth. the hounds are baying on my track, o christian! will you send me back? rescue the slave! air--the troubadour. this song was composed while george latimer, the fugitive slave, was confined in leverett street jail, boston, expecting to be carried back to virginia by james b. gray, his claimant. sadly the fugitive weeps in his cell, listen awhile to the story we tell; listen ye gentle ones, listen ye brave, lady fair! lady fair! weep for the slave. praying for liberty, dearer than life, torn from his little one, torn from his wife, flying from slavery, hear him and save, christian men! christian men! help the poor slave. think of his agony, feel for his pain, should his hard master e'er hold him again; spirit of liberty, rise from your grave, make him free, make him free, rescue the slave. freely the slave master goes where he will; freemen, stand ready, his wishes to fulfil, helping the tyrant, or honest or knave, thinking not, caring not, for the poor slave. talk not of liberty, liberty is dead; see the slave master's whip over our head; stooping beneath it, we ask what he craves, boston boys! boston boys! catch me my slaves. freemen, arouse ye, before it's too late; slavery is knocking, at every gate, make good the promise, your early days gave, boston boys! boston boys! rescue the slave. the slave-holder's address to the north star. star of the north! thou art not bigger than is the diamond in my ring; yet, every black, star-gazing nigger looks at thee, as at some great thing! yes, gazes at thee, till the lazy and thankless rascal is half crazy. some abolitionist has told them, that, if they take their flight toward thee, they'll get where "massa" cannot hold them, and therefore to the north they flee. fools to be led off, where they can't earn their living, by thy lying lantern. we will to new england write, and tell them not to let thee shine (excepting of a cloudy night) anywhere south of dixon's line; if beyond that thou shine an inch, we'll have thee up before judge lynch. and when, thou abolition star, who preachest freedom in all weathers, thou hast got on thy coat of tar, and over that, a cloak of feathers, thou art "fixed" none will deny, if there's a fixed star in the sky. song of the coffle gang. this song is said to be sung by slaves, as they are chained in gangs, when parting from friends for the far off south--children taken from parents, husbands from wives, and brothers from sisters. see these poor souls from africa, transported to america: we are stolen, and sold to georgia, will you go along with me? we are stolen and sold to georgia, go sound the jubilee. see wives and husbands sold apart, the children's screams!--it breaks my heart; there's a better day a coming, will you go along with me? there's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee. o, gracious lord? when shall it be, that we poor souls shall all be free? lord, break them slavery powers--will you go along with me? lord, break them slavery powers, go sound the jubilee. dear lord! dear lord! when slavery'll cease, then we poor souls can have our peace; there's a better day a coming, will you go along with me? there's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee. zaza--the female slave. o, my country, my country! how long i for thee, far over the mountain, far over the sea. where the sweet joliba, kisses the shore, say, shall i wander by thee never more? where the sweet joliba kisses the shore, say, shall i wander by thee never more. say, o fond zurima, where dost thou stay? say, doth another list to thy sweet lay? say, doth the orange still bloom near our cot? zurima, zurima, am i forgot? o, my country, my country, how long i for thee, far over the mountain, far over the sea. under the baobab oft have i slept, fanned by sweet breezes that over me swept. often in dreams do my weary limbs lay 'neath the same baobab, far, far away. o, my country, my country, how long i for thee, far over the mountain, far over the sea. o, for the breath of our own waving palm, here, as i languish, my spirit to calm-- o, for a draught from our own cooling lake, brought by sweet mother, my spirit to wake. o, my country, my country, how long i for thee, far over the mountain, far over the sea. ye heralds of freedom. ye heralds of freedom, ye noble and brave, who dare to insist on the rights of the slave, go onward, go onward, your cause is of god, and he will soon sever the oppressor's strong rod. the finger of slander may now at you point, that finger will soon lose the strength of its joint; and those who now plead for the rights of the slave, will soon be acknowledged the good and the brave. though thrones and dominions, and kingdoms and powers, may now all oppose you, the victory is yours; the banner of jesus will soon be unfurled, and he will give freedom and peace to the world. go under his standard and fight by his side, o'er mountains and billows you'll then safely ride; his gracious protection will be to you given, and bright crowns of glory he'll give you in heaven. we're coming! we're coming. air--kinloch of kinloch. we're coming, we're coming, the fearless and free, like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea! true sons of brave sires who battled of yore, when england's proud lion ran wild on our shore! we're coming, we're coming, from mountain and glen, with hearts to do battle for freedom again; oppression is trembling as trembled before the slavery which fled from our fathers of yore. we're coming, we're coming, with banners unfurled, our motto is freedom, our country the world; our watchword is liberty--tyrants beware! for the liberty army will bring you despair! we're coming, we're coming, we'll come from afar, our standard we'll nail to humanity's car; with shoutings we'll raise it, in triumph to wave, a trophy of conquest, or shroud for the brave. then arouse ye, brave hearts, to the rescue come on! the man-stealing army we'll surely put down; they are crushing their millions, but soon they must yield, for _freemen_ have _risen_ and taken the field. then arouse ye! arouse ye! the fearless and free, like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea; let the north, west, and east, to the sea-beaten shore, _resound_ with a _liberty triumph_ once more. on to victory. air--scots wha hae. children of the glorious dead, who for freedom fought and bled, with her banner o'er you spread, on to victory. not for stern ambition's prize, do our hopes and wishes rise; lo, our leader from the skies, bids us do or die. ours is not the tented field-- we no earthly weapons wield-- light and love, our sword and shield, truth our panoply. this is proud oppression's hour; storms are round us; shall we cower? while beneath a despot's power groans the suffering slave? while on every southern gale, comes the helpless captive's tale, and the voice of woman's wail, and of man's despair? while our homes and rights are dear, guarded still with watchful fear, shall we coldly turn our ear from the suppliant's prayer? never! by our country's shame-- never! by a saviour's claim, to the men of every name, whom he died to save. onward, then, ye fearless band-- heart to heart, and hand to hand; yours shall be the patriot's stand, or the martyr's grave. the man for me. air--the rose that all are praising. o, he is not the man for me, who buys or sells a slave, nor he who will not set him free, but sends him to his grave; but he whose noble heart beats warm for all men's life and liberty; who loves alike each human form, o, that's the man for me. he's not at all the man for me, who sells a man for gain, who bends the pliant servile knee, to slavery's god of shame! but he whose god-like form erect proclaims that all alike are free to think, and speak, and vote, and act, o, that's the man for me. he sure is not the man for me whose spirit will succumb, when men endowed with liberty lie bleeding, bound and dumb; but he whose faithful words of might ring through the land from shore to sea, for man's eternal equal right, o, that's the man for me. no, no, he's not the man for me whose voice o'er hill and plain, breaks forth for glorious liberty, but binds himself, the chain! the mightiest of the noble band who prays and toils the world to free, with head, and heart, and voice, and vote, o, that's the man for me. the bondman. air--troubadour. feebly the bondman toiled, sadly he wept-- then to his wretched cot mournfully crept; how doth his free-born soul pine 'neath his chain! slavery! slavery! dark is thy reign. long ere the break of day, roused from repose, wearily toiling till after its close-- praying for freedom, he spends his last breath: liberty! liberty! give me or death. when, when, o lord! will right triumph o'er wrong? tyrants oppress the weak, o lord! how long? hark! hark! a peal resounds from shore to shore-- tyranny! tyranny! thy reign is o'er. e'en now the morning gleams from the east-- despots are feeling their triumph is past-- strong hearts are answering to freedom's loud call-- liberty! liberty! full and for all. right on. air--lenox. ho! children of the brave, ho! freemen of the land, that hurl'd into the grave oppression's bloody band; come on, come on, and joined be we to make the fettered bondman free. let coward vassals sneak from freedom's battle still, poltroons that dare not speak but as their priests may will; come on, come on, and joined be we to make the fettered bondman free. on parchment, scroll and creed, with human life blood red, untrembling at the deed, plant firm your manly tread; the priest may howl, the jurist rave, but we will free the fettered slave. the tyrant's scorn is vain, in vain the slanderer's breath, we'll rush to break the chain, e'en on the jaws of death; hurrah! hurrah! right on go we, the fettered slave shall yet be free. right on, in freedom's name, and in the strength of god, wipe out the damning stain, and break the oppressor's rod; hurrah! hurrah! right on go we, the fettered slave shall yet be free. fugitive's triumph. go, go, thou that enslav'st me, now, now thy power is o'er; long, long have i obeyed thee, i'm not a slave any more; no, no--oh, no! i'm a _free man_ ever more! thou, thou brought'st me ever, deep, deep sorrow and pain; but i have left thee forever, nor will i serve thee again; no, no--oh, no! no, i'll not serve thee again. tyrant! thou hast bereft me home, friends, pleasures so sweet; now, forever i've left thee, thou and i never shall meet; no, no--oh, no! thou and i never shall meet. joys, joys, bright as the morning, now, now, on me will pour, hope, hope, on me is dawning, _i'm not a slave any more!_ no, no--oh, no, i'm a free man evermore! a song for freedom. air--dandy jim. come all ye bondmen far and near, let's put a song in massa's ear, it is a song for our poor race, who're whipped and trampled with disgrace. chorus. my old massa tells me o this is a land of freedom o; let's look about and see if't is so, just as massa tells me o. he tells us of that glorious one, i think his name was washington, how he did fight for liberty, to save a threepence tax on tea. chorus. my old massa, &c. and then he tells us that there was a constitution, with this clause, that all men equal were created, how often have we heard it stated. chorus. my old massa, &c. but now we look about and see, that we poor blacks are not so free; we 're whipped and thrashed about like fools, and have no chance at common schools. chorus. still, my old massa, &c. they take our wives, insult and mock, and sell our children on the block, then choke us if we say a word, and say that "niggers" shan't be heard. chorus. still, my old massa, &c. our preachers, too, with whip and cord, command obedience in the lord; they say they learn it from the book, but for ourselves we dare not look. chorus. still, my old massa tells me o, this is a _christian_ country o, &c. there is a country far away, friend hopper says 't is canada, and if we reach victoria's shore, he says that we are slaves no more. chorus. now hasten all bondmen, let us go and leave this christian country o; haste to the land of the british queen, where whips for negroes are not seen. now if we go, we must take the night-- we're sure to die if we come in sight-- the blood-hounds will be on our track, and wo to us if they fetch us back. chorus. now haste all bondmen, let us go, and leave this _christian_ country o; god help us to victoria's shore, where we are free and slaves no more. freedom's banner. air--freedom's banner. my country, shall thy honored name, be as a by-word through the world? rouse! for as if to blast thy fame, this keen reproach is at thee hurled; the banner that above thee waves, is floating over three millions slaves. that flag, my country, i had thought, from noble sires was given to thee, by the best blood of patriots bought, to wave alone above the free! yet now, while to the breeze it waves, it floats above three millions slaves, the mighty dead that flag unrolled, they bathed it in the heaven's own blue; they sprinkled stars upon each fold, and gave it as a trust to you; and now that glorious banner waves in shame above three millions slaves. o, by the virtues of our sires, and by the soil on which they trod, and by the trust their name inspires, and by the hope we have in god, arouse, my country, and agree to set thy captive children free. arouse! and let each hill and glen with prayer to the high heavens ring out, till all our land with freeborn men, may join in one triumphant shout, that freedom's banner does not wave its folds above a single slave. your brother is a slave. o weep, ye friends of freedom, weep! shout liberty no more; your harps to mournful measures sweep, till slavery's reign is o'er. o, furl your star-lit thing of light-- that banner should not wave where, vainly pleading for his right, your brother toils--_a slave!_ o pray, ye friends of freedom, pray for those who toil in chains, who lift their fettered hands to day on carolina's plain! god is the hope of the oppressed; his arm is strong to save; pray, then, that freedom's cause be blest, your brother is _a slave!_ o toil, ye friends of freedom, toil! your mission to fulfil,-- that freedom's consecrated soil slaves may no longer till; ay, toil and pray from deep disgrace your native land to save; weep o'er the miseries of your race, _your brother is a slave!_ come join the abolitionists. air--when i can read my title clear. come join the abolitionists, ye young men bold and strong. and with a warm and cheerful zeal, come help the cause along; o that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, o that will be joyful, when slavery is no more, when slavery is no more. 'tis then we'll sing, and offerings bring, when slavery is no more. come join the abolitionists, ye men of riper years, and save your wives and children dear, from grief and bitter tears; o that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, o that will be joyful, when slavery is no more, when slavery is no more, 'tis then we'll sing, and offerings bring, when slavery is no more. come join the abolitionists, ye dames and maidens fair, and breathe around us in our path affection's hallowed air; o that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, o that will be joyful, when woman cheers us on, when woman cheers us on, to conquests not yet won. 'tis then we'll sing, and offerings bring, when woman cheers us on. come join the abolitionists, ye sons and daughters all of this our own america-- come at the friendly call; o that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, o that will be joyful, when all shall proudly say, this, this is freedom's day--oppression flee away! 't is then we'll sing, and offerings bring, when freedom wins the day. there's a good time coming. there's a good time coming boys, a good time coming; there's a good time coming boys, wait a little longer. 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'll win our battle by its aid, wait a little longer. o, there's a good time, &c. 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 acknowledged stronger, the proper impulse has been given, wait a little longer. o, there's a good time, &c. 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. o, there's a good time, &c. 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. o, there's a good time, &c. the bigot fire. written on the occasion of george latimer's imprisonment in levorott street jail, boston. o, kindle not that bigot fire, 't will bring disunion, fear and pain; 't will rouse at last the souther's ire, and burst our starry land in twain. theirs is the high, the noble worth, the very soul of chivalry; rend not our blood-bought land apart, for such a thing as slavery. this is the language of the north, i shame to say it but't is true; and anti-slavery calls it forth, from some proud priests and laymen too. what! bend forsooth to southern rule? what! cringe and crawl to souther's clay, and be the base, the supple tool, of hell-begotten slavery? no! never, while the free air plays o'er our rough hills and sunny fountains, shall proud new england's sons be _free_, and clank their fetters round her mountains. go if ye will and grind in dust, dark afric's poor, degraded child; wring from his sinews gold accursed, and boast your gospel warm and mild. while on our mountain tops the pine in freedom her green branches wave, her sons shall never stoop to bind the galling shackle of the slave. ye dare demand with haughty tone, for us to pander to your shame, to give our brother up alone, to feel the lash and wear the chain. our brother never shall go back, when once he presses our free shore; though souther's power with hell to back, comes thundering at our northern door. no! rather be our starry land, into a thousand fragments riven; upon our own free hills we'll stand, and pour upon the breeze of heaven, a curse so loud, so stern, so deep, shall start ye in your guilty sleep. oft in the chilly night. oft in the chilly night, ere slumber's chain has bound me, when all her silvery light the moon is pouring round me, beneath its ray i kneel and pray that god would give some token that slavery's chains on southern plains, shall all ere long be broken; yes, in the chilly night, though slavery's chain has bound me, kneel i, and feel the might of god's right arm around me. when at the driver's call, in cold or sultry weather, we slaves, both great and small, turn out to toil together, i feel like one from whom the sun of hope has long departed; and morning's light, and weary night, still find me broken hearted; thus, when the chilly breath of night is sighing round me, kneel i, and wish that death in his cold chain had bound me. are ye truly free? air--martyn. men! whose boast it is that ye come of fathers brave and free; if there breathe on earth a slave, are ye truly free and brave? are ye not base slaves indeed, men unworthy to be freed, if ye do not feel the chain, when it works a brother's pain? women! who shall one day bear sons to breathe god's bounteous air, if ye hear without a blush, deeds to make the roused blood rush like red lava through your veins, for your sisters now in chains; answer! are ye fit to be mothers of the brave and free? is true freedom but to break fetters for our own dear sake, and, with leathern hearts forget that we owe mankind a debt? no! true freedom is to share all the chains our brothers wear, and with hand and heart to be earnest to make others free. they are slaves who fear to speak for the fallen and the weak; they are slaves, who will not choose hatred, scoffing, and abuse, rather than, in silence, shrink from the truth they needs must think; they are slaves, who dare not be in the right with _two_ or _three_. emancipation song. air--crambambule. let waiting throngs now lift their voices, as freedom's glorious day draws near, while every gentle tongue rejoices, and each bold heart is filled with cheer; the slave has seen the northern star, he'll soon be free, hurrah, hurrah! though many still are writhing under the cruel whips of "chevaliers," who mothers from their children sunder, and scourge them for their helpless tears-- their safe deliverance is not far! the day draws nigh!--hurrah, hurrah! just ere the dawn the darkness deepest surrounds the earth as with a pall; dry up thy tears, o thou that weepest, that on thy sight the rays may fall! no doubt let now thy bosom mar; send up the shout--hurrah, hurrah! shall we distrust the god of heaven?-- he every doubt and fear will quell; by him the captive's chains are riven-- so let us loud the chorus swell! man shall be free from cruel law,-- man shall be man!--hurrah, hurrah! no more again shall it be granted to southern overseers to rule-- no more will pilgrims' sons be taunted with cringing low in slavery's school. so clear the way for freedom's car-- the free shall rule!--hurrah, hurrah! send up the shout emancipation-- from heaven let the echoes bound-- soon will it bless this franchised nation, come raise again the stirring sound! emancipation near and far-- swell up the shout--hurrah! hurrah! what mean ye? air--ortonville. what mean ye that ye bruise and bind my people, saith the lord, and starve your craving brother's mind, who asks to hear my word? what mean ye that ye make them toil, through long and dreary years, and shed like rain upon your soil their blood and bitter tears? what mean ye, that ye dare to rend the tender mother's heart? brothers from sisters, friend from friend, how dare you bid them part? what mean ye, when god's bounteous hand to you so much has given, that from the slave who tills your land ye keep both earth and heaven? when at the judgment god shall call, where is thy brother? say, what mean ye to the judge of all to answer on that day? light of truth. hark! a voice from heaven proclaiming comfort to the mourning slave: god has heard him long complaining, and extends his arm to save; proud oppression soon shall find a shameful grave. see! the light of truth is breaking full and clear on every hand; and the voice of mercy, speaking, now is heard through all the land; firm and fearless, see the friends of freedom stand! lo! the nation is arousing from its slumbers, long and deep; and the church of god is waking, never, never more to sleep, while a bondman in his chains remains to weep. long, too long, have we been dreaming o'er our country's sin and shame: let us now, the time redeeming, press the helpless captive's claim, till, exulting, he shall cast aside his chain. the flying slave. air--to greece we give our shining blades. the night is dark, and keen the air, and the slave is flying to be free; his parting word is one short prayer; o god, but give me liberty! farewell--farewell; behind i leave the whips and chains, before me spreads sweet freedom's plains. one star shines in the heavens above, that guides him on his lonely way;-- star of the north--how deep his love for thee, thou star of liberty! farewell--farewell; behind he leaves the whips and chains, before him spreads sweet freedom's plains. index. am i not a man and brother? a.c.l. o, pity the slave mother. words from liberator the blind slave boy. mrs. bailey ye sons of freemen. mrs. j.g. carter freedom's star. harris liberty ball. clarke emancipation hymn. over the mountain. j. hutchinson jr. jubilee song. spirit of freemen, wake. slave's lamentation. parody tucker flight of the bondman. smith sweets of liberty. ye spirits of the free. colonization song. a slaveholder i am an abolitionist. garrison the bereaved mother. j. hutchinson the chase. douglass' north star fling out the anti slavery flag. the yankee girl. whittier jefferson's daughter. the auction. get off the track. j. hutchinson jr. be free, o man, be free. m.h. maxwell fugitive slave to the christian. e. wright jr. rescue the slave. latimer journal slave-holder to the north star. pierpont the coffle gang. a slave zaza, the female slave. miss ball we're coming. on to victory. the man for me. parody tucker the bondman. words from liberator right on. a christian fugitive's triumph. freedom's banner. r.c. wateson good time coming. j. hutchinson jr. a song for freedom. your brother is a slave. d.h. jaques come join the abolitionists. the bigot fire. john ramsdale oft in the chilly night. pierpont are ye truly free? j.r. lowell emancipation song. bangor gazette what mean ye? light of truth. oliver johnson flying slave. bangor gazette ye heralds of freedom. wit and mirth: or pills to purge melancholy edited by thomas d'urfey in six volumes volume vi folklore library publishers, inc. new york an alphabetical table of the songs contain'd in this book. a pag. _as_ amoret _and_ thyrsis _lay,_ _as unconcern'd and free as air,_ _as i am a sailor,_ _and now, now the duke's march,_ aurelia _now one moment lost,_ _after the pangs of fierce desire,_ _a pox on the fool,_ _a young man lately in our town,_ _all joy to mortals,_ _a pox on the times,_ _a pox on such fools! let the,_ _as cupid many ages past,_ _all christians that have ears to hear,_ _as at noon_ dulcina _rested,_ _a dean and prebendary,_ _a world that's full of fools and mad-men,_ astutus constabularius, amor est pegma, _abroad as i was walking, i'spy'd,_ _a pedlar proud as i heard tell,_ _a young man and a maid,_ _all own the young_ sylvia _is,_ _a swain in despair,_ _as i came down the hey land town,_ _a jolly young_ grocer _of_ london town, _as it befel upon one time,_ _a taylor good lord, in the time of vacation,_ _a comely dame of_ islington, _ah! how happy's he,_ _a little love may prove a pleasure,_ _at the change as i was a walking,_ _all you that must take a leap in the dark,_ alphonzo, _if you sir,_ _a worthy_ london _prentice,_ _at the break of morning light,_ b _belinda's pretty, pretty pleasing form,_ _blush not redder than the morning,_ _banish my_ lydia _these,_ _beauty, like kingdoms not for one,_ _beneath a cool shade_ amaryllis, _boasting fops who court the fair,_ c _come here's a good health,_ cupid _make your virgins tender,_ corinna _i excuse thy face,_ chloe _found love for his_ psyche, _coy_ belinda _may discover,_ corinna _'tis you that i love,_ _come buy my greens and flowers,_ cælia's _bright beauty all others transcend,_ _come from the temple, away to the bed,_ _come all that are dispos'd,_ chloris, _can you,_ cælia _be not too complying,_ _clasp'd in my dear_ melinda's _arms,_ _come_ cælia _come, let's sit and,_ d _do not rumple my top-knot,_ _day was spent and night,_ _dear_ catholick _brother,_ _dear mother i am transported,_ _despairing besides a clear stream,_ e _ere_ phillis _with her looks did kill,_ f _fly, fly ye lazy hours,_ _fye_ amaryllis, _cease to grieve,_ _fairest isle, all isles excelling,_ _fye_ jockey, _never prattle,_ _forgive me_ cloe _if i dare,_ _fortune is blind and beauty unkind,_ _from father_ hopkins, _fickle bliss, fantastick treasure,_ _fill the glass fill, fill,_ _farewel my useless scrip,_ _fates i defie, i defie your advances,_ _farewel_ chloe, _o farewel,_ g _god prosper long our gracious queen,_ _go, go, go, go falsest of thy sex,_ _good morrow gossip_ joan, h _how long, how long shall i pine,_ _hang this whining way of wooing,_ _here's the summer sprightly, gay,_ _how happy's the husband,_ _having spent all my coin,_ _how happy, how happy is she,_ _hang the presbyters gill,_ _honest shepherd, since,_ _how happy's that husband who after,_ _how is the world transform'd,_ _hub ub, ub, boo;_ _had i but love,_ _how happy are we,_ _hear_ chloe _hear,_ _how happy's he who weds a wife,_ _how charming_ phillis _is, how fair,_ i _if i hear_ orinda _swear,_ _just coming from sea,_ _if ever you mean to be kind,_ _i know her false,_ _i am come to lock all fast,_ _in vain_ clemene _you bestow,_ _if wine be a cordial,_ _i fain wou'd find a passing,_ _if i should go seek the,_ _i seek no more to shady coverts,_ _i try'd in parks and plays,_ _in a flowry myrtle _grove, _i am a jolly toper,_ _i'll tell you all, both great,_ _i am a cunning constable,_ _i courted and writ,_ _i'll tell thee_ dick _where i have,_ _i am a poor shepherd undone,_ _i love to madness, rave t' enjoy,_ _i'll press, i'll bless thee charming,_ _i'm vext to think that_ damon, _i have a tenement to let,_ k _ken you, who comes here,_ l _let not love, let not love on me,_ liberia's _all my thought,_ _let_ mary _live long,_ lerinda _complaineth that,_ _lay by your pleading,_ _love's pow'r in my heart,_ _let's wet the whistle of the,_ _let's sing as one may say,_ lucinda _has the de'el and all,_ _love is a bauble,_ lais _when you,_ lorenzo _you amuse the town,_ _love's passion never knew,_ _let those youths who freedom_ lavia _would, but dare not venture,_ _love, the sweets of love,_ m marlborough's _a brave commander,_ _my dear_ corinna _give me leave,_ _may her blest example chace,_ _my dear and only love,_ _my nose is the largest of all,_ _my nose is the flattest of all,_ _mortals learn your lives to,_ mirtillo, _whilst you patch,_ _my friend thy beauty,_ _must love, that tyrant of the,_ _my_ theodora _can those eyes,_ n _now dry up thy tears,_ _no, no, poor suffering heart,_ _new pyramid's raise,_ _never sigh, but think of kissing,_ _now, now the queen's health,_ _noble king_ lud, _now i'm resolv'd to love no more,_ _not your eyes_ melania _move me,_ _now, now the night's come,_ _now_ jockey _and_ moggy _are ready,_ o _oh! my panting, panting heart,_ _over the mountains,_ _oh how happy's he, who from,_ _oh! the mighty pow'r of love,_ _oh the charming month of_ may, _oh_ roger _i've been to see_ eugene, _of all the handsome ladies,_ p phillis _lay aside your thinking,_ _pish fye, you're rude sir,_ phillis, _i can ne'er forgive it,_ _poor_ sawney _had marry'd a wife,_ r _room for gentlemen,_ _retire old miser,_ _richest gift of lavish nature,_ s _she met with a country-man,_ _stand, clear, my masters,_ _sometimes i am a tapster new,_ _she went apparell'd neat and fine,_ _say cruel_ amoret, _how long,_ _such command o'er my fate,_ _sit you merry gallants,_ _since_ phillis _swears inconstancy,_ _some in the town go betimes,_ _suppose a man does all he can,_ sors sine visu, _see bleeding at your feet,_ _since_ tom's _in the chair, and every one here,_ _such a happy, happy, life,_ t _to meet her_ mars _the queen of love,_ _thus_ damon _knock'd at _cælia's _door,_ _the world is a bubble and full of,_ _through the cold shady woods,_ _the gordian knot,_ _there dwelt a widow in this town,_ _there was an old man,_ _there is a thing which in the light,_ _there's not a swain,_ _tormenting beauty leave my breast,_ _tell me why so long,_ _'tis a foolish mistake,_ _tell me, tell me, charming,_ _tho' thou'rt ugly and old,_ _tho' you make no return,_ _the king is gone to_ oxon _town,_ _tho' i love and she knows it,_ _there was three travellers,_ troy _had a breed of brave,_ _there's none so pretty,_ _the ordinance a-board,_ _that scornful_ sylvia's _chains,_ tom _tinker's my true love,_ _to you fair ladies now at land,_ _then come kind_ damon _come,_ _the night is come that will,_ _there's a new set of rakes,_ _tho' begging is an honest trade,_ _the rosey morn lukes blith and gay,_ _the restauration now's the word,_ u _underneath the castle wall,_ _unguarded lies the wishing maid,_ vobis magnis parvis dicam, w _whilst_ phillis _is drinking,_ _war, war and battle now no more,_ _what shall i do, i am undone,_ _when wit and beauty,_ _when_ sylvia _was kind,_ _what, love a crime,_ _when i have often heard young maids,_ _what state of life can be,_ _when_ jockey _first i saw,_ _when_ dido _was a_ carthage _queen,_ _we merry wives of_ windsor, _wo'as me poor lass! what mun,_ _when on her eyes,_ _with sighing and wishing,_ _what sayest thou,_ _what shall i do, i've lost my heart,_ _when i was in the low country,_ _walk up to virtue strait,_ _when first i lay'd siege to my_ chloris, _why alas do you now leave me,_ _when beauty such as yours,_ _when crafty fowlers would,_ _who can_ dorinda's _beauty view,_ _when embracing my friends,_ _why will_ clemene _when i gaze,_ y _ye commons and peers,_ _you guess by my wither'd face,_ _you friends to reformation,_ _young_ strephon _and_ phillis, _young_ strephon _he has woo'd_ _you ladies draw near,_ _you tell me_ dick _you've lately,_ _your melancholy's all a folly,_ z _z--ds madam return me my heart,_ pills to purge melancholy. vol. vi. _a_ ballad _on the battle of_ audenard. _set by mr._ leveridge. [music] ye commons and peers, pray lend me your ears, i'll sing you a song if i can; how _lewis le grand_, was put to a stand, by the arms of our gracious queen ann. how his army so great, had a total defeat, not far from the river of _dender_; where his grand-children twain, for fear of being slain, gallop'd off with the popish pretender. to a steeple on high, the battle to spy, up mounted these clever young men; and when from the spire they saw so much fire, they cleverly came down again. then a horse-back they got, all upon the same spot, by advice of their cousin _vendosme_; o lord! cry'd out he unto young _burgundy_, wou'd your brother and you were at home. just so did he say when without more delay, away the young gentry fled; whose heels for that work were much lighter than cork, but their hearts were more heavy than lead. not so did behave the young _hannover_ brave in this bloody field i assure ye; when his war-horse was shot, yet he matter'd it not, but charg'd still on foot like a fury. when death flew about aloud he call'd out, ho! you chevalier of st. george; if you'll never stand by sea nor by land, pretender, that title you forge. thus boldly he stood, as became that high blood, which runs in his veins so blue; this gallant young man being kin to queen ann, fought as were she a man, she wou'd do. what a racket was here, (i think 'twas last year) for a little ill fortune in _spain_; when by letting 'em win, we have drawn the putts in to lose all they are worth this campaign. tho' _bruges_ and _ghent_, to the monsieur we lent, with interest he soon shall repay 'em; while _paris_ may sing, with her sorrowful king _de profundis_, instead of _te deum_. from their dream of success, they'll awaken we guess at the sound of great _marlborough's_ drums; they may think if they will of _almanza_ still, but 'tis _blenheim_ wherever he comes. o _lewis_ perplex'd, what general's next? thou hast hitherto chang'd 'em in vain; he has beat 'em all round, if no new ones are found, he shall beat the old over again. we'll let _tallard_ out if he'll take t'other bout; and much he's improv'd let me tell ye, with _nottingham_ ale, at every meal, and good pudding and beef in his belly. as losers at play, their dice throw away, while the winner he still wins on; let who will command, thou hadst better disband, for old bully thy doctors are gone. a happy memorable ballad, _on the fight near_ audenard, _between the duke of_ marlborough, _of_ great-britain; _and the duke of_ vendosme, _of_ france. _as also the strange and wonderful manner how the princes of the blood royal of_ france, _were found in a wood. in allusion to the_ unhappy memorable song _commonly call'd_ chevy-chace. [music] god prosper long our gracious queen, our lives and safeties all: a woful fight of late their did near _audenard_ befal. to drive the _french_ with sword and gun, brave _marlborough_ took his way; ah! woe the time that _france_ beheld the fighting of that day. the valiant duke to heaven had swore, _vendosme_ shou'd pay full dear, for _ghent_ and _bruges_, e'er his fame should reach his master's ear. and now with eighty thousand bold, and chosen men of might; he with the _french_ began to wage a sharp and bloody fight. the gallant _britains_ swiftly ran, the _french_ away to chase; on _wednesday_ they began to fight, when day-light did decrease. and long before high-night, they had ten thousand _frenchmen_ slain; and all the rivers crimson flow'd, as they were dy'd in grain. the _britains_ thro' the woods pursu'd, the nimble _french_ to take; and with their cries the hills and dales, and every tree did shake. the duke then to the wood did come, in hopes _vendosme_ to meet; when lo! the prince of _carignan_ fell at his grace's feet. oh! gentle duke forbear, forbear, into that wood to shoot; if ever pity mov'd your grace, but turn your eyes and look: see where the royal line of _france_, great _lewis's_ heirs do lie; and sure a sight more pitious was ne'er seen by mortal eye. what heart of flint but must relent, like wax before the sun: to see their glory at an end, e'er yet it was begun. whenas our general found your grace, wou'd needs begin to fight: as thinking it wou'd please the boys, to see so fine a sight. he straightway sent them to the top of yonder church's spire; where they might see, and yet be safe from swords and guns, and fire. but first he took them by the hand, and kiss'd them e'er they went; whilst tears stood in their little eyes, as if they knew th' event. then said, he would with speed return, soon as the fight was done; but when he saw his men give ground, away he basely run, and left these children all alone, as babes wanting relief; and long they wandred up and down, no hopes to chear their grief. thus hand in hand they walk'd, 'till at last this wood they spy'd; and when they saw the night grow dark, they here lay down and cry'd. at this the duke was inly mov'd, his breast soft pity beat; and so he straightway ordered his men for to retreat. and now, but that my pen is blunt, i might with ease relate; how fifteen thousand _french_ were took, besides what found their fate. nor should the prince of _hannover_ in silence be forgot; who like a lyon fought on foot, after his horse was shot. and what strange chance likewise befel, unto these children dear: but that your patience is too much already tir'd, i fear. and so god bless the queen and duke, and send a lasting peace: that wars and foul debate henceforth in all the world may cease. _the duke of_ marlborough's _health. set by mr._ r. cox. [music] come, here's a good health, the duke i do mean, that bravely fought, that bravely fought for his nation and queen, may his fate still be, that conquer shall he till the nation with peace it be crown'd; come lads never think, but his health let's drink, and sing his great praise, and sing his great praise whilst bumpers pass round. _the duke of_ marlborough's _health._ [music] _marlborough's_ a brave commander, he conducts us into the field; as bold as _alexander_, he'll dye before he'll yield: sound the trumpet sound, boys, let each man stand his ground, boys; ne'er let us flinch, nor give back an inch, and so let his health go round, boys. _a_ song. _set by mr._ john eccles, _and sung by mr._ gouge, _in the farce call'd_, women will have their wills. [music] _belinda's_ pretty, pretty, pleasing form, does my happy, happy, happy, happy fancy charm: her prittle-prattle, tittle-tattle's all engaging, most obliging; whilst i'm pressing, clasping, kissing, oh! oh! how she does my soul alarm: there is such magick in her eyes, such magick in her eyes, in her eyes, does my wond'ring heart surprise: her prinking, nimping, twinking, pinking, whilst i'm courting, for transporting, how like an angel, she panting lies, she panting lies. _a_ song _on a ladies drinking._ [music] whilst _phillis_ is drinking, love and wine in alliance, with forces united, bids resistless defiance; each touch of her lip, makes wine sparkle higher, and her eyes by her drinking, redouble the fire: her cheeks grow the brighter, recruiting their colour, as flowers by sprinkling revive with fresh odour; each dart dipt in wine, love wounds beyond curing, and the liquor like oil makes the flame more enduring. _the first_ song, _sung by mr._ prince, _in the_ maid in the mill. [music] how long, how long shall i pine for love? how long shall i sue in vain? how long, how long like the turtle dove, must i heavily thus complain? shall the sails of my love stand still, shall the grist of my hopes be unground? oh fye, oh fye, oh fye, oh fye let the mill, let the mill go round, let the mill, let the mill go round. _a_ song _sung at_ holmse's _booth in_ bartholomew fair, _set by mr._ john barrett. [music] war, war and battle now no more, shall your thun'dring cannons roar; no more, no more of war complain, peace begins, peace begins her _halcyon_ reign: for now the tow'ring bird of _jove_, stoops, stoops to the gentle billing _dove_. _a_ song _set by mr._ daniel purcell, _and sung at the_ theatre _royal in_ drury-lane. [music] _cupid_ make your virgins tender, make 'em easy to be won; let 'em presently surrender, when the treaty's once begun: such as like a tedious wooing, let 'em cruel damsels find: but let such as wou'd, as wou'd be doing, prithee, prithee, prithee _cupid_ make 'em kind, prithee, prithee _cupid_ make 'em kind. _a_ scotch song, _sung by mrs._ willis _at the_ theatre. [music] ken you, who comes here, the laird of aw the clan; whom ise love but fear, because a muckle man: but what if he's great, he descends from his state, and receive him, receive him as you can. come my bonny blith lads, shew your best lukes and plads, our laird is here; whom we shou'd love, and who shou'd approve, our respect as well as fear, for the laird is here whom we love and fear. _a_ song _in the loves of_ mars _and_ venus _set by mr._ j. eccles, _sung by mrs._ hudson. [music] to meet her _mars_ the queen of love, comes here adorn'd with all her charms; the warriour best the fair can move, and crowns his toils in beauty's arms: the warriour best the fair can move, and crowns his toils in beauty's arms. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd love betray'd, sung by mrs._ bracegirdle, _set by mr._ john eccles. [music] if i hear _orinda_ swear, she cures my jealous smart; if i hear _orinda_ swear, she cures my jealous smart: the treachery becomes the fair, and doubly fires my heart; the treachery becomes the fair, and doubly fires my heart. beauty's strength and treasure, in falshood still remain; she gives the greatest pleasure, that gives the greatest pain, that gives the greatest pain: she gives the greatest pleasure, she gives the greatest pleasure, that gives the greatest pain: she gives the greatest pleasure, she gives the greatest pleasure, that gives the greatest pain, that gives the greatest pain. _a_ song _in the_ funeral, _sung by mrs._ harris, _set by mr._ daniel purcel. [music] let not love, let not love on me, on me bestow, soft distress, soft distress and tender woe; i know none, no, no, no, none but substantial blisses, eager glances, eager glances, solid kisses: i know not what the lover feign, of finer pleasure mixt with pain: then prithee, prithee give me gentle boy, none of thy grief, but all, all, all, all, but all, all, all, all, all, all the joy; but all, all, all, all, all, all the joy. prithee give me, prithee give me gentle boy, none of thy grief, but all, all, all, all, but all, all, all, all, all, all the joy, but all, all, all, all, all, all the joy. _a_ song _in the loves of_ mars _and_ venus, _set by mr._ j. eccles, _sung by mr._ morgan. [music] fly, fly ye lazy hours, hast, bring him here, swift, swift as my fond wishes are; when we love, and love to rage, ev'ry moment seems an age: when we love, and love to rage, ev'ry moment seems an age. _a_ scotch song, _sung by mrs._ ballden. [music] oh! my panting, panting heart, why so young, and why so sad? why does pleasure seem a smart, or i wretched while i'm glad? oh! lovers goddess, who wert form'd, from cold and icy, icy seas; instruct me why i am thus warm'd! and darts at once can wound and please. _a_ song _set by mr._ john eccles, _sung by mrs._ hodgson. [music] fye _amarillis_, cease to grieve, fye, fye, fye, fye cease, cease to grieve, fye, fye, fye, fye, cease, cease to grieve, for him thou never canst retrieve; wilt thou sigh for one that flies thee, wilt thou sigh for one that flies thee, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, scorn the wretch, scorn the wretch, that love denies thee, scorn the wretch, scorn the wretch, that love, that love denies thee. call pride to thy aid, and be not afraid, of meeting a swain that is kind; as handsome as he, perhaps he may be, at least, at least a more generous mind: as handsome as he, perhaps he may be, at least a more generous mind, at least a more generous mind. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd_, the old batchelour, _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] as _amoret_ and _thyrsis_ lay, as _amoret_ and _thyrsis_ lay; melting, melting, melting, melting the hours in gentle play, joyning, joyning, joyning faces, mingling kisses, mingling kisses, mingling kisses, and exchanging harmless blisses: he trembling cry'd with eager, eager hast, let me, let me, let me feed, oh! oh! let me, let me, let me, let me feed, oh! oh! oh! oh! let me, let me, let me, let me feed as well as tast, i dye, dye, dye, i dye, dye, i dye, i dye, if i'm not wholly blest. the fearful nymph reply'd forbear, i cannot, dare not, must not hear; dearest _thyrsis_ do not move me, do not, do not, if you love me: o let me still, the shepherd said, but while she fond resistance made, the hasty joy in struggling fled. vex'd at the pleasure she had miss'd, she frown'd and blush'd, and sigh'd and kiss'd, and seem'd to moan, in sullen cooing, the sad miscarriage of their wooeing: but vain alass! were all her charms, for _thyrsis_ deaf to love's alarms, baffled and fenceless, tir'd her arms. _a_ song. [music] she met with a country-man, in the middle of all the green; and _peggy_ was his delight, and good sport was to be seen. but ever she cry'd brave _roger_, i'll drink a whole glass to thee; but as for _john_ of the green, i care not a pin for him. bulls and bears, and lyons, and dragons, and o brave _roger_ a _cauverly_; piggins and wiggins, pints and flaggons, o brave, _&c._ he took her by the middle, and taught her by the flute; well done brave _roger_ quoth she, thou hast not left thy old wont. but ever she cry'd, _&c._ he clap'd her upon the buttock, and forth she let a fart; my belly quoth she is eased by thee, and i thank thee _roger_ for't. _love's conquest._ [music] as unconcern'd and free as air, i did retain my liberty; laugh'd at the fetters of the fair, and scorn'd a beauties slave to be: 'till your bright eyes surpriz'd my heart, and first inform'd me how to love; then pleasure did invade each part, yet to conceal my flame i strove. as _indians_ at a distance pay, their awful reverence to the sun: and dare not 'till he'll bless the day, seem to have any thing begun: thus i rest, 'till your smiles invite, my looks and thoughts i do constrain; and tremble to express delight, unless you please to ease my pain. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd, the_ wife's excuse. _by_ h. p. [music] _corinna_ i excuse thy face, those erring lines, which nature drew; when i reflect that ev'ry grace, thy mind adorns, is just and true: but oh! thy wit what god hast sent, surprising, airy, unconfin'd; some wonder sure _apollo_ meant, and shot himself into thy mind. _the_ sailors song _in the subscription_ musick, _set by mr._ weldon, _sung by mr._ dogget. [music] just coming from sea, our spouses and we, we punch it, we punch it, we punch it, we punch it, we punch it a board with couragio; we sing laugh and cling, and in hammocks we swing, and hey, hey, hey, hey, hey my brave boys bonviago: we sing laugh and cling, and in hammocks we swing, we sing laugh and cling, and in hammocks we swing, and hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, my brave boys bonviago. _the serenading_ song _in the_ constant couple, _or a trip to the_ jubilee; _written by mr._ g. farquhar, _set by mr._ d. purcell, _sung by mr._ freeman. [music] thus _damon_ knock'd at _cælia's_ door, thus _damon_ knock'd at _cælia's_ door, he sigh'd and begg'd, and wept and swore, the sign was so, she answer'd no, the sign was so, she answer'd no, no, no, no. again he sigh'd, again he pray'd, no _damon_ no, no, no, no, no, i am afraid; consider _damon_ i'm a maid, consider _damon_ no, no, no, no, no, no, no, i'm a maid. at last his sighs and tears made way, she rose and softly turn'd the key; come in said she, but do not, do not stay, i may conclude, you will be rude; but if you are you may: i may conclude, you will be rude, but if you are you may. _a 'squire's choice; or the coy lady's beauty by him admir'd._ [music] the world is a bubble and full of decoys, her glittering pleasures are flattering toys; the which in themselves no true happiness brings, rich rubies, nay diamonds, chains, jewels and rings: they are but as dross, and in time will decay, so will virgin beauty, so will virgin beauty, tho' never so gay. then boast not young _phillis_ because thou art fair, soft roses and lillies more beautiful are, than ever thou wast, when they in their prime, and yet do they fade in a very short time: all temporal glories in time will decay, so will virgin beauty, so will virgin beauty, tho' never so gay. since all things are changing and nothing will last, since years, months, and minutes thy beauty will blast, like flowers that fade in the fall of the leaf, afford me thy favour and pity my grief: e'er thy youth and beauty does clearly depart, for thou art my jewel, for thou art my jewel, the joy of my heart. i value not riches, for riches i have, i value not honour, no honour i crave; but what thou art able to bless me withal, and if by thy frowns to despair i should fall: then farewel those joys which so long i have sought, to languish in sorrow, to languish in sorrow, alass! i am brought. i come not to flatter, as many have done, afford me a smile, or my dear i shall run distracted, as being disturbed in mind, then now, now, or never be loving and kind: this day thou canst cherish my sorrowful state, to morrow sweet jewel, to morrow sweet jewel, it may be too late. you know that young women has rail'd against men, and counted them false and base flatterers, when we find that your sexs are as cruel to us, or else you would never have tortur'd me thus: as now you have done by your darts of disdain, you know that i love you, you know that i love you, yet all is in vain. _the damsels answer, to the same tune._ now dry up thy tears, and no longer exclaim, against thy fair beautiful _phillis_ by name; who never as yet was acquainted with love, yet here i declare by the powers above: i cannot be cruel to one that is true, wherefore bid thy sorrows, wherefore bid thy sorrows for ever adieu. with all the affections that words can express, i freely surrender, and can do no less; when as i consider in e'ery degree, how loyal and faithful thou hast been to me, i cannot be cruel to one that is true, and so bid thy sorrows, and so bid thy sorrows for ever adieu. _the jolly sailor's resolution._ [music] as i am a sailor, 'tis very well known, and i've never as yet had a wife of my own; but now i am resolved to marry if i can, to show my self a jolly, jolly brisk young man, man, man, to show my self a jolly, jolly brisk young man. abroad i have been, and since home i am come, my wages i have took, 'tis a delicate sum; and now mistress hostess begins to flatter me, but i have not forgot her former cruelty, ty, ty, but i have not forgot her former cruelty. near _lymehouse_ she liv'd, where i formerly us'd, i'll show you in brief how i once was abus'd, after in her house i had quite consumed my store, but kick me if i ever, ever feast her more, more, more, but kick me if i ever, ever feast her more. i came to her once with abundance of gold, and as she that beautiful sight did behold; she said with a kiss thou art welcome _john_ to me, for i have shed a thousand, thousand tears for thee, thee, thee, for i have shed a thousand, thousand tears for thee. her flattering words i was apt to believe, and then at my hands she did freely receive; a ring which she said she would keep for _johnny's_ sake, she wept for joy as if her very heart wou'd break: break, break, she wept for joy as if her very heart wou'd break. we feasted on dainties and drank of the best, thought i with my friends i am happily blest; for punch, beer and brandy they night and day did call, and i was honest _johnny_, _johnny_ pay for all: all, all, and i was honest _johnny_, _johnny_ pay for all. they ply'd me so warm, that in troth i may say, that i scarce in a month knew the night from the day; my hostess i kiss'd, tho' her husband he was by, for while my gold and silver lasted, who but i: i, i, for while my gold and silver lasted, who but i. they said i should marry their dear daughter _kate_, and in token of love i presented her strait: with a chain of gold, and a rich costly head, thus _johnny_, _johnny_, _johnny_ by the nose was lead: lead, lead, thus _johnny_, _johnny_, _johnny_ by the nose was lead. this life i did lead for a month and a day, and then all my glory begun to decay: my money was gone, i quite consum'd my store, my hostess told me in a word, she would not score, score, score, my hostess told me in a word, she would not score. she frown'd like a fury, and _kate_ was coy, a kiss or a smile i no more must enjoy, nay, if that i call'd but for a mug of beer, my hostess she was very deaf and could not hear, hear, hear, my hostess she was very deaf and could not hear. but that which concern'd me more than the rest, my money it was gone, and she'd needs have me prest; aboard of the fleet, then i in a passion flew, and ever since i do abhor the canting crew, crew, crew, and ever since i do abhor the canting crew. now having replenish'd my stock once again, my hostess and daughter i vow to refrain their company quite, and betake my self to a wife, with whom i hope to live a sober life, life, life, with whom i hope to live a sober life. then in came a damsel as fresh as a rose, he gave her a kiss, and began for to close, in courting, and said, canst love an honest tar, who for this six or seven years has travell'd far, far, far, who for this six or seven years has travell'd far. his offer was noble, his guineas was good, and therefore the innocent maid never stood to make a denial, but granted his request, and now she's with a jolly sailor, sailor blest. blest, blest, and now she's with a jolly sailor, sailor blest. cupid's _courtesie._ [music] through the cold shady woods, as i was ranging, i heard the pretty birds, notes sweetly changing: down by the meadow's side, there runs a river a little boy i spy'd with bow and quiver. little boy tell me why thou art here diving? art thou some run-away; and hast no abiding? i am no run-away, _venus_ my mother, she gave me leave to play, when i came hither. little boy go with me, and be my servant, i will take care to see for thy preferment: if i with thee should go, _venus_ would chide me, and take away my bow, and never abide me. little boy let me know, what's thy name termed, that thou dost wear a bow, and go so arm'd: you may perceive the same, with often changing; _cupid_ it is my name, i live by ranging. if _cupid_ be thy name, that shoot at rovers; i have heard of thy fame, by wounded lovers: should any languish that are set on fire; by such a naked brat, i much admire. if thou dost but the least, at my laws grumble; i'll pierce thy stubborn breast, and make thee humble, if i with golden dart, wound thee but surely, there's no physitians art, that e're can cure thee. little boy with thy bow, why dost thou threaten; it is not long ago since thou wast beaten: thy wanton mother, fair _venus_ will chide thee; when all thy arrows are gone, thou may'st go hide thee. of powerful shafts you see, i am well stored; which makes my deity, so much adored: with one poor arrow now, i'll make thee shiver; and bend unto my bow, and fear my quiver. dear little _cupid_ be, courteous and kindly; i know thou can'st not see, but shootest blindly: altho' thou call'st me blind, surely i'll hit thee; that thou shalt quickly find, i'll not forget thee. then little _cupid_ caught, his bow so nimble; and shot a fatal shaft, which made him tremble: go tell thy mistress dear, thou canst discover; what all the passions are, of a dying lover. and now this gallant heart sorely lies bleeding; he felt the greatest smart, from love proceeding; he did her help implore, whom he affected, but found that more and more, him she rejected. for _cupid_ with his craft, quickly had chosen, and with a leaden shaft, her heart had frozen: which caus'd this lover more, daily to languish; and _cupid's_ aid implore, to heal this anguish. he humble pardon crav'd for his offence past; and vow'd himself a slave, and to love stedfast; his prayers so ardent were, whilst his heart panted, that _cupid_ lent an ear, and his suit granted. for by his present plaint, he was regarded; and his adored saint, his love rewarded: and now they live in joy, sweetly embracing, and left the little boy, in the woods chasing. _the duke of_ gloucester's _march, set by dr._ blow. [music] and now, now the duke's march, let the haut-boys play; and his troops in the close, shall huzza, huzza, huzza: and now, now the duke's march, let the haut-boys play; and his troops in the close, shall huzza, huzza, huzza. _a_ song _sung at_ richmond _new wells, the words by_ m. s. _set by mr._ morgan. [music] _aurelia_ now one moment lost, a thousand sighs may after cost; desires may oft return in vain, but youth will ne'er return again: desires may oft return in vain, but youth will ne'er return again. the fragrant sweets which do adorn, the glowing blushes of the morn; by noon are vanish'd all away, then let _aurelia_ live to day. _a_ song _sung by mrs._ prince _in the_ agreeable disappointment. _sett by mr._ john eccles. [music] _chloe_ found love for his _psyche_ in tears, she play'd with his dart, and smil'd at his fears, fears; 'till feeling at length the poison it keeps, _cupid_ he smiles, and _chloe_ she weeps: 'till feeling at length the poison it keeps, _cupid_ he smiles, and _chloe_ she weeps. _cupid_ he smiles, and _chloe_ she weeps. _a_ song. _set by mr._ john barrett. [music] _liberia's_ all my thought and dream, she's all, all, all, she's all, all, all, my pleasure and my pain: _liberia's_ all that i esteem, and all i fear is her disdain, her wit, her humour and her face, please beyond all i felt before: oh! why can't i admire her less, or dear _liberia_, or dear _liberia_ love me more! like stars all other female charms, ne'er touch my heart, but feast my eyes; for she's the only sun that warms, with her alone i'd live and dye: immortal pow'rs whose work divine, inspires my soul with so much love; grant your _liberia_ may be mine, and then, then, then, then, and then, then i share your joys above. _coy_ belinda, _and false_ amindor. [music] coy _belinda_ may discover, love is nothing but a name; 'tis not beauty warms the lover, when he tells her of his flame: but she keeps a greater treasure, binds and bonds inflame his heart; charms that flow with tides of pleasure, more obey'd than _cupid's_ dart. false _amintor_ leave dissembling, tell her plainly you are poor; hence are all your sighs and tremblings, when you talk of your amour: tho' you sigh, and tho' you languish, 'till she gives herself away; then you soon forget your anguish, and _belinda_ must obey. _an amorous address to the charming_ corinna. [music] _corinna_ 'tis you that i love, and love with a passion, a passion so great; that death a less torment would prove, than either your frown or your hate: so soft and prevailing your charms, in vain i should strive to retreat; oh! then let me live in your arms, or dye in despair at your feet. in vain i may pray to love's powers, to ease me and pity my pain; since the heart that i sue for is yours, who all other powers disdain: like a _goddess_ you absolute reign, you alone 'tis can save or kill; to whom else then should i complain, since my fate must depend on your will. _the coy lass dress'd up in her best commode and top-knot._ [music] do not rumple my top-knot, i'll not be kiss'd to day; i'll not be hawl'd and pull'd about, thus on a holy-day: then if your rudeness you don't leave, no more is to be said; see this long pin upon my sleeve, i'll run up to the head: and if you rumple my head gear, i'll give you a good flurt on the ear. come upon a worky-day, when i have my old cloaths on; i shall not be so nice nor coy, nor stand so much upon: then hawl and pull, and do your best, yet i shall gentle be: kiss hand, and mouth, and feel my breast, and tickle to my knee: i won't be put out of my rode, you shall not rumple my commode. _a_ song _in the dramatick_ opera _of_ king arthur. _written by mr._ dryden. [music] fairest isle, all isles excelling, seat of pleasures, and of love; _venus_ here, will chuse her dwelling, and forsake her _cyprian grove_. _cupid_ from his fav'rite nation, care and envy will remove; jealousy that poisons passion, and despair that dies for love. gentle murmurs sweet complaining, sighs that blow the fire of love; soft repulses, kind disdaining, shall be all the pains you prove. every swain shall pay his duty, grateful every nymph shall prove; and as these excel in beauty, those shall be renown'd for love. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd the_ (wives excuse: _or_, cuckolds make themselves.) _sung by mrs._ butler. [music] hang this whining way of wooing, loving was design'd a sport; sighing, talking without doing, makes a sily idol court: don't believe that words can move her, if she be not well inclin'd; she herself must be the lover, to perswade her to be kind: if at last she grants the favour, and consents to be undone; never think your passion gave her, to your wishes, but her own. _a_ song _in the opera call'd the_ (fairy queen,) _sung by mr._ pate. [music] here's the summer sprightly, gay, smiling, wanton, fresh and fair: adorn'd with all the flowers of _may_, whose various sweets perfume the air, adorn'd with all the flowers of _may_, whose various sweets perfume the air. _a_ dog _of_ war: _or, the travels of _drunkard, _the famous curr of the round _woolstaple _in_ westminster. _his services in the_ netherlands, _and lately in _france, _with his return home._ _the_ argument. _an honest, well-knowing, and well-known souldier, (whose name for some reasons i conceal) dwelt lately in _westminster, _in the round woolstaple, he was a man only for action, but such actions as loyalty did always justifie, either for his prince, country, or their dear and near friends or allies, in such noble designs he would and did often with courage and good approvement employ himself in the low-countries, having always with him a little black dog, whom he called_ drunkard; _which curr would (by no means) ever forsake or leave him. but lately in these french wars, the dog being in the isle of_ rhea, _where his master (valiantly fighting) was unfortunately slain, whose death was griev'd for by as many as knew him; and as the corps lay dead, the poor loving masterless dog would not forsake it, until an english souldier pull'd off his masters coat, whom the dog followed to a boat, by which means he came back to_ westminster, _where he now remains. upon whose fidelity, (for the love i owed his deceased master) i have writ these following lines, to express my addiction to the proverb,_ love me and love my dog. to the reader. _reader if you expect_ _from hence_, _an overplus of wit_ _or sence_, _i deal with no such_ _traffique:_ heroicks _and_ iambicks _i_, _my buskinde muse hath_ _laid them by_, _pray be content with_ saphicke. drunkard _the dog my_ _patron is_, _and he doth love me_ _well for this_, _whose love i take for_ _guerdon_; _and he's a dog of_ mars _his train_ _who hath seen men and_ _horses slain_, _the like was never_ _heard on._ drunkard _or the faithful dog of war._ [music] stand clear, my masters 'ware your shins, for now to bark my muse begins, tis of a dog, i write now: yet let me tell you for excuse, that muse or dog, or dog or muse, have no intent to bite now. in doggrel rhimes my lines are writ, as for a dog i thought it fit, and fitting best his carkass. had i been silent as a stoick, or had i writ in verse heroick, then had i been a stark ass. old _homer_ wrote of frogs and mice, and _rabblaies_ wrote of nits and lice, and _virgil_ of a flye: one wrote the treatise of the fox, another prais'd the frenchman's pox, whose praise was but a lye. great _alexander_ had a horse, a famous beast of mighty force yecleap'd _buce-_ _phalus_: he was a stout and sturdy steed, and of an exc'lent race and breed, but that concerns not us. i list not write the baby praise of apes, or owls, or popingeys, or of the cat _grammalkin:_ but of a true and trusty dog, who well could fawn, but never cog, his praise my pen must walk in. and _drunkard_ he is falsely nam'd, for which that vice he ne'er was blam'd, for he loves not god _bacchus_: the kitchin he esteems more dear, than cellars full of wine or beer, which oftentimes doth wreck us. he is no mastiff, huge of lim, or water-spaniel, that can swim, nor blood-hound nor no setter: no bob-tail tyke, or trundle-tayl, nor can he partridge spring or quail, but yet he is much better. no dainty ladies fisting-hound, that lives upon our _britain_ ground, nor mungrel cur or shogh: should litters or whole kennels dare, with honest _drunkard_ to compare, my pen writes, _marry fough_. the otter-hound, the fox-hound, nor the swift foot grey-hound car'd he for, nor _cerberus_ hell's bandogg; his service proves them curs and tikes, and his renown a terror strikes, in water-dog and land-dog. 'gainst brave _buquoy_ or stout _dampiere_, he durst have bark'd without fear, or 'gainst the hot count _tilly_: at _bergen_ leaguer and _bredha_, against the noble _spinola_, he shew'd himself not silly. he serv'd his master at commands, in the most warlike _netherlands_, in _holland_, _zeeland_, _brabant_: he to him still was true and just, and if his fare were but a crust, he patiently would knab on't. he durst t have stood stern _ajax_ frown, when wise _ulysses_ talk'd him down in grave _diebus_ _illis_; when he by cunning prating won the armour from fierce tellamon, that 'longed to _achilles_. brave _drunkard_, oft on god's dear ground, took such poor lodging as he found, in town, field, camp or cottage; his bed but cold, his dyet thin, he oft in that poor case was in, to want both meat and pottage. two rows of teeth for arms he bore, which in his mouth he always wore, which serv'd to fight and feed too: his grumbling for his drum did pass, and barking (lowd) his ordnance was, which help'd in time of need too. his tail his ensign he did make, which he would oft display and shake, fast in his poop uprear'd: his powder hot, but somewhat dank, his shot in (scent) most dangerous rank, which sometimes made him feared. thus hath he long serv'd near and far, well known to be a _dog of war_, though he ne'er shot with musket: yet cannons roar or culverings, that whizzing through the welkin sings, he slighted as a pus-cat. for guns, nor drums, nor trumpets clang. nor hunger, cold, nor many a pang, could make him leave his master: in joy, and in adversity, in plenty, and in poverty, he often was a taster. thus serv'd he on the _belgia_ coast, yet ne'er was heard to brag or boast, of services done by him: he is no pharisee to blow, a trumpet, his good deeds to show, 'tis pity to bely him. at last he home return'd in peace, till wars, and jars, and scars increase 'twixt us, and _france_, in malice: away went he and crost the sea, with's master, to the isle of _rhea_, a good way beyond _callice_. he was so true, so good, so kind, he scorn'd to stay at home behind, and leave his master frustrate; for which could i like _ovid_ write, or else like _virgil_ could indite, i would his praise illustrate. i wish my hands could never stir, but i do love a thankful curr, more than a man ingrateful: and this poor dog's fidelity, may make a thankless knave descry, how much that vice is hateful. for why, of all the faults of men, which they have got from hell's black den, ingratitude the worst is: for treasons, murders, incests, rapes, nor any sin in any shapes, so bad, nor so accurst is. i hope i shall no anger gain, if i do write a word or twain, how this dog was distressed; his master being wounded dead, shot, cut and slash'd, from heel to head, think how he was oppressed. to lose him that he loved most, and be upon a foreign coast, where no man would relieve him: he lick'd his masters wounds in love, and from his carkass would not move, altho' the sight did grieve him. by chance a souldier passing by, that did his masters coat espy, and quick away he took it: but _drunkard_ followed to a boat, to have again his master's coat, such theft he could not brook it. so after all his wo and wrack, to _westminster_ he was brought back, a poor half starved creature; and in remembrance of his cares, upon his back he closely wears a mourning coat by nature. live _drunkard_, sober _drunkard_ live, i know thou no offence wilt give, thou art a harmless dumb thing; and for thy love i'll freely grant, rather than thou shouldst ever want, each day to give thee something. thou shalt be _stellifide_ by me, i'll make the _dog-star_ wait on thee, and in his room i'll seat thee: when _sol_ doth in his progress swing, and in the dog-days hotly sing, he shall not over- heat thee. i lov'd thy master, so did all that knew him, great and small, and he did well deserve it: for he was honest, valiant, good, and one that manhood understood, and did till death preserve it. for whose sake, i'll his dog prefer, and at the dog at _westminster_, shall _drunkard_ be a bencher; where i will set a work his chops, not with bare bones, or broken scraps, but victuals from my trencher. so honest _drunkard_ now adieu, thy praise no longer i'll pursue, but still my love is to thee: and when thy life is gone and spent, these lines shall be thy monument, and shall much service do thee. _a_ song _sung by mrs._ ayliff _in the play call'd_ love triumphant: _or_, nature will prevail, _sett by mr._ henry purcell. [music] how happy's the husband, how happy's the husband, whose wife has been try'd, has been try'd, not damn'd to the bed, not damn'd to the bed of an ignorant bride; secure of what's left, secure of what's left, he ne'er misses the rest, but where there's enough, enough, enough, but where there's enough, supposes a feast: so foreknowing the cheat, he escapes the deceit; and in spight of the curse he resolves, he resolves to be blest. and in spight of the curse he resolves, he resolves to be blest. he resolves to be blest, he resolves, he resolves to be blest. if children are blessings, his comfort's the more, whose spouse has been known to be fruitful before; and the boy that she brings ready made to his hand, may stand him in stead for an heir to his land: shou'd his own prove a sot, when 'tis lawfully got as when e'er it is so, if it won't i'll be hang'd. _a new_ song, _to the tune of the old batchelor._ [music] if ever you mean to be kind, to me the favour, the favour allow; for fear that to morrow should alter my mind, oh! let me now, now, now, if in hand then a guinea you'll give, and swear by this kind embrace; that another to morrow, as you hope to live, oh! then i will strait unlace: for why should we two disagree, since we have, we have opportunity. _a_ song, _set to musick by mr._ will. richardson. [music] i know her false, i know her base, i know that gold alone can move; i know she jilts me to my face, and yet good gods, and yet good gods i know i love. i see too plain and yet am blind, wou'd think her true, while she forsooth; to me and to my rival's kind, courts him, courts me, courts him, courts me, and jilts us both. _a_ scotch song. [music] fye _jockey_ never prattle more so like a _loon_, no rebel e'er shall gar my heart to love: _sawney_ was a loyal _scot_ tho' dead and gone, and _jenny_ in her _daddy's_ way with muckle joy shall move: laugh at the _kirk-apostles_ & the canting swarms, and fight with bonny lads that love their monarchy and king, then _jenny_ fresh and blith shall take thee in her arms, and give thee twanty kisses, and perhaps a better thing. _a_ song _in the_ fairy queen. _sung by mrs._ dyer. [music] i am come to lock all fast, love without me cannot last: love, like counsels of the wise, must be hid from vulgar eyes; 'tis holy, 'tis holy, and we must, we must conceal it, they prophane it, they prophane it, who reveal it, they prophane it, they profane it, who reveal it. _a new_ song, _set to the flute._ [music] after the pangs of fierce desire, the doubts and hopes that wait on love; and feed by turns the raging fire, how charming must fruition prove: when the triumphant lover feels, none of those pains which once he bore; or when reflecting on his ills, he makes his pleasure, pleasure more, he makes his pleasure, pleasure more. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd_ sir anthony love: _or_, the rambling lady, _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] in vain _clemene_, you bestow, the promis'd empire of your heart; if you refuse to let me know, the wealthy charms of every part. my passion with your kindness grew, tho' beauty gave the first desire, but beauty only to pursue, is following a wandring fire. as hills in perspective, suppress, the free enquiry of the sight: restraint makes every pleasure less, and takes from love the full delight. faint kisses may in part supply, those eager longings of my soul; but oh! i'm lost, if you deny, a quick possession of the whole. _a_ song, _set to musick by mr._ graves. [music] my dear _corinna_ give me leave, to gaze, to gaze on her i love; the gods cou'd never, never yet conceive, her worth, tho' from above; there's none on earth can equalize, so sweet, so sweet a soul as she; who ever gains so great a prize, has all, has all that heav'n can be. curse on my fate, who plac'd me here, in a sphere, a sphere, so much below, my love, my life, my all that's dear; and yet she must not know: the torment for her i sustain, shall ill, shall ill rewarded be; when loving, when loving, and not lov'd again, does prove, does prove, a hell to me. _a mock song to_ if love's a sweet passion. [music] if wine be a cordial why does it torment? if a poison oh! tell me whence comes my content? since i drink it with pleasure, why should i complain? or repent ev'ry morn when i know 'tis in vain: yet so charming the glass is, so deep is the quart, that at once it both drowns and enlivens my heart. i take it off briskly and when it is down, by my jolly complexion i make my joy known; but oh! how i'm blest when so strong it does prove, by its soveraign heat to expel that of love: when in quenching the old, i creat a new flame, and am wrapt in such pleasures that still want a name. _the_ loyal _subject's wish. by mrs._ anne morcott. [music] let _mary_ live long, she's vertuous and witty, all charmingly pretty; let _mary_ live long, and reign many years: wou'd the cloud was gone o'er, that troubles us sore, when the sun-shine appears; we shall be deliver'd, we shall be deliver'd, from fury and fears. heavens send the king home, with laurels to crown him, each rebel to own him; and may he live long, and reign many years: when the conquest is plain, and three kingdoms regain'd; let his enemies fall, then _cæsar_ shall flourish, then _cæsar_ shall flourish, in spight of them all. all glorious and gay, let the king live for ever: may he languish never, never: like flowers in _may_, his actions smell sweet: when the wars are all done, and he safe in his throne; trophies lay at his feet, with loud acclamations, with loud acclamations, his majesty greet. _the shepherdess_ lerinda's _complaint, by_ walter overbury, _gent._ [music] _lerinda_ complaineth that _strephon_ is dull, and that nothing diverting proceeds from his skull; but when once _lerinda_ vouchsafes to be kind, to her long admirer she'll then quickly find: such strange alteration as will her confute, that _strephon's_ transported, that _strephon's_ transported, that _strephon's_ transported and grown more acute. _love will find out the way._ [music] over the mountains, and over the waves; over the fountains, and under the graves: over rocks which are steepest, which do _neptune_ obey; over floods which are the deepest, love will find out the way. where there is no place, for the glow-worm to lie: where there is no space, for receipt of a flye: where the gnat she dares not venture, lest her self fast she lay: but if love come he will enter, and will find out the way. you may esteem him a child by his force; or you may deem him a coward, which is worse: but if he whom love doth honour, be conceal'd from the day; set a thousand guards upon him love will find out the way. some think to lose him, which is too unkind; and some do suppose him, poor heart to be blind: but if ne'er so close you wall him, do the best that you may; blind love, if so you call him, will find out the way. well may the eagle stoop down to the fist; or you may inveagle, the phenix of the east: with tears the tyger's moved, to give over his prey; but never stop a lover, he will post on his way. from _dover_ to _barwick_, and nations thro'out; brave _guy_ of _warwick_, that champion stout: with his warlike behaviour, thro' the world he did stray; to win his _phillis's_ favour, love will find out the way. in order next enters, _bevis_ so brave; after adventures, and policy grave: to see whom he desired, his _josian_ so gay, for whom his heart was fired, love found out the way. _the second part, to the same tune._ the gordian knot, which true lovers knit; undo you cannot, nor yet break it: make use of your inventions, their fancies to betray; to frustrate your intentions, love will find out the way. from court to cottage, in bower and in hall; from the king unto the beggar, love conquers all: tho' ne'er so stout and lordly, strive do what you may; yet be you ne'er so hardy, love will find out the way. love hath power over princes, or greatest emperor; in any provinces, such is love's power: there is no resisting, but him to obey; in spight of all contesting, love will find out the way. if that he were hidden, and all men that are; were strictly forbidden, that place to declare: winds that have no abiding, pitying their delay; will come and bring him tydings, and direct him the way. if the earth should part him. he would gallop it o're: if the seas should overthwart him, he would swim to the shore: should his love become a swallow, thro' the air to stray; love would lend wings to follow, and would find out the way. there is no striving, to cross his intent: there is no contriving, his plots to prevent: but if once the message greet him, that his true love doth stay; if death should come and meet him, love will find out the way. _a_ song, _in the play call'd the tragedy of_ cleomenes _the spartan heroe: sung by mrs._ butler, _set by mr._ h. purcell. [music] no, no, poor suffering heart, no change endeavour; chuse to sustain the smart rather than leave her: my ravish'd eyes behold such charms about her, i can dye with her, but not live without her, one tender sigh of her to see me languish: will more than pay the price of my past anguish, beware, oh cruel fair how you smile on me, 'twas a kind look of yours that has undone me. love has in store for me one happy minute, and she will end my pain who did begin it; then no day void of bliss and pleasures leaving, ages shall slide away without perceiving: _cupid_ shall guard the door, the more to please us, and keep out time and death when they would seaze us; time and death shall depart, and say in flying; love has found out a way to live by dying. _the jolly trades-men._ [music] sometimes i am a tapster new, and skilful in my trade sir, i fill my pots most duly, without deceit or froth sir: a spicket of two handfuls long, i use to occupy sir: and when i set a butt abroach, then shall no beer run by sir. sometimes i am a butcher, and then i feel fat ware sir; and if the flank be fleshed well, i take no farther care sir: but in i thrust my slaughtering-knife, up to the haft with speed sir; for all that ever i can do, i cannot make it bleed sir. sometimes i am a baker, and bake both white and brown sir; i have as fine a wrigling-pole, as any is in all this town sir: but if my oven be over-hot, i dare not thrust in it sir; for burning of my wrigling-pole, my skill's not worth a pin sir. sometimes i am a glover, and can do passing well sir; in dressing of a doe-skin, i know i do excel sir: but if by chance a flaw i find, in dressing of the leather; i straightway whip my needle out, and i tack 'em close together. sometimes i am a cook, and in _fleet-street_ i do dwell sir: at the sign of the sugar-loaf, as it is known full well sir: and if a dainty lass comes by, and wants a dainty bit sir; i take four quarters in my arms, and put them on my spit sir. in weavering and in fulling, i have such passing skill sir; and underneath my weavering-beam, there stands a fulling-mill sir: to have good wives displeasure, i would be very loath sir; the water runs so near my hand, it over-thicks my cloath sir. sometimes i am a shoe-maker, and work with silly bones sir: to make my leather soft and moist, i use a pair of stones sir: my lasts for and my lasting sticks, are fit for every size sir; i know the length of lasses feet, by handling of their thighs sir. the tanner's trade i practice, sometimes amongst the rest sir; yet i could never get a hair, of any hide i dress'd sir; for i have been tanning of a hide, this long seven years and more sir; and yet it is as hairy still, as ever it was before sir. sometimes i am a taylor, and work with thread that's strong sir; i have a fine great needle, about two handfulls long sir: the finest sempster in this town, that works by line or leisure; may use my needle at a pinch, and do themselves great pleasure. _the slow men of_ london: _or, the widow_ brown. _to the same tune._ there dwelt a widow in this town, that was both fair and lovely; her face was comely neat and brown, to pleasure she would move thee: her lovely tresses shin'd like gold, most neat is her behaviour; for truth it has of late been told, there's many strove to have her. there were three young men of this town; slow men of _london_; and they'd go wooe the widow _brown_, because they would be undone. the one a taylor was by trade, an excellent occupation; but widows love doth waste and fade, i find by observation: the second was a farrier bold, a man of excellent metal; his love to her was never cold, so firm his thoughts did settle, there were, _&c._ the third a weaver was that came, a suitor to this widow; her beauty did his heart inflame, her thoughts deceit doth shadow, widows can dissemble still, when young men come a wooing; yet they were guided by her will, that prov'd to their undoing. there were three, _&c._ this widow had a dainty tongue, and words as sweet as honey; which made her suitors to her throng, till they had spent their money: the taylor spent an hundred pound, that he took up on credit; but now her knavery he hath found, repents that are he did it. these were three, _&c._ threescore pounds the farrier had, left him by his father; to spend this money he was mad, his dad so long did gather: this widow often did protest, she lov'd him best of any; thus would she swear, when she did least, to make them spend their money. these were three, _&c._ the weaver spent his daily gains, that he got by his labour; some thirty pounds he spent in vain, he borrow'd of his neighbour: she must have sack and muscadine, and claret brew'd with sugar: each day they feed her chops with wine, for which they all might hug her. these were three, _&c._ _the second part, to the same tune._ she went apparell'd neat and fine, people well might wonder; to see how she in gold did shine, her fame abroad did thunder: a water'd camlet gown she had, a scarlet coat belaced with gold, which made her suitors glad, to see how she was graced. these were, _&c._ the taylor was the neatest lad, his cloaths were oft perfum'd; kind entertainment still he had, till he his 'state consum'd: the farrier likewise spent his 'state, the weaver often kiss'd her: but when that they in 'state were poor, they sought but still they miss'd her. these were, _&c._ the farrier and the weaver too, were fain to fly the city: the widow did them quite undoe, in faith more was the pity: she of her suitors being rid, a welchman came unto her: by night and day his suit he ply'd, most roughly he did woo her; for wooing tricks he quite put down, the slow-men of _london_; he over-reach'd the widow _brown_, that had so many undone. he swore he was a gentleman, well landed in the country: and liv'd in reputation there, his name sir _rowland humphry_. the widow did believe him then, and love unto him granted; thus he her favour did obtain, welchmen will not be daunted. by cunning tricks he quite put down, the slow-men of _london_: that came to woo this widow _brown_, because they would be undone. the welchman ply'd her night and day, till to his bow he brought her; and bore away the widow quite, from all that ever sought her: she thought to be a lady gay, but she was sore deceiv'd: thus the welchman did put down, the slow-men of _london_: for they would wooe the widow _brown_, because they would be undone. thus she was fitted in her kind, for all her former knavery; the welchman did deceive her mind, and took down all her bravery: it had been better she had ta'en, the weaver, smith, or taylor; for when she sought for state and pomp, the welchman quite did fail her: then learn you young men of this town, you slow-men of _london_: which way to take the widow _brown_, for least you all be undone. _the royal example. by mr._ henry purcell. [music] may her blest example chace vice, in troops out of the land; flying from her awful face, like trembling ghost when day's at hand: may her hero bring us peace, won with honour in the field: and our home-bred factions cease, he still our sword, and she our shield. _the royal triumph of_ britain's _monarch_. [music] new pyramid's raise, bring the poplar and bayes, to crown our triumphant commander; the _french_ too shall run, as the _irish_ have done, like the _persians_, the _persians_; like the _persians_, the _persians_, like the _persians_ before _alexander_. had the _rubicon_ been, such a stream as the _boyn_, not _cæsar_, not _cæser_ himself had gone on: king _william_ exceeds, great _cæsar_ in deeds, more than he did, more than he did, more than he did, great _pompey_ before. tho' born in a state, fore-told was his fate, that he should be a monarch ador'd: one globe was too small, to contain such a soul, new worlds must submit to his sword. so great and benign, is our sov'reign queen, made to share his empire and bed; may she still fill his arms, with her lovely soft charms, and a race of king _william's_ succeed. _the jolly_ broom-man: _or, the unhappy boy turn'd thrifty._ [music] there was an old man, and he liv'd in a wood, and his trade it was making of broom, and he had a naughty boy, _jack_ to his son, and he lay in bed till 'twas noon, 'twas noon, and he lay in bed till 'twas noon. no father e'er had, so lazy a lad, with sleep he his time did consume, in bed where he lay, still every day, and would not go cut his green broom, green broom, and would not go cut his green broom. the father was vext, and sorely perplext, with passion he entered the room; come sirrah, he cry'd, i'll liquor your hide, if you will not go gather green broom, green broom, if you will not go gather green broom. _jack_ lay in his nest, still taking his rest, and valu'd not what was his doom, but now you shall hear, his mother drew near, and made him go gather green broom, green broom, and made him go gather green broom. _jack's_ mother got up, and fell in a rage, and swore she would fire the room, if _jack_ did not rise, and go to the wood, and fetch home a bundle of broom, green broom, and fetch home a bundle of broom. this wakened him straight, before it was late, as fearing the terrible doom, dear mother, quoth he, have pity on me, i'll fetch home a bundle of broom, green broom, i'll fetch home a bundle of broom. then _jack_ he arose, and he slipt on his cloaths, and away to the wood very soon; to please the old wife, he took a sharp knife, and fell to the cutting of broom, green broom, and fell to the cutting of broom. _jack_ follow'd his trade and readily made, his goods up for country grooms: this done, honest _jack_ took them at his back, and cry'd, will you buy any brooms, green brooms, and cry'd, will you buy any brooms. then _jack_ he came by a gentleman's house, in which was abundance of rooms; he stood at the door, and began for to roar, crying, maids will you buy any brooms, green brooms, crying, maids will you buy any brooms. i tell you they're good, just fetch'd from the wood, and fitted for sweeping of rooms; come handle my ware, for girls i declare, you never had better green brooms, green brooms, you never had better green brooms. the maiden did call, the steward of the hall, who came in his silks and perfumes, he gave _jack_ his price, and thus in a trice, he sold all his bundle of brooms, green brooms, he sold all his bundle of brooms. likewise to conclude, they gave him rich food, with liquor of spicy perfumes; the hot boyl'd and roast, did cause _jack_ to boast, no trade was like making of brooms, green brooms, no trade was like making of brooms. for first i am paid, and then i am made, right welcome by stewards and grooms, here's money, meat and drink, what trade do you think compares with the making of brooms, green brooms, compares with the making of brooms. i have a good trade, more goods must be made, to furnish young lasses and grooms, wherefore i shall lack a prentice, quoth _jack_, i'll teach him the making of brooms, green brooms, i'll teach him the making of brooms. _a_ song, _the words and tune by mr._ witt green. [music] never sigh, but think of kissing, more, and more, and more of wishing; to possess the mighty blessing, while they enjoy it they are true, they'll hug, they'll cling, and heave up too, but liberty when once regain'd, the favour's to another feign'd. why should we then the sex admire, for 'twas never their desire, to maintain a constant fire; if oagling, wheedling you'll believe, they'll hourly study to deceive, but we will find out better ways, in musick, singing, spend our days. _the loyal delights of a contented mind. the words by mr._ mumford, _set by mr._ h. purcell. [music] oh how happy's he, who from business free, can enjoy his mistress, bottle, and his friend: not confin'd to state, nor the pride of the great; only on himself, not others doth depend: change can never vex him, faction ne'er perplex him; if the world goes well, a bumper crowns his joys, if it be not so than he takes of two; till succeeding glasses, thinking doth destroy. when his noddle reels, he to _cælia_ steals; and by pleasures unconfin'd runs o'er the night; in the morning wakes, a pleasing farewel takes, ready for fresh tipling, and for new delight: when his table's full, oh, then he hugs his soul; and drinking all their healths, a welcome doth express: when the cloth's removed, then by all approv'd, comes the full grace cup, queen _anna's_ good success. _a_ riddle. [music] there is a thing which in the light is seldom us'd, but in the night, it serves the maiden female crew, the ladies, and the good wives too: they us'd to take it in their hand, and then it will uprightly stand; and to a hole they it apply, where by it's good will it could dye: it wasts, goes out, and still within, it leaves it's moisture thick and thin. _on a_ lady _drinking the waters, the words by sir_ george etherige. _set by mr._ james hart. [music] _phillis_ lay aside your thinking, youth and beauty shou'd be gay, laugh and talk, and mind your drinking: whilst we pass the time away, laugh and talk, and mind your drinking, whilst we pass the time away. they ought only to be pensive, who dare not their grief declare, lest their story be offensive, but still languish in despair, lest their, _&c._ yet what more torments your lovers, they are jealous, they obey, one whose restless minds discovers, she's no less a slave than they, one whose, _&c._ _the lascivious lover and the coy lass._ [music] pish fye, you're rude sir, i never saw such idle fooling; you're grown so lewd sir, so debauch'd i hate your ways; leave, what are you doing? i see you seek my ruin, i'll cry out, pray make no delay, but take your hand away; ah! good sir, pray sir, don't you do so, never was i thus abus'd so, by any man, but you alone, therefore sir, pray begone. _advice to a miser. set by mr._ james graves. [music] retire old miser, and learn to be wiser, in looking o'er books ne'er spend all thy time; but rather be thinking, of roaring and drinking, for by those to promotion thou'lt speedily climb. then prithee be jolly, desert this thy folly, make welcome thy friends, and ne'er repine; for when thou art hurl'd into the next world, thy heir i'll engage it in splendor will shine. when thy breath is just vanish'd, his care will be banisht, and scarce will he follow thy corps to the grave; then be cautious and wary, for nought but canary, he's a fool that for others himself do's enslave. _a_ song _in the play call'd_, rule a wife and have wife. _set by mr._ henry purcell. _sung by mrs._ hudson. there's not a swain on the plain, wou'd be blest like me, oh! cou'd you but, cou'd you but, cou'd you but, on me smile; but you appear so severe, that trembling with fear, my heart goes pit a pat, pit a pat, pit a pat, all the while. if i cry must i die, you make no reply, but look shy, and with a scornful eye, kill me by your cruelty; oh! can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you, can you, can you be too hard to me. _a_ song _in the play call'd the_ lancashire witches. _sung by mrs._ hudson, _and set by mr._ john eccles. [music] tormenting beauty leave my breast, in spight of _cloe_ i'll have rest; in vain is all her syren art, still longer to hold my troubled heart: for i'm resolv'd to break the chain, and o'er her charms the conquest gain, and o'er her charms the conquest gain. insulting beauty i have born, too long your female pride and scorn; too long have been your publick jest, your common theme at ev'ry feast: let others thee, vain fair, pursue, whilst i for ever bid adieu, whilst i for ever bid adieu. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd_, the wives excuse: _or_, cuckolds make themselves. _sung by mr._ mountford. _set by mr._ henry purcell. say cruel _amoret_, how long, how long, in billet-doux, and humble song; shall poor _alexis_, shall poor _alexis_, poor _alexis_ wooe? if neither writing, sighing, sighing, dying, reduce you to a soft complying, oh, oh, oh, oh, when will you come too. full thirteen moons are now past o'er, since first those stars i did adore, that set my heart on fire: the conscious play-house, parks and court, have seen my sufferings made your sport, yet i am ne'er the nigher. a faithful lover shou'd deserve, a better face, than thus to starve: in sight of such a feast; but oh! if you'll not think it fit, your hungry slave shou'd taste on bit; gives some kind looks at least. _the double lover's request._ [music] such command o'er my fate has your love or your hate, that nothing can make me more wretched or great: whilst expiring i lie, to live or to die, thus doubtful the sentence of such i rely: your tongue bids me go, tho' your eyes say not so, but much kinder words from their language do flow. then leave me not here, thus between hope and fear, tho' your love cannot come, let your pity appear; but this my request, you must grant me at least, and more i'll not ask, but to you leave the rest; if my fate i must meet, let it be at your feet, death there with more joy, than else-where i wou'd greet. _a_ song, _set by mr._ rob. king. [music] tell me why so long you try me, still i follow, still you fly me; will the race be never done, will it be ever but begun: could i quit my love for you, i'd ne'er love more what e'er i do; when i speak truth, you think i lie, you think me false, but say not why. _a_ song, _set by mr._ barincloe. tis a foolish mistake, that riches can speak, or e'er for good rhetoric pass: to a fool i confess, your gold may address, or else where the master's an ass: to a woman of sense, 'tis a sordid pretence, that a golden effigies can move her; no face on the coin, is half so divine, as that of a faithful young lover. but men when they love, their passion to prove, from the court to the dull country novice; to the fair they're so kind, first to fathom their mind, next search the prerogative office: no _imprimis_ i give, then the fair one they give, notwithstanding their strong protestations; till the lady discover, no fortune, no lover, then draws off her fond inclination, _the valiant_ soldier's, _and_ sailor's _loyal subjects health, to the_ queen, prince _and noble_ commanders. [music] now, now the queen's health, and let the haut-boys play; whilst the troops on their march shall huzza, huzza, huzza, now now the queen's health, and let the haut-boys play, whilst the drums and the trumpets, sound from the shore, huzza, huzza, huzza. now now the prince's health, and let the haut-boys play, whilst the troops on their march, shall huzza, huzza, huzza: now now the prince's health, and let the haut-boys play; whilst the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore huzza, huzza, huzza. now the brave _eugene's_ health, who shews the _french_ brave play; and does march over rocks, let's huzza, huzza, huzza, now the brave _eugene's_ health, and let the haut-boys play; whilst the drums and the trumpets sounds as they march, huzza, huzza, huzza. now now the duke's health, brave _marlborough_ i say, whilst the cannon do roar, let's huzza, huzza, huzza, now now the duke's health, and let the haut-boys play; whilst the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore, huzza, huzza, huzza. now brave _ormond's_ health boys, whilst colours do display: and the _britains_ in fight, shall huzza, huzza, huzza; now brave _ormond's_ health boys, whilst colours do display: and the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore huzza, huzza, huzza. now sir _cloudsly's_ health boys and trumpets sound each day, whilst the tars with their caps shall huzza, huzza, huzza. now sir _cloudsly's_ health boys, and trumpets sound each day, whilst the thundring cannon loudly do roar huzza, huzza, huzza. brave _peterborough's_ health boys, who boldly makes his way, while the _french_ run let's huzza, huzza, huzza; brave _peterborough's_ health boys, and let the haut-boys play, while the drums and the trumpets sound as they march huzza, huzza, huzza. now now brave _leak's_ health, who is sailed away, for to find the _french_ fleet let's huzzza, huzza, huzza, now now brave _leak's_ health, who'll shew the _french_ fair play, while the drums and the trumpets, sound from on board, huzza, huzza, huzza. _the_ beau's _ballad. occasioned by the sight of a white marble_ side-table. [music] a pox on the fool, who could be so dull, to contrive such a table for glasses: which at the first sight, the guests must affright, more by half than their liquor rejoyces. 'tis so like a tomb, that whoever does come can't look on't without thus reflecting; heaven knows how soon, we must lye under one, and such thoughts must needs be perplexing. then away with that stone. break it, throw it down, to some church or other, else fling't in: 'tis fitter by far, to have a place there, than stand here to spoil mirth and good drinking. there death let it show, to those who will go, and monuments there gaze and stare at; we come here to live, and sad thoughts away drive, with good store of immortal claret. tho' the glasses stand there, they shan't do so here, 'tis the only kind lesson that teaches; whilst it seems to say, life's short, drink away, no time o'er your liquor to preach is. then fill up the glass, about let it pass, tho' the marble of death doth remind us; the wine shall ne'er die, tho' you must and i, we'll not leave a drop of't behind us. _a_ song. [music] underneath the castle wall, the queen of love sat mourning, tearing of her golden locks, her red rose, cheeks adorning; with her lilly white hand she smote her breasts, and said she was forsaken, with that the mountains they did skip, and the hills fell all a quaking. underneath the rotten hedge, the tinkers wife sat shiting, tearing of a cabbage leaf, her shitten a-- a wiping; with her cole black hands she scratch'd her a-- and swore she was beshitten, with that the pedlars all did skip, and the fidlers fell a spitting. _the unfortunate lover. set by mr._ willis. [music] what shall i do, i am undone, where shall i fly my self to shun; ah! me my self, my self must kill, and yet i die against my will. in starry letters i behold, my death is in the heavens inroll'd, there find i writ in skies above, that i, poor i, must die for love. 'twas not my love deserv'd to die, oh no, it was unworthy i; i for her love should not have dy'd, but that i had no worth beside. ah me! that love such woe procures, for without her no life endures; i for her virtues did her serve, doth such a love a death deserve. _a_ song. [music] my dear and only love take heed, how thou thy self expose; and let not longing lovers feed, upon such looks as those i'll marble wall thee round about, and build without a door; but if my love doth once break out, i'll never love thee more. if thou hast love that thou refine, and tho' thou seest me not; yet paralell'd that heart of thine shall never be forgot: but if unconstancy admit, a stranger to bear sway; my treasure that proves counterfeit, and he may gain the day. i'll lock my self within a cell, and wander under ground; for there is no such faith in her, as there is to be found: i'll curse the day that e'er thy face, my soul did so betray; and so for ever, evermore, i'll sing oh well-a-day! like _alexander_ i will prove, for i will reign alone; i'll have no partners in my love, nor rivals in my throne: i'll do by thee as _nero_ did, when _rome_ was set on fire; not only all relief forbid, but to the hills retire. i'll fold my arms like ensigns up, thy falshood to deplore; and after such a bitter cup, i'll never love thee more. yet for the love i bore thee once, and lest that love should die; a marble tomb of stone i'll write, the truth to testifie: that all the pilgrims passing by, may see and so implore; and stay and read the reason why, i'll never love thee more. _the second part of the trader's medly: or, the cries of_ london. [music] come buy my greens and flowers fine, your houses to adorn; i'll grind your knives, to please your wives, and bravely cut your corns: ripe straw-berries here i have to sell, with taffity-tarts and pies; i've brooms to sell will please you well, if you'll believe your eyes. here's salop brought from foreign parts, with dainty pudding-pyes; and shrewsbury-cakes, with wardens bak'd, i scorn to tell you lies: with laces long and ribbons broad, the best that e'er you see; if you do lack an almanack, come buy it now of me. the tinker's come to stop your holes, and sauder all your cracks; what e'er you think here's dainty ink, and choice of sealing-wax: come maids bring out your kitchin-stuff, old rags, or women's hair; i'll sell you pins for coney-skins, come buy my earthen-ware. here's limmons of the biggest size, with eggs and butter too; brave news they say is come to day, if _jones's_ news be true: here's spiggot and fine wooden-wares, with fossets to put in; i'll bottom all your broken chairs, then pray let me begin. a rabbit fat and plump i have, young maidens love the same; come buy a bird, i'm at a word, or pullet of the game: i sell the best spice ginger-bread, you ever did eat before; while madam _king_ her dumplings, she crys from door to door. come buy a comb, or buckle fine, for girdle of your lass; my oysters too are very new, with trumpet sounding glass: your lanthorn-horns i'll make them shine, and mend them very well; there's no jack-line so good as mine, as i have here to sell. come buy my honey and my book, for cuckolds to peruse; your turnip-man is come again, to tell his dames some news: i've plumbs and damsons very fine, with very good mellow pears; come buy a charming dish of fish, and give it to your heirs. come buy my figs, before they're gone, here's custards of the best; and mustard too, that's very new, tho' you may think i jest: my holland-socks are very strong, here's eels to skip and play; my hot grey-pease buy if you please, for i come no more to day. old suits or cloaks, or campaign wigs, with rusty guns or swords: when whores or pimps do buy my shrimps, i never take their words: your chimney clean my boy shall sweep, while i do him command; card matches cheap by lump or heap, the best in all the land. come taste and buy my brandy-wine, 'tis newly come from _france_: this powder now is good i vow, which i have got by chance; new mackerel the best i have, of any in the town; here's cloath to sell will please you well, as soft as any down. work for the cooper, maids give ear, i'll hoop your tubs and pails: and if your sight it is not right, here's that that never fails: milk that is new come from the cow, with flounders fresh and fair; here's elder-buds to purge your bloods, and onions keen and rare. small-coal young maids i've brought you here, the best that e'er you us'd; here's cherries round and very sound, if they are not abus'd; here's pippings lately come from _kent_, pray taste and then you'll buy; but mind my song, and then e'er long, you'll sing it as well as i. _the lover's_ charm. [music] tell me, tell me, charming fair, why so cruel and severe; is't not you, ah! you alone, is't not you, ah! you alone, secures my wandering heart your own: change, which once the most did please, now wants the power to give me ease; you've fixt me as the centure sure, and you who kill alone can cure, and you who kill alone can cure. if refusing what was granted, be to raise my passion higher; nymph believe me, i ne'er wanted, art for to inflame desire: calm my thoughts, serene my mind, still increasing was my joy, till _lavinia_ prov'd unkind, nothing could my peace destroy. _a_ song _in the_ royal mischief. _set by mr._ john eccles. _sung by mr._ leveridge. [music] unguarded lies the wishing maid, distrusting not to be betray'd; ready to fall with all her charms, a shining treasure to your arms: who hears this story must believe, no heart can truer joy receive; since to take love and give it too, is all that love for hearts can do. _a ligg of good noses set forth in a jest. most fitly compared to whom you think best._ [music: _first nose._] [music: _cho. of all._] [music: _ n._, _ d._ _ d._ _ th._] [music: _all shake hands._] _the largest._ my nose is the largest of all in this place, mark how it becometh the midst of my face; by measure i take it from the end to the brow, four inches by compass, the same doth allow. likewise it is forged of passing good metal, all of right copper, the best in the kettle; for redness and goodness the virtue is such, that all other metal it serveth to touch. old smug, nor the tinker that made us so merry, with their brave noses more red than a cherry; none here to my challenge can make a denial, when my nose cometh thus bravely to tryal. _all sing._ room for good noses the best in our town, come fill the pot hostess, your ale it is brown; for his nose, and thy nose, and mine shall not quarrel, so long as one gallon remains in the barrel. _the longest._ my nose is the longest no man can deny, for 'tis a just handful right, mark from mine eye; most seemly down hanging full low to my chin, as into my belly it fain would look in. it serves for a weapon my mouth to defend, my teeth it preserveth still like a good friend; where if so i happen to fall on the ground, my nose takes the burthen and keeps my face sound. it likewise delighteth to peep in the cup, searching there deeply 'till all be drank up; then let my nose challenge of noses the best, the longest with ladies are still in request. _all sing._ room for, _&c._ _the thickest._ my nose it is thickest and roundest of all, inriched with rubies the great with the small; no goldsmith of jewels can make the like show, see how they are planted here all on a row. how like a round bottle it also doth hang, well stuffed with liquor will make it cry twang; with all, it is sweating in the midst of the