iw ■'mv ij., . . .> \| so O u_ fn oo >• so ■r\S C ^ f ft U o5 -s^lLIBRARYQ^^ WIT riC.rMIEAn, 33 'J'/'iU r liuii J' ^ =1 y s ^ A3* -^l-llBRARYQ^ IV i ILllT ^ J<1 C5 ..^ (^iX -^^ vj.jov '^,i/odnvjjo>' 30 ir '6?i 3> i O ^lOSANCFIfr; o Q ul. ."S "^/sajAiNn-^wv tARYQ. 7^ -s^UIBR IIFO/?^ ^ ,^OfCA ^ Alexander Brome . . 256 Hugh Compton . . 145 George Wither . . : 47 Charles Mackay . .304 Sir Bohert Aytoun . . 41 Anonymous . . .191 « The Thrush'' . . 260 '• Lusty Juventus" . . 29 Abraham Cowley . . 54 Allison . . ' .273 Thomas Morley . . 92 f Flayfoi d's " Musical Com- ( panion" . . 279 Anonymous , . . 268 Nicholas Breton . , 88 Sir John Suckling . , 53 Anonymous . . . 298 Lord Byron . . .72 " llie Hive' ... 63 T. H. Bayley . . .302 T. K. Hervey ... 78 Charles Dickens . .311 Edward Moore . . 104 riayford's " Choice Aires' 287 Anonymous . . . 248 Barry Cornwall . .164 X CONTENTS. Lass of Richmond Hill, the Leather Eottel, the Let Rakes for Pleasure Range the Town Life's like a Ship Like as the Damask Rose you see Little Fools and great ones , Loss of the Roj^al George . Loss in Delays ..... Love and Glory Love's Follies Love is a Sickness full of Woes . Love is the Blossom where there blows Love in hate ..... Love in my Bosom like a Bee Lovely Nan Love me little, love me loiig- Love not Lover's Vow, the .... Loyal Lover, the ..... Lustily, lustily, let us sail forth . Upton '■''Antidote to Melancholy^ Edward Moore Anonymous Simon Was/ell . CJiarles Mackay William Cowper Bobert Southwell Thomas Dibdin W. T. Moncrief Samuel Danyell Giles Fletcher . Charles Mackay Thomas Lodge . Charles Dibdin Anonymous Hon. Mrs. No)%)n Bishop Attcrbury MS. temp. Henry VIII ^Common Conditions" Mad Girl's Song, the , Mad Lover, the . Mad Maid's Song, the Mad Shepherdess, the Man's Mortality . Mariner's Glee, the Mariner's Song, the May Morning- May never Avas the Month of Love May we ne'er want a Friend Mediocrity in Love rejected Melancholy ..... Merrily goes the Mill . Mid-watch, the . Miller, the Mine be a Cot beside the Hill ^linute Gun, the .... Thomas Dibdin Alexander Brome Robert Herrick Anonymous Simon Wastell . " Deuteromelia" '• Common Conditions John Milton . Morleijs ''Ballets' Thomas Dibdin Thomas Carew Samuel Rogers George Colman li. B. Sheridan Charles Highmorc Samuel Rogers . R. S. Sharpe . CONTENTS. XI My Fair, ye Swains, is gone astray My Lodging is on the cold groimd My Sweet Sweeting .... Neglected Sailor, the . . . • Nights, the Not, Celia, that I juster am . Now is the Month of Maying Now Night her dusky Mantle folds Now the bright Morning Star Nymph's Reply, the .... Of all the Torments, all the Cares Oh, for my True-Love ! - . . Oh, no, we never mention, her Oh, say not "Woman's Heart is bought Oh, take me to your arms, my Love ! . Oh, the sweet Contentment ! Old Arm-chair, the Old mad Tom OldTowler .... On a Hill there grows a Flower O Nanny, Avilt thou go with me ? Once did my Thoughts both ebb and flow Once I thought I could adore him On Celia Singing . One Morning very early One Night came on a Hurricane Origin of Gunpowder , Origin of the Patten Our ancient English Melodies Pack Clouds away, and welcome Day . Panglory's Wooing Song Phillida and Cory don . Phyllis is my only Joy . Phyllis the Fair . Poor Jack "Myrtle and Vine" . Anonymous MS. temp. Henry VIII Edward Rushton Barry Cornwall Sir Charles Sedley Thomas Morley " Songs of the Chase John Milton Sir Walter Raleigh William Walsh ^^ Myrtle and Vine" T. H. Bayley . S. Pocock Thomas Dibdin John Chalkhill Eliza Cook « The Thrush" Anonymous Nicholas Breton Thomas Percy . "Muses' Garden" Charles Mackay Thomas Carew . " Johnso7i's Museum T.Hood . Thomas Dibdin Charles Dibdin Anonymous Thomas Heywood Giles Fletcher . Nicholas Breton Sir Charles Sedley Nicholas Breton Charles Dibdin . PAGE 69 256 23 204 316 60 92 242 274 87 62 263 75 71 264 94 310 260 232 88 66 38 81 44 *-•' 262 189 198 292 161 52 269 88 60 88 184 xu CONTENTS. Praise of Milk, the Pretty little Sue . Pretty Parrot Reasons for Constancy Resolve, the . E-ingwood Rivalry in Love . Roast Beef of Old England . Robin, lend me to me thy Bow . Rosalind's Complaint . Rule Britannia .... Sailor's Consolation, the Sally Say, what is "Wealth -without Delight Sea, the ...... Shall I like a Hermit dwell j Shairi, wasting in Despair r Shepherd's Holiday, the Should he Upbraid Shun Delays, — they breed Remorse Sigh no more. Ladies . Since our Foes to invade us have long been preparing Since Wedlock's in vogue . Sing a sweet melodious Measure Sir Marmaduke . Skater's Song, the Snug little Island, the . Soldier, the Soldier's Dream, the . Soldier's Drinking Song, the Soldier's Glee Song for Twilight Spanish Armada, the . Still to be neat ; still to be drest Storm, the .... PAGE f Playford's " Musical Com- l panion" . . . 279 " Myrtle and Vine" . Aikin's " Vocal Poetry" Sir Charles Sedky Alexander Brome " Songs of the Chase William Walsh Fielding and Leveridg Anonymous Thomas Lodge . James Thomson T. Hood . Samuel Lover . " Songs of the Chase Barry Cormcall Sir Walter Baleigh George Wither . James Shirley . Anonymous Robert Southwell William Shakspeare [ '' Myrtle and Vine" John Cunningham Anonymous G. Colman "Sportsman sVocal Cabinet Thomas Dibdin W. Smyth Thomas Campbell " Convivial Songster '• Deuteromelia" Barry Cornwall J. O'Keefe . Ben Jonson G, A. Stevens . CONTENTS. xm Suffolk. Yeoman's Song, the Sweet Day so cool .... Sweet May Symptoms of Love .... Take, oh, take those Lips away ! . Tamboiuine Song, the .... Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love ? . Tell me no more how fair she is . Tell me not cf a Face that's fair . Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind . That Song again The best of all good Company The Character of a happy liife The Choice of a Rural Wife . The dec eived Lover sue th only for Liberty The Dew no more shall weep The fine old English Gentleman . The Fire of Love of youthful blood The Glories of our Birth and State The good Time coming The Land, Boys, we live in . The Lover comforteth himself with the ^ Worthiness of his Love . . S The passionate Shepherd to his Love . The Ploughshare of Old England The Portals of the East divide The Praise of a Countryman's Life The Shape alone let others prize . The Shepherd's Complaint . The smiling Morn may light the Sky . The Sorrows of True Lovers' Parting . The Sun was sunk beneath the Hill The thirsty Earth drinks up the Rain . The Thorn The Three Archers .... The tuneful Sound of Robin's Horn . The Wheel of Life is turning quickly 1 round ) J. Hughes George Herbert Erasmus Darwin " Muses Garden " William Shakespeare Charles Machay Lord Lytdeton . Henry King Alexander Brome Richard Lovelace Thomas K. Hervey Barry Cornwall Sir Henry Wotton Anonymous , Sir Thomas Wyatt Richard Crashaw Anonymous Earl of Dorset James Shirley , Charles Mackay ^'Myrtle an I Vine" Earl of Surrey Christopher Marlowe Eliza Cook "Songs of the Chase John Chalkhill Akenside Charles Hamilton Anonymous Sir Thomas Wyatt Anonymous Abraham Cowley J. O'Keefe Anonymous t> Lever idge PAGE 108 271 283 38 36 304 64 50 5-5 .55* 305 135 145 103 26 53 156 63 146 162 192 27 86 110 240 94 65 101 249 25 99 121 68 228 247 297 XIV CONTENTS. The Winds whistle cold There is a Garden in her Face There was a jolly Miller There Avas a jovial Beggar . There was never nothing more mcpain'd This bleak and frosty Morning This Bottle's the Sun of our Table This Indian Weed, now wither'd quite Though when I lov'd thee thou wert fair Till Death I Sylvia must adore . To all you Ladies now on Land . To Althea, from Prison Tobacco is an Indian Weed . To fair Fidele's grassy Tomb To live a Life free from Gout, Pain, or Phthisic Tom a Bedlam, or Mad Tom Tom Bowling Tom Moody . True Courage Tubal Cain , Turning of the Wheel, the 'Twas God above that made all things 'Twas merry in the Hall PAGE D. Terry . . .131 Richard Alison . . 37 J. Bicker staffe . .291 PlayfordJs ''■ Choice Airs " 278 Sir Thomas Wyatt . 25 " Vocal Cabinet " . . 245 7?. B. Sheridan . .130 Anonymous . . .150 Thomas Stanley . . 59 " The Hive " . . .62 Earl of Dorset . . .174 liichard Lovelace . . 272- Anonymous . . , 150 William Collins . . 282 f Anonymous . . . 239 William Basse , . . 257 Charles Dibdin . .187 Andrew Cherry . . 238 Charles Dibdin . .188 Charles Mackay . . 308 Leveridge . . . 