cold, more worth to the honour than ransoms of gold. you see it is gilded with claret and sack, a food and fit cloathing for belly and back: then let my nose challenge of all that be here, to sit at this table as chiefest in cheer. _all sing._ room for, _&c._ _the second part._ _we have the best noses that be in our town, if any bring better come let him sit down._ _the flatest._ my nose is the flatest of all that be here, devoid of all danger and bodily fear; when other long noses let fly at a post, my nose hath the advantage, well known to my host. for 'tis of the making of _dunstable_ way, plain without turning as travellers say, though no nose but approveth to some disgrace, it bringeth less trouble unto a good face. then let me do homage to them that have best, for all nose and no nose, are both but a jest; yet my nose shall challenge although it be flat, a place with my neighbours at whiping the cat. _all sing._ room for good noses the best in our town, come fill the pot hostess, your ale it is brown: for his nose, and thy nose, and mine shall not quarrel, so long as one gallon remains in the barrel. _the sharpest._ my nose is the sharpest good neighbours mark well, the smoak of a banquet three mile i can smell; forged and shaped so sharp at the end, makes known that i pass not what others do spend. yet must my nose spiced most orderly be, with nutmegs and ginger, or else 'tis not for me; and so to the bottom the same i commit, of every man's cup whereas i do sit. my nose is the foremost you see at each feast, of all other noses the principal guest: then let my nose challenge as sharp as it shows, the chiefest of every good and bad nose. _all sing._ room for, _&c._ _the broadest._ my nose is the broadest how like you sir, that, it feeds on good liquor and grows very fat; for like to a panack it covers my face, to make other noses the more in disgrace. and look how it glisters like copper-smith's hall, to which our good noses are summoned all; when if that the colours hold out not good red, a fine must be levied and set on their head. for having the broadest and fairest to the eye, the sergeant of noses appointed am i; then let my nose challenge the chiefest from the rest, of all other noses the broadest is best. _all sing._ room for good noses the best in our town, come fill the pot hostess, your ale it is brown; for his nose, and thy nose, and mine shall not quarrel, so long as one gallon remains in the barrel. _the_ ludgate _prisoners._ [music] noble king _lud_, full long hast thou stood, not framed of wood, but of stone of stone sure thou art, like our creditors heart, that regards not our sorrowful moan. within the gate, they cry at the grate, pray remember our fate and shew pity; the poor and distress'd, who in bonds are oppress'd, entreat the relief of the city in threadbare coats, we tear our throats, with pitiful notes that would move all creatures, but brutes, to give ear to our suits, and themselves like true christians approve. but in vain we cry, with a box hanging by, good sirs cast an eye on our case; no beau nor town mistress, are touched with our distress, but hold up their nose at the place. the lawyer jogs on, without looking upon th' afflicted, whose moans he gives being; nor thinks on us cits, but breviates and writs, and demurrs on exorbitant feeing, the _serjeants_ and _yeomen_, who seek to undo men, though good-men and true-men ne'er mind us; but rejoyce they get, by our being in debt, and that where they have brought us, they find us. the merchant alone, makes our sorrows his own, and allows there is none but may fail; since that is free, by losses at sea, may be immurr'd in a gaol. his purse and his board, with plenty are stor'd, due relief to afford to the needy; while the priest in his coach, joggs on to debauch, to cloath us or feed us too greedy. others go by, and hearing our cry, they cast up their eye in disdain; affirming that we, if once get free, should quickly be prisoners again, but let 'em take heed, that reproach us indeed, and thus at our need go by grinning; since it is so man, that there is no man, knows his end, that may know his beginning. _room for gentlemen._ [music] room for gentlemen, here comes a company, room for gentlemen, here comes my lord-mayor; you barons, you knights, and also you 'squires, give room for gentlemen, here comes my lord mayor. first comes the worshipful company, of gallant _mercers_ into this place; with their worthy caps of maintenance, upon their shoulders to their great grace: side by side do they go as you see here, _room for_, &c. next to them here comes the _grocers_, a company of gallants bold; who willingly do give attendance, as all the people may behold: in their gowns and their caps with gallant cheer. room for, _&c._ then the _drapers_ they come next, with their streamers flying so fair; and their trumpets sounding most loudly, attending still upon my lord mayor: their whifflers, their batchelors, and all they have there, give room, _&c._ then comes the company of gallant _fishmongers_, attending his lordship's coming here; as duty bindeth they do still wait, until his lordship doth appear: then they rise, and go with lusty cheer, with loving hearts before the lord mayor. the _goldsmiths_ they are next to them, a braver company there cannot be; all in their liveries going most bravely, and colours spread most gallantly: they do wait, they attend, and then they stay there, until the coming of my lord mayor. the _merchant-taylors_ now they come in, a company both stout and bold; most willing to perform their duties, scorning of any to be controul'd: in their gowns and their caps, and ancient affairs, all attend, _&c._ the _haberdashers_ a company be, of gentlemen both grave and wise; to all good orders they do agree, for the city's good they still devise: they set to their helping as you may hear, still to the comfort of city and mayor. the _skinners_ they a company be, as gallant men as be the rest; their duties they perform truly, as honestly as do the best: their antients, then drums, then trumpets be there, attending still, _&c._ truly the _salters_ a company grave, of understanding be good and wise; and to perform all godly orders, within the city they devise: when occasion doth serve they present themselves there, with all the company, _&c._ the _iron-mongers_ a company be, who know their duties every one; and willingly they do obey, and wait his lordship still upon: from the morning they rise they still do stay there, until the departing of, _&c._ the company of worthy _vintners_, his lordship still do wait upon; with all their furniture along most gallantly, in order they go every one: until the companys do appear, and then they go before, _&c._ a company there is of worthy _cloth-workers_, who wait and give attendance still: when his lordship hath any occasion, they ready are to obey his will; for fear any service should be wanting there, they will present themselves before the lord mayor. god bless our king and counsel all, and all his true subjects in this land; and cut down all those false hereticks, that would the gospel still withstand: god prosper this city, and all that are here, and i wish you to say god bless my lord-mayor. _the batchelor's choice._ [music] i fain wou'd find a passing good wife, that i may live merry all days of my life, but that i do fear much sorrow and strife, then i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. if i should marry a maid that is fair, with her round cherry cheeks and her flaxen hair, many close meetings i must forbear, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry a maid that is foul, the best of my pleasure will be but a scoul. she'll sit in a corner like to an owl, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. if i should marry a maid that's a slut, my diet a dressing abroad i must put, for fear of distempers to trouble my gut, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. if i should marry a maid that's a fool, to learn her more wit i must put her to school, or else fool-hardy keep in good rule, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry a maid that's a scold, my freedom at home is evermore sold, her mouth is too little her tongue for to hold, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that's a whore, i must keep open for her my back door, and so a kind wittal be called therefore, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry a maid that is proud, she'll look for much more than can be allow'd, no wife of that making i'll have i have vow'd, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry a maid that is meek, the rule of my household i might go seek, for such a kind soul i care not a leek, and i'll, _&c._ i would have a wife to come at a call, too fat, nor too lean, too low, nor too tall, but such a good wife as may please all, else i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, else i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. _the second part._ if i should go seek the whole world about, to find a kind and loving wife out, that labour were lost, i am in great doubt, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. if i marry with one that is young, with a false heart and flattering tongue, sorrow and care may be my song, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is old, i never should have the pleasures i would, but arm full of bones frozen with cold, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is poor, by me my best friends will set little store and so go a begging from door to door, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is rich, she'll ever upbraid me she brought me too much, and make me her drudge, but i'll have none such, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is blind, all for to seek and worse for to find, i then should have nothing to please my mind, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is dumb, how could she welcome my friends that come, for her best language is to say mum, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. if i should marry with one that is deaf, hard of belief, and jealous 'till death, to the jawm of a chimney spend i my breath, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is fine, she will spend all in ale and in wine, spend she her own, she shall not spend mine, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is tall, i having but little she would have it all, then will i live single, whate'er it befal, and i'll, _&c._ for when i am married i must be glad, to please my wife though never so bad, then farewel the joys that lately i had, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. _maids that will not when you may, when you would, you shall have nay._ _the power of verse._ [music] tho' thou'rt ugly and old, a damn'd slut and a scold, yet if you will tip me a guinea; by the help of my rhimes, to the latest of times, thou shalt have thy adorers dear _jenny_. we bards have a knack, to turn white into black, and make vice seem vertue, which odd is; true poetical cant, dubbs a rebel a saint, and refines a jilt into a goddess. these trick rhiming sages, observ'd in all ages, to dress naked truth in a fable; and tho' ev'ry story, out-did purgatory, they still were believ'd by the rabble. pray what was _acteon_, whom dogs made a prey on, but a sportsman undone by his chasing; or the fam'd _diomede_, of whom his nags fled, but a jockey quite ruin'd by racing? _medæa_, 'tis sung, could make old women young. tho' she nought but a true waiting-maid is; who with comb of black lead, with paint white and red, with patch and wash, vamps up grey ladies. _vulcan_ left the bellows, and sooty left good fellows, that he might take of _nectar_ a cann full; _venus_ was a gay trull, to the cuckoldly fool, _mars_ a bully that beat on her anvil. _neptune_ was a tarpawling, and _ph[oe]bus_ by calling, a mountebank, wizard, and harper; jolly _bacchus_ a lad, of the wine-drawing trade, and _mercury_ a pimp and a sharper. _pallas_ was a stale maid, with a grim _gorgon's_ head, whose ugliness made her the chaster, a scold great was _juno_, as i know, or you know, and _jove_ was as great a whore-master. then prithee dear creature, now show thy good nature, this once be my female _mac[oe]nas_; and times yet unknown, my _jenny_ shall own, chast as _pallas_, but fairer than _venus_. _the bonny lass: or, the button'd_ smock. [music] sit you merry gallants, for i can tell you news, of a fashion call'd the button'd smock, the which our wenches use: because that in the city, in troth it is great pity; our gallants hold it much in scorn. they should put down the city: but is not this a bouncing wench, and is not this a bonny; in troth she wears a _holland_ smock, if that she weareth any. a bonny lass in a country town, unto her commendation; she scorns a _holland_ smock, made after the old fashion: but she will have it _holland_ fine, as fine as may be wore; hem'd and stitch'd with _naples_ silk, and button'd down before: but is not, _&c._ our gallants of the city, new fashions do devise; and wear such new found fangle things, which country folk despise: as for the button'd smock, none can hold it in scorn; nor none can think the fashion ill, it is so closely worn: although it may be felt, it's seldom to be seen; it passeth all the fashions yet, that heretofore hath been. but is not, _&c._ our wenches of the city, that gains the silver rare; sometimes they wear a canvass smock, that's torn or worn thread-bare: perhaps a smock of lockrum, that dirty, foul, or black: or else a smock of canvass course, as hard as any sack. but is not, _&c._ but she that wears the _holland_ smock, i commend her still that did it; to wear her under parts so fine, the more 'tis for her credit: for some will have the out-side fine, to make the braver show; but she will have her _holland_ smock that's button'd down below. but is not, _&c._ but if that i should take in hand, her person to commend; i should vouchsafe a long discourse, the which i could not end: for her vertues they are many, her person likewise such; but only in particular, some part of them i'll touch. but is not, _&c._ those fools that still are doing, with none but costly dames; with tediousness of wooing, makes cold their hottest flames: give me the country lass, that trips it o'er the field; and ope's her forest at the first. and is not coy to yield. who when she dons her vesture, she makes the spring her glass; and with her comely gesture, doth all the meadows pass: who knows no other cunning, but when she feels it come; to gripe your back, if you be slack, and thrust your weapon home. 'tis not their boasting humour, their painted looks nor state; nor smells of the perfumer, the creature doth create: shall make me unto these, such slavish service owe; give me the wench that freely takes, and freely doth bestow. who far from all beguiling, doth not her beauty mask; but all the while lye smiling, while you are at your task: who in the midst of pleasure, will beyond active strain; and for your pranks, will con you thanks, and cursey for your pain. _a_ song. _set by mr._ ackeroyd. z----ds madam return me my heart, or by the lord _harry_ i'll make ye; tho' you sleep when i talk of my smart, as i hope to be knighted i'll wake ye; if you rant, why by _jove_, then i'll rant as well as you; there's no body cares for your puffing, you're mistaken in me; nay prithee, prithee, prithee pish, we'll try who's the best at a huffing. but if you will your heart surrender, and confess yourself uncivil; 'tis probable i may grow tender, and recal what i purpos'd of evil, but if you persist in rigour, 'tis a thousand to one but i teeze you; for you'll find so much heat and such vigour, as may trouble you forsooth or please you. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd_ the maid's last prayer: _or_, any thing rather than fail. [music] tho' you make no return to my passion, still, still i presume to adore; 'tis in love but an odd reputation, when faintly repuls'd to give o'er: when you talk of your duty, i gaze at your beauty; nor mind the dull maxim at all, let it reign in _cheapside_, with the citizens bride: it will ne'er be receiv'd, it will ne'er, ne'er, it will ne'er be receiv'd at _white-hall_. what apochryphal tales are you told, by one who wou'd make you believe; that because of _to have_ and _to hold_, you still must be pinn'd to his sleeve: 'twere apparent high-treason, 'gainst love and 'gainst reason, shou'd one such a treasure engross; he who knows not the joys, that attend such a choice, shou'd resign to another that does. _the cruel fair requited, written by_ j. r. _set by mr._ james hart. [music] when wit and beauty meet in one, that acts an amorous part; what nymph its mighty power can shun, or 'scape a wounded heart: those potent, wondrous potent charms, where-e'er they bless a swain; he needs not sleep with empty arms, he needs not sleep with empty arms, nor dread severe disdain. _astrea_ saw the shepherds bleed, regardless of their pain; unmov'd she hear'd their oaten reed, they dance and sung in vain; at length _amintor_ did appear, that miracle of man; he pleas'd her eyes and charm'd her ear, he pleas'd her eyes and charm'd her ear, she lov'd and call'd him pan. but he as tho' design'd by fate, revenger of the harms, which others suffer'd from her hate, rifl'd and left her charms; then nymphs no longer keep in pain, a plain well-meaning heart; lest you shou'd joyn for such disdain, lest you shou'd joyn for such disdain, in poor _astrea's_ smart. _a_ song, _sung at the_ theatre-royal, _in the play call'd_ alphonso _king of_ naples. _set by mr._ eagles. [music] when _sylvia_ was kind, and love play'd in her eyes, we thought it no morning till _sylvia_ did rise; of _sylvia_ the hills and the vallies all rang, for she was the subject of every song. but now, oh how little her glories do move, that us'd to inflame us, with raptures of love; thy rigour, oh _sylvia_, will shorten thy reign, and make our bright goddess a mortal again. love heightens our joys, he's the ease of our care, a spur to the valiant, a crown to the fair; oh seize his soft wings then before 'tis too late, or cruelty quickly will hasten thy fate. 'tis kindness, my _sylvia_, 'tis kindness alone, will add to thy lovers, and strengthen thy throne; in love, as in empire, tyrannical sway, will make loyal subjects forget to obey. _the_ shepherd's _complaint. set by mr._ williams. [music] what, love a crime, inhumane fair? repeal that rash decree, as well may pious anthems bear; the name of blasphemy: 'tis bleeding hearts and weeping eyes, uphold your sexes pride; nor could you longer tyrannize, my fetters laid aside. then from your haughty vision wake, and listen to my moan; tho' you refuse me for my sake, yet pity for your own; for know proud shepherdess you owe, the victim you despise, more to the strictness of my vow, than glories of your eyes. _a_ song _in the_ opera _call'd_ the fairy queen. _sung by mrs._ butler. _set by mr._ h. purcell. [music] when i have often heard young maids complaining, that when men promise most they most deceive; then i thought none of them worthy my gaining. and what they swore i would never believe: but when so humbly one made his addresses, with looks so soft, and with language so kind, i thought it a sin to refuse his caresses, nature o'ercame, and i soon chang'd my mind. should he employ all his arts in deceiving, stretch his invention, and quite crack his brain, i find such charms, such true joys in believing, i'll have the pleasure, let him have the pain: if he proves perjur'd, i shall not be cheated, he may deceive himself, but never me; 'tis what i look for, and shan't be defeated, for i'm as false, and inconstant as he. _a_ song. _the words and tune by mr._ edward keen. _sung by mrs._ willis, _in the play call'd_ the heiress: _or_, the salamanca doctor. [music] _cÆlia's_ bright beauty all others transcend, like lovers sprightly goddess she's flippant and gay; her rival admirers in crouds do attend, to her their devoirs and addresses to pay: pert gaudy coxcombs the fair one adore, grave dons of the law and quere prigs of the gown; close misers who brood o'er their treasure in store, and heroes for plundring of modern renown, but men of plunder can ne'er get her under, and misers all women despise, she baulks the pert fops in the midst of their hopes, and laughs at the grave and precise. next she's caress'd by a musical crew, shrill singing and fidling, beaus warbles o'th' flute, and poets whom poverty still will pursue, that's a just cause for rejecting their suit: impudent fluters the nymph does abhor, and lovers with fiddle at neck she disdains; for these thought to have her for whistling for, they courting with guts shew'd defect in their brains. and to the pretender to make her surrender, by singing no favour she'll show; for she'll not make choice of a shrill capons voice, for a politick reason you know. _a_ song. [music: the king is gone to _oxon_ town, with all his might and main a; the nobles they attending on, with all their gallant train a: the may'r of the town in his furr gown, gave the king such a thing, the like was never seen; _a pair of gloves, i say a pair of gloves_, made of the stags good leather: _a pair of gloves i say, a pair of gloves_, to keep his hands from the weather; nay, some do say they gave him gold, _that's a lye, then said i_, as soon as i heard it told; for why shou'd they go give their gold away, to him that has so much of his own a?] _a_ song _in_ love's a jest. _set by mr._ john eccles. _sung by mrs._ hudson. [music] mortal's learn your lives to measure, not by length of time, but pleasure; now the hours invite comply, whilst you idly pass they flye: blest whilst a nimble pace they keep, but in torment, in torment when they creep. mortals learn your lives to measure, not by length of time, but pleasure; soon your spring must have a fall, losing youth is losing all; then you'll ask, but none will give, and may linger, but not live. _a_ song, _in the play call'd_ self-conceit: _or_, the mother made a property. _set by mr._ john eccles. _sung by mrs._ bowman. [music] oh! the mighty pow'r of love, what art against such force can move; the harmless swain is ever blest, beneath some silent, shady grove; until some nymph invade his breast, and disapprove his eager love. oh! the mighty power of love, what art against such force can move; the greatest hero who in arms, has gain'd a thousand victories: submits to _cælia's_ brighter charms, and dreads a killing from her eyes. _a_ song, _sung by mrs._ hudson, _in the play call'd_ love triumphant: _or_, nature will prevail. _set by mr._ john eccles. what state of life can be so blest, as love that warms a lover's breast; two souls in one the same desire, to grant the bliss and to require: but if in heaven a hell we find, 'tis all from thee, oh jealousy! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! jealousy, thou tyrant, tyrant jealousy, thou tyrant, jealousy, oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! jealousy, oh! oh! oh! jealousy, thou tyrant of the mind. all other ills tho' sharp they prove, serve to refine and sweeten love; in absence or unkind disdain, sweet hope relieves the lovers pain: but oh! no cure but death we find, to set us free from jealousy, oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! _&c._ false in thy glass all objects are, some set too near, and some too far; thou art the fire of endless night, the fire that burns and gives no light, all torments of the damn'd we find, in only thee, oh jealousy! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! _&c._ _a_ scotch song. _set by mr._ robert cox. [music] when _jockey_ first i saw, my soul was charm'd, to see the bonny lad so blith, so blith and gay; my heart did beat it being alarm'd, that i to _jockey_ nought, nought could say: at last i courage took and passion quite forsook, and told the bonny lad his charms i felt; he then did smile with a pleasing look, and told me _jenny_ in his arms, his arms should melt. _a song. sung by mrs._ temple. _set by mr._ j. clark. [music] i seek no more to shady coverts, _jockey's_ eyn are all my joy; beauty's there i ken, that cannot, must not, shall not, steal away: what wou'd _jockey_ now do to me, surely you're to me unkind; ise ne'er see you, nay you fly me, yet are ne'er from out my mind. tell me why 'tis thus you use me, take me quickly to your arms; where in blisses blithly basking, each may rival others charms: oh but fye, my _jockey_ pray now, what d'ye, do not, let me go; o i vow you will undoe me, what to do i do not know. _a_ song. _set by mr._ phill. hart. [music] tho' i love and she knows it, she cares not, she regards not my passion at all; but to tell me she hates me she spares not, as often as on her i call: 'tis her pleasure to see me in pain, 'tis her pain to grant my desire; then if ever i love her again, may i never, never, never, never, may i never, be free from love's fire. mirtillo. _a_ song. _set by mr._ tho. clark. [music] _mirtillo_, whilst you patch your face, by nature form'd so fair, we know each spot conceals a grace, and wish, and wish to see it bare: but since our wish you've gratifi'd, we find, we find, 'twas rashly made, and that those spots were but to hide, to hide excess of lustre laid: and that those spots were but to hide, to hide excess of lustre laid. _the rambling_ rake. [music] having spent all my coin, upon women and wine, i went to the c----h out of spite; but what the priest said, is quite out of my head, i resolv'd not to edify by't. while he open'd his text, i was plaguily vext, to see such a sly canting crew, of _satan's_ disciples, with p----r books and b----s, enough to have made a man spew. all the women i view'd, both religious and lewd, from the sable top-knots to the scarlets; but a wager i'll lay, that at a full play, the house does not swarm so with harlots. lady _f----_ there sits, almost out of her wits, 'twixt lust and devotion debating; she's as vicious as fair, and has more business there, than to hear mr. _tickle-text's_ prating. madam _l----l_ saw, with her daughters-in-law, whom she offers to sale ev'ry sunday; in the midst of her prayers, she'll negociate affairs, and make assignations for monday. next a lady much fam'd, therefore must not be nam'd, 'cause she'll give you no trouble in teaching; she has a very fine book, but does ne'er in it look, nor regard neither praying nor preaching. there's a _baronet's_ daughter, her own mother taught her, by precept and practical notion; that to wear gaudy cloaths, and to ogle the beaus, was at church two sure signs of devotion. from the corner o' th' square, comes a hopeful young pair, religious as they see occasion; but if patches and paint, be true signs of a saint, we've no reason to doubt their damnation. when the sermon was done, he blest ev'ry one, and they like good christians retir'd; tho' they view'd ev'ry face, each head and each dress, yet each one her self most admir'd. i had view'd all the rest, but the parson had blest, with his benediction the people; so i ran to the crown, least the church should fall down, and beat out my brains with the steeple. _the_ airy _old woman_. [music] you guess by my wither'd face, and eyes no longer shining; that i can't dance with a grace, nor keep my pipes from whining: yet i am still gay and bold, to be otherwise were a folly; methinks my blood is grown cold, i'll warm it then thus and be jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, _&c._ methinks my blood is grown cold, grown cold, grown cold, grown cold, _&c._ i'll warm it then thus and be jolly. i find by the slighting beau's, that nature is declining; yet will i not knit my brows, nor end my days in pining: let other dames fret and scold, as they pass to the stygian ferry; you see, though i am grown old, my temper is youthful and merry, merry, merry, merry, merry, _&c._ you see though i am grown old, grown old, grown old, grown old, _&c._ my temper is youthful and merry. _a_ song _set by mr._ anthony young. [music] i try'd in parks and plays to find, an object to appease my mind; but still in vain it does appear, since fair _hyrtuilia_ is not there: in vain alass i hope for ease, since none but she alone can please. _a_ song; _the words by captain_ danvers, _set by mr._ t. willis. [music] forgive me _cloe_ if i dare your conduct disapprove; the gods have made you wond'rous fair, not to disdain, but love; those nice pernicious forms despise, that cheat you of your bliss; let love instruct you to be wise, whilst youth and beauty is. too late you will repent the time, you lose by your disdain; the slaves you scorn now in your prime, you'll ne'er retrieve again: but when those charms shall once decay, and lovers disappear; despair and envy shall repay, your being now severe. _a_ song _in the_ rival sisters, _set by mr._ henry purcell, _sung by miss_ cross. [music] how happy, how happy is she, how happy, how happy is she, that early, that early her passion begins, and willing, and willing with love to agree, does not stay till she comes to her teens: then, then she's all pure and chast, then, then she's all pure and chast, like angels her smiles to be priz'd; pleasure is seen cherub fac'd, and nature appears, and nature appears undisguis'd. from twenty to thirty, and then set up for a lover in vain; by that time we study how men, may be wrack'd with neglect and disdain: love dwells where we meet with desire, desire which nature has given: she's a fool then that feeling the fire, begins not to warm at eleven. _the three merry travellers, who paid their shot wherever they came, without ever a stiver of money._ [music] there was three travellers, travellers three, _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down derry_, and they would go travel the _north_ country, _without ever a stiver of money_. they travelled _east_, and they travelled _west_, _with a hey down_, &c. wherever they came still they drank of the best, _without ever_, &c. at length by good fortune they came to an inn, _with a hey down_, &c. and they were as merry as e'er they had been, _without ever_, &c. a jolly young widdow did smiling appear, _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down derry_, who drest them a banquet of delicate cheer, _without ever a penny of money_. both chicken and sparrow-grass she did provide, _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down derry_, you're welcome kind gentlemen, welcome she cry'd, _without ever a stiver of money_. they called for liquor, both beer, ale, and wine, _with a hey down_, &c. and every thing that was curious and fine, _without ever_, &c. they drank to their hostess a merry full bowl, _with a hey down_, &c. she pledg'd them in love, like a generous soul, _without ever_, &c. the hostess, her maid, and cousin all three, _with a hey down_, &c. they kist and was merry, as merry cou'd be, _without ever_, &c. full bottles and glasses replenish'd the board, _with a hey down_, &c. no liquors was wanting the house could afford, _without ever_, &c. when they had been merry good part of the day, _with a hey down_, &c. they called their hostess to know what's to pay, _without ever_, &c. there's thirty good shillings, and six pence, she cry'd, _with a hey down_, &c. they told her that she should be soon satisfy'd, _without ever_, &c. the handsomest man of the three up he got; _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down derry_, he laid her on her back, and paid her the shot, _without ever a stiver of money_. the middlemost man to her cousin he went, _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down derry_, she being handsome, he gave her content, _without ever a stiver of money_. the last man of all he took up with the maid, _with a hey down_, &c. and thus the whole shot it was lovingly paid, _without ever_, &c. the hostess, the cousin, and servant, we find, _with a hey down_, &c. made courtesies, and thank'd them for being so kind, _without ever_, &c. the hostess said, welcome kind gentleman all, _with a hey down_, &c. if you chance to come this way be pleased to call, _without ever_, &c. then taking their leaves they went merrily out, _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down, derry_, and they're gone for to travel the nation about, _without ever a stiver of money_. _the maids_ conjuring _book_. [music] a young man lately in our town, he went to bed one night; he had no sooner lay'd him down, but was troubled with a sprite: so vigorously the spirit stood, let him do what he can, sure then he said it must be lay'd, by woman, not by man. a handsome maid did undertake, and into bed she leap'd; and to allay the spirits power, full close to him she crep'd: she having such a guardian care, her office to discharge; she open'd wide her conjuring book, and lay'd the leaves at large. her office she did well perform, within a little space; then up she rose, and down he lay, and durst not shew his face; she took her leave, and away she went, when she had done the deed; saying, if't chance to come again, then send for me with speed. _a_ song. [music] all joy to mortals, joy and mirth, eternal _io's_ sing; the gods of love descend to earth, their darts have lost their sting. the youth shall now complain no more, on _sylvia's_ needless scorn; but she shall love if he adore, and melt when he shall burn. the nymph no longer shall be shy, but leave the jilting road; and _daphne_ now no more shall fly, the wounded painted god. but all shall be serene and fair, no sad complaints of love, shall fill the gentle whispering air, no ecchoing sighs, the grove. beneath the shades young _strephon_ lies, of all his wish possess'd; gazing on _sylvia's_ charming eyes, whose soul is there confess'd. all soft and sweet the maid appears, with looks that know no art; and though she yields with trembling fears, she yields with all her heart. _the_ presbyters _gill_. [music] hang the presbyters gill, bring a pint of sack, _will_, more orthodox of the two; though a slender dispute, will strike the elf mute, he's one of the honester crew. in a pint there's small heart, sirrah, bring us a quart, there's substance and vigour met; 'twill hold us in play, some part of the day, but we'll sink him before sun-set. the daring old pottle, does now bid us battle, let's try what his strength can do; keep your ranks, and your files, and for all his wiles, we'll tumble him down stairs too. the stout brested _lombard_, his brains ne'er incumbred, with drinking of gallons three; _trycongius_ was named, and by _cæsar_ famed, who dubbed him knight cap-a-pee. if then honour be in't, why a pox should be stint, our selves of the fulness it bears? h'has less wit than an ape in the blood of a grape, will not plunge himself o'er head and ears. then summon the gallon, a stout foe, and a tall one, and likely to hold us to't; keep but coyn in your purse, the word is disburse, i'll warrant he'll sleep at your foot. see the bold foe appears, may he fall that him fears, keep you but close order, and then, we will give him the rout, be he never so stout, and prepare for his rallying agen. let's drain the whole cellar, pipes, buts, and the dweller, if the wine floats not the faster; _will_, when thou do'st slack us, by warrant from _bacchus_, we will cane thy tun-belly'd master. _the good_ fellow. [music] a pox on the times, let 'em go as they will, tho' the taxes are grown so heavy; our hearts are our own, and shall be so still, drink about, my boys, and be merry: let no man despair, but drive away care, and drown all our sorrow in claret; we'll never repine, so they give us good wine, let 'em take all our dross, we can spare it. we value not chink, unless to buy drink, or purchase us innocent pleasure; when 'tis gone we ne'er fret, so we liquor can get, for mirth of it self is a treasure: no miser can be, so happy as we, tho' compass'd with riches he wallow; day and night he's in fear, and ne'er without care, while nothing disturbs the good fellow. come fill up the glass, and about let it pass, for nature doth vacuums decline! down the spruce formal ass, that's afraid of his face, we'll drink 'till our noses do _ph[oe]bus_ out-shine: while we've plenty of this, we can ne'er do amiss, 'tis an antidote 'gainst our ruin; and the lad that drinks most, with honour may boast, he fears neither death, nor undoing. _the jovial_ prisoner, _by_ s. p. [music] a pox on such fools! let the scoundrels rail, let 'em boast of their liberty; they're no freer than we, for the world's a jayl, and all men prisoners be. the drunkard's confin'd to his claret, the miser to his store; the wit to his muse and a garret, and the cully-cit to his whore. the parson's confin'd to his piggs, the lawyer to hatred and strife; the fidler to's borees and jiggs, and the quack to his glister-pipe. the church-man's confin'd to be civil, the quaker's a prisoner too light; the papist is bound by the devil, and the puritan's fetter'd with spite. since old _adam's_ race are all prisoners like us, let us merrily quaff and sing; z----s why shou'd we pine for liberty thus, when we're each of's as free as a king. _a_ song. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] _phillis_, i can ne'er forgive it, nor i think, shall e're out-live it; thus to treat me so severely, who have always lov'd sincerely. _damon_, you so fondly cherish, whilst poor i, alass! may perish; i that love, which he did never, me you slight, and him you favour. love given over: _being a young lady's reply to her parents, who would have forc'd her to marry one she had an aversion against._ [music] as cupid many ages past, went out to take the air; and on the rosy morning feast, he met _ophelia_ there. a while he gaz'd, a while survey'd her shape and every part; but as his eyes run o'er the maid, hers reach'd his little heart. his quiver straight and bow he took, and bent it for a flight; and then by chance she cast a look, which spoil'd his purpose quite. disarm'd he knew not what to do, nor how to crown his love; at last resolv'd, away he flew, another shape to prove. a lustful satyr straight return'd, in hopes his form wou'd take: for many nymphs for them have burn'd, burn'd 'cause they could not speak. _ophelia_ had no sooner spy'd, his godship, goat and man; but loudly for assistance cry'd, and fleetly homeward ran. perplex'd at her affright, but more at's own defeat, he shook the monster off; then fled before, and straight man's aspect took. he smil'd, intreated, ly'd, and vow'd, nay, offer'd her a sum; and grew importunate and rude, as she drew nearer home. at last when tears, nor ought cou'd move, he thus bespoke the fair; know cruel maid, i'm god of love, and can command despair. yet dame to sue, oh! bless me then, as you regard your ease; for i am king of gods and men, i give and banish peace. or be thou love, or be thou hate, enrag'd _ophelia_ swore; i'll never change my virgin state, nor ever see thee more. exploded love resisted so, in pity to mankind; his arrows broke, and burnt his bow, and left his name behind. _a_ song. [music] lay by your pleading, the law lies a bleeding, burn all your studies down, and throw away your reading; small power the world has, and doth afford us, not half so many privileges as the sword does; it fosters our masters, it plaisters disasters, and makes the servants quickly greater than their masters; it ventures, it enters, it circles, it centres, and sets a prentice free despite of his indenters. this takes up all things, and sets up small things, this masters money, tho' money masters all things. it's not in season, to talk of reason, or count it loyalty, when the sword will have it treason: this conquers a crown too, the cloak and the gown too, this sets up a presbyter, and this doth pull him down too; this subtile deceiver, turn'd bonnet into beaver, down drops a bishop, and up steps a weaver. it's this makes a lay-man, to preach and to pray man, and this made a lord of him, which was before a drayman; for from this dull-pit, of _saxbey's_ pulpit, this brought a holy iron-monger to the pulpit: no gospel can guide it, no law can decide it, no church or state can debate it, 'till the sword hath sanctify'd it; such pitiful things be, happier than kings be, this brought in the heraldry of _thimblesby_ and _slingsby_. down goes the law-trix, for from this matrix, sprang holy _hewson's_ power, and tumbl'd down st. _patrick's_. it batter'd the gun-kirk, so did it the dum-kirk, that he is fled and gone to the devil in _dunkirk_; in _scotland_ this waster, did work such disaster, this brought the money back for which they sold their master: this frighted the _flemming_, and made him so beseeming, that he doth never think of his lost lands redeeming. but he that can tower, over him that is lower, would be counted but a fool to give away his power: take books and rent them, who would invent them, when as the sword replys _negatur argumentur_: the grand college butlers, must vail to the sutlers, there's not a library like to the cutlers; the blood that is spilt, sir, hath gain'd all the guilt, sir, thus have you seen me run the sword up to the hilt, sir. _queen_ dido. [music] when _dido_ was a _carthage_ queen, she lov'd a _trojan_ knight; who sail'd about from coast to coast, of metal brave in fight: as they hunting rid, a shower, did on their heads with fury pour, drove 'em to a lonely cave, where _Æneas_ with his charms, caught fair _dido_ in his arms, and got what he would have. then _dido hymen's_ rites forgot, her love was won in hast; her honour she consider'd not, but in her breast him plac'd; now when their loves were just began, great _jove_ sent down his winged son, to fright _Æneas'_ sleep: make him by the break of day, from queen _dido_ steal away, which caus'd her wail and weep. poor _dido_ wept, but what of that? the gods would have it so; _Æneas_ nothing did amiss, when he was forc'd to go: cease lovers, cease your vows to keep, with your true loves, but let 'em weep, 'tis folly to be true; let this comfort serve your turn, that tho' wretched _dido's_ mourn, you'll daily court anew. _false_ phillis, _set by mr._ james hart. [music] since _phillis_ swears inconstancy, then i'll e'en do so too; i careless am as well as she, she values not her vow. to sigh, to languish, and protest, let feeble fops approve; the women's way i like the best, enjoyment is their love. when i my _phillis_ do embrace, there's none can happier be; but when she's gone, the next fair face, is _phillis_ then to me. i find her absence cools desire, as well as her disdain; when hope denys to feed my fire, despair shall ease my pain. _a_ song. [music] blush not redder than the morning, though the virgins give you warning; sigh not at the chance befel you, though they smile, and dare not tell you; _sigh not at_, &c. maids like turtles, love the cooing, bill and murmur in their wooing; thus like you they start and tremble, and their troubled joys dissemble: _thus like you_, &c. grasp the pleasure while 'tis coming, though your beauty's now a blooming; lest old time our joys should sever, ah! ah! they part, they part for ever: _lest old time_, &c. _the power of_ beauty. [music] in a flowry myrtle _grove_, the solitary scene of love, on beds of vi'lets, all the day, the charming _floriana_ lay; the little _cupids_ hover'd in the air, they peep'd and smil'd, and thought their mother there. _ph[oe]bus_ delay'd his course a while, charm'd with the spell of such a smile, whilst weary _plough-men_ curs'd the stay, of the too _uxorious_ day: the little _cupids_ hover'd in the air, they peep'd and smil'd, and thought their mother there. but thus the _nymph_ began to chide, "that eye, you owe the world beside, you fix on me", then with a frown she sent her drooping lover down; with modest blushes from the _grove_ she fled, painting the evening with unusual red. _the_ hunt. [music] some in the town go betimes to the _downs_, to pursue the fearful hare; some in the dark love to hunt in a _park_, for to chace all the deer that are there: some love to see the faulcon to flee, with a joyful rise against the air; but all my delight is a cunny in the night, when she turns up her silver hair. when she is beset, with a bow, gun, or net, and finding no shelter for to cover her; she falls down flat, or in a tuft does squat, 'till she lets the hunter get over her: with her breast she does butt, and she bubs up her scut, when the bullets fly close by her ear; she strives not to escape, but she mumps like an ape, and she turns up, _&c._ the ferret he goes in, through flaggs thick and thin, whilst mettle pursueth his chace; the cunny she shows play, and in the best of her way, like a cat she does spit in his face: tho' she lies in the dust, she fears not his nest, with her full bound up sir, career; with the strength that she shows, she gapes at the nose, and she turns up, _&c._ the sport is so good, that in town or in wood, in a hedge, or a ditch you may do it; in kitchen or in hall, in a barn or in a stall, or wherever you please you may go to it: so pleasing it is that you can hardly miss, of so rich game in all our shire; for they love so to play, that by night or by day, they will turn up their silver hair. bridal _night. to the foregoing tune._ come from the temple, away to the bed, as the merchant transports home his treasure; be not so coy lady, since we are wed, 'tis no sin to taste of the pleasure: then come let us be blith, merry and free, upon my life all the waiters are gone; and 'tis so, that they know where you go, say not so, for i mean to make bold with my own. what is it to me, if our hands joyned be, if our bodies are still kept asunder: it shall not be said, there goes a married maid, indeed we will have no such wonder: therefore let's embrace, there's none sees thy face, the bride-maids that waited are gone; none can spy how you lye, ne'er deny, but say ay, for i mean to make bold with my own. sweet love do not frown, but pull off thy gown, 'tis a garment unfit for the night; some say that black, hath a relishing smack, i had rather be dealing with white: then be not afraid, for you are not betray'd, since we two are together alone; i invite you this night, to do me right in my delight, for i mean to make bold with my own. then come let us kiss, and tast of our bliss, which brave lords and ladies enjoy'd; if all maids should be of the humour of thee, generations would soon be destroy'd: then where were the joys, the girls and the boys, would'st live in the world all alone; don't destroy, but enjoy, seem not coy for a toy, for indeed i'll make bold with my own. prithee begin, don't delay but unpin, for my humour i cannot prevent it; you are so streight lac'd, and your top-knot so fast, undo it, or i straitway will rent it: or to end all the strife, i'll cut it with a knife, 'tis too long to stay 'till it's undone; let thy wast be unlac'd, and in hast be embrac'd, for i long to make bold with my own. as thou art fair, and sweeter than the air, that dallies on _july's_ brave roses; now let me be to thy garden a key, that the flowers of virgins incloses: and i will not be too rough unto thee, for my nature to mildness is prone; do no less than undress, and unlace all apace, for this night i'll make bold with my own. _a toping_ song. [music] i am a jolly toper, i am a raged soph, known by the pimples in my face, with taking bumpers off, and a toping we will go, we'll go, we'll go, and a toping we will go. come let's sit down together, and take our fill of beer, away with all disputes, for we'll have no wrangling here, and a toping, _&c._ with clouds of tobacco we'll make our noddles clear, we'll be as great as princes, when our heads are full of beer, and a toping, _&c._ with juggs, muggs, and pitchers, and bellarmines of stale, dash'd lightly with a little, a very little ale, and a toping, _&c._ a fig for the _spaniard_, and for the king of _france_, and heaven preserve our juggs, and muggs, and q----n from all mischance, and a toping, _&c._ against the presbyterians, pray give me leave to rail, who ne'er had thirsted for kings blood, had they been drunk with stale, and a toping, _&c._ and against the low-church saints, who slily play their part, who rail at the dissenters, yet love them in their heart, and a toping, _&c._ here's a health to the queen, let's bumpers take in hand, and may prince _g----'s_ roger grow stiff again and stand, and a toping, _&c._ oh how we toss about the never-failing cann, we drink and piss, and piss and drink, and drink to piss again and a toping, _&c._ oh that my belly it were a tun of stall, my cock were turn'd into a tap, to run when i did call, and a toping, _&c._ of all sorts of topers, a soph is far the best, for 'till he can neither go nor stand, by _jove_ he's ne'er at rest, and a toping, _&c._ we fear no wind or weather, when good liquor dwells within, and since a soph does live so well, then who would be a king, and a toping, _&c._ then dead drunk we'll march boys, and reel into our tombs, that jollier sophs (if such their be) may come and take our rooms, sir and a toping may they go, _&c._ _sir_ john johnson's _farewell, by_ jo. hains. [music] all christians that have ears to hear, and hearts inclin'd to pity; some of you all bestow one tear, upon my mournful ditty: in _queen-street_ did an heiress live, whose downfall when i sing; 'twill make the very stones to grieve, god prosper long our king. for her a _scotish_ knight did die, was ever the like seen; i shame to tell place, how, or why, and so god bless the queen: some say indeed she swore a rape, but god knows who was wrong'd; for he that did it did escape, and he did not was hang'd. some say another thing beside, if true? it was a vice; that _campbell_ when she was his bride, did trouble her but thrice: 'twas this the young girls choler mov'd, and in a rage she swore; e'er she'd be a wife but three times lov'd, she'd sooner be a whore. but don't you pity now her case, was forc'd to send for surgeon, to show the man that very place, where once she was a virgin. parents take warning by her fall, when girls are in their teens; to marry them soon, or they will all, know what the business means. for girls like nuts (excuse my rhimes) at bottom growing brown; if you don't gather them betimes, will of themselves fall down: god bless king _william_, and queen _mary_, and plenty and peace advance; and hang up those wish the contrary, and then a fig for _france_. _a_ song, _set by mr._ king. banish my _lydia_ these sad thoughts, why sets thou musing so; to hear the ugly rail at faults, they wou'd, they wou'd, but cannot do: for let the guilt be what it will. so small, so small account they bear; that none yet thought it worth their while, on such, on such to be severe, on such, on such to be severe. with far more reason thou may'st pine, thy self for being fair; for hadst thou but less glorious been, thou of no faults wou'dst hear: so the great light that shines from far, has had its spots set down; while many a little useless star, has not been tax'd with one. _a_ song. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] love's pow'r in my heart shall find no compliance, i'll stand to my guard, and bid open defiance: to arms i will muster my reason and senses, _ta ra ra ra, ta ra ra ra_, a war now commences. keep, keep a strict watch, and observe ev'ry motion, your care to his cunning exactly proportion; fall on, he gives ground, let him never recover, _victoria! victoria!_ the battle is over. _a_ song. _set by mr._ james hart. [music] honest shepher'd, since you're poor, think of loving me no more, take advice in time, give o're your solicitations: nature does in vain dispense, to your vertue, courage, sense, wealth can only influence, a woman's inclinations. what fond nymph can e'er be kind, to a swain, but rich in mind, if as well she does not find gold within his coffers? gold alone does scorn remove, gold alone incites to love, gold can most perswasive prove, and make the fairest offers. _the_ shepherd's _wooing of fair_ dulcina. [music] as at noon _dulcina_ rested, in her sweet and shady bow'r, came a shepherd and requested, in her lap to sleep an hour; but from her look a wound he took, so deep that for a further boon, the swain he prays, whereto she says, forgo me now, come to me soon. but in vain she did conjure him, for to leave her presence so; having a thousand means to allure him, and but one to let him go: where lips invite, and eyes delight, and cheeks as fresh as rose in _june_, perswades to stay, what boot to say, forgo me now, come to me soon. words whose hoops have now injoyned, him to let _dulcina_ sleep; could a man's love be confined, or a maid her promise keep? no, for her wast he held her fast, as she was constant to her tune; and she speaks, for _cupid's_ sake forgo me, _&c._ he demands what time and leisure, can there be more fit than now; she says men may say their pleasure, yet i of it do not allow: the sun's clear light shineth more bright, quoth he, more fairer than the moon: for her to praise, she loves, she says, forgo me, _&c._ but no promise, nor profession, from his hands could purchase scope; who would sell the sweet possession, of such beauty for a hope; or for the sight of lingring night, forgo the pleasant joys of noon, tho' none so fair, her speeches were, forgo me, _&c._ now at last agreed these lovers, she was fair, and he was young, if you'll believe me i will tell you, true love fixed lasteth long: he said my dear and only phear, bright ph[oe]bus beams out-shin'd the moon; _dulcina_ prays, and to him says, forgo me now, come to me soon. _the second part._ day was spent and night approached, _venus_ fair was lovers friend, she intreated bright _apollo_, that his steeds their race should end: he could not say the goddess nay, but granted love's fair queen her boon; the shepherd came to his fair dame, forgo me now, come to me soon. sweet (he said) as i did promise, i am now return'd again; long delay you know breeds danger, and to lovers breadeth pain: the nymph said then, above all men, still welcome shepherd morn and noon, the shepherd prays, _dulcina_ says, shepherd i doubt thou'rt come too soon. when that bright _aurora_ blushed, came the shepherd to his dear; pretty birds most sweetly warbled, and the noon approached near: yet still away the nymph did say, the shepherd he fell in a swoon; at length she said, be not afraid, forgo me, _&c._ with grief of heart the shepherd hasted up the mountains to his flocks; then he took a reed and piped, eccho sounded thro' the rocks: thus did he play, and wish'd the day, were spent, and night were come e'er noon; the silent night, love's delight, i'll go to fair _dulcina_ soon. beauties darling, fair _dulcina_, like to _venus_ for her love, spent away the day in passion, mourning like the turtle-dove: melodiously, notes low and high, she warbled forth this doleful tune; oh come again sweet shepherd swain, thou can'st not be with us too soon. when as _thetis_ in her place, had receiv'd the prince of light; came in _coridon_ the shepherd, to his love and heart's delight: then _pan_ did play, the wood-nymphs they did skip and dance to hear the tune; _hymen_ did say 'tis holy-day, forgo me now, come to me soon. _the scolding wife._ [music] suppose a man does all he can, to unslave himself from a scolding wife; he can't get out, but hops about, like a marry'd bird in the cage of life: she on mischief bent is ne'er content, which makes the poor man cry out, rigid fate, marriage state, no reprieve but the grave, oh 'tis hard condition. come i'll tell you how this wife to bow, and quickly bring her to her last; your senses please, indulge your ease, but resist no joy and each humour taste, then let her squal, and tear and bawl, and with whining cry her eyes out, take a flask, double flask, whip it up, sip it up, that's your physician. _a_ song. [music] we merry wives of _windsor_, whereof you make your play, and act us on your stages, in _london_ day by day: alass it doth not hurt us, we care not what you do; for all you scoff, we'll sing and laugh, and yet be honest too. alass we are good fellows, we hate dishonesty; we are not like your city dames, in sport of venery: we scorn to punk, or to be drunk, but this we dare to do; to sit and chat, laugh and be fat, but yet be honest too. but should you know we _windsor_ dames, are free from haughty pride: and hate the tricks you wenches have, in _london_ and _bankside_: but we can spend, and money lend, and more than that we'll do, we'll sit and chat, laugh and be fat, and yet be honest too. it grieves us much to see your wants, of things that we have store, in forests wide and parks beside, and other places more: pray do not scorn the _windsor_ horn, that is both fair and new; altho' you scold, we'll sing and laugh, and yet be honest too. and now farewel unto you all, we have no more to say; be sure you imitate us right, in acting of your play: if that you miss, we'll at you hiss, as others us'd to do; and at you scoff, and sing and laugh, and yet be honest too. _the_ battle-royal. [music] a dean and prebendary, had once a new vagary, and were at doubtful strife sir, who led the better life sir, and was the better man: the dean he said that truly, since bluff was so unruly, he'd prove it to his face, sir, that he had the more grace, sir, and so the fight began. when preb. reply'd like thunder, and roar'd out, 'twas no wonder, for gods the dean had three, sir, and more by two than he, sir, since he had got but one; now while these two were raging, and in disputes engaging, the master of the charter, said both had got a tartar, for gods that there were none. for all the books of _moses_, were nothing but supposes, and he deserv'd rebuke, sir, who wrote the pentateuch, sir, 'twas nothing but a sham; and as for father _adam_, with mrs. _eve_ his madam, and what the serpent spoke, sir, was nothing but a joke, sir, and well invented flam. thus in this battle royal, as none would take denial, the dame for which they strove, sir, could neither of them love, sir, for all had giv'n offence; she therefore slily waiting, left all three fools a prating, and being in a fright, sir, religion took her flight, sir, and ne'er was heard on since. _the saint turn'd sinner, or the dissenting parson's text under the_ quaker's _petticoats. to the foregoing tune._ you friends to reformation, give ear to my relation, for i shall now declare, sir, before you are aware, sir, the matter very plain, the matter very plain; a gospel cushion thumper, who dearly lov'd a bumper, and something else beside, sir, if he is not bely'd, sir, this was a holy guide, sir, for the dissenting train. and for to tell you truly, his flesh was so unruly, he could not for his life, sir, pass by the draper's wife, sir, the spirit was so faint, _&c._ this jolly handsome quaker, as he did overtake her, she made his mouth to water, and thought long to be at her, such sin is no great matter, accounted by a saint. says he _my pretty creature_, _your charming handsome feature_, _has set me all on fire_, _you know what i desire_, _there is no harm to love_; quoth she if that's your notion, to preach up such devotion, such hopeful guides as you, sir, will half the world undo, sir, a halter is your due, sir, if you such tricks approve. the parson still more eager, than lustful _turk_ or _neger_, took up her lower garment, and said there was no harm in't, according to the text; for _solomon_ more wiser, than any dull adviser, had many hundred misses, to crown his royal wishes, and why shou'd such as this is, make you so sadly vext. the frighted female quaker, perceiv'd what he would make her, was forc'd to call the watch in, and stop what he was hatching, to spoil the light within, _&c._ they came to her assistance, and she did make resistance, against the priest and devil, the actors of all evil, who were so grand uncivil, to tempt a saint to sin. the parson then confounded, to see himself surrounded, with mob and sturdy watch-men, whose business 'tis to catch men, in lewdness with a punk, _&c._ he made some faint excuses, and all to hide abuses, in taking up the linnen, against the saints opinion, within her soft dominion, alledging he was drunk. but tho' he feigned reeling, they made him pay for feeling, and lugg'd him to a prison, to bring him to his reason, which he had lost before; and thus we see how preachers, that should be gospel-teachers, how they are strangely blinded, and are so fleshly minded, like carnal men inclined, to lye with any whore. _a_ song. _set by mr._ damascene. beauty, like kingdoms not for one, was made to be possest alone; by bounteous nature 'twas design'd, to be the joy of human-kind. so the bright planet of the day, doth unconfin'd his beams display; and generous heat to all dispence, which else would dye without that influence. nor is your mighty empire less, on you depends man's happiness; if you but frown, we cease to be, and only live by your decree. but sure a tyrant cannot rest, nor harbour in so fair a breast; in monsters cruelty we find, an angel's face, must have an angel's mind. _the_ ballad _of the true_ trojan. [music: _troy_ had a breed of brave stout men, yet _greece_ made shift to rout her; cause each man drank as much as ten, and thence grew ten times stouter: tho' _hector_ was a _trojan_ true as ever pist 'gain wall sir, _achilles_ bang'd him black and blue, for he drank more than all sir, for he drank more, for he drank more, for he drank more than all sir, for he drank more, for he drank more, for he drank more than all sir.] let _bacchus_ be our god of war, we shall fear nothing then boys; we'll drink all dead, and lay 'em to bed, and if they wake not conquered, we'll drink 'em dead again boys: nor were the _grecians_ only fam'd, for drinking and for fighting; for he that drank and wan't asham'd, was ne'er asham'd on's writing. he that will be a souldier then, or wit, must drink good liquor; it makes base cowards fight like men, and roving thoughts fly quicker: let _bacchus_ be both god of war, and god of wit, and then boys, we'll drink and fight, and drink and write, and if the sun set with his light, we'll drink him up again boys. _young_ strephon _and_ phillis. [music] young _strephon_ and _phillis_, they sat on a hill; but the shepherd was wanton, and wou'd not sit still: his head on her bosom, and arms round her wast; he hugg'd her, and kiss'd her, and clasp'd her so fast: 'till playing and jumbling, at last they fell tumbling; and down they got 'em, but oh! they fell soft on the grass at the bottom. as the shepherdess tumbled, the rude wind got in, and blew up her cloaths, and her smock to her chin: the shepherd he saw the bright _venus_, he swore, for he knew her own dove, by the feathers she wore: 'till furious love sallying, at last he fell dallying, and down, down he got him, but oh! oh how sweet, and how soft at the bottom. the shepherdess blushing, to think what she'd done; away from the shepherd, she fain wou'd have run: which _strephon_ perceiving, the wand'rer did seize; and cry'd do be angry, fair nymph if you please: 'tis too late to be cruel, thy frowns my dear jewel, now no more stings have got 'em, for oh! thou'rt all kind, and all soft at the bottom. _the yielding_ lass. [music] there's none so pretty, as my sweet _betty_, she bears away the bell; for sweetness and neatness, and all compleatness, all other girls doth excell. whenever we meet, she'll lovingly greet, me still, with a how d'ye do; well i thank you, quoth i, then she will reply, so am i sir, the better for you. then i ask'd her how, she told me, not now, for walls, and ears, and eyes; nay, she bid me take heed, what ever i did, 'tis good to be merry and wise. i took her by th' hand, she did not withstand, and i gave her a smirking kiss; she gave me another, just like the tother, quoth i, what a comfort is this? this put me in heart, to play o'er my part, that i had intended before; she bid me to hold, and not be too bold, until she had fastned the door. she went to the hatch, to see that the latch, and cranies were all cock-sure; and when she had done, she bid me come on, for now we were both secure. and what we did there, i dare not declare, but think that silence is best; and if you will know, why i kiss'd her, or so, i'll leave you to guess at the rest. _the praise of_ hull _ale_. [music] let's wet the whistle of the muse, that sings the praise of every juice, this house affords for mortal use, _which no body can deny_. here's ale of _hull_, which 'tis well known, kept _king_ and _keyser_ out of town, now in, will never hurt the crown, _which no body_, &c. here's _lambeth_ ale to cool the maw, and beer as spruce as e'er you saw, but mum as good as man can draw, _which no body_, &c. if reins be loose as some mens lives, whereat the purling female grieves, here's stitch-back that will please your wives, _which no body_, &c. here's cyder too, ye little wot, how oft 'twill make ye go to pot, 'tis red-streak all, or it is not, _which no body_, &c. here's scholar that has doft his gown, and donn'd his cloak and come to town, 'till all's up drink his college down, _which no body_, &c. here's _north_-down, which in many a case, pulls all the blood into the face, which blushing is a sign of grace, _which no body_, &c. if belly full of ale doth grow, and women runs in head you know, old _pharoah_ will not let you go, _which no body can deny._ here's that by some bold brandy hight, which _dutch-men_ use in case of fright, will make a coward for to fight, _which no body_, &c. here's _china_ ale surpasseth far, what _munden_ vents at _temple-bar_, 'tis good for lords and ladies ware, _which no body_, &c. here's of _epsom_ will not fox you, more than what's drawn out of cocks of _middleton_, yet cures the pox, _which no body_, &c. for ease of heart, here's that will do't, a liquor you may have to boot, invites you or the devil to't, _which no body_, &c. for bottle ale, though it be windy, whereof i cannot chuse but mind ye, i would not have it left behind ye, _which no body_, &c. take scurvy-grass, or radish ale, 'twill make you like a horse to stale, and cures whatsoever you ail, _which no body_, &c. for country ales, as that of _chess_, or of _darby_ you'll confess, the more you drink, you'll need the less, _which no body_, &c. but one thing must be thought upon, for morning-draught when all is done, a pot of purl for _harrison_, _which no body can deny_. _the_ news _monger. to the same tune._ let's sing as one may say the fate of those that meddle with this and that, and more than comes to their shares do prate, _which no body can deny._ such, who their wine and coffee sip, and let fall words 'twixt cup and lip, to scandal of good fellowship, _which no body_, &c. those clubbers who when met and sate, where every seat is chair of state, as if they only knew what's what, _which no body_, &c. d---- me says one, were i so and so, or as the king, i know what i know, the devil to wood with the _french_ should go, _which no body_, &c. would the king commission grant to me, were _lewis_, _john_ of _gaunt_, i'd beat him, or know why i shant, _which no body_, &c. i'd undertake bring scores to ten, of mine at hours-warning-men, to make _france_ tremble once again, _which no body_, &c. the claret takes, yet e'er he drinks, cries pox o'th' _french-men_, but methinks it must go round to my brother, _which no body_, &c. he's the only citizen of sence, and liberty is his pretence, and has enough of conscience, _which no body_, &c. the bully that next to him sat, with a green livery in his hat, cry'd what a plague would the _french_ be at, _which no body_, &c. z---- had the king without offence, been rul'd by me, you'd seen long since, chastisement for their insolence, _which no body_, &c. they take our ships, do what they please, were ever play'd such pranks as these, as if we were not lord o'th' seas, _which no body_, &c. i told the king on't th' other day, and how th' intrigues o'th' matter lay, but princes will have their own way, _which no body_, &c. the next man that did widen throat, was wight in half pil'd velvet coat, but he, and that not worth a groat, _which no body_, &c. who being planted next the door, (pox on him for a son of whore) inveighs against the embassador, _which no body_, &c. had the king (quoth he) put me upon't, you should have found how i had don't, but now you see what has come on't, _which no body_, &c. quoth he if such an act had stood, that was designed for publick good, 'thad pass'd more than is understood, _which no body_, &c. but now forsooth our strictest laws, are 'gainst the friends o'th' good old cause, and if one hangs, the other draws, _which no body_, &c. but had i but so worthy been, to sit in place that some are in, i better had advis'd therein, _which no body_, &c. i am one that firm doth stand, for manufactures of the land, then cyder takes in, out of hand, _which no body_, &c. this _english_ wine (quoth he) and ale, our fathers drank before the sale of sack on pothecarys stall _which no body_, &c. these outlandish drinks, quoth he, the _french_, and _spanish_ foppery, they tast too much of popery, _which no body_, &c. and having thus their verdicts spent, concerning king and parliament, they scandalize a government, _which no body_, &c. an hierarchy by such a prince, as may be said without offence, none e'er could boast more excellence, _which no body_, &c. god bless the king, the queen and peers, our parliament and overseers, and rid us of such mutineers, _which no body can deny_. _a_ satyr _on the times. to the foregoing tune._ a world that's full of fools and mad-men, of over-glad, and over-sad men, with a few good, but many bad men, _which no body can deny_. so many cheats and close disguises, so many down for one that rises, so many fops for one that wise is, _which no body_, &c. so many women ugly fine, their inside foul, their outside shine, so many preachers few divines, _which no body_, &c. so many of religious sect, who quite do mis-expound the text, about ye know not what perplext, _which no body_, &c. many diseases that do fill ye, many doctors that do kill ye, few physicians that do heal ye, _which no body_, &c. many lawyers that undo ye, but few friends who will stick to ye, and other ills that do pursue ye, _which no body_, &c. so many tradesmen lyars, so many cheated buyers, as even numeration tyers, _which no body_, &c. so many loose ones and high-flying, who live as if there were no dying, heaven and hell, and all defying, _which no body_, &c. so many under scanty fates, who yet do live at lofty rates, and make show of great estates, _which no body_, &c. and if they will not take offence, many great men of little sense, who yet to politicks make pretence, _which no body_, &c. many meriting lower fate, have title, office, and estate, their betters waiting at their gate, _which no body_, &c. the worthless meet with higher advances, as the wise bestower fancies, to the worthy nothing chances, _which no body_, &c. the worthy and the worthless train, modest, silent, nothing gain, impudent begging all obtain, _which no body_, &c. a world wherein is plenteous store, of foppish, rich, ingenious poor, neglected beg from door to door, _which no body_, &c. a world compos'd, 'tis strange to tell, of seeming paradise, yet real hell, yet all agree to lov't too well, _which no body_, &c. where pious, lew'd, the fool, the wise, the one like to the other dies, and leaves a world of vanities, _which no body_, &c. proud and covetous, beaus and bullies, like one o'your musing melanchollies, i cry for their ill's, and laugh at their follies, _which no body can deny_. lucinda _has the devil and all. by mr._ h. hall. [music] _lucinda_ has the de'el and all, the de'el and all, the de'el and all, of that bright thing we beauty call; but if she won't come to my arms, what care i, why, what care i, what, what care i for all her charms? beauty's the sauce to love's high meat, but who minds sauce that must not eat: it is indeed a mighty treasure, but in using lies the pleasure; bullies thus, that only see't, damn all the gold, damn all the gold, all, all the gold in _lombard-street_. _queen_ elizabeth's _farewel_. [music] i'll tell you all, both great and small, i tell you all truly; that we have cause, and very great cause, for to lament and cry, fye, oh! fye, oh! fye, oh! fye! fye on thee cruel death! for thou hast ta'en away from us! our queen _elizabeth_. thou mayst have taken other folks, that better might be mist; and have let our queen alone, who lov'd no popish priest: in peace she rul'd all this land, beholding unto no man, and did the pope of _rome_ withstand, and yet was but a woman. a woman said i? nay, that is more, than any one can tell; so fair she was, so chast she was, that no one knew it well! with that, from _france_ came _monsieur_ o'er, a purpose for to wooe her; yet still she liv'd and dy'd a maid, do what they could unto her. she never acted any ill thing, which made her conscience prick her; nor never would submit to him, that call'd is christ's vicar: but rather chose couragiously, to fight under christ's banner; 'gainst _pope_ and _turk_, and king of _spain_, and all that durst withstand her. but if that i had _argus's_ eyes, they were too few to weep; for our queen _elizabeth_, that now is fall'n asleep: asleep indeed, where she shall rest, until the day of doom: and then she shall rise unto the shame of the great pope of _rome_. _the same in_ latin. _vobis magnis parvis dicam, et sum veredicus; offerri causam maximam, esse in tristibus, væ tibi mors! malum tibi! pro mortem tetricam! tu enim nobis dempsisti, reginam_ elizam. _poteras plures capere, citra injuriam; reginamq; non rapere, anti-sacri-colam:_ _quietè gentem hæc rexit, nulliq; devincta, papamque_ romæ _despexit, et tandem fæmella_. _ah, ah, quid dixi fæmella? de hoc fama silet; adeo fuit casta-bella, ut nemini liquet: en dux_ andinus _adiit, illam petiturus; virgo vixit & obiit, hæc nihilominus_. _nec mali quid hæc effecit, conscientiæ stimulo; nec semet ipsam subjecit, christi-vicario: at maluit magnamimis, sub christi vexellis, pugnare cum_ papâ, turcis, _ac multis aliis_. _sin mihi_ argi _oculi, deessent lachrymæ_; elizabethæ _fletui, nuper demortuæ, de nata hic obdormiet, die novissimo: et tunc expergefaciet, papâ propudio_. _the pressing constable. set by mr._ leveridge. [music] i am a cunning constable, and a bag of warrants i have here, to press sufficient men, and able, at _horn-castle_ to appear: but now-a-days they're grown so cunning, that hearing of this martial strife; they all away from hence are running, _where i miss the man, i'll press the wife._ ho, who's at home? lo, here am i, good-morrow neighbour. welcome, sir; where is your husband? why truly he's gone abroad, a journey far: do you not know when he comes back? see how these cowards fly for life! the king for soldiers must not lack, _if i miss the man, i'll take the wife._ shew me by what authority you do it? pray sir, let me know; it is sufficient for to see, the warrant hangs in bag below: then pull it out, if it be strong, with you i will not stand at strife: my warrant is as broad as long, _if i miss the man, i'll press the wife._ now you have prest me and are gone, please you but let me know your name; that when my husband he comes home, i may declare to him the same: my name is captain _ward_, i say, i ne'er fear'd man in all my life: the king for soldiers must not stay, _missing the man, i'll press the wife._ _the same in_ latin. _astutus constabularius, mandata gero in tergore: cincturos evocaturus_, cornu-castello _affore: at hodiè adeò sapiunt, auditâ lite bellicâ, omnes abhinc profugiunt_, virum supplebit f[oe]mina. _ecquisnam domi en ego salve. sis salvus, domine: ubinam vir est? haud nego, procul abest in itinere: nàm es ignara reditûs? ut fugiunt pro tutamine! non egeat rex militibus_, viros supplebunt f[oe]minæ. _hæc quo guaranto factitas, ambò dicas, domine? sufficiat ut videas, quod pendet abdomine; educas, si vim habeat, tecum nolam certamina, pro ratione, voluntas stat_, virum supplebit f[oe]minæ. _compressâ me, ituro te, si placet, reddas nomina. sic ut reverso conjuge, illi declarem omnia_, ward _ducor capitaneus, sat notus pro magnanime non egeat rex milibus_, viros supplebunt f[oe]minæ. _a_ song. _set by mr._ leveridge. [music] love is a bauble, no man is able, to say, it is this, or 'tis that; an idle passion, of such a fashion, 'tis like i cannot tell what. fair in the cradle, foul in the saddle, always too cold, or too hot; an errant lyar, fed by desire, it is, and yet it is not. love is a fellow, clad all in yellow, the canker-worm of the mind; a privy mischief, and such a sly thief, no man knows where him to find. love is a wonder, 'tis here, and 'tis yonder, 'tis common to all men, we know; a very cheater, ev'ry ones better, then hang him, and let him go. _the same in_ latin. _amor est pegma, merum Ænigma, quid sit nemo detegat: vesana passio, cui nulla ratio, parem natura negat_. _cunis formosus, sellâ c[oe]nosus, calor, aut frigiditas: furens libido, dicta cupido, est, & non est entitas_. _amor amasius, totus silaceus, est eruca animi; deditus malis, ac prædo qualis, non inventus ullibi_. _hic & ubiq; compar utriq; ad stuporem agitat: nullus deterior, quovis superior, in malam rem abeat._ _a_ song. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] young _strephon_ he has woo'd me long, and courted me with pipe and song; but i a silly, silly peevish twit, for want of sense, for want of wit, have phoo'd, and cry'd, have pish'd, and fy'd, and play'd the fool, and lost my time, and almost slipp'd, and almost slipp'd, and almost slipp'd my maiden prime. but now i thank my gracious heav'n, i hope my faults are all forgiven; i've struck the bargain, eas'd my pain, and am resolv'd to take my swain: to phoo, and cry, and pish, and fye, and make a virgin's coy pretence, is all, all, all, is all, all, all, is all, all, all, for want of sense. _a_ song. tune, _how happy's the lover_. how happy's that husband who after few years, of railing and brawling, confusion and folly, shall see his lantipley drown'd in her tears, then prithee _alexis_ be jolly, be jolly, then prithee _alexis_ be jolly. _a_ song. _set by mr._ leveridge. [music: fortune is blind and beauty unkind, the devil take 'em both, one is a witch, & tothere's a bitch in neither's faith or troth: there's hazard in hap, deceit in a lap, but no fraud in a brimmer; if truth in the bottom lye, thence to redeem her we'll drain, we'll drain, we'll drain, we'll drain the whole ocean dry.] honour's a toy, for fools a decoy, beset with care and fear; and that (i wuss) kills many a puss, before her clymacht year: but freedom and mirth, create a new birth, while sack's the _aqua vitæ_, that vigour and spirit gives, liquor almighty! whereby the poor mortal lives. let us be blith, in spight of death's syth, and with an heart and half, drink to our friends, and think of no ends, but keep us sound and safe: while healths do go round, no malady's found, the maw-sick in the morning, for want of his wonted strain; is as a warning, to double it over again. let us maintain our traffique with _spain_, and both the _indies_ slight; give us their wines, let them keep their mines, we'll pardon eighty eight: there's more certain wealth secur'd from stealth, in one pipe of canary, than in an unfortunate isle; let us be wary, we do not our selves beguile. _the_ latin _to the foregoing_ song. _sors sine visu, formáq; risu, sint pro dæmone; hæc malefica, ita venefica, fallax utraque; sors mea est fors, sinùsque vecors, sed fraus nulla; tu toto in fundo si veritas sit, potu epoto, oceanus situs fit._ _honor & lusus, stultis illusus, carâ catenatâ, hâcque (ut fatur) catus necatur, morte non paratâ: dum vero græcamur, non renovamur, nam aqua vitæ vinum, vires spiritúsque dat, idque dicunum, a morte nos elevat._ _fam simus læti, spretâ vi lethi, cordatissime: ut combibones (non ut gnathones) saxti-rectique: dum proculæ spument, morbi absument: ac manè corpus onustum, præ alienatione, acuit gustum, pro iteratione_. _prestet quotannis, merks cum_ hispanis, india _sit sola; vinum præbeant, aurum teneant, absit spinola: sunt opes, pro certo, magis à furto, in vini potione, quam terra incognitâ; pro cautione, ne nobis fit subdola._ _the raree-show, from father_ hopkins. [music] from father _hopkins_, whose vein did inspire him, _bays_ sends this raree-show publick to view; prentices, fops and their footmen admire him, thanks patron, painter, and monsieur _grabeau_. each actor on the stage his luck bewailing, finds that his loss is infallibly true; _smith_, _nokes_, and _leigh_ in a feaver with railing, curse poet, painter, and monsieur _grabeau_. _betterton_, _betterton_, thy decorations, and the machines were well written we knew; but all the words were such stuff we want patience, and little better is monsieur _grabeu_. d---- me says _underhill_, i'm out two hundred, hoping that rain-bows and peacocks would do; who thought infallible _tom_ could have blunder'd, a plague upon him and monsieur _grabeu_. _lane_ thou hast no applause for thy capers, tho' all without thee would make a man spew; and a month hence will not pay for the tapers, spite of _jack laureat_ and monsieur _grabeu_. _bays_ thou wouldst have thy skill thought universal, tho' thy dull ear be to musick untrue; then whilst we strive to confute the _rehearsal_, prithee learn thrashing of monsieur _grabeu_. with thy dull prefaces still thou wouldst treat us, striving to make thy dull bauble look fair; so the horn'd herd of the city do cheat us, still most commending the worst of their ware. leave making _opera's_, and writing _lyricks_, 'till thou hast ears and canst alter thy strain; stick to thy talent of bold panegyricks, and still remember the breathing the vein. yet if thou thinkest the town will extol 'em, print thy dull notes, but be thrifty and wise; instead of angels subscrib'd for the volume, take a round shilling, and thank my advice. in imitating thee this may be charming, gleaning from laureats is no shame at all; and let this song be sung the next performing, else ten to one but the prices will fall. _a_ song. [music] abroad as i was walking, i spy'd two maids a wrestling, the one threw the other unto the ground; one maid she let a fart, struck the other to the heart, was not this a grievous wound? this fart it was heard into mr. _bowman's_ yard, with a great and a mighty power; for ought that i can tell, it blew down _bridwell_, and so overcame the _tower_. it blew down _paul's_ steeple, and knock'd down many people, alack was the more the pity; it blew down _leaden-hall_, and the meal-sacks and all, and the meal flew about the city. it blew down the _exchange_, was not this very strange, and the merchants of the city did wound; this maid she like a beast, turn'd her fugo to the _east_, and it roar'd in the air like thunder. _the jolly_ pedlar's _pretty thing_. [music] a pedlar proud as i heard tell, he came into a town: with certain wares he had to sell, which he cry'd up and down: at first of all he did begin, with ribbonds, or laces, points, or pins, gartering, girdling, tape, or filleting, _maids any cunny-skins_. i have of your fine perfumed gloves, and made of the best doe-skin; such as young men do give their loves, when they their favour win: besides he had many a prettier thing _than ribbonds_, &c. i have of your fine necklaces, as ever you did behold; and of your silk handkerchiefs, that are lac'd round with gold: besides he had many a prettier thing _than ribbonds_, &c. good fellow, says one, and smiling sat, your measure does somewhat pinch; beside you measure at that rate, it wants above an inch: and then he shew'd her a prettier thing, _than ribbonds_, &c. the lady was pleas'd with what she had seen, and vow'd and did protest; unless he'd shew it her once again, she never shou'd be at rest: with that he shew'd her his prettier thing _than ribbonds_, &c. with that the pedlar began to huff, and said his measure was good, if that she pleased to try his stuff, and take it whilst it stood: and than he gave her a prettier thing, _than ribbonds_, &c. good fellow said she, when you come again, pray bring good store of your ware; and for new customers do not sing, for i'll take all and to spare: with that she hugg'd his prettier thing _than ribbonds, or laces, points, or pins, gartering, girdling, tape, or filleting, maids any cunny-skins_. _a_ song, _by mr._ escourt, _to a tune of mr._ weldon's. [music] the ordinance a-board, such joys does afford, as no mortal, no mortal, no mortal, no mortal, no mortal e'er more can desire; each member repairs, from the _tower_ to the stairs, and by water, by water, by water, they all go to fire. of each piece that's a-shore, they search from the bore, and to proving, to proving, to proving, to proving, to proving, they go in fair weather; their glasses are large, and whene'er they discharge, there's a boo huzza, a boo huzza, a boo huzza, guns and bumpers go off together. old _vulcan_ for _mars_, fitted tools for his wars, to enable him, enable him, enable him, enable him, enable him to conquer the faster; but had _mars_ ever been upon our _wolwich_ green, to have heard boo, huzza, boo, huzza, boo, huzza, he'd have own'd great _marlborough_ his master. _a_ song. [music] a young man and a maid, _put in all, put in all_, together lately play'd, _put in all_; the young man was in jest, o the maid she did protest: she bid him do his best, _put in all, put in all_. with that her rowling eyes, _put_, &c. turn'd upward to the skies, _put_, &c. my skin is white you see, my smock above my knee, what wou'd you more of me, _put_, &c. i hope my neck and breast, _put_, &c. lie open to your chest, _put in all_, the young man was in heat, the maid did soundly sweat, a little farther get, _put_, &c. according to her will, _put_, &c. this young man try'd his skill, _put in all_; but the proverb plain does tell, that use them ne'er so well, for an inch they'd take an ell, _put_, &c. when they had ended sport, _put_, &c. she found him all too short, _put in all_; for when he'd done his best, the maid she did protest, 'twas nothing but a jest, _put in all, put in all_. _a_ song. _the words by_ jo. hains, _set by mr._ church. [music] i courted and writ, shew'd my love and my wit, and still pretty _flavia_ deny'd; 'twas her virtue i thought, made me prove such a sot, to adore her the more for her pride: 'till i happen'd to sit, by her mask'd in a pit, whilst a crowd of gay beaus held her play; when so wantonly free, was her smart repartee, i was cur'd and went blushing, went blushing away. how lovers mistake, the addresses they make, when they swear to be constant and true; for all the nymphs hold, tho' the sport be still old, that their play-mates must ever be new: each pretty new toy, how they'll long to enjoy, and then for a newer will pine; but when they perceive, others like what they leave, then they cry for their bauble again. perkin _in a_ cole-sack: _or, the_ collier's _buxome wife of st._ james's. [music] come all that are disposed a while, and listen to my story; i shall not you of ought beguile, but plainly lay before ye: how buxome _ruth_ had often strove, with no small pains and labour; her own sufficiency to prove, by many a brawny neighbour. she oft was heard for to complain, but still with little profit; that nature made her charms in vain, unless some good come of it: her booby seldom was at home, and therefore could not please her; which made more welcome guest to come, in charity to ease her. her wishes all were for an heir, tho' _venus_ still refus'd her; which made the pensive sinner swear the goddess had abus'd her: and since her suit she did deny, to shew her good intention; she was resolv'd her self to try an old, but rare invention. abroad by known example taught, to one with child she hasts her; whereby five guineas which she brought, the bargain is made fast, sir: the infant soon as brought to light, (for so they had agreed it) must fall to buxome _ruth_ by right, to save her sinking credit. her petticoats with cushions rear'd, her belly struts before her; her _ben's_ abilitys are prais'd, and he poor fool adores her. her stomach sick, and squeamish grown, she pewkes like breeding woman, while he is proud to make it known, that he has prov'd a true man. nine months compleat, the trusty dame, her pain she finds increases; while _ruth_ affected with the same, makes ugly and wry faces: and now a coach must needs be had, the brat to shake about, sir; but e'er return'd _ben_ was a dad, for _perkin_ had crept out, sir. the good ale firkin strait is tapp'd, and women all are jolly; while no one in her round is 'scap'd, for fear of melancholy: and _ruth_ in bed could in her turn, tho' modest of behaviour; with all her heart a bob have born, had she not fear'd a feaver. thus jovially the time they spend, in merriment and quaffing; whilst each one does the brat commend, as _ben_ did still keep laughing: and now to tell is my intent, how fortune to distaste her; _ruth's_ future boasting did prevent, by one most sad disaster. a search was made at t'other home, by overseers quick sighted; the mother to confession comes, by threats being much affrighted; thus all their mirth at once was cool, fate all their hopes did hamper; so _ben_ lives on the self same fool, tho' _ruth_ was forc'd to scamper. _and if the truth of this you doubt, the overseers can make it out._ _the man of_ honour: _or, the unconstant world turn'd upside down: to the foregoing_ tune. how is the world transform'd of late, in country, court, and city; as if we were decreed by fate, to sing a mournful ditty: about the dismal change of things, there was no sooth in fauner; in the blest reigns of former kings, _when i was a man of honour_. i kept a castle of my own, with land five thousand acres; when old king _harry_ grac'd the throne, before the time of quakers: my doors and gates stood open wide, i lackt no ring nor runner; an ox each day i did provide, _when i was_, &c. my guess all day went in and out, to feast and cheer their senses; could i but bring the year about, i grudg'd not my expences: my talent was to feast the poor, i valu'd no court fauner; of cooks i kept full half a score, _when i was_, &c. when _christmas_ day was drawing near, to cheer and make them merry; i broach'd my humming stout _march_ beer, as brown as the hawthorn berry: of which there was not any lack, i was my self the donor; 'twas fetch'd up in a leathern _jack_, _when i was_, &c. i never lay in trades-mens books, for gaudy silks or sattins; nor did i pay with frowning looks, or broken scraps of _latin_: they had my gold and silver free, i fear'd not any dunner; all men was glad to deal with me, _when i was a man of honour_. i never kept my _hawkes_ and _hounds_, or lew'd and wanton misses; i'd never sell or mortgage towns, to purchase charming kisses: of those that seek their prey by night, each cunning female fauner; my lady was my hearts delight, _when i was_, &c. i never hid my noble head, for any debt contracted; nor from the nation have i fled, for treasons basely acted: nor did i in the least rebel, to make my self a runner: my loyalty was known full well, _when i was_, &c. i never did betray my trust, for bribes more sweet than honey; nor was i false, or so unjust, to sink the nations money: my _lands_ and _livings_ to enlarge, by wronging each good donor: i built not at the nation's charge, _when i was_, &c. we find now in these latter days, some men hath delegated; from truth, and found out greedy ways, this should be regulated: and act henceforth with heart and hand, oppose the sons of _bonner_; i lov'd my king and serv'd my land, _when i was_, &c. for bounty, love and large relief, for noble conversation; for easing the poor widows grief, in times of lamentation: for house of hospitality, i'll challenge any donor; there's few or none that can outvey, _king_ henry's _man of honour_. _a_ song, _set by mr._ frank. fickle bliss, fantastick treasure, love how soon, how soon, how soon thy joys, are past? since we soon must lose the pleasure, oh! 'twere better ne'er to tast: gods! how sweet would be possessing, did not time its charms destroy; or could lovers with the blessing, lose the thoughts of _cupid's_ joy: lose the thoughts, the thoughts, the thoughts of _cupid's_ joy. cruel thoughts, that pain yet please me, ah! no more my rest destroy; shew me still if you would ease me, love's deceits, but not it's joy: gods what kind, yet cruel powers, force my will to rack my mind! ah! too long we wait for flowers, too, too soon, to fade design'd. _a_ song, _set by mr._ akeroyde. [music] that scornful _sylvia's_ chains i wear, the groves and streams can tell; those blasted with my sighs appear, these with my tears my tears, o're swell. but sighs and tears bring no redress, and love that sees, that sees me grieve; conspires with _sylvia_ to oppress, the heart he should relieve. the god that should reward my pain, makes _sylvia_ more my foe: as she encreases in disdain, he makes my passion grow: and must i, must i still admire, those eyes that cause my grief? 'tis just, since i my self conspire against my own relief. _a_ song, _set by mr._ robert king. all own the young _sylvia_ is fatally fair; all own the young _sylvia_ is pretty; confess her good nature, and easie soft air, nay more, that's she's wanton and witty. yet all the keen arrows at _damon_ still cast, cou'd never, cou'd never, his quiet destroy, 'till the cunning _coquett_, shot me flying at last; _by a jene say, jene say, quoy_, _by a jene say, jene say, quoy._ so tho' the young _sylvia_ were not very fair, tho' she were but indifferently pretty; much wanting _aurelia's_, or _cælia's_ soft air, but not the dull sence of the city: yet still the dear creature wou'd please without doubt, and give me abundance of joy; since all that is missing is plainly made out, _by a jene say, jene say quoy._ _a_ song, _set by mr._ frank. [music] a swain in despair, cryed women ne'er trust, alass they are all unkind or unjust. a nymph who was by, soon thus did reply; the men we all find more false and unkind. except me he cryed, and me she replyed, then try me said he, i dare not said she: the swain did pursue, each alter'd their mind: she vow'd he was true, he swore she was kind. _a_ song. _set by mr._ akeroyde. [music] wo'as me poor lass! what mun i do? gin i did my bonny _sawney_ slight, he now gangs a blither lass to woo, and i alene poor lass ligs ev'ry night. curse on fickleness and pride, by which we silly women are undone: what my _sawney_ begg'd and i deny'd alass! i long to grant, but now he's gone. when he was kind i made a strife, yet i then deny'd with mickle woe; for he su'd as gin, he begg'd for life, and almost dy'd poor lad! when i said no: well i keen'd, he woo'd to wed, yet fear'd to own, i lov'd the canny loon; ah would he have stay'd he might have sped, waa's me! why would my _sawney_ gang so soon. _a_ song. [music] richest gift of lavish nature, matchless darling of my heart; ah! too dear, too charming creature, you on earth a heav'n impart. rapt in pleasure past expressing, i with bliss almost expire; cou'd we still be thus possessing, god's who would your state desire. kindling glances quickning kisses, that like time so soon are past; crowding joys to eager blisses, still renewing may you last: nor by a fantastick fashion, being lawful please the less; but may i indulge my passion, blest in none but her i bless. tom _tinker_. [music] _tom_ tinker's my true love, and i am his dear, and i will go with him his budget to bear; for of all the young men he has the best luck, all the day he will fuddle, at night he will ---- this way, that way, which way you will, i am sure i say nothing that you can take ill. with hammer on kettle he tabbers all day, at night he will tumble on strumil or hay; he calls me his jewel, his delicate duck, and then he will take up my smicket to ---- _this way_, &c. _tom tinker_ i say was a jolly stout lad, he tickled young _nancy_ and made her stark mad; to have a new rubbers with him on the grass, by reason she knew that he had a good ---- _this way_, &c. there was an old woman on crutches she came, to lusty _tom tinker_, _tom tinker_ by name; and tho' she was aged near threescore and five, she kickt up her heels and resolved to ---- _this way_, &c. a beautiful damsel came out of the west, and she was as jolly and brisk as the best; she'd dance and she'd caper as wild as a buck, and told _tom_ the _tinker_, she would have some ---- _this way_, &c. a lady she call'd him her kettle to mend, and she resolved her self to attend; now as he stood stooping and mending the brass, his breeches was torn and down hung his ---- _this way_, &c. something she saw that pleased her well, she call'd in the _tinker_ and gave him a spell; with pig, goose and capon, and good store of suck, that he might be willing to give her some ---- _this way_, &c. he had such a trade that he turn'd me away, yet as i was going he caus'd me to stay; so as towards him i was going to pass, he gave me a slap in the face with his ---- _this way_, &c. i thought in my heart he had struck off my nose, i gave him as good as he brought i suppose; my words they were ready and wonderful blunt, quoth i, i had rather been stobb'd in my ---- _this way_, &c. i met with a butcher a killing a calf, i then stepp'd to him and cryed out half: at his first denial i fell very sick, and he said it was all for a touch of his ---- _this way_, &c. i met with a fencer a going to school, i told him at fencing he was but a fool; he had but three rapiers and they were all blunt, and told him he should no more play at my ---- _this way_, &c. i met with a barber with razor and balls, he fligger'd and told me for all my brave alls; he would have a stroke, and his words they were blunt, i could not deny him the use of my ---- _this way_, &c. i met with a fidler a fidling aloud, he told me he had lost the case of his croud; i being good natur'd as i was wont, told him he should make a case of my ---- _this way, and that way, and which way you can, for the fairest of women will lye with a man._ _a_ song. _set by mr._ king. when on her eyes, when on her eyes, my happy stars i gaze, a strange commotion seizes every part. fain would i speak, fain would i speak, the cause of my disease; but fear to tell the story of my heart. her look severe, her look severe, yet o endearing awes, yet o endearing awes, the women's envy, the women's envy, but mankind's applause, but mankind's applause. _miss_ cuddy. [music] poor _sawney_ had marry'd a wife, and he knew not what to do with her; for she'd eat more barly-bread, then he knew how to give her: we'll all sup together, we'll all sup, _&c._ we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather. we'll all lig together, we'll all lig together, we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather. we'll put the sheep's-head in the pot, the wool and the horns together; and we will make broth of that, and we'll all sup together, we'll all sup together, we'll all sup together, we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather, we'll all lig together, _&c._ the wool shall thicken the broth, the horns shall serve for bread, by this you may understand, the virtue that's in a sheep's-head: and we'll all sup together, we'll all sup together, we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather, and we'll all lig together, _&c._ some shall lig at the head, and some shall lig at the feet, miss _cuddy_ wou'd lig in the middle, because she'd have all the sheet: we'll all lig together, we'll all lig together, we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather, and we'll all lig together, _&c._ miss _cuddy_ got up in the loft, and _sawney_ wou'd fain have been at her, miss _cuddy_ fell down in her smock, and made the glass windows to clatter: we'll all lig together, we'll all lig together, we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather, we'll all lig together, _&c._ the bride she went to bed, the bridegroom followed after, the fidler crepp'd in at the feet, and they all lig'd together, we'll all lig together, _&c._ _a_ song. _set by mr._ akeroyde. [music] beneath a cool shade _amaryllis_ was sate, complaining of love and bemoaning her fate; ah! she cry'd, why must maids be so formal and coy, to deny what they think is their only true joy? and custom impose on us so much ado, when our hearts are on fire, and love bids us fall too; and custom impose on us so much ado, when our hearts are on fire, and love bids us fall too. young _strephon_ was near her, and heard the complaint, he easily guest what the damsel did want; he rush'd in upon her, in kisses reply'd, caught her fast in his arms, she faintly deny'd: what they did without study, we soon may divine, 'twas _strephon's_ luck then, the next minute be mine. clarinda's _complaint_. _tune of_ ianthe _the lovely_. with sighing and wishing, and green-sickness diet, with nothing of pleasure, and little of quiet; with a granum's inspection, and doctor's direction, but not the specifick, that suits my complexion: the flower of my age is full blown in my face, yet no man considers, yet no man considers my comfortless case. young women were valued, as i have been told, in the late times of peace, above mountains of gold; but now there is fighting, we are nothing but sliting, few gallants in conjugal matters delighting: 'tis a shame that mankind, should love killing and slaying and mind not supplying the stock that's decaying. unlucky _clarinda_, to love in a season, when _mars_ has forgotten to do _venus_ reason; had i any hand in rule and command, i'd certainly make it a law of the land: that killers of men, to replenish the store, be bound to the wedlock, and made to get more. enacted moreover for better dispatch, that where a good captain meets with an o'ermatch, his honest lieutenant with soldier-like grace, shall relieve him on duty, and serve in his place: thus killers and slayers of able good men, without beat of drum may recruit 'em agen. _a_ ballad _by the late lord_ dorset, _when at sea_. [music] to you fair ladies now at land, we men at sea indite; but first wou'd 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_, the muses now, _&c._ but tho' the muses should be kind, and fill our empty brain; yet if rough _neptune_ cause the wind, to rouse the _azure_ main: our paper, pens, and ink and we, rowl up and down our ships at sea, _with a fa la_, &c. then if we write not by each post, think not that we're unkind; nor yet conclude that we are lost, by _dutch_, by _french_, or wind, our grief will find a speedier way, the tide shall bring them twice a day, _with a fa la_, &c. the king with wonder and surprize, will think the seas grown bold; for that the tide does higher rise, then e'er it did of old: but let him know that 'tis our tears, sends floods of grief to _white-hall_ stairs, _with a fa la_, &c. shou'd count _thoulouse_ but come to know, our sad and dismal story; the _french_ wou'd scorn so weak a foe, where they can get no glory: for what resistance can they find, from men as left their hearts behind, _with a fa la_, &c. to pass our tedious time away, we throw the merry main; or else at serious _ombra_ play, but why shou'd we in vain, each others ruin thus pursue, we were undone when we left you, _with a fa la_, &c. when any mournful tune you hear, that dyes in e'ery note; as if it sigh'd for each man's care, for being so remote: think then how often love we've made, to you while all those tunes were play'd, _with a fa la._, &c. let wind and weather do its worst, be you to us but kind; let _french-men_ vapour, _dutch-men_ curse, no sorrows we shall find: 'tis then no matter how things go, nor who's our friend, nor who our foe, _with a fa la._, &c. thus having told you all our loves, and likewise all our fears; in hopes this declaration moves, some pity to our tears: let's hear of no inconstancy, we have too much of that at sea, _with a fa, la, la, la, la._ _bonny_ kathern loggy. _a_ scotch song. [music] as i came down the hey land town, there was lasses many, sat in a rank, on either bank, and ene more gay than any; ise leekt about for ene kind face, and ise spy'd _willy scroggy_; ise spir'd of him what was her name, and he caw'd her _kathern loggy_. a sprightly bonny gurl sha was, and made my heart to rise _joe_; sha was so fair sa blith a lass, and love was in her eyes so: ise walkt about like ene possest, and quite forgot poor _moggy_; for nothing now could give me rest, but bonny _kathern loggy_. my pratty _katy_ then quoth i, and many a sigh i gave her; let not a leard for _katy_ die, but take him to great favour: sha laught aloud, and sa did aw, and bad me hemward to ge; and still cry'd out awaw, awaw, fro bonny _kathern loggy_. a fardel farther i would see, and some began to muse me; the lasses they sat wittally, and the lads began to rooze me: the blades with beaus came down she knows, like ring rooks fro _strecy boggy_; and four and twanty _highland_ lads, were following _kathern loggy_. when i did ken this muckle trame, and every ene did know her; i spir'd of _willy_ what they mean, quo he they aw do mow her: there's ne'er a lass in aw _scotland_, from _dundee_ to _strecy boggy_; that has her fort so bravely mann'd, as bonny _kathern loggy_. at first indeed i needs must tell, ise could not well believe it; but when ise saw how fow they fell, ise could not but conceive it. there was ne'er a lad of any note, or any deaf young roguey; but he did lift the welly coat, of bonny _kathern loggy_. had i kenn'd on kittleness, as i came o'er the moore _joe_; ise had n'er ban as ise ha dun, nor e'er out-stankt my seln so: for i was then so stankt with stint, i spurr'd my aw'd nagg _fogey_; and had i kenn'd sha had been a whore, i had ne'er lov'd _kathern loggy_. (_the_ catholick _brother_) _a_ song. [music] dear _catholick_ brother are you come from the wars, so lame of your foots and your face full of scars; to see your poor _shela_ who with great grief was fill'd, for you my dear joy when i think you were kill'd. _with a fa la, la._ o my shoul my dear _shela_, i'm glad you see me, for if i were dead now, i could not see thee; the cuts in my body, and the scars in my face, i got them in fighting for her majesty's grace. but oh my dear _shela_ dost thou now love me, so well as you did, e're i went to the sea; by _cri----_ and st. _pa----_ my dear joy i do, and we shall be married to morrow just now. i'll make a cabin for my dearest to keep off the cold, and i have a guinea of yellow red gold; to make three halfs of it i think will be best, give two to my _shela_ and the tird to the _priest_. old _philemy_ my father was full fourscore years old, and tho' he be dead he'll be glad to be told; that we two are married, my dear spare no cost, but send him some letter, upon the last post. _the triumphs of_ peace, _or the_ widdows _and_ maids _rejoycing_. [music] dear mother i am transported, to think of the boon comrades; they say we shall all be courted, kind widows as well as maids, oh! this will be joyful news: _we'll dress up our houses with holly, we'll broach a tub of humming bub, to treat those that come with a rub a dub dub, for dear mother they'll make us jolly._ dear mother to see them mounted, 'twou'd tickle your heart with joy; by me they all shall be counted, heroical sons of _troy_: the bells in the steeples shall ring, _we'll stick all our houses with holly_, _we'll broach a tub of humming bub_, _to treat those that comes with a rub a dub dub_, _for dear mother they'll make us jolly_. i'll dress me as fine as a lady, against they come into the town; my ribbonds are all bought ready, my furbelow-scarf and gown; to pleasure the warlike boys, _we'll dress up our houses_, &c. they are delicate brisk and brawny, troth neither too lean nor fat; no matter for being tawny, they're never the worse for that; we'll give them a welcome home, _and dress up our houses_, &c. they come from the field of battle, to quarter in ladies arms; 'tis pretty to hear them prattle, and tell of their loud alarms: we'll crown them with garlands gay, _and dress up our houses_, &c. those boys are the pride of _britain_, they love us and so they may; dear mother it is but fitting, we shou'd be as kind as they: the conduits shall run with wine, _we'll