297 " Antidote to Melancholy" 119 Anonymous . . .161 Uncommon Old Man, the Under the Greenwood Tree Under the Holly-bough Unhappy Love Upon the Plains of Flanders " Convivial Songster " William Shakespeare Charles Mackay ''The Hive" . Thomas Campbell 292 265 315 63 223 Variety Vicar of Bray, the Charles Dibdin Doubtful 296 152 Waken, Lords and Ladies gay We be three poor Mariners . We dance on Hills above the Wind Sir Walter Scott " Deuteromelia " A?ionymous 250 172 276 CONTENTS. XV Welcome, welcome, do I sing We Soldiers drink, we Soldiers sing . What is't to us who guides the State J "What is War and all its Joys ? What Pleasure have great Princes ? What poor Astronomers are they . When a Shooting we do go . When Daisies pied, and Violets blue . When Delia on the Plain appears When first I strove to win the Prize When Harold was invaded . When Icicles hang by the Wall . When I drain the rosy Bowl When Love, with unconfined Wings . When lovely Woman stoops to Folly . When luU'd in Passion's Dream . When raging Love with extreme Pain When to Old England I come home . When this old Cap was new When 'tis Night, and the Mid watch come Whenwetwo parted in Silence and Tears When whisp'ring Strains do softly steal Why are you wandering here, I pray ? . Why, fair Maid, in every Feature ? Why, lovely Charmer, tell me why r . Why so pale and wan ? ... Wife, Children , and Friends Wild Cherry-tree Winter .... With an honest old Friend Woman's Inconstancy . AVoman's Inconstancy . Women are best when they are at rest. Woodmen, Shepherds, come away Would you choose a Wife . Ye darksome Woods, whereEcho dwells Ye Fox -hunters William Browne Cliarles Dibdin " Convivial Songster ' Thomas Chatterton Byrd John Dowland , Anonymous William Shakspeare Lord Lytileton . " Songs of the Chase Torn D''Urfey . William Shakspeare Francis Fawkes Richard Lovelace Oliver Goldsmith W. T. T. Moncrieff Earl of Surrey " Myrtle and Vine " Anonymous . E. B. Sheridan Lord Byron William Strode . Charles Kenney G. M. Lewis . " The Hive " . Sir John Suckling Hon. JR. W. Spencer Barry Cornwall William Shakspeare Henry Carey Sir Robert Aytoun John Donne Anonymous James Shirley . Anonymous " Songs of the Chase Anonymous PACK 91 219 158 127 90 36 235 144 64 241 21o 266 ' 125 272- 67 74 27 128 147 183 73 270 76 261 63 150- 297 312 26G- 127 41 42 142 93 103 244 247 XVI CONTENTS. Ye Gentlemen of England . Ye happy Swains, whose Hearts are free Ye little Birds that sit and sing . Ye Mariners of England You meaner Beauties of the Night Young Henry was as brave a Youth . Youth and Age You that think Love can convey . Martyn Parker Sir George Ethcrege Thomas Heywood Thomas Campbell Sir Henry Wotton Thomas Dibdin Anonymous Thomas Carew . PAGt 173 57 89 194 40 74 267 44 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. A CONSIDERABLE amouut of eiTor and misconception exists upon the subject of poetry in general, and of song-writing in particular. Poetry itself — which M. de Lamartine asserts to be "the guardian- angel of humanity in every age " — is considered by many, not otherwise unhitelligent people, to be identical with verse, — an idle art, unworthy of an age of practical usefulness ; while song- writing is held to be the most frivolous department of a frivolous pursuit. Even many of a more correct and better-educated taste scarcely know the difference between a song and any other short poem. The multitude, who sing, feel what a song is ; but the smaller class, who reason and refine, are as yet scarcely agreed upon the meaning of the term " song," — unless the vague definition that it is "something which may be sung" can be considered as satisfactorv. The worth of a sons; in the estimation of such critics B 18 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. as these is as little as can be imagined ; and it has become a pro- verb, when a thing has been pvirchased at a price ridiculously- low, to say that it has been bought " for a song." On the other hand, there are people who somewhat overrate the A'alue and im- portance of songs, and who repeat the phrase made popular by- Fletcher of Saltoun, that the song-writer has more influence upon the minds of the people than the law-maker. Both of these estimates are \ATong. A song is neither so small nor so great a matter as is represented. The many beautiful compositions in the English language that may strictly be called songs, and which we owe to the genius of some of our most illus- trious writers, from the age of Shakspeare to our owa, are suffi- cient proofs that the depreciation of those who deny all value to this form of poetry is unjust and unfounded ; while the absence of any^ great number of songs popular enough to model the life, to sway the passions, and to stir the patriotism of the English mul- titude, proves that, as regards ou7- nation at least, Fletcher of Saltoun, and those who repeat his opinion, have to a considerable extent overrated their influence. Yet who knows how much of loyalty might have remained unexcited if the music of the National Anthem had not been so magnificent, and if the air of " Rule Britannia " had not been so inspiriting ? The song-writer, without the musician, is, in fact, but a writer of short poems ; and " im- mortal verse" must be married to " immortal music" before it can exercise its full influence upon the minds of a people. A song and a ballad have points of resemblance and of differ- ence. A ballad, which at present seems to signify a song wherein a story is told, originally meant a short, or even a long, poem, modulated in the recital to serve as a musical accompaniment to a dance — from ball are, to dance. A song, strictly, should express a sentiment only ; but the distinction has been often disregarded by our best writers, and some of the most beautiful compositions of this class in the English language partake largely of the cha- racteristics of both. But a song is a more difficult and excellent composition than a ballad. A song should be like an epigram, complete and entire — a perfect chrysolite — brilliant on every side. It should give voice to one pervading idea, which should be illus- trated naturally and elegantly. It should contain no word that SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 19 could be omitted without injury to the music or the meaning ; and should avoid the jar of inharmonious consonants, which in the English language are so difficult to sing. Every stanza should be the very twin and counterpart of the other, as regards the rhythm ; and the whole composition, whether sprightly, tender, patriotic, convivial, or melancholy, should be short and terse, and end with the natural climax of the sentiment. A ballad, while it should be as perfect as regards the rhythm, is allowed more licence, and may extend to any length consistent with the interest of the story told in it, or the power of voice in the singer. Some wTiters and critics have confined the legitimate topics of song to the expression of amatory, convivial, or patriotic sentiment. This, however, is an undue limitation ; for not only love and patriot- ism, and the less laudable feelings inspired by the bacchanalian frenzy; but joy, hope, tenderness, gratitude, cheerfulness, melan- choly, and even grief, are the proper themes of song. Their expression by musical cadences is as natural to men in all ages and climates as speech itself. All high emotion is rhythmical. Wher- ever there is life or hope, joy or sorrow, there are the materials of songs ; and the youthful more especially give vent to their feel- ings in this natural music, as we may suppose the birds give vent to theirs, finding in the expression its own reward. The tender passion, in ail ages and in all languages, has ever been the most prolific source of songs. The hope and fear — the joy and sorrow — the quarrels and reconciliation — the guilt and remorse — and even the hatred of lovers, — have all found expression in these popular compositions ; and while there are young hearts to feel, and old ones to be interested, in that passion, it is to be antici- pated that songs will continue to be made and to be sung in celebration of the triumphs of love. No progress of philosophy or refinement will root from the heart that feeling which the Ame- rican philosopher Emerson calls the " divine rage and enthusiasm which seizes on man at one period, and works a revolution in his mind and body, unites him to his race, pledges him to the domestic and civic relations, carries him with new sympathy into Nature, enhances the power of the senses, opens the imagination, adds to his character heroic and sacred attributes, establishes marriage, and gives permanence to human society." 20 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. "All mankind," says the same deep thinker, in another por- tion of his delightful Essay, " love a lover. Though the celestial rapture falling out of heaven seizes only upon those of tender age, and although we can seldom see after thirty years a beauty over- powering all analysis or comparison, and putting us quite beside ourselves, yet the remembrance of these visions outlasts all other remembrance, and is a wreath of flowers on the oldest brows. No man ever forgot the visitation of that power to his heart and brain which created all things new — which was the dawn in him of music, poetry, and art — which made the face of nature radiant with purple light — the morning and the night varied enchantments." Love is the fine spirit of song, and in all its Protean shapes gives music to expression. English literature contains no amatory songs of any merit, — with the exception of a few which we owe to the genius of those unfortunate friends, the Earl of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyatt, — of a date anterior to that golden age which produced a Shakspeare. "Whatever songs of the kind may have been sung by the people have perished, or only exist in rude snatches and fragments, which Shakspeare himself and some of his contemporaries have pre- served. The amatory songs, or the songs of the affections, pro- duced at that time, or such of them as have been handed down to us, are rather the productions of the learning and the fancy of scholars, than the simple and passionate efPusions of lovers. There is an air of elegance about them highly pleasing to the re- fined taste, — a finish and a grace, and an epigrammatic brilliancy, which never fail to captivate, — but heart is wanting. In the age which succeeded that of Shakspeare, the merit of the popular love-songs became still less, and