dress up our houses_, &c. those battling sons of thunder, now at their returning back; i know they will be for plunder, virginities go to wrack: but let them do what they please, _we'll dress up our houses_, &c. _a_ song. _set and sung by mr._ leveridge _at the_ theatre. [music] fill the glass, fill, fill, fill the glass, let hautboys sound, whilst bright _celinda_, bright _celinda's_ health go round. fill the glass, fill, fill, fill the glass, let hautboys sound, whilst bright _celinda_, bright _celinda's_ health goes round. with eternal beauty blest, ever blooming, ever blooming still be best; drink your glass, drink your glass, drink your glass and think, think, think the rest, drink your glass and think, think, think the rest. _an_ irish song. hub ub, ub, boo; hub ub, ub, boo; dish can't be true, de war dees cease, but der's no peash, i know and find, 'tis sheal'd and sign'd, but won't believe 'tis true, hub, ub, ub, boo, hub ub, ub, boo. _a hone, a hone_, poor _teague's_ undone, i dare not be, a rapparee, i ne'er shall see, _magraw macree_, nor my more dear garone, _a hone, a hone._ awa, awa, i must huzza, 'twill hide my fears, and save my ears, the mob appears, her'sh to _nassau_, dear joy 'tis _usquebaugh_, huzza, huzza, huzza. _the_ bath _teazers: or a comical description of the diversions at_ bath. [music] i'll tell thee _dick_ where i have lately been, _there's rare doings at_ bath, amongst beauties divine, the like was ne'er seen, _there's rare doings at_ bath, and some dismal wits that were eat up with spleen, _there's rare doings at_ bath. _there's rare doings at_ bath. _raffling and fidling, and piping and singing,_ _there's rare doings at_ bath. where all drink the waters to recover health, and some sort of fools there throw off their wealth, and now and then kissing, and that's done by stealth, _there's rare doings_, &c. and now for the crew that pass in the throng, that live by the gut, or the pipe, or the song, and teaze all the gentry as they pass along, _there's rare doings_, &c. first _corbet_ began my lord pray your crown, you'll hear a new boy i've just brought to town, i'm sure he will please you, or else knock me down, _there's rare doings_, &c. besides i can boast of my self and two more, and _leveridge_ the bass, that sweetly will roar, 'till all the whole audience joins in an ancore, _there's rare doings_, &c. next _h----b l----r_ and _b----r_ too, with hautboy, one fidle, and tenor so bleu, and fusty old musick, not one note of new, _there's rare doings_, &c. next _morphew_ the harper with his pigg's face, lye tickling a treble and vamping a bass, and all he can do 'tis but musick's disgrace, _there's rare doings_, &c. then comes the eunuch to teaze them the more, subscribe your two guineas to make up fourscore, i never perform'd at so low rate before, _there's rare doings_, &c. then come the strolers among the rest, and little punch _powel_ so full of his jest, with pray sir, good madam, it's my show is best, _there's rare doings_, &c. thus being tormented, and teaz'd to their souls, they thought the best way to get rid of these fools, the case they referr'd to the master of the r----ls, _there's rare doings_, &c. says his honour, and then he put on a frown, and since you have left it to my thoughts alone, i'll soon have them all whipp'd out of the town, o _rare doings at_ bath, _raffling, and fidling_, &c. _the distress'd_ shepherd, _a_ song. [music] i am a poor shepherd undone, and cannot be cur'd by art; for a nymph as bright as the sun, has stole away my heart: and how to get it again, there's none but she can tell; to cure me of my pain, by saying she loves me well: and alass poor shepherd, alack and a welladay; before i was in love, oh every month was _may_. if to love she cou'd not incline, i told her i'd die in an hour; to die says she 'tis in thine, but to love 'tis not in my power. i askt her the reason why, she could not of me approve; she said 'twas a task too hard, to give any reason for love: _and alass poor shepherd_, &c. she ask'd me of my estate, i told her a flock of sheep; the grass whereon they graze, where she and i might sleep: besides a good ten pound, in old king _harry's_ groats; with hooks and crooks abound, and birds of sundry notes: _and alass poor shepherd_, &c. _a_ song. i love to madness, rave t'enjoy, but heaps of wealth my progress bar; curse on the load that stops my way, my love's more rich and brighter far: were i prest under hills of gold, my furious sighs should make my escape; i'd sigh and blow up all the mould, and throw the oar in _cælia's_ lap. were thou some peasant mean and small, and all the spacious globe were mine; i'd give the world, the sun and all, for one kind brighter glance of thine: this hour let _cælia_ with me live, and gods cou'd i but of you borrow, i'd give what only you can give, for that dear hour, i'd give to morrow. _the loving couple: or the merry_ wedding. [music] a jolly young _grocer_ of _london town_, fell deeply in love with his maid: and often he courted her to lye down, but she told him she was afraid: sometimes he would struggle, but still she would boggle, and never consent to his wicked will; but said he must tarry, until he would marry, and then he should have his fill. but when that he found he could not obtain, the blessing he thus pursu'd; for tho' he had try'd her again and again, she vow'd she would not be leud: at last he submitted, to be so outwitted, as to be catch'd in the nuptial snare; altho' the young hussie, before had been busie, with one that she lov'd more dear. the morning after they marry'd were, the drums and the fiddles came; then oh what a thumping and scraping was there, to please the new marry'd dame: there was fiddle come fiddle, with hey diddle diddle, and all the time that the musick play'd; there was kissing and loving, and heaving and shoving, for fear she should rise a maid. but e'er three months they had marry'd been, a thumping boy popp'd out; ads---- says he you confounded queen, why what have you been about? you're a strumpet cries he, you're a cuckold cries she, and when he found he was thus betray'd; there was fighting and scratching, and rogueing and bitching, because she had prov'd a jade. _a_ song, _tune of chickens and sparrow-grass._ what sayest thou, if one should thrust thee thro'? what sayest thou, if one shou'd plough? i say sir, you may do what you please, i shall scarce stir, tho' you ne'er cease, thro', thro', you may thrust me thro'. such death is a pleasure, when life's a disease. _the precaution'd_ nymph, _set by_ l. ramondon. [music] go, go, go, go falsest of thy sex be gone, leave, leave, oh leave, leave me to my self alone; why wou'd you strive by fond pretence, thus to destroy my innocence. know, _cælia_ you too late betray'd, then thus you did the nymph upbraid; love like a dream usher'd by night, flyes the approach of morning light. go falsest of your sex begone, oh! leave me to my self alone; she that believes man when he swears, or but regards his oaths or pray'rs, may she, fond she, be most accurst, nay more, be subject to his lust. _the life and death of sir_ hugh _of the_ grime. _to the tune of_ chevy-chace. as it befel upon one time, about _mid-summer_ of the year; every man was taxt of his crime, for stealing the good lord bishop's mare. the good lord _screw_ sadled a horse, and rid after the same serime; before he did get over the moss, there was he aware of sir _hugh_ of the _grime_. turn, o turn, thou false traytor, turn and yield thy self unto me; thou hast stol'n the lord bishop's mare, and now thinkest away to flee. no, soft lord _screw_, that may not be, here is a broad sword by my side; and if that thou canst conquer me, the victory will soon be try'd. i ne'er was afraid of a traytor bold, altho' thy name be _hugh_ in the _grime_; i'll make thee repent thy speeches foul, if day and life but give me time. then do thy worst, good lord _screw_, and deal your blows as fast as you can; it will be try'd between me and you, which of us two shall be the best man. thus as they dealt their blows so free, and both so bloody at that time; over the moss ten yeomen they see, come for to take sir _hugh_ in the _grime_. sir _hugh_ set his back again a tree, and then the men compast him round; his mickle sword from his hand did flee, and then they brought sir _hugh_ to the ground. sir _hugh_ of the _grime_ now taken is, and brought back to _garland_ town; then cry'd the good wives all in _garland_ town, sir _hugh_ in the _grime_, thou'st ne'er gang down. the good lord bishop is come to town, and on the bench is set so high; and every man was tax'd to his crime, at length he call'd sir _hugh_ in the _grime_. here am i, thou false bishop, thy humours all to fulfil; i do not think my fact so great, but thou may'st put into thy own will. the quest of jury-men was call'd, the best that was in _garland_ town; eleven of them spoke all in a-breast, sir _hugh_ in the _grime_ thou'st ne'er gang down. then other questry-men was call'd, the best that was in _rumary_; twelve of them spoke all in a-breast, sir _hugh_ in the _grime_ thou'st now guilty. then came down my good lord _boles_, falling down upon his knee; five hundred pieces of gold will i give, to grant sir _hugh_ in the _grime_ to me. peace, peace, my good lord _boles_, and of your speeches set them by; if there be eleven _grimes_ all of a name, then by my own honour they all should dye. then came down my good lady _ward_, falling low upon her knee; five hundred measures of gold i'll give, and grant sir _hugh_ of the _grime_ to me. peace, peace, my good lady _ward_, none of your proffers shall him buy, for if there be twelve _grimes_ all of a name, by my own honour all should dye. sir _hugh_ of the _grime's_ condemn'd to dye, and of his friends he had no lack; fourteen foot he leapt in his ward, his hands bound fast upon his back. then he look'd over his left shoulder, to see whom he could see or 'spye; there was he aware of his father dear, came tearing his hair most pitifully. peace, peace, my father dear, and of your speeches set them by; tho' they have bereav'd me of my life, they cannot bereave me of heaven so high. he look'd over his right shoulder, to see whom he could see or 'spye; there was he aware of his mother dear, came tearing her hair most pitifully. pray have me remember'd to _peggy_ my wife, as she and i walk'd over the moor; she was the cause of the loss of my life, and with the old bishop she play'd the whore. here _johnny armstrong_, take thou my sword; that is made of the metal so fine; and when thou com'st to the border side, remember the death of sir _hugh_ of the _grime_. _the disappointed_ taylor: _or good work done for nothing._ [music] a taylor good lord, in the time of vacation, when cabbage was scarce and when pocket was low, for the sale of good liquor pretended a passion, to one that sold ale in a cuckoldy row: now a louse made him itch, here a scratch, there a stitch, and sing cucumber, cucumber ho. one day she came up, when at work in his garret, to tell what he ow'd, that his store he might know; says he it is all very right i declare it, says she then i hope you will pay e'er i go? now a louse, _&c._ says prick-louse my jewel, i love you most dearly, my breast every minute still hotter does grow, i'll only says she for the juice of my barly, and other good drink in my cellar below: now a louse made him itch, here a scratch, there a stitch, and sing cucumber, cucumber ho. says he you mistake, 'tis for something that's better, which i dare not name, and you care not to show; says she i'm afraid you are given to flatter, what is it you mean, and pray where does it grow: now a louse, _&c._ says he 'tis a thing that has never a handle, 'tis hid in the dark, and it lies pretty low; says she then i fear that you must have a candle, or else the wrong way you may happen to go: now a louse, _&c._ says he was it darker than ever was charcole, tho' i never was there, yet the way do i know; says she if it be such a terrible dark hole, don't offer to grope out your way to it so: now a louse, _&c._ says he you shall see i will quickly be at it, for this is, oh this is the way that i'll go; says she do not tousle me so for i hate it, i vow by and by you will make me cry oh: so they both went to work, now a kiss, then a jirk, and sing cucumber, cucumber ho. the taylor arose when the business was over, says he you will rub out the score e'er you go; says she i shall not pay so dear for a lover, i'm not such a fool i would have you to know: now a louse made him itch, here a scratch, there a stitch, and sing cucumber, cucumber ho. _the penurious_ quaker: _or, the high priz'd_ harlot. [music] _quaker._ my friend thy beauty seemeth good, we righteous have our failings; i'm flesh and blood, methinks i cou'd, wert thou but free from ailings. _harlot._ believe me sir i'm newly broach'd, and never have been in yet; i vow and swear i ne'er was touch'd, by man 'till this day sennight. _quaker._ then prithee friend, now prithee do, nay, let us not defer it; and i'll be kind to thee when thou hast laid the evil spirit. _harlot._ i vow i won't, indeed i shan't, unless i've money first, sir; for if i ever trust a saint, i wish i may be curst, sir. _quaker._ i cannot like the wicked say, i love thee and adore thee, and therefore thou wilt make me pay, so here is six pence for thee. _harlot._ confound you for a stingy whig, do ye think i live by stealing; farewel you puritannick prig, i scorn to take your shilling. _a_ song. _tune of the_ old rigadoon: _lais_ when you lye wrapp'd in charms, in your spouses arms, how can you deny, the youth to try, what is his due. sure you ne'er have been touch'd by man, that you ne'er can, admit the slave. come let him in, and if he does not pay what he owes, ne'er trust the fool again. let another spark supply his place, for a woman should not want; and nature sure ne'er made a man so base, but with asking he would grant: but if all mankind were agreed to spoil your race, by _jove_ my dear they shan't. _the travelling_ tinker, _and the country_ ale-wife: _or, the lucky mending of the leaky_ copper. [music] a comely dame of _islington_, had got a leaky copper; the hole that let the liquor run, was wanting of a stopper: a jolly _tinker_ undertook, and promised her most fairly; with a thump thump thump, and knick knack knock, to do her business rarely. he turn'd the vessel to the ground, says he a good old copper; but well may't leak, for i have found a hole in't that's a whopper: but never doubt a _tinkers_ stroke, altho' he's black and surly, with a thump thump thump, _&c._ he'll do your business purely. the man of mettle open'd wide, his budget's mouth to please her, says he this tool we oft employ'd, about such jobbs as these are: with that the jolly _tinker_ took, a stroke or two most kindly; with a thump thump thump, _&c._ he did her business finely. as soon as crock had done the feat, he cry'd 'tis very hot ho; this thrifty labour makes me sweat, here, gi's a cooling pot ho: says she bestow the other stroke, before you take your farewel; with a thump thump thump, _&c._ and you may drink a barrel. _a_ song. _set by mr._ john abell. i'll press, i'll bless thee charming fair, thou darling of my heart; i'll press, i'll bless thee charming fair, thou darling of my heart: i'll clasp, i'll grasp thee close my dear, and doat on every part. i'll clasp, i'll grasp thee close my dear, and doat on every part! i'll bless thee now thou darling, thou darling of my heart; i'll bless thee now, _&c._ with fond excess of pleasure, i'll make the panting cry, panting cry; then wisely use your treasure, then wisely use your treasure, refusing, still comply. _a_ song. [music] what shall i do, i've lost my heart, 'tis gone, 'tis gone i know not whither; love cut its strings, then lent it wings and both are flown together: fair ladies tell for love's sweet sake, did any of you find it? come, come it lies, in your lips or eyes, tho' you'll not please to mind it. but if't be lost, then farewel frost, i will enquire no more; for ladies they steal hearts away, but only to restore: _for ladies they_, &c. tune, _si votr' epousa_. _chloris_ can you forgive the fault that i have done; _chloris_ can you forgive me when i sue, faith it is true, that had you let me farther gone, i had ruin'd you, and mischiev'd my self too: yet i ne'er should have ventur'd on a maid so chast, had not your eye, shot thro' my soul, and conjur'd all the sense away, that there did lye. _lumps of_ pudding. [music] when i was in the low country, when i was in the low country; what slices of pudding and pieces of bread, my mother gave me when i was in need. my mother she killed a good fat hog, she made such puddings would choak a dog; and i shall ne'er forget 'till i dee, what lumps of pudding my mother gave me. she hung them up upon a pin, the fat run out and the maggots crept in; if you won't believe me you may go and see, what lumps, _&c._ and every day my mother would cry, come stuff your belly girl until you die; 'twou'd make you to laugh if you were to see, what lumps, _&c._ i no sooner at night was got into bed, but she all in kindness would come with speed; she gave me such parcels i thought i should dee, with eating of pudding, _&c._ at last i rambled abroad and then, i met in my frolick an honest man; quoth he my dear _philli_ i'll give unto thee, such pudding you never did see. said i honest man, i thank thee most kind, and as he told me indeed i did find; he gave me a lump which did so agree, one bit was worth all my mother gave me. _the_ quaker's song. [music] walk up to virtue strait, and from all vice retire; turn not on this hand nor on that, to compass thy desire. side not with wicked ones, nor such as are prophane; but side with good and goodly ones, that come from _amsterdam_. arm not thy self with pride, that's not the way to bliss; but arm thy self with holy zeal, and take this loving kiss. _a_ song. [music] _lorenzo_ you amuse the town, and with your charms undo, sir; _laurinda_ can resist a frown, but must not be from you, sir: you make them all resign their hearts, and fix their eyes a gazing; the _porcupine_ has not more darts, from every part amazing. you bill and cooe when you are kind, and happy's the nymph believes you; you are true, but you are not blind, for never a nymph deceives you; tho' she were naught, you'll ne'er be caught, but still have your wits about you; you're a hero, and you have fought, there's ne'er a hector can flout you. you are good, and you are bad, and you can be what you please, sir; you are an honest trusty lad, and i'll wager ne'er had the disease, sir: then here's to you, a glass or two, for farther i dare not venture; and then my dear i bid thee adieu, for i must be now a dissenter. _a_ song. _tune of_ oh! how happy's he. _pag._ . ah! how happy's he, lives from drinking free, can enjoy his humour, paper and his pen; nor ensnar'd with wine, or some whores design, but in harmless sonnets thinking does ever mend; prigs shall never vex him, pox shall ne'er perplex him, if his pocket's full, sits down and counts his joy; if it be not so, takes a tune or two, 'till by wise content, his trouble does destroy. when a monarch reels, he his thoughts conceals, whether whig or _tory_, never does express; with a sober dose of _coffee_ funks his nose, and reading all the news does leave the world to guess: but when his noddle's full, o then he hugs his soul, and homeward flush'd with joy does trudge apace, when on pillow laid, then with mind display'd argues with himself the queen and nation's case. _a_ song. [music] had i but love, i'd quit all treasure, had i but love, i'd envy none above: camp and court, have no such pleasure; camp and court, have both such pretty sport. _wo_. let me alone, let me alone, says the fool, or i'll cry out, sir; _man_. prithee do, prithee do, with all my soul, but you shan't stir. such is love, and such is living, such is love, and such was mighty _jove_: gods and kings, have both been contriving, gods and kings, to catch these pretty things. _wo_. let me go, what d'ye do, pray forbear, alass i cannot bear it; _man_. hold your tongue, hold your tongue, never fear you peevish chit. _a_ song. _set by mr._ frank. love's passion never knew 'till this, a blissful happiness like mine; with joy now _cælia_ crowns my wish, and _cupid_ both our hearts does joyn: with joy now _cælia_ crowns my wish. and _cupid_ both our hearts does joyn. whene'er our hearts dart fiery beams, fierce as the pangs of our desires; the meeting glances kindle flames more pure than fancyed fires: then _cælia_ let's no pleasure want, to perfect the most happy state; the bliss you fear too soon to grant, you'll rather think enjoyed too late. _a_ song. _set by mr._ abell. [music] _cælia_ be not too complying, ease not soon a lovers pain; love increases by denying, soon we leave what soon we gain. cælia _be not too complying_, &c. if in courtship you're delighting, and wou'd no adorer loose; let your looks be still inviting, but your vertue still refuse. _let your looks be still inviting_, &c. _a_ song. _set by mr._ abell. [music] a little love may prove a pleasure, too great a passion is a pain; when we our flame by reason measure, blest is our fate, and light our chain: who then would long a slave remain? true hearts are like a fairy treasure, talk'd of, but ever sought in vain; a little love may prove a pleasure, too great a passion is a pain. _a_ song. [music] when first i lay'd siege to my _chloris_, when first i lay'd siege to my _chloris_: cannon oaths i brought down, to batter the town, and boom'd her with amorous stories. billet deux like small shot did so ply her, billet deux like small shot did so ply her; and sometimes a song, went whistling along, yet still i was never the nigher. at length she sent word by a trumpet, at length she sent word by a trumpet, that if i lik'd the life, she would be my wife, but she would be no man's strumpet. i told her that _mars_ wou'd ne'er marry, i told her that _mars_ wou'd ne'er marry; i swore by my scars, got in combates and wars, that i'd rather dig stones in a quarry. at length she granted the favour, at length she granted the favour; with the dull curse, for better for worse, and saved the parson the labour. _a_ song. _set by seignor_ baptist. [music] why alas do you now leave me, you who vow'd a love so true; can you hope whilst you deceive me, others will be just to you? oh you know what you forsake, you're pursuing, my undoing, but you know not what you take. is your fit of passion over, will you kill me dear unkind; is your heart then such a rover, as no vows, no oaths can bind: hear at least my last adieu, see me lying, see me dying, and remember 'tis for you. _a_ song. _set by mr._ akeroyde. [music] when beauty such as yours has mov'd desires, a kind return, a kind return, should raise the glowing fires; but tho' you hate me, i am still devoted wholly to your will: not all your frowns can quench my flame, my love is something more than name, and as it ought, will ever, ever be the same. _a_ song. _set by mr._ frank. [music] see bleeding at your feet there lies, one murder'd by disdain; that heart you wounded with your eyes, is by your rigour slain: expiring now i cannot live, death no delay will brook, unless some pitying word you give, or kind relenting look, or kind relenting look. for then from fate by rapture born, and taken from your arms; the heart thus rescued from your scorn, i'll offer to your charms: love's eager rites, i'll then pursue, and sacrificing dye; altar and beauteous goddess you, and priest, and victim i. _the good fellow's resolve_: _tune_ as _may_ was in her youthful dress. _vol._ . _p._ . now i'm resolv'd to love no more, but sleep by night, and drink by day; your coyness _chloris_ pray give o'er, and turn your tempting eyes away: i'll place no happiness of mine, on fading beauty still to court; and say she's glorious and divine, when there's in drinking better sport. love has no more prerogative, to make me desperate courses take; nor me of _bacchus_ joys deprive, for them i _venus_ will forsake: despise the feeble nets she lays, and scorn the man she can o'ercome; in drinking we see happy days, but in a fruitless passion none. 'tis wine alone that cheers the soul, but love and women make us sad; i'm merry while i court the bowl, whilst he that courts his madam's mad. then fill it up boys to the brim, since in it we refreshment find; come here's a bumper unto him, that courts good wine, not woman-kind. _a_ song. _set by mr._ frank. [music] when crafty fowlers would surprize, the harmonious lark that soars on high it is by glancing in his eyes, the sun-shine rays which draws him nigh: _it is by_, &c. charm'd with reflections from the glase, he flies with eager hasty speed; ceasing the musick of his lays, into the nets the fowler spread. so when _clemelia_ would obtain, the prey her fancy most desires; she spreads her dress like nets in vain, and all her youthful gay attires. 'till watching opportunity, she throws an amorous charming glance, then to her net the youth does flie, and lies entangled in a trance. _a_ song. _set by dr._ blow. [music] boasting fops who court the fair, for the fame of being lov'd; you who daily prating are of the hearts your charms have mov'd, still be vain in talk and dress, but while shadows you pursue; own that some who boast it less, may be blest as much as you. love and birding are ally'd, baits and nets alike they have; the same arts in both are try'd, the unwary to inslave; if in each you'd happy prove, without noise still watch your way; for in birding and in love, while we talk it flies away. _a_ song. must love, that tyrant of the breast, have all our songs, have all our hours; whilst he alone disturbs our rest, and with his cares our hearts devours, and with his cares our hearts devours: no more let's blame ignoble souls, who doat on arbitrary powers; since cruel love our wills controuls, yet all the world, yet all the world the toy adores. for shame let's break the feeble bonds, and our old liberty regain; love against reason seldom stands, whenever that sways, its power is vain: when man the prize of freedom knows, _cupid_ is easily out-brav'd; the bug-bear only conquers those, who fondly seek to be enslav'd. _the woman's complaint to her neighbour._ [music] good morrow gossip _joan_, where have you been a walking? i have for you at home, a budget full of talking, gossip _joan_. my sparrow's flown away, and will no more come to me; i've broke a glass to day, the price will quite undo me, gossip _joan_. i've lost a _harry_ groat, was left me by my granny; i cannot find it out, i've search'd in every cranny, gossip _joan_. my goose has laid away, i know not what's the reason; my hen has hatch'd to day, a week before the season, gossip _joan_. i've lost my wedding-ring, that was made of silver gilt; i had drink would please a king, and the whorish cat has spill'd it, gossip _joan_. my duck has eat a snail, and is not that a wonder; the horns bud out at tail, and have split her rump asunder, gossip _joan_. my pocket is cut off, that was full of sugar-candy; i cannot stop my cough, without a gill of brandy, gossip _joan_. o i am sick at heart, therefore pray give me some ginger; i cannot sneeze or fart, therefore pray put in finger, gossip _joan_. o pitty, pitty me, or i shall go distracted; i have cry'd 'till i can't see, to think how things are acted, gossip _joan_. let's to the ale-house go, and wash down all my sorrow; my griefs you there shall know, and we'll meet again to morrow, gossip _joan_. _a_ song, _set by mr._ jer. clark. [music] i'm vext to think that _damon_ wooes me, who with sighs and tears pursues me; he still whining and repining, of my rigour does complain: i'd not see him, yet wou'd free him, and my self, my self from pain: i'll enjoy him, and so cloy him, love cures love, more, more than disdain. _a_ song, _by mr._ burkhead. [music] claspt in my dear _melinda's_ arms, soft engaging, oh how she charms; graces more divine, in her person shine, then _venus_ self cou'd ever boast. in the softest moments of love, melting, panting, oh how she moves; come, come, come my dear, now we've nought to fear, mortal sure was never so blest, come, come, come, _&c._ pray don't trifle, my dearest forbear, i shall die with transports i fear; clasp me fast my life, 'twill more pleasure give, both our stocks of love let's joyn, clasp me, _&c._ now our souls are charm'd in bliss, raptures flow from every kiss; words cannot reveal, the fierce joys i feel, 'tis too much to bear and live, words cannot, _&c._ _a_ song, _in the_ play _call'd the ladies fine aires: sung by mr._ pack, _in the figure of a_ bawd. _set by mr._ barrett. [music] how happy are we, who from thinking are free, that curbing disease o'the mind: can indulge every tast, love where we like best, not by dull reputation confin'd. when we're young fit to toy, gay delights we enjoy, and have crowds of new lovers wooing; when we're old and decay'd, we procure for the trade, still in ev'ry age we're doing. if a cully we meet, we spend what we get, e'ery day for the next never think: when we dye where we go, we have no sense to know, for a bawd always dyes in her drink. _a_ song. _set by mr._ forcer. [music] farewel my useless scrip, and poor unheeded flocks; no more you'll round me trip, nor cloath me with your locks: feed by yon purling stream, where _jockey_, where _jockey_ first i knew: i only think, i only think, i only think on him, i cannot, cannot, cannot think on you. farewel each shepherdess, the bonny lads adieu; may each his wish possess, and to that wish be true: your oaten pipes cou'd please, but _jockey_ then was kind; your bonny tunes may cease, the lad has chang'd his mind. _a_ song. _set by mr._ frank. [music] ere _phillis_ with her looks did kill, my heart resisting, my heart resisting them was ill; now in its wounds it finds a cure, when most they bleed, i least endure. for tho' 'tis death those looks to meet, there's life in dying at her feet; kill _phillis_ then, kill with your eyes, if you let _strephon_ live he dyes. _a_ song. _set by mr._ king. [music] not your eyes _melania_ move me, not your flowring charms or wit; not your daily vows to love me, make my easy soul submit. shape nor dress can never sway me, nor the softest looks betray me; _shape nor face can never sway me,_ _nor the softest looks betray me._ but your mind, my dear, subdues me, where a thousand graces shine; goodness, love, and honour moves me, and my passion's all divine. goodness as a boundless treasure, yields the purest sweetest pleasure. _a_ song. [music] then come kind _damon_, come away, to _cynthia's_ power advance: the _sylvians_ they shall pipe and play, and we'll lead up, and we'll lead up, and we'll lead up the dance: the _sylvians_ they shall pipe and play, and we'll lead up, and we'll lead up, and we'll lead up the dance; the _sylvians_ they, _&c._ smile then with a beam divine, we'll be blest if you but shine; happy then our pains and toils, wit only lives when beauty smiles: happy then our pains and toils, wit only lives, wit only lives, when beauty smiles; wit only lives, _&c._ _the soldiers return from the wars, or the maids and widdows rejoycing._ _tune page_ . at the change as i was walking, i heard a discourse of peace; the people all were a talking, that the tedious wars will cease: and if it do prove but true, the maids will run out of their houses, _to see the troopers all come home,_ _and the grenadiers with their drum a drum drum,_ _then the widdows shall all have spouses._ the scarlet colour is fine, sir, all others it doth excel; the trooper has a carbine, sir, that will please the maidens well: and when it is cock'd and prim'd, sir, the maids will run out of their houses, _to see the troopers come come come_, &c. there's _joan_, and _betty_, and _nelly_, and the rest of the female crew; each has an itch in her belly, to play with the scarlet hue: and _marg'ret_ too must be peeping, _to see the troopers_, &c. the landladys are preparing, her maids are shifting their smocks; each swears she'll buy her a fairing, and opens her _christmas-box_: she'll give it all to the red-coats, _when as the troopers_, &c. _jenny_ she lov'd a trooper, and she shew'd her all her gear; _doll_ has turn'd off the cooper, and now for a grenadier: his hand grenadoes they will please her, _when as the troopers_, &c. old musty maids that have money, although no teeth in their heads; may have a bit for their bunny, to pleasure them in their beds: their hearts will turn to the red-coats, _when as the troopers_, &c. the widdows now are a singing, and have thrown their peaks aside; for they have been us'd to stinging, when their garters were unty'd: but the red-coats they will tye 'em, _when as the troopers_, &c. wives and widdows and maidens, i'm sure this news will please ye; if any with maiden-heads laden, the red-coats they will ease ye: then all prepare to be happy, _to see the troopers all come home_, &c. _a_ song. _tune of_ old boree. come _cælia_ come, let's sit and talk a while, about the affairs of loving: let a mutual kiss our cares and fears beguile, far distant from this grove: let's pass our time in mirth away, now we're remov'd from the noisy, noisy court, now we're got out of the stormy sea, into the safer port. _a_ song. _set by mr._ damascene. [music] who can _dorinda's_ beauty view, and not her captive be; _apollo_, _daphne_ did pursue, embraced the maid, though chang'd to a tree: if god's could love at such a rate, poor mortals must adore: _dorinda's_ merit is as great; 'tis just, 'tis just to love her more. _a_ hymn _upon the execution of two_ criminals, _by mr._ ramondon. [music] all you that must take a leap in the dark, pity the fate of _lawson_ and _clark_; cheated by hope, by mercy amus'd, betray'd by the sinful ways we us'd: cropp'd in our prime of strength and youth, who can but weep at so sad a truth; _cropp'd in our prime_, &c. once we thought 'twould never be night, but now alass 'twill never be light; heavenly mercy shine on our souls, death draws near, hark, _sepulchres_ bell toles: nature is stronger in youth than in age, grant us thy spirit lord grief to assuage: courses of evil brought us to this, sinful pleasure, deceitful bliss: we ne'er shou'd have cause so much to repent, could we with our callings have been but content: the snares of wine and women fair, first were the cause that we now despair. you that now view our fatal end, warn'd by our case your carriage mend; soon or late grim death will come, who'd not prepare for a certain doom: span long life with lifeless joys, what's in this world but care and noise. youth, tho' most blest by being so, as vast thy joy, as great thy woe; ev'ry sin that gives delight, will in the end the soul affright: 'tis not thy youth, thy wealth nor strength, can add to life one moments length. god is as merciful as just, cleanse our hearts, since die we must: sweet temptations of worldly joys, makes for our grief, and our peace destroys, think then when man his race has run, death is the prize which he has won. sure there's none so absurd and odd, to think with the fool there is no god; what is't we fear when death we meet, where't not t' account at the judgment-seat: that providence we find each hour, proves a supernatural power; in mercy open thy bright abode, receive our souls tremendous god. _the_ british accountant. [music] you ladies draw near, i can tell you good news, if you please to give ear, or else you may choose; of a _british accountant_ that's frolick and free, who does wondrous feats by the rule of three. _addition_, _division_, and other such rules, i'll leave to be us'd by your scribling fools; this art is improv'd unto such a degree, that he manages all by the rule of three. you dames that are wed who can make it appear, that you lose an estate for want of an heir: this _accountant_ will come without e'er a fee, and warrants a boy by his rule of three. is the widdow distress'd for the loss of her spouse, tho' to have him again she cares not a louse; her wants he supplys whatsoever they be, and all by his art in the rule of three. do you dream in the night and fret at your fate, for want of the man when you happen to wake; you may presently send and satisfy'd be, that he pacifies all by the rule of three. you ladies who are with a husband unblest, and are minded to make him a delicate beast; he'll fix the brow-antlers just where they should be, and all by his art in the rule of three. you lasses at large of the true female race, who are glad of the men who will lye on their face; do but try the bold _britton_, you all will agree, that you never did know such a rule of three. _a_ song. _set by mr._ frank. the night is come that will allow, no longer any coyness now, but every freedom must to love be given; what tho' the shadows of the night, withdraw her beauty from his sight, the youth another way, another way, another way will find his heav'n. see, see the charming nymph is lay'd, never again to rise a maid, the vigorous bridegroom now impatient grown; thrown himself by her side, with eager joy, and amourous pride, ready to seize the prey that's now his own. and now that all have left the place, transporting joys crowd on apace, the nymph contends like one that would not win; entrain'd with pleasure now she lies, the youth has gain'd the noble prize, and now her fears are past, and joys begin. _a_ song. _the words by mr._ escourt. [music] you tell me _dick_ you've lately read that we are beaten in _spain_; but prithee boy hold up thy head, we'll beat 'em twice for it again _with a fal la la la la la la la._ is this the courage you us'd to boast, why thou art quite cast down; you can reflect on what we've lost, but ne'er think what we've won, _with a fal_, &c. what tho' _jack spaniard_ crack and bounce, he ne'er shall do so again; we took last year as many towns, as they have now took men, _with a fal_, &c. in war and gaming it is the same, according to the old saying; who's sure to conquer ev'ry game, quite loses the pleasure of playing: _with a fal_, &c. i think we have a man of our own, a man if i may call him so; for after those great deeds he has done, i may question if he's so or no, _with a fal_, &c. but now if you wou'd know his name, 'tis _johnny marlborough_; the beaten _french_ has felt his fame, and so shall the spaniards too, _with a fal_, &c. and since we cannot justice do, to ev'ry victory; in a full glass our zeal let's show, to our general's family, _with a fal_, &c. for he has eight fair daughters, and each of them is a charmer; there's lady _railton_, _bridgwater_, fine _sunderland_, lady _mount-hermer_, _with a fal_, &c. the other four so charming are, they will with raptures fill ye; there's lady _hochstet_, _schellenburgh_, bright _blenheim_, and lady _ramillie_, _with a fal_, &c. the last were got so fair and strong, as in story ne'er was told; the first four always will be young, and the last will never be old, _with a fal_, &c. at ev'ry feast, e'er we are all deceas'd, and the service begins to be hard; 'tis surely your duty, to toast a young beauty, call'd madamosel _audenard_, _with a fal_, &c. all joy to his grace, for the ninth of his race, she's as fair as most of the former; but where is that he, dare so impudent be, to compare her to lady _mount-hermer_, _with a fal_, &c. and now to make thy hopes more strong, and make you look like a man; remember that all these belong, to the queen of great _britain_, _with a fal_, &c. then prithee _dick_ hold up thy head, altho' we were beaten in _spain_; as sure as scarlet colour is red, we'll beat them twice for it again: _with a fal_, &c. _a_ song. let those youths who freedom prize, far from the conquering _sylvia_ run, never see her killing eyes, or hear her soft enchanting tongue: for such sure destruction waits, on those darts with which she wounds; no shepherd ever can escape, but falls if _sylvia_ does but frown. _damon_ to his cost has prov'd, all resistance is but vain; heaven has form'd her to be lov'd, and made her queen of all the plain: _damon_ when he saw her face, from her beauty would have fled; but the charmer turn'd her voice, and with a song she struck him dead. _a_ song. [music] your melancholy's all a folly, the peace i'm sure is sign'd; the _french_ are for't, so is our court, and the _dutch_ must be inclin'd: what is't to us who's king of _spain_, so we are masters of the main, our fleet must always the trade maintain, if we are not banter'd and bubbl'd. and cheated and banter'd and bubbl'd. we very well know when _marlborough_, did take the towns in _flanders_; 'twas _english-men_, did pay for them, tho' they put in _dutch_ commanders; so that while we were humbling _france_, _hollands_ power we did advance, and made 'em great at our expence, and so we were banter'd, _&c._ we must suppose, the whigs are foes, when treatys they will sign a; to give the _dutch_ so plaguy much, and call it the barrier line a: for how can we great _europe_ sway, or keep the ballance every way, i fear we shall pay for't another day, for we have been banter'd, _&c._ for liberty, and property, 'twas once we us'd to fight; 'gainst popery, and slavery, we did it with our might: but now the taxes make us poor, the emperor may swear and roar, we neither can nor will do more, for we have been banter'd, _&c._ fanaticks then, are now the men, who kingly pow'r divide; their villany to monarchy, 'tis makes 'em _france_ deride: if _hollanders_ wou'd choose a king, as much as now their praises sing, they wou'd curse, and damn, and fling, and cry they were banter'd, _&c._ i swear adsnigs, the canting whigs, have run their knavish race; the church and queen, are flourishing, now they are in disgrace: great _harly_ he has set us right, and _france_ will banish _perkenite_, so we're no more the _holland_ bite, nor will we be banter'd and bubbl'd, and cheated and banter'd and bubbl'd. _the_ mohocks. _a_ song. [music] there's a new set of rakes, entitled mohocks, who infest her majesties subjects; he who meets 'em at night, must be ready for flight, or withstanding he many a drub gets. in their nightly patrole, they up and down rowle, to the bodily fear of the nation; some say they are gentle- men, otherwise simple, and their sense like their reputation. others say that the van's led by noblemen, tho' to forreigners this will but sound ill; but let 'em take care, how they manage th' affair; for a lord may be kill'd by a scoundrel. some count it a plot, and the lord knows what, contriv'd by the whigs out of season; but shou'd it be so, by the _high-church_ or _low_, rebellion was always high treason. fie, curb the disgrace, 'tis imprudent and base, pray take the advice of a stranger; but if you go on, like fools as ye've done, when ye're hang'd ye'll be quite out of danger. tune _of joy to the bridegroom_. my _theodora_ can those eyes, from whence those glories always shine: give light to every soul that prys, and only be obscure to mine: _give light to every soul that prys_, _and only be obscure to mine._ send out one beam t' enrich my soul, that doth in clouds of darkness roul; and chase away this gloomy shade, that in my breast a hell has made: _and chase away this gloomy shade_, _that in my breast a hell has made._ where fire burns, where flame is bright, yet i the comfort want of light: o shine, then shine upon the man, that else in darkness is undone: _o shine, then shine upon the man_, _that else in darkness is undone._ _a_ song _in praise of_ begging: _or, the beggars rivall'd._ [music] tho' begging is an honest trade, which wealthy knaves despise; yet rich men may be beggars made, and we that beg may rise: the greatest kings may be betray'd, and lose their sov'raign power, but he that stoops to ask his bread, but he that stoops to ask his bread, can never fall much lower. what lazy foreigns swarm'd of late, has spoil'd our begging-trade; yet still we live and drink good beer, tho' they our rights invade: some say they for religion fled, but wiser people tell us, they were forc'd abroad to seek their bread, for being too rebellious. let heavy taxes greater grow, to make our army fight; where 'tis not to be had you know, the king must lose his right: let one side laugh, the other mourn, we nothing have to fear; but that great lords will beggars be, to be as great as we are. what tho' we make the world believe, that we are sick or lame; 'tis now a virtue to deceive, our teachers do the same: in trade dissembling is no crime, and we may live to see; that begging in a little time, the only trade will be. tune, _let_ cÆsar _rejoyce_. _alphonzo_, if you sir, your heart have resign'd; take care what you do, sir, for a lover is blind. beware of the snare, that for lovers is laid: beware of the fair, but more treacherous maid: for when tir'd with the joy, of a minutes delight; you'll repent the next morn, what you did over night. _a new_ ballad, _sung at_ messieurs brook _and_ hellier's _club, at the_ temple-_tavern in_ fleet-street. [music] since _tom's_ in the chair, and e'ery one here appears in gay humour and easie; say, why shou'd not i, a new ballad try, bright brethren o'th' bottle to please ye. this wine is my theme, this is all on's esteem, for _brook_ and _hellier_ cannot wrong us; let them get wealth, who keeps us in health, by bringing neat liquors among us, _let them get wealth_, &c. each vintner of late, has got an estate, by brewing and sophistication: with syder and sloes, they've made a damn'd dose, has poisoned one half of the nation: but _hellier_ and _brook_, a method have took, to prove them all scoundrels and noddys; and shew'd us a way which (if we don't stray) will save both our pockets and bodies. this generous juice, brisk blood will produce, and stupid ones raise to the bonny'st: make poets and wits, of you that are cits, and lawyers (if possible) honest: if any are sick, or find themselves weak, with symptoms of gout or the scurvy; this will alone, the doctor must own, _probatum est_ healthy preserve ye. have any here wives, that lead 'em sad lives, for you know what pouting and storming; then drink of this wine, and it will incline, the weakest to vig'rous performing: each spouse will say then, pray go there agen, tho' money for the reck'ning you borrow; nay, for so much bub, here i'll pay your club, so go there agen dear to morrow. tho' one drinks red port, another's not for't, but chuses _vienna_ or white-wine; each takes what suits best, his stomach or tast, yet e'ery one's sure he drinks right wine; thus pledg'd we all sit, and thus we are knit, in friendship together the longer; as musick in parts, enlivens our hearts, and renders the harmony stronger. now god bless the queen, peers, parliament men, and keep 'em like us in true concord; and grant that all those, who dare be her foes, at _tyburn_ may swing in a strong cord; we'll loyalists be, and bravely agree, with lives and estates to defend her; so then she'll not care, come peace or come war, for _lewis_, the _pope_, or _pretender_. _the_ london prentice. [music] a worthy _london_ prentice, came to his love by night; the candles were lighted, the moon did shine so bright: he knocked at the door, to ease him of his pain; she rose and let him in love, and went to bed again. he went into the chamber, where his true love did lye; she quickly gave consent, for to have his company: she quickly gave consent, the neighbours peeping out; so take away your hand, love let's blow the candle out. i would not for a crown love, my mistress should it know; i'll in my smock step down love, and i'll out the candle blow; the streets they are so nigh, and the people walk about; some may peep in and spy love, let's blow the candle out. my master and my mistress, upon the bed do lye; injoying one another, why should not you and i: my master kiss'd my mistress, without any fear or doubt; and we'll kiss one another, let's blow the candle out. i prithee speak more softly, of what we have to do; least that our noise of talking, should make our pleasure rue: for kissing one another, will make no evil rout; then let us now be silent, and blow the candle out. but yet he must be doing, he could no longer stay; she strove to blow the candle out, and push'd his hand away: the young man was so hasty, to lay his arms about; but she cryed i pray love, let's blow the candle out. as this young couple sported, the maiden she did blow; but how the candle went out, alas i do not know: said she i fear not now, sir, my master nor my dame; and what this couple did, sir, alas i dare not name. _a_ song _out of the_ guardian. [music] oh the charming month of _may_, when the breezes fan the trees, is full of blossoms fresh and gay, full of blossoms fresh and gay: oh the charming month of _may_, charming, charming month of _may_. oh what joys our prospect yields, in a new livery when we see every, bush and meadow, tree and field, _&c._ oh what joys, _&c._ charming joys, _&c._ oh how fresh the morning air, when the zephirs and the hephirs, their odoriferous breaths compare, oh how fresh, _&c._ charming fresh, _&c._ oh how fine our evenings walk, when the nightingale delighting, with her songs suspends our talk, oh how fine, _&c._ charming fine, _&c._ oh how sweet at night to dream, on mossy pillows by the trillows, of a gentle purling stream, oh how sweet, _&c._ charming sweet, _&c._ oh how kind the country lass, who her cows bilking, leaves her milking, for a green gown upon the grass, oh how kind, _&c._ charming kind, _&c._ oh how sweet it is to spy, at the conclusion, her deep confusion, blushing cheeks and down cast eye, oh how sweet, _&c._ charming sweet, _&c._ oh the charming curds and cream, when all is over she gives her lover, who on her skimming-dish carves her name, oh the charming curds and cream, charming, charming curds and cream. tune, _hopes farewel_. fates i defie, i defie your advances, since _cælia_ has crown'd my true love with a smile; i'll laugh at your darts, your arrows and lances, since her bosom abounds, with the pleasures of nile. you shall never, me from her sever, since that my _cælia_ has thrown by her scorn: then forbear, to come so near, for i from _cælia_ can never be torn. _the country_ farmer's _campaign_: _by the author of_ banter'd and bubbl'd, _&c._ [music] oh _roger_ i've been to see _eugene_, by _villars_ over-reach'd; and that _dutch_ earl, great _albermarle_, so foolishly detach'd: for _phil_ of _spain_, saw _doway_ tain, and _quesnoy_ close beset; saw _frenchmen_ grin, at count _rechstrin_, and _dutchmen_ in a sweat. with both my eyes _auxiliaries_, i saw desert our cause; old _zinzendorf_ did buy 'em off, but never stopp'd their maws: whilst ormond he most orderly, did march them towards _ghent_; the _german_ dogs, with great _dutch_ hogs, their towns against him pent. were not we mad to spend our blood, and weighty treasure so; do they deserve, that we should serve, adad we'll make them know: they'll be afraid, of peace and trade, and downfal of the whigs; our glorious ann, with _france_ and _spain_, will dance then many a jigg. if they have a mind, 'fore peace be sign'd, to own great anna's power; such terms she'll get, as she thinks fit, and they shall have no more: great _oxford's_ earl, that weighty pearl, and minister of state: with _bollingbrook_, i swear adzooks, old _england_ will be great. we farmers then, shall be fine men, and money have good store; their whigish tax they'll have with a pox, when monarchy's no more: my son i'm sure, will ne'er endure, to pay their plaguy funds; 'tis with reproach, they ride in coach, it makes me mad ads-- for twenty years, with popish fears, we have been banter'd much; with liberty, and property, and our very good friends the _dutch_: but now i hope, our eyes are ope, and _france_ is more sincere; then _emperor_ with all his stir, _or dounders divil myn heir._ strawbery. [music] of all the handsome ladies, of whom the town do talk; who do frequent the _opera's_, and in the park do walk: the many lovely beauties, there are who do excel; yet my _strawbery_, my _strawbery_, does bear away the bell. some cry up madam _mar----_ for this thing and for that; and some her grace of _sh----_ tho' she grows something fat: and tho' i love her _ma----_ and all her ladies well, yet my _strawbery_, &c. the kit cat and the toasters, did never care a fig; for any other beauty, besides the little whig: but for all that sir _harry_, that witty knight can tell, 'tis my _strawbery_, &c. the red coats think the _ch----ls_, the fairest in the land; because the d. their father, the ar----y does command: but the noble d. of _b----_ who does all dukes excel, says my _strawbery_, &c. tune, _now the fight's done_. now, now the night's come, and the great god of love lyes lurking in shades, his bright arrows to prove: he laughs at our rest, and he darts at our hearts; and a will that won't still, to each lover imparts. he smiles when he feels the sharp point of his dart; and tho' our breast's steel, yet he drives to the heart. whilst we court and we play, he makes a full pass; and ne'er does delay, 'till we're link'd on the grass. _the_ scotch _wedding: or, lass with the golden hair._ [music] now _jockey_ and _moggy_ are ready, to gang to the kirk to sped; as fine as a laird or lady, for they are resolv'd to wed: come aw let's awa to the wedding, for there will be lilting there; _jockey'll_ be married to _moggy_, the lass with the golden hair, and for a whole month together, brisk _jockey_ a wooing went; 'till _moggy's_ mother and vather, at last gave their consent, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be long keel and pottage, and bannarks of barly meal; and ther'll be good sawt herring, to relish a cogue of good ale, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be _sawney_ the soater, and _will_ with muckle mow; and there'll be _tommy_ the blutter, and _andrew_ the tinker i trow, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be bow-legg'd _bobby_, and thumbless _kate's_ geud man; and there'll be blue cheek'd _dolly_, and _luwry_ the laird of the land, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be low lipper _betty_, and pluggy fac'd _wat_ of the mill; and there'll be farnicled _huggy_, that wins at the ho of the hill, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be _annester dowgale_, that splay footed _betty_ did wooe; and mincing _bessey_ and _tibely_, and _chrisly_, the belly gut sow, _come aw let's_, &c. and _craney_ that marry'd _steney_, that lost him his brick till his arse; and after was hang'd for stealing, it's well that it happen'd no worse, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be hopper-ars'd _nancy_, and _sarey_ fac'd _jenny_ by name; glud _kate_ and fat legg'd _lissey_, the lass with the codling wem. _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be _jenny_ go gibby, and his glack'd wife _jenny bell_; and messed skin blosen _jordy_, the lad that went scipper himsel. _come aw let's_, &c. there'll be all the lads and lasses, set down in the middle of the hall; to sybouse, and rastack, and carlings, they are both sodden and raw. _come aw let's_, &c. there'll be tart perry and catham, and fish of geud gabback and skate; prosody, and dramuck and brandy, and collard, neats-feet in a plate. _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be meal, kell and castocks, and skink to sup 'till you rive; and roaches to roast on the gridiron, and flukes that were tane alive, _come aw let's_, &c. cropt head wilks and pangles, and a meal of good sweting to ney; and when you're all burst with eating, we'll rise up and dance 'till we dey: _come aw let's awaw to the wedding, for there will be lilting there;_ jockey'll _be marry'd to_ moggy, _the lass with the golden hair._ _the mistresses: a_ song _set by mr._ james townsend, _the words by mr._ rolfe. [music] _lavia_ would, but dare not venture, fear so much o'er-rules her passion; _chloe_ suffers all to enter, subjects fame to inclination: neither's method i admire, either is in love displeasing; _chloe's_ fondness gluts desire _lavia's_ cowardise is teazing. _cælia_ by a wiser measure, in one faithful swains embraces; pays a private debt to pleasure, yet for chast in publick passes: fair ones follow _cælia's_ notion, free from fear and censure wholly; love, but let it be with caution, for extreams are shame or folly. _a_ song. _set by an eminent master._ when embracing my friends, and quaffing champain; dull phlegmatick spleen, thou assault'st me in vain; dull phlegmatick spleen, thou assault'st me in vain: my pleasures flow pure, without taint or allay; and each glass that i drink, inspires with new joy. my pleasures thus heighten'd, no improvement receive; but what the dear sight of my _phillis_ can give: the charms of her eyes, the force of my wine, do then in harmonious confed'racy joyn: to wrap me with joys, to wrap me with joys, seraphick, seraphick, and divine. _a_ tenement _to let_. [music] i have a tenement to let, i hope will please you all, and if you'd know the name of it, 'tis called _cunny hall_. it's seated in a pleasant vale, beneath a rising hill; this tenement is to be let, to whosoe'er i will. for years, for months, for weeks or days, i'll let this famous bow'r; nay rather than a tennant want, i'd let it for an hour. there's round about a pleasant grove, to shade it from the sun; and underneath is well water that pleasantly does run. where if you're hot you may be cool'd, if cold you may find heat; it is a well contrived spring, not little nor too great. the place is very dark by night, and so it is by day; but when you once are enter'd in, you cannot lose your way. and when you're in, go boldly on, as far as e'er you can; and if you reach to the house top, you'll be where ne'er was man. tune, _draw_ cupid _draw_. here, _chloe_ hear, and do not turn away, from my desire, but quench my fire. and my love's flames allay: and let my song go along, unto compassion move; and make you kind, and bend your mind, and melt you into love. if _chloe_ loves, and constant proves, oh! happy, happy then am i; but if that she unconstant be, and do's delight to rove: as sure as gun, i am undone, and shan't have power to move. _fashionable_ shepherdess, _set by mr._ ramondon. [music] at the break of morning light, when the marbled sky look gay; nature self all perfect bright, smil'd to see the god of day: charming prospect, verdant trees, azure hill, enamell'd sky; birds with warbling throats to please, striving each which shall outvey. _lisbea_ then with wond'rous hast, o'er a green sword plain she flew; thus my angel as she past, the eyes of ev'ry shepherd drew: when they had the nymph espyed, all amazed cry'd there she goes; thus by blooming beauty tryed, thought a second sun arose. ev'ry swain the sun mistook. dazled by refulgent charms; and with joy their flocks forsook, for to follow love's alarms: all 'till now were perfect friends, bound by innocence and truth; 'till sly love to gain his ends, made a difference 'twixt each youth. each expected which should be, made the happy man by love; while for want of liberty, none could truly happy prove: but at length they all arriv'd, to a charming easie grove; where the nymph had well contriv'd, to be happy with her love. there in amorous folding twin'd, _strephon_ with his _lisbea_ lay; both to mutual joys enclin'd, let their inclinations stray: as the curling vines embracing, fondly of the oak around; so the blooming nymphs caressing, of her swain with pleasure crown'd. how surpriz'd were ev'ry swain, when they found the nymph engaged; disappointment heighten'd pain, 'till it made them more enraged: arm your self with resolution, cry'd the most revengeful he; we'll contrive her swains confusion, let him fall as much as we. several punishments they invented, for to torture helpless he; all revengeful, ne'er contented, cruel to a vast degree: one more envious in the rear, thus his sentiments let slip; make him like the cavalier, and for the _opera_ him equip. _a_ scotch song _in the play call'd_ love at first sight: _set by the late mr._ jer. clark. [music] the rosey morn lukes blith and gay, the lads and lasses on the plain; her bonny, bonny sports pass o'er the day, and leave poor _jenny_ tol complain: my _sawndy's_ grown a faithless loon, and given, given _moggy_ that wild heart; which eance he swore was aw my own, but now weese me i've scarce a part. gang thy gate then perjur'd _sawndy_, ise nea mere will mon believe; wou'd ise nere had trusted any, they faw thieves will aw deceive: but gin ere ise get mere lovers, ise dissemble as they do; for since lads are grown like rovers, pray why may na lasses too. _the_ restauration: _or the_ coventry song. . [music] the restauration now's the word, a blessed revolution; that has secur'd the church, the crown, and _england's_ constitution: may ev'ry loyal soul rejoice, may whigs and canters mourn, sir; who ever thought that _coventry_, shou'd make a due return, sir. we rally'd the church-militant, and fell to work ding-dong, sir; _craven_ and _gery_ are the names, that do adorn our song, sir: _beaufort_, _ormond_, _rochester_, and more than we can tell, sir; are themes that well deserve the pen, of brave _sacheverell_, sir. the glorious sons of _warwickshire_, may justly be commended; there's ne'er a member now elect, that ever has offended: _denbigh_ and _craven_ we esteem, a loyal noble pair, sir; and hope to see our worthy friend, great _bromly_ in the chair, sir. _a_ song. such an happy, happy life, ne'er had any other wife; as the loose _corinna_ knows, between her spark, her spark and spouse: the husband lies and winks his eyes, the valiant makes addresses, the wanton lady soon complies, with tenderest caresses. the wife is pleas'd, the husband eas'd, the lover made a drudge, his body's drain'd, his pocket's squeez'd; and who'll his pleasure grudge, _such an happy_, &c. _corinna's_ gay, as flow'rs in _may_, and struts with slanting ayre; the lovers for her pride doth pay, the cuckold's free from care, _such an happy_, &c. collin's _complaint_. [music] despairing besides a clear stream, a shepherd forsaken was laid; and whilst a false nymph was his theme, a willow supported his head: the winds that blew over the plain, to his sighs with a sigh did reply; and the brook in return of his pain, ran mournfully murmuring by. alas silly swain that i was, thus sadly complaining he cry'd; when first i beheld that fair face, 'twere better by far i had dy'd: she talk'd, and i blest the dear tongue, when she smil'd 'twas a pleasure too great; i listned, and cry'd when she sung, was nightingale ever so sweet. how foolish was i to believe, she cou'd doat on so lowly a clown; or that a fond heart wou'd not grieve, to forsake the fine folk of the town: to think that a beauty so gay, so kind and so constant wou'd prove; or go clad like our maidens in gray, or live in a cottage on love. what tho' i have skill to complain, tho' the muses my temples have crown'd; what tho' when they hear my soft strains, the virgins sit weeping around: ah _collin_ thy hopes are in vain, thy pipe and thy lawrel resign; thy false one inclines to a swain, whose musick is sweeter than thine. and you my companions so dear, who sorrow to see me betray'd; whatever i suffer forbear, forbear to accuse my false maid, tho' thro' the wide world we shou'd range, 'tis in vain from our fortunes to fly; 'twas hers to be false and to change, 'tis mine to be constant and die. if whilst 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 frolick it all the long day: whilst _collin_ forgotten and gone, no more shall be talk'd of or seen; unless that beneath the pale moon, his ghost shall glide over the green. _the constant_ warrior: _set by mr._ ramondon. farewel _chloe_, o farewel, i'll repair to wars alarms; and in foreign nations tell, of your cruelty and charms: come ye briny billows rowl, and convey me from my soul, come ye briny billows rowl, and convey me from my soul: since the cruel fair, the cause of my despair, has forc'd me hence to go, where stormy winds do blow; where raging seas do toss and mount, with dangers that i can't recount, forgive me showing thus my woe; _where raging seas do toss_, &c. when you hear of deeds in war, acted by your faithful swain; think, oh think, that from afar, 'twas you conquer'd all were slain: for by calling on your name, i conquer'd whereso'er i came; shou'd my fate not be, to keep my body free, from wounds and bruises too, whilst honour i pursue; 'twou'd raise my reputation, my pain i'd lose in passion, and glory that 'twas done for you. shou'd grim death once assail me, it cou'd never fright your slave, fortune self cou'd never fail me, only you can make my grave: my destiny shou'd grant reprieve, i cou'd not die, if you said live: were it to be found, in all the world around, an instance of such love, as you in me may prove: i'd never ask return, but patiently wou'd burn, nor more your generous pity move. o my guardian angel say, can such proofs your passion gain; if it can i'll bless the day, that i venture on the main: then with joy cry billows rowl, and convey me to my soul: return with glory crown'd, upon the lowly ground, kneel at your feet a while, and there my fears beguile: and think my toyl repaid, if you'd vouchsafe dear maid, to crown my labours with a smile. _the true use of the_ bottle. [music] love, the sweets of love, are the joys i most admire, kind and active fire, of a fierce desire, indulge my soul, compleat my bliss; but th' affected coldness of _cælia_ damps my boldness, i must bow, protest and vow, and swear aloud, i wou'd be proud, when she with equal ardour longs to kiss: bring a bowl, then bring a jolly bowl, i'll quench fond love within it; with flowing cups i'll raise my soul, and here's to the happy minute: for flush'd with brisk wine, when she's panting and warm; and nature unguarded lets loose her mind, in the amorous moment the gipsie i'll find, oblige her and take her by storm. _a_ song _in the_ farce _call'd the_ younger _the_ wiser: _set by mr._ daniel purcell. _sung by mr._ leveridge. [music] how happy's he who weds a wife, well practis'd, well practis'd in the _london_ life; dull country brides a sense may want, to hide the favours which they grant. how happy's he who weds a wife, we'll practis'd, well practis'd in the _london_ life; but _london_ wives coquet by rule, discreetly please the men they fool. how happy's he who weds a wife, well practis'd, well practis'd in the _london_ life. _a_ song. _set by mr._ ramondon. _sung at the_ theatre. [music] how charming _phillis_ is, how fair, how charming _phillis_ is, how fair, o that she were as willing, to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing: to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing, to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing, to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing: i sigh, i sigh, i languish now, and love will not let me rest; i drive about the park and bow, where'er i meet my dearest. _a_ song. _set by mr._ berenclow. why will _clemene_, when i gaze, my ravish'd eyes reprove; and chide 'em from the only face, that they were made to love: was not i born to wear your chain, i should delight to rove; from your cold province of disdain, to some warm land of love. but shou'd a gentle nymph when try'd, to me prove well inclin'd; my destin'd heart must yet reside, with you the most unkind; so destin'd exiles as they roam, while kindly us'd elsewhere; still languish after native home, tho' death, death is threatned there. finis. transcriber's note publication date: / author lifespan: - [from english song-books by day and murrie: the origins of wit and mirth: or pills to purge melancholy, the most famous song book of its day, may be traced back to a single volume of 'witty ballads, jovial songs, and merry catches' by an earlier generation of lyricists, published without music in under the title an antidote against melancholy: made up in pills. for the third edition, still without music but livened up by more recent songs, the title was changed to wit and mirth: an antidote against melancholy ( ), and in , still in one volume, it was published by henry playford with music. over the course of the next two decades it was expanded and republished again and again, eventually to become this six-volume 'standard edition' of contemporary popular comic and bawdy ballads, with an increasing emphasis on the work of the stammering dramatist and lyricist thomas d'urfey, whose songs were sung by all the town. among the composers were dr. john blow and henry purcell.] [from wikipedia: thomas d'urfey ( - ) was an english dramatist and songwriter. he wrote the plays the fond husband in , madame fickle in and the virtuous wife in . he also wrote the song collection wit and mirth, or pills to purge melancholy between and .] the book is not always gramatically correct, e.g.: "there was three travellers". odd spellings, and odd grammatical constructions, if they make sense, have been preserved. there is some dialect, which has also been preserved. (e.g.: "wo'as me poor lass! what mun i do?") apostrophes of ownership are conspicuous by their absence. spelling is sometimes quaint...'spight' for 'spite', 'dye' for 'die', 'chuse' for choose', 'seaze' for 'seize', 'quere' for 'queer', etc. where a spelling makes sense, and is merely discretional and not obviously incorrect, it has been retained. 'their' instead of 'there' has appeared twice (page and page ), retained, and 'pharoah' (page ), retained: it _is_ a drinking song. pp. - : 'monsieur grabeau' (twice) on page becomes monsieur grabeu (four times) on page . [note (from wikipedia): louis grabu, grabut, grabue, or grebus (fl. - , died after ) was a catalan-born, french-trained composer and violinist who was mainly active in england. while he was probably born in catalonia--he was later referred to as 'lodovicus grabeu of shalon in catalunnia' --details of his early life are lacking. sometime in his youth he moved to paris, where he was most likely trained by lully. at the time of the restoration he went to england, where french music, especially opera, was much in vogue. charles ii of england appointed him as a composer for his own private music in , and with the death of nicholas lanier in he became the second person to hold the title master of the king's musick. he adapted robert cambert's opera ariadne for a london performance in , and wrote music for john dryden's albion and albanius in . in he left england, the only land where he had achieved any kind of fame, and completely disappeared from historical record.] consonants were not necessarily doubled where we would now expect. standardised modern spelling is a fairly recent (mid th century) imposition, probably coinciding with the various public education acts. some spellings may be left over from middle english, e.g. 'sily' from 'sely', dialect 'seely', from oe 'sælig' (luck, happiness); thus 'sily' (p. ) may have meant 'lucky' or 'happy' instead of the modern 'silly'. or 'sily' may be our modern 'silly', with an undoubled middle consonant. damaged or missing punctuation has been repaired and sundry indents have been adjusted for consistency. errata page : 'vvidow' corrected to 'widow'. (possibly a printer's error....). ... "which way to take the widow brown," page : 'do' corrected to 'to': "they'll hourly study to deceive," page : 'vvho' corrected to 'who': "who dare not their grief declare," (... or maybe the printer was short of 'w's). sundry other instances of 'vv' have been corrected to 'w'. page : 'ny' corrected to 'my': "my nose takes the burthen...." page : 'mortal's' corrected to 'mortals': "mortals learn your lives to measure," page : 'maguanime' corrected to 'magnanime': "sat notus pro magnanime" page : missing 'i' added to last line to complete rhyme: "and priest and victim i." page : 'i'ye' corrected to "i've": "i've lost a harry groat," [note: harry was king henry; a groat was an old english silver coin, first coined by henry iii in , and by edward iii in . originally worth one penny, it later rose to the value of fourpence. the groat was revived between and , and withdrawn from circulation in (from collins new age encyclopedia, )].