heart may be said to have disap- peared from them altogether, or to have been but faintly dis- cernible amid a mass of scholarly conceits and learned prettinesses. The public taste was \-itiated, and at last became satisfied with mock sentiment and pagan allusion. No lover considered himself a true devotee at the shrine of beauty without appealing to Cupid or to Venus, and interlarding his speech wdth thoughts and ex- pressions scarcely fitting in a Greek or a Roman, but utterly unsuited to the realities of passion in a land and among a people that were not heathen. Towards the end of the seventeenth SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 21 century an attempt to discard the ancient mythology was made by the best writers : it succeeded partially, but it was only to intro- duce a new style as objectionable as the old. Love played at masquerade, and bedizened itself in the costume of a stage shep- herd. It was at this time that the loves of all the Chloes and Strephons came into fashion. The famous song attributed sometimes to Pope and sometimes to Swift, but most probably the composition of the former, and asserted to be written " by a Lady of Quality," happily ridiculed this class of songs, and those which had preceded them. Flattering, spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart ; I a slave in thy dominions, Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming All beneath yon flowery rocks. * * * Melancholy smooth ]\Ieander, Swiftly purling in a round. On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. Thus when Philomela drooping Softly seeks her silent mate. See the birds of Juno stooping, Melody resigns to Fate. When English song-writing was at its lowest ebb ; when coarse and brutal bacchanalian rhapsodies were sung at the table ; when woman's charms (her virtues were scarcely mentioned) were either portrayed in the silly masquerade of the wTiters of pasto- rals, or in the more natural, but less respectful, lyrical effusions of the wits and men about town, — Captain Charles Morris, of the Life Guards, gallantly endeavoured to give a better tone to this department of literature. To use his own language, " he set his face against the lyrical scribblers of the eighteenth century, who, odious to relate, allowed not woman her true place in the heart, and placed her, in all their songs of glee and gladness, invariably 22 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIOXS. below the bottle. Slie was held out in terrorem to all happiness and joy, and to fly from her was the burden of every song." He, on the contrary, wTote "to disciphne anew the social bands of convivial life, to blend the sympathies * of fellow-hearts, and wreathe a sweeter and gayer garland for the brow of festivitv from the divine plants of concord, gratitude, friendship, and love." His genius, however, was not equal to his good intentions ; and, of the many hundred songs which he wrote, not one is worth remembering, except as a slight improvement upon the verses of Pope's "Lady of Quality," — that mythological person who is supposed to have been the parent of all the love-songs of the eighteenth century. The return to the simplicity of nature, as the only source of poetic beauty, which signalised the revival of English literature at the commencement of the present century, had, of course, an effect upon the public taste as regarded songs ; and a song-writer appeared whose fame eclipsed that of all other competitors, — Thomas Moore, whose Irish J.Ielodies- — Irish by their music, and by their nationality of sentiment — may be claimed for England as well as for the country of his birth; — and the example of heart united with intellect, of vigour combmed ■with elegance, and of philosophy with fancy, which he set to his contemporary writers of verse, will long exercise a genial influence upon the literature of song. "VMiile English songs that are written to be read have gradually attained the highest beauty, English songs intended to be sung have not reached the same perfection. In this respect the fault lies -with the musical composers, who seem to love the " Lady of Quality" and her smooth "nonsense verses" far better than they love poetry, and to fail in adapting to music the higher flights of fancy or imagination, and the tenderer bursts of natural feelino-. "Without their aid, the song-writer cannot win his way to the popular heart ; and poets, disgusted with musicians, will neglect this fascinating branch of the poetic art, and direct the energies of their minds to more elaborate composition. '< MY SWEET SWEETING. From a MS. temp. Ilenvy VIII.* Ah, my sweet sweeting, ]\Iy little pretty sweeting. My sweeting will I love wherever I go ; She is so proper and pure. Full steadfast, stable, and demure, There is none such, yovi may be sure, As my sweet sweeting. In all this world as thinketh me, Is none so pleasant to my e'e. That I am glad so oft to see. As my sweet sw^eetmg. * This is a small oblonpr paper volume, known to be of this early date by the badares on the bindinff, and the names on the fly-leaf. It passed through the hands of Thomas jMulliner, Thomas Hevwood, and Churchyard the poet. It was in the library of Sir John Hawkins, the musical historian, and afterwards in that of J. S. Smith, the author of " Musica Antiqua," and is now in the possession of Dr. rdmbau.lt. 24 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. When I behold my sweeting sweet, Her face, her hands, her minion feet. They seem to me there is none so mete As my sweet sweeting. Above all other praise must I And love my pretty pygsnye,* For none I find so womanly As my sweet sweeting. THE LOYAL LOVER. From the same MS. as the preceding song. As I lie sleeping. In dreams fleeting. Ever my sweeting Is in my mind. She is so goodly, With looks so lovely. That no man truly Such one can find. Pier beauty so pure. It doth under lure My poor heart full sure In governance. Therefore now will I Unto her ajiply. And ever will cry For remembrance. Her fair eye piercing My poor heart bleedmg. And I abiding In hope of mede ; * A term of endearment, used hy Chaucer, Skelton, &c., probably the origin of the modern word ' pickaninny.' It is "spelt piggesnie in Tyrwhitt's edition of Chaucer. The poet, describing the carpenter's wife in t\ie Miller's Tale, says, " She was a primesole — a piggesnie :" primesole signifies a primrose. " The Romans," says Tyrwhitt, " used oculus as a term of endearment ; and perhaps piggesnie, in vulgar language, only means ocellus, the eyes of that animal being remarkably small." — Note on Chaucer's Cant. Tales, V. 326«. Todd [Johnson's Dwt in v. Figsney) has shown that the word was occasionally written pigs eie. The derivation, however, seems more likely to be from the old Saxon Viori piga, a girl. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 25 But thus have I long, Entuning this song, Witli ])ains full strong, And cannot speed. Alas ! will not she Now shew her pity. But this will take me In such disdain ? Methinketh I was Unkind that she is, That bindeth me thus In such hard pain. Though she me bind. Yet shall she not find My poor heart unkind, Do what she can ; For I vnll her pray. While I live a day. Me to take for aye For her own man. THE SORROWS OF TRUE LOVERS' PARTING. Sir Thomas Wyatt, born 1503, died 1554. There was never nothing more me pain'd, Nor more my pity mov'd, As when my sweetheart her complain' d That ever she me lov'd : Alas, the while ! With piteous look, she said, and sigh'd, "Alas what aileth me, To love and set mv wealth so lio;ht On him that loveth not mc ? Alas, the while ! Was I not well void of all pain, When that nothing me griev'd? And now with sorrows I must complain. And cannot be reliev'd : Alas, the while ! 26 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. j\Iy restful nights and joj'ful days. Since I began to love, Be take from nie ; all thing decays. Yet can I not remove : Alas, the Avhile !" She wept and wrung her hands withal. The tears fell on my neck ; She turn'd her face, and let them fall. And scarce therewith could speak : Alas, the while ! Her pains tormented me so sore. That comfort I had none ; But curs' d my fortune more and more. To see her sob and groan : Alas, the while ! THE DECEIVED LOVER SUETH ONLY FOR LIBERTY. Sir Thomas Wyatt. If chance assign' d Were to my mind By every kind Of destiny ; Yet would I crave Nought else to have But (dearest?) life and liberty.* Then were I sure I might endure The cUspleasure Of cruelt}' ; "Where now I plain, Alas, in vain ! Lacking my life for liberty. For without th' one The other is gone. And there can none It remedy; * In the ordinary vpvsion tliis line is printed " But life and liberty." As, however, the line is thus two syllables shorter than the corresi)oncling lines of the other stanzas, the word "dearest" is suggested as the proper word to supply the omission. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 27 If the one be past. The other doth waste, And all for lack of liberty. And so I drive. As yet alive, Although I strive With misery ; Drawing my breath. Looking for death. And loss of life for liberty. But thou that still May'st, at thy will. Turn all this ill Adversity : For the repair Of my welfare. Grant me but life and liberty. And if not so. Then let all go To wretched woe. And let me die : For th' one or th' other — There is none other — My death, or life with liberty ! THE LOVER COMFORTETH HIMSELF ^VITH THE WORTHINESS OF HIS LOVE. The Earl of Sukeey, born 151G, died 1547. When raging love with extreme pain Most cruelly distrains my heart ; W^hen that my tears, as floods of rain, Bear witness of my woful smart ; When sighs have wasted so my breath. That I lie at the point of death, — I call to mind the navy great That the Greeks brought to Troy town ; And how the boisterous winds did beat Their ships, and rent their sails adown ; 28 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Till Agamemnon's daughter's blood Appeas'd the gods that them withstood : And how that in those ten years' war Full many bloody deed was done ; And many a lord that came full far There caught his bane, alas, too soon ! And many a good knight overrun, Before the Greeks and Helen won. Then think I thus : " Sith such repair So long time war of valiant men Was all to win a lady fair. Shall I not learn to suffer then. And think my life well spent to be Serving a worthier wight than she ? Therefore I never will repent. But pains contented still endure : For like as when, rough winter spent. The pleasing spring straight draweth in ure ;* So, after raging storms of care. Joyful at length may be my fare." GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS. The Earl of Siekey. ¥ Give place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in ^ain ; My lady's beauty passeth more The best of yours, I dare well sayen. Than doth the sun the candlelight. Or brightest day the darkest night ; And thereto hath a troth as just As had Penelope the fair ; For what she saith ye may it trust. As it by writing sealed were ; — And virtues hath she many mo' Than I with pen have skill to show. I're — fortune— destiny ; a word used by Chaucer and other early writers. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 29 I could rehearse, if that I would. The whole effect of Nature's plaint, When she had lost the perfect mould. The like to whom she could not paint. With wringing hands, how did she cry ! And what she said, I know it aye. I know she swore, with raging mind. Her kingdom only set apart. There was no loss by law of kind That could have gone so near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain, — " She could not make the like again." Sith Nature thus gave her the praise To be the chicfest work she wrought. In faith, methink, some better ways On your behalf might well be sought. Than to compare, as ye have done. To match the candle with the sun. The idea in the third and fourth stanzas of this song, " that Nature lost the perfect mould," has been a favourite one with all song-writers and poets, and is found in the literature of all European nations. IN AN ARBOUR GREEN. From the Morality of " Lusty Juventus," printed in the reign of Edward VI. In an arbour green, asleep where as I lay. The birds sang sweet in the middle of the day ; I dreamed fast of mirth and play : In youth is pleasure. Methought I walked still to and fro. And from her comj)any could not go ; But when I waked it Avas not so : In youth is pleasure. Therefore my heart is sorely plight Of her alone to have a sight. Which is my joy and heart's delight : In youth is pleasure. LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. Anonymous. Originally printed in 1569-70, in ballad form, on a broadside in black-letter. ' Love me little, love me long. Is the burden of my song : Love that is too hot and strong Burneth soon to waste. Still I would not have thee cold, Not too backward or too bold ; Love that lasteth till 'tis old Fadeth not in haste. Love me little, love me Ions:, Is the burden of mv sons;. ml O If thou lovest me too much. It will not prove as true as touch ; Love me little, more than such. For I fear the end. I am with little well content. And a little from thee sent Is enough, with trvie intent. To be steadfast friend. Love me little, love me long, &c. Say thou lov'st me while thou live, I to thee my love will give. Never dreaming to deceive "While that life endures : SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 31 Nay, and after death, in sooth, I to thee will keep my truth, As now, when in my May of youth, This my love assures. Love me little, love me long, &c. Constant love is moderate ever, And it will through life persever ; Give me that, with true endeavour I will it restore. A suit of durance let it he. For all weathers ; that for me. For the land or for the sea. Lasting evermore. Love me little, love me long, &c. Winter's cold or summer's heat. Autumn's tempests on it beat, It can never know defeat. Never can rebel. Such the love that I would gain. Such the love, I tell thee plain. Thou must give, or woo in vain ; So to thee farewell. Love me little, love me long, &c. IF WOMEN COULD BE FAIR. FromBYRD's "Songs and Sonnets," 1588. If women could be fair and never fond. Or that their beauty might continue still, I would not marvel though they made men bond, By service long, to purchase their good will ; 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 ; 32 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And how, like laggards, wild about they range, Scorning after reason to follow will : Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist. And let them fly, fair fools, what way they list ? Yet, for our sport, we fawn and flatter both. To pass the time when nothing else can please. And train them on to yield, by subtle oath. The sweet content that gives such humour ease ; And then we say, when we their follies try, "To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I !" MAY NEVER WAS THE :M0NTH OF LOVE. From iloKLEY's " Ballets," 1595. May never was the month of love. For ^lay is full of flowers ; But rather April, wet by kind. For love is full of showers. With soothing words enthralling souls. She claims in servile hands : Her eye in silence hath a speech, Which eye best understands. Her little sweet hath many sours, Short hap immortal harms ; Her loving looks are murdei'ing darts. Her songs be^\'itching charms. Like winter rose and summer ice. Her joys are still untimely ; Before her, hope — behind, remorse ; Fair first — in fine unseemly. Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave ofp your idle pain ; Seek other mistress for your mind ; Love's service is in vain. ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT. Thomas Lodge, born 155G, died 1G25. Love in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet ; Now with his wings he plays with me. Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest. His bed amidst my tender breast ; My kisses are his daily feast. And yet he robs me o( my rest : Ah, wanton, will you ? And if I sleep, then pierceth he With pretty slight, And makes his pillow of my knee The livelono; night. Strike I the lute, he tunes the string ; He music plays if I but sing ; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting : Ah, Avanton, will you ? c 34 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Else I with roses every day- Will whip you hence. And bind you when you long to play, For your offence. I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin ; Alas ! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me ? Wliat if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod ? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou softly on my knee. And let thy bower my bosom be ; Lurk in my eyes, I like of thee, O Cupid ! so thou pity me ; Spare not, but play thee. A CHARACTER OF LOVE. Samuel Daxyell, born 1562, died 1619. Love is a sickness full of woes. All remedies refusing ; A plant that with most cutting grows. Most barren with best using. Why so ? If we enjoy it, soon it dies ; If not enjoy' d, it sighing cries Hey ho ! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting ; A heaven has made it of a kind Not well — nor full nor fasting. Why so ? If we enjoy it, soon it dies ; If not enjoy' d, it sighing cries Hey ho ! SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 35 SIGH NO MORE, LADIES. "WiixiAM Shakspeare, born 15G4, died 1616. Set as a song or glee bj- J. 11. Stevens. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever ; One foot in sea, and one on shore — To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so. But let them go. And be you blithe and bonny. Converting all your sounds of woe Into, Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no more Of dumps so dull and heavy ; The fraud of men was ever so. Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, But let them go. And be you blithe and bonny. Converting all your sounds of Avoe Into, Hey nonny, nonny. From " Much Ado about Nothing," act ii. sc. 3. This song is sung by Balthazar, and affirmed by Don Pedro to be " By my troth, a good song." HARK, HARK! THE LARK. William Sh.UvSPeaee. Set as a glee by Dr. Cooke. Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, As Phcebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies ; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes, "With every thing that pretty bin, — My lady sweet, arise ; Arise, arise. From "Cymbcline;" sung by Cloten's musicians under tlie windows of Imogen's lihamber. 36 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. TAKE, OH, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY! William Shakspeaee. Music by W. Lixley. The song has also been set by M. Galliard, "William Jackson, of Exeter, and other composers. Take, oh, take those Hps away. That so sweetly were forsworn ; And those eyes, the hreak of day, Lights that do mislead the morn : But my kisses bring again. Seals of love, but seal'd in vain. Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow Which thy frozen bosom bears. On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears : But first set my poor heart free. Bound in those icy chains by thee. There is some doubt as to the autliorsbip of this exquisite song. The first stanza is quoted in " Measure for ;Mcasure." Both of the stanzas appear in the " Bloody Brother, or Rollo, Duke of Normandy," by Beaumont and Fletcher. It does not follow, however, that any part of it is Shakspeare's because it is introduced in one of his jjlays. A note on this passage in Knight's edition of Shakspeare's plays says, " The question arises, is this song to be atti-ibuted to Shakspeare or I'letcher ? Malone justly observes, that all the songs introduced in our author's plays appear to have been his" own com- position. The idea in the line — ' Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,' is found in the 142d Sonnet. The image is also repeated in ' Venus and Adonis.' Weber, the editor of Beaumont and Fletcher, is of opinion that the first stanza was Shakspeare's, and that Fletcher added the second. There is no e^'idence, we apprehend, internal or external, by which the question can be settled." THE FOLLY OF LOVE. From John Dowland's " Second Book of Songs," 1600. What poor astronomers are they Take women's eyes for stars. And set their thoughts in battle array. To fight such idle wars ; TVTien, in the end, they shall approve 'Tis but a jest drawn out of love ! SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 37 And love itself is but a jest, Devised by idle heads, To catch young fancies in the nest, And lay it in fools' beds. That, being hatched by beauty's eyes, They may be fledged ere they be wise. But yet it is a sport to see How wit will run on wheels ; While wit cannot persuaded be With that which reason feels, — That women's eyes and stars are odd. And love is but a feigned god. But such as will run mad \\-ith will, I cannot clear their sight; But leave them to their study still. To look where is no light ; Till time too late we make them try. They study false astronomy. "John Dowland," says a note in the Rev. Alexander Dyce's eclition of the Poems of Shakspeare, "was a famous lutist." In a sonnet, often attributed to Shalispeare, because inserted in his "Passionate Pilgrim," but published by Kichard Barneiield a. year before the "Passionate Pilgrim" was given to the world, occur the lines : " Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ra\ish human sense." THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. From "An Iloures Recreation in Musicke." Richard Allison, 1606. There is a garden in her face. Where roses and white lilies grow ; A heavenly paradise is that place. Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow : There cherries grow that none may buy Till cherry ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient jiearl a double row. Which, when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow ; 4 5 (i .3 (i 38 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIO^^S, 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. Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh. Till cherry ripe themselves do cry. This [soupr is apparently the oiif;inal which sug-gestecl to Herrick the lines entitled " Cherry ripe." IIa%ins: been somewhat altered and adapted to a pleasing- melody by Mr. Charles E. Horn, the song of " Cherry ripe" became very popular about the year 1825. The melody appears to have been suggested by Mr. Attwood's song, " Let me die." CHEKRY PJPE. Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry. Full and fair ones, come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer there, Where my .Julia's lips do smile. There's the land, or cherry isle. Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry, Fidl and fair ones come and buy ; There plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow. Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry. Full and fair ones, come and buy. SYMPTOMS OF LOVE. From "The Muses' Gardens," 1610. Once did my thoughts both ebb and flow. As passion did them move ; Once did I hope, straight fear again, — And then I was in love. Once did I waking spend the night. And told how many minutes move ; Once did I wishing waste the day, — And then I was in love. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 39 Once, by my caning tnie-love's knot. The weeping trees did prove That wounds and tears were both our lots, — And then I was in love. Once did I breathe another's breath. And in my mistress move ; Once was I not mine own at all, — And then I was in love. Once wore I bracelets made of hair. And collars did approve ; Once were my clothes made out of wax, — And then I was in love. Once did I sonnet to my saint. My soul in numbers move ; Once cHd I tell a thousand lies, — And then I was in love. Once in my breast did dangling hang A little turtle-dove ; Once, in a word, I was a fool, — And then I was in love. A DOUBT RESOLVED. Dr. R. Hughes. From the Third Book of " Henry Lawcs's Ayres." Fain would I love, but that I fear I quickly should the willow wear ; Fain would I marry, but men say, When love is tied he will away : Then tell me, love, what shall I do To cure these fears whene'er I woo ? The fair one she's a mark to all, . The brown each one doth lovely call. The black's a pearl in fair men's eyes. The rest will stoop at any prize : Then tell me, love, what shall I do To cure these fears whene'er I woo ? 40 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Young lover, knoAv it is not I That wound with fear or jealousy ; Nor do men ever feel these smarts Until they have confined their hearts ; Then, if you'll cure your fears, you shall Love neither fair, black, brovra, — but all. Henr)' Laves, born in 1600, -was the composer of the original music of Milton's " Comus," produced in 1634. DEAREST! DO NOT YOU DELAY ME. From Fletcher's Comedy of the " Spanish Curate," 1622. Dearest ! do not you delay me. Since thou know'st I must be gone ; Wind and tide 'tis thought doth stay me. But 'tis wind that must be blown From that breath, whose native smell Indian odours far excel. Oh, then, speak, thou fairest fair ! Kill not him that vows to serve thee. But perfume this neighbouring air. Else dull silence sure will starve me : 'Tis a word that's quickly spoken, "Which being restrained, a heart is broken. YOU MEANER BEAUTIES. Sir Henry Wottox, born 1568, died 1639. You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, — You common people of the skies. What are you when the moon shall rise ? Ye violets that first appear. By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud ^irgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own, — What are you when the rose is blown ? SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 41 Ye curious chanters of the wood. That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinkmg your passion understood By your weak accents, — what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall 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 was not design' d Th' eclipse and glory of her kind. This song is supposed to have been inspired by the charms of the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of King James I. It is printed with additional stanzas in Chambers's "Scottish Songs," as the composition of Henry Lord Darnley, the unfortunate hus- band of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots. The additional verses are of no great merit, and do not seem to have been the composition of Sir Henry Wotton. Br. Percy has altered the word " moon," in the concluding line of the first stanza, to " sun," but without sufficiently considering whether the alteration were an improvement. The " sun" is not one of the beauties of the night. The poet knew his meaning better than his critic. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. Sir Robert Attoux, horn 1570, died 1638. I lov'd thee once, I'll love no more. Thine be the grief, as is the blame ; Thou art not what thou wert before. What reason I should be the same ? He that can love vuilov'd again Hath better store of love than brain ; God send me love my debts to pay. While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown. If thou hadst still continued mine ; Yea, if thou hadst remain' d thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine But thou thy freedom did recal. That if thou might elsewhere enthral ; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain ? 42 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Wlien new desires had conquer' d thee» And chang'd the object of thy will. It had been lethargy in me. Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so ; Since we are taught our prayers to say To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glorj' in thy choice. Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice To see him gain what I have lost. The height of my disdain shall be To laugh at him, to bhish for thee. To love thee still, but go no more A-begging at a beggar's door. From Ritson's " Caledonian Muse." Sir Robert Aytoun was a Scotchman by birth, but his poems belong to English literatiu-e. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. John Donne, born 1573, died 1631. If thou beest born to strange sights. Things imdsible to see, Eide ten thousand days and nights Till age snow white hairs on thee ; Thou, when thou return' st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear. No where Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find one, let me know ; Such a pilgrimage were sweet : Yet do not ! I would not go. Though at next door we might meet ; Though she were true when you met her. And lasted till you wrote your letter. Yet she Will be False ere I come to two or three. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 43 DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES. From " The Forest," a poem by Ben Jonson, born 1574, died 1G37. Set as a glee ; composer unknown. Drink to me only with thine eyes. And I will pledge with mine ; Or leave a kiss but in the cvip, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from my soul doth rise Doth ask a drink di\ine ; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I wovdd not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath. Not so much honouring thee, As ginng it a hope that there It would not wither' d be ; But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent it back to me ; Since then it grows and smells, I swear. Not of itself, but thee. STILL TO BE NEAT. From " The Forest," by Ben Jonsox. Still to be neat, still to be drest As you were going to a feast. Still to be powder' d, still perfum'd. Lady, it is to be presum'd, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face That makes simplicity a grace ; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free ; Such sweet nc2;lect more taketh me Than all th' adidteries of art : They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 44 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ON CELIA SINGING. Thomas Carkw, born about 1580, died 1639. You that think love can convey No other way But through the eyes into the heart His fatal dart ; Close up their casements, and but hear This syren sing, And on the mng Of her sweet voice it shall appear That love can enter at the ear. Then unveil your eyes, behold The curious mould "WTiere that voice dwells ; and as we know AVhen the cocks crow We freely may Gaze on the day. So may you, when the music's done. Awake and see the rising sun. HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. Thomas Carf.w, 1635. Music by Miss M. B. Hawes. He that loves a rosy cheek. Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintahi its 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 combin'd, Kindle never-dying fires ; Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. There is another stanza to this song in some editions of the English poets, but so inferior in every way to these, and so unnecessary to the climax of the sentiment, as to suggest a doubt whether it has not been added by an inferior hand. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 45 MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED. Thomas Carew. Give me more love, or more disdain ; The torrid or the frozen zone Brings equal ease unto my pain ; The temperate affords me none : Either extreme, of love or hate. Is sweeter than a calm estate. Give me a storm ; if it be love — Like Danae in a golden shower, I swim in pleasure ; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture hopes ; and he's possess' d Of heaven, that's but from hell rcleas'd. Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; Give me more love, or more disdain. SHALL I LIKE A HERMIT DWELL ? Attributed to Sir Waltkr Raleigh. Shall I like a hermit dwell On a rock or in a cell, CaUing home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival evey day ? If she undervalue me, "What care I how fair she he ? Were her tresses angel-gold,''' If a stranger may be bold Unrebukfed, unafraid To convert them to a braid, And with little more ado Work them into bracelets too ; — If the mine be grown so free. What care I how rich it be ? * Angel-gold -svas of a finer land than crown-gold. 4G SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Were her hands as rich a prize As her hairs or precious eyes ; If she lay them out to take Kisses for good manners' sake. And let every lover skip From her hand unto her lip ; If she be not chaste to me. What care I how chaste she be ? No ; she must be perfect snow. In effect as well as show. Warming but as snow-balls do. Not like fire, by burning too ; But when she, by change, hath got To her heart a second lot, Then if others share with me. Farewell her, whate'er she be ! The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful song of George Wither's, which immediately follows. SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR. George Withek, born 1588, died 1GG7. From " The Mistress of Philarete," published in 1622. JIusic by Jlr. Henry Phillips. 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 Joined -with a lovely feature ? Be she meeker, kinder than Turtle-dove or pelican. If she be not so to me, What care I how land she be ? SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 47 Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love ? Or her well-deser\ings, 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 shght 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 1 I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE. George Witheh. 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, Icro, loo. Her hair like gold did glister, Each eye was like a star. She did surpass her sister. Which pass'd all others far ; 48 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. She would me honey call, She'd, oh — she'd kiss me too ; But now, alas ! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo. In summer thne to Medley* My love and I would go — The boatman there stood ready My love and me to row ; For cream there would we call. For cakes, and for prunes 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. And as abroad we walked. As lovers' fashion is. Oft as we sweetly talked. The sun would steal a kiss ; The wind upon her lips Likewise most sweetly blew But now, alas ! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo. Her checks were like the cherry, Her skin as white as snow ; When she was blythe and merry. She angel-like did show ; * Medley House, between Goclstow and Oxford. It has been supposed br Ritson, from the mention of this place of summer recreation for the Oxford students, that Wither wrote this beautiful song when at College in the rear 1606 ; but it is not likely to have been the production of a youth of eighteen. It did not occur to Eitson that a man may write about his college haunts long after he has quitted them. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 49 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 svigar, sack, or fire ; The world went round ahout. No cares we ever knew : But now, alas ! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo. As we walk'd home together At midnight through the town. To keep away the weather, O'er her I'd cast my gown ; No cold my love should feel, Whate'er the heavens could do: But now, alas ! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo. Like doves we wovdd be billing. And clip and kiss so fast ; Yet she would be unwilling That I should kiss the last : They're Judas' kisses now. Since that they prov'd untrue ; For now, alas ! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo. To maiden's vows and swearing Henceforth no credit give ; You may give them the hearing. But never them believe ; They are as false as fair, Unconstant, frail, untrue : For mine, alas ! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo. 'Twas I that paid for all things, 'Twas others drank the wine ; 50 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. I cannot now recall things,— I'm but a fool to pine : 'Twas I that beat the bush, — The birds to others flew : For she, alas ! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo. If ever that Dame Nature, For this false lover's sake. Another pleasing creatu.re Like unto her would make ; Let her remember this. To make the other true : For this, alas ! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo. No riches now can raise me. No woe make me despair. No misery amaze me. Nor yet for want I care ; I've lost a world itself. My earthly heaven,' — adieu ! Since she, alas ! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo. TELL ME NO MORE. IlENEY Kino, Bishop of CMcliester, born 1591, died 16G9. Tell, me no more how fair she is ; I have no mind to hear The story of that distant bliss I never shall come near : By sad experience I have found That her perfection is my wound. And tell me not how fend T am To tempt my daring fate. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 51 From whence no triumph ever came But to repent too late : There is some hope ere long I may In silence dote myself away. I ask no pity, Love, from thee. Nor will thy justice blame ; So that thou wilt not envj^ me The glory of my flame. Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, In that it falls her sacrifice. GO, HAPPY ROSE ! Robert Heukick, born 1.591. Go, happy Rose ! and, interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free. That so oft has fetter' d me. Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of peai'l and gold to bind her hands ; Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods at will, For to tame, though not to kill. Take thou my blessing thus, and go, And tell her this, — but do not so ! Lest a handsome anger fly Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up as well as I. -^^^rS-^S?-^;^-^ 52 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. GOOD-MORROW. From " Pleasant Dialogues and Dramas," by Thomas Heywood, 1607. Pack clouds away, and welcome day. With niglit 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. 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, among yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. I PRITHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART. Sir John Suckling, born 1613, died 1641. I PRITHEE send me back my heart. Since I cannot have thine ; For if from yours you vnW not part, AVhy, then, shouldst thou have mine ? Yet novi^ I think on't, let it He, To find it were in vain ; For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again. Why should two hearts in one breast lie. And yet not lodge together? O Love ! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever ? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out ; For when I think I'm best resolv'd, Then I am most in doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe ; I will no longer pine ; For I'll believe I have her heart, As much as she has mine. THE DEW NO MORE SHALL WEEP. Richard Ceashaw, born about 1G15, died 1G52. The dew no more shall weep, The primrose's pale cheek to deck ; The dew no more shall sleep, Nuzzled in the lily's neck : Much rather would it tremble here, And leave them both to be thy tear. Not the soft gold which Steals from the am])er-weeping tree. Makes sorrow half so rich As the drops distill' d from thee : 54 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Sorrow's best jewels be in tbese Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys. "When sorrow would be seen In her bright majesty — For she is a queen ! — Then is she dress' d by none but thee : Then, and only then, she wears Her richest pearls ; — I mean, thy tears. Not in the evening's e^^es, Wlien they red mth weeping are For the sun that dies. Sits Sorrow with a face so fair : Nowhere but here doth meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. I NEVER YET COULD SEE THAT FACE. Abraham Cowley, born 1G18, died ICG". I NEVER yet could see that face Which had no dart for me ; From fifteen years to fifty's space. They all Aictorious be. Colour or shape, good limbs or face. Goodness or wit, in all I find ; In motion or in speech a grace ; — If all fail, yet 'tis womankind. If tall, the name of proper stays ; If fair, she's pleasant as the light ; If low, her prettiness does please ; If black, what lover loves not night ? The fat, like plenty, fills my heart ; The lean, with love makes me too so •„ If straight, her body's Cvipid's dart ; To me, if crooked, 'tis his bow. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. " 55 Thus with unwearied wings I flee Through all Love's garden and his fields ; And, like the wise industrious bee. No weed but honey to me yields. This song is an abriap:ment of a poem in Cowley's " Mistress," from -which several inconsfruous stanzas and parts of stanzas have been judiciously omitted by the musical composer. TELL ME NOT, SWEET. By lliCHAKD Lovelace, born 1C18, died 1G58. Tell, me not, §weet, 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. THE RESOLVE. Alexander Brome, born 1G20, died IGGC. Tell me not of a face that's fair. Nor lip and cheek that's red. Nor of the tresses of her hair, Nor curls in order laid ; Nor of a rare seraphic voice. That like an angel sings ; Though, if I were to take my choice, I wovdd have all these things. But if that thou \Ailt have me love. And it must be a she. The only arsrument can move Ts, that she will love me. 56 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. The glory of your ladies be But metaphors of things, And but resemble what we see Each common object brings. Roses out-red their lips and cheeks. Lilies their whiteness stain : \Yhat fool is he that shadow seeks. And may the substance gain ? Then if thou* It have me love a lass, Let it be one that's kind ; Else I'm a servant to the glass That's with canary lined. AH, HOW SWEET! John Drydex, born 1631, died 1701. Ah, how sweet it is to love ! Ah, how gay is young desire ! And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach love's fire : Pains of love are sweeter far Than all other pleasures are. Sighs which are from lovers blown Do but gently heave the heart ; E'en the tears they shed alone Cure, like trickling balm, their smart ; Lovers, when they lose their breath. Bleed away in easy death. Love and Time with reverence use. Treat them like a parting friend ; Nor the golden gifts refuse TVTiich in youth sincere they send : For each vear their price is more. And they less simple than before. Love, like spring-tides full and high. Swells in every youthful vein ; But each tide does less supply. Till they quite shrink in again. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 57 If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear. The conclusion of the first stanza, though possibly xuikno^vn to Kobert Buras, resembles very closely his much-admired lines : " 'Tis better for thee despaii-in^, Than aught in the world beside, Jessie." FAIR, SWEET, AND YOUNG. John Dsydex. Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize Reserv'd for your victorious eyes : From crowds, whom at your feet you see, Oh, pity and distinguish me ! As I from thousand beauties more Distinguish you, and only you adore. Your face for conquest was design' d ; Your every motion charms my mind ; Angels, when you your silence break. Forget their hymns to hear you speak ; But when at once they hear and view. Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you. No graces can your form improve. But all are lost unless you love ; While that sweet passion you disdain. Your veil and beauty are in vain : In pity then prevent my fate. For after dying all reprieve's too late. YE HAPPY SWAINS. Sia George Etheredoe, born about 153C, died 1G83. Music by Damasene, in Ritson's " Select Collection of English Songs." Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free From love's imperial chain. Take warning, and be taught by me To avoid the enchanting pain ; 58 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Fatal, the wolves to trembling flocks, Fierce winds to blossoms prove ; To careless seamen, hidden rocks ; To human quiet, love. Fly the fair sex, if bhss you prize ; The snake 's beneath the flower : Who ever gaz'd on beauteous eyes That tasted quiet more ? How faithless is the lovers' joy ! How constant is their care ! The kind with falsehood do destroy. The cruel with despair. CEASE, ANXIOUS WORLD. Sill George Etiiekedge. Cease, anxious world, your fruitless pain To grasp forbidden store ; Your sturdy labours shall prove vain. Your alchemy unblest ; W'hilst seeds of far more precious ore Are ripen' d in my breast. My breast the forge of happier love. Where my Lucinda lives ; And the rich stock does so improve. As she her art employs. That every smile and touch she gives Turns all to golden joys. Since thence we can such treasures raise. Let's no expense refuse. In love let's lay out all our days : How can we e'er be poor. When every blessing that we use Begets a thousand more ? SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 59 THE DEPOSITION. Thomas Stanley, born 1GG4, (lied 1G98. Though when I lov'd thee thou wert fair. Thou art no longer so : Those glories, all the pride they wear Unto opinion owe. Beauties, like stars, in borrow' d lustre shine. And 'twas my love that gave thee thine. The flames that dwelt within thine eye Do now with mine expire ; Thy brightest graces fade and die At once with my desire. Love's fires thus mvitual influence return ; Thine cease to shine when mine to burn. (50 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Then, proud Celinda, hope no more To be implor'd or woo'd ; Since by thy scorn thou dost restore The wealth my love bestow' d ; And thy despis'd disdain too late shall find That none are fair but who are kind. PHYLLIS IS MY ONLY JOY. SiK Charles Sedley, born 1639, died 1701. Phyllis is my only joy, Faithless as the wind or seas ; Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,- Yet she never fails to please. If with a frown I am cast down, Phyllis, smihng And beguiling, ]Makes me happier than before. Though, alas ! too late I find Nothing can her fancy fix ; Yet the moment she is kind, I forgive her all her tricks ; Which though I see, I can't get free ; She deceiving, I belie^ing, — "What need lovers wish for more ? REASONS FOR CONSTANCY. Sir Charles Sedley. 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. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 61 For I am tied to very thee By every thought I have ; Thy face I only came to see. Thy heart I only crave. All that in woman is ador'd In thy dear self I find ; For the'whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind. ^\Tiy then should I seek further store. And still make love anew ? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to he true. THE LOVER'S VOW. Bishop Attekbury, born 1662, died 1732. Fair Sylvia, cease to blame my youth For having lov'd before ; For men, till they have learn' d the truth. Strange deities adore. My heart, 'tis true, hath often rang'd. Like bees on gaudy flowers ; And many a thousand loves hath chang'd. Till it was fix'd on yours. But, Sylvia, when I saw those eyes, 'Twas soon determin'd there ; Stars might as well forsake the skies. And vanish into air. Wlien I from this great rule do err, New beauties to adore. May I again turn wanderer. And never settle more. G2 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. RIVALRY IN LOVE. "William Walsh, boni 1GG3, died 1709. Husio by Dr. Boyce. Of all the torments, all the cares, With which our lives are curst ; Of all the plagues a lover bears, Sure rivals are the worst ! Bv partners of each other kind, Afflictions easier grow ; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe. Sj^lvia, for all the pangs you see Are labouring in my breast ; I beg not you would favour me. Would you but slight the rest. How great soe'er your rigours are. With them alone I'll cope : I can endure my o^vn despair. But not another's hope. The author of this sono: is mentioned in the correspondence and poems of Alexander Pope. "In 170.5," says' Dr. Johnson in his "Lives of the Poets," "Walsh began to correspond ^ith Mr. Pope, in -n-hom he discovered very early the power of poetry. Pope always retained a gratefid sense of Walsh's notice, and mentioned him in one of his latest pieces among those that had encom-aged his juvenile studies, — ' Glan^-ille the polite And knowing Walsh would tell me I could -write.' " TILL DEATH I SYLVIA MUST ADORE. From " The Hive." A collection of Songs in four volumes, 12mo, 172G. Till death I Sylvia must adore ; No time my freedom can restore ; For though her rigour makes me smart. Yet when I try to free my heart. Straight all my senses take her part. And Avhen against the cruel maid I call my reason to my aid ; By that, alas ! I plainly see That nothing lovely is but she ; And reason captivates me more Thau all my senses did before. » SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 63 WHY, LOVELY CHARMER. From " The Hive." Why, lovely charmer, tell me why. So very kind, and yet so shy ? Why does that cold forbidding air Give dainps of sorrow and despair ? Or why that smile my soul subdue. And kindle up my flames anew ? In vain you strive, with all your art, By turns to fire and freeze my heart ; When I behold a face so fair. So sweet a look, so soft an air. My ravish'd soul is charm'd all o'er, — I cannot love thee less or more. UNHAPPY LOVE. From " The Hive." I SEE she flies me every where. Her eyes her scorn discover : But what's her scorn, or my despair, Since 'tis my fate to love her ? Were she but kind whom I adore, I might live longer, but not love her more. THE FIRE OF LOVE. From the " Esamen MisceUaneum," 1702, where it is said to be by Earl D. (Dorset). The fire of love in youthful blood, Like what is kindled in brushwood. But for a moment l)urns ; Yet in that moment makes a mighty noise ; It crackles, and to vapour turns. And soon itself destroys. But when crept into aged veins. It slowly burns and long remains. And with a silent heat. 64 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Like fire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long; And though the flame be not so great. Yet is the heat as strong. FAIR HEBE. By Lord Caxtalupe. From a half-sheet, ydth the Music, printed about 1720. Fair Hebe I left mth a cautious design To escape from her charms and to drown love in wine : I tried it, but found, when I came to depart. The wine in my head but still love in my heart. I repair' d to my Reason, entreating her aid, "Who paus'd on my case, and each circumstance weigh' d; Then gravely pronounc'd, in return to my prayer. That Hebe was fairest of all that were fair ! " That's a truth," replied I, " I've no need to be taught ; I came for your counsel to find out a fault." " If that's all," says Reason, " return as you came. For to find favdt with Hebe would forfeit my name." Wliat hopes, then, alas ! of relief from my pain. When, like lightning, she darts through each throbbing vein ; My senses surprised, in her favour took arms. And reason confirms me a slave to her charms. This song, adapted to the old English melody of "Pretty Polly Oliver," is an answer to Shenstone's, " When forced from dear Hebe to part," the music by Dr. Arne. The melodv is the same as that of the song " Derwenfrwater," in the recently published collection of "EngUsh Songs and Melodies," by Charles Mackay, and Sir H. K. Bishop. TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE. George Lord Lyttelton, born 1709, died 1773. Music by Holcombe. See Kitson's " English Songs," vol. iii. "When Delia on the plain appears, Aw'd by a thousand tender fears, I would approach, 1)ut dare not move ; — Tell me, my heart, if this be love. Whene'er she speaks, my ra\-ish'd ear No other voice than hers can hear. No other wit but hers approve ; — Tell me, my heart, if this be love. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 65 If she some other swain commend, Though I was once his fondest friend. His instant enemy I prove ; — Tell me, my heart, if this be love. When she is absent, I no more - Delight in all that pleas' d before — The clearest spring, the shadiest grove ; — Tell me, my heart, if this be love. When fond of power, of beauty vain. Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove ; — Tell me, my heart, if this be love. THE SHAPE ALONE. Ritson assigns this song to Akknside (born 1721, died 1770), but it is not contained in his works. The shape alone let others prize. The featvn-es of the fair ; I look for spirit in her eyes. And meaning in her air. A damask cheek and ivory arm Shall ne'er my wishes win ; Give me an animated form That speaks a mind within ; A face where awful honour shines, AVhere sense and sweetness move. And angel innocence refines The tenderness of love. These are the soul of beauty's frame. Without whose vital aid Unfinish'd all her features seem. And all her roses dead. 66 SONGS OF .THE AFFECTIONS. But, ah ! where hoth their charms unite, How perfect is the \-iew, — With eveiy image of dehght. With graces ever new ! Of power to charm the deepest woe, The wildest rage control ; Diffusing mildness o'er the brow, And rapture through the soul. Their power but faintly to express All language must despair ; But go behold Aspasia's face. And read it perfect there. NANNY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME? Thomas Percy, D.D., Bishop of Dromore, editor of the "ReUcs of Ancient English Poetry," born 1728, died 1811. Music by T. Carter ; composed for Vauxhall. 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 1 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 ? SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ^7 O Nanny, canst tliou 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 1 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 ? Robert Burns aflBjinecl this song to be the most beautiful composition of its kind in the English language. WHEN LOVELY WOMAN. Olivek Goldsmith, born 1731, died 1774. The music by Signor Giardini. When lovely woman stoops to folly. And finds too late that men betray. What charm can soothe her melancholy. What art can wash her gmlt away 1 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. " For elegant simplicity of language, harmony of versification, and pointed neatness of composition," says Dr. Aikin in his " Vocal" Poetry," " there are not, perhaps to be found in the language two more finished stanzas than these, which are introduced in ' The Vicar of Wakefield.' " It may be doubted whether Dr. Aikin's eulogimn be deserved. To die is not an " art." And, independently of this verbal objection, the philosophy of the song is not irreproachable. 68 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, THE THORN. John O'Keefe. The music, by Wm. SniEr.i), was composetl expressly for Incledon. In the original edition the words are erroneously ascribed to Burns. From the white-blossom' d sloe my dear Chloe requested A sprig her fair breast to adorn ; * No; by heavens !'•' I exclaim'd "may I perish. If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn !" "When I show'd her the ring and implored her to marr}% She blush' d like the dawning of morn : " Yes, yes ! I'll consent," she replied, " if you promise That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn." DEAR BETTY. Sir Chaeles Hanbury AVilliams. Dear Betty, come give me sweet kisses. For sweeter no girl ever gave ; But why, in the midst of our blisses. Do you ask me how many I'd have ? I'm not to be stinted in pleasure ; Then prithee, dear Betty, be kind ; For as I love thee beyond measure, To numbers I'll not be confined. Count the bees that on Hybla are straying, Count the flowers that enamel the fields. Count the flocks that on Tempe are pla^'ing. Or the grain that each Sicily yields ; Count how many stars are in heaven. Go reckon the sands on the shore ; And when so many kisses yovi've given, I still will be asking for more. To a heart full of love let me hold thee, A heart that, dear Betty, is thine ; In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee. And curl round thy neck like a Aine. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 69 What joy can be greater than this is 1 My hie on thy hps shaU be spent ; But those who can number their kisses Will always with few be content. Sir Charles Hanbury "Williams, Bart., wrote a great number of political and other songs, which with his other works were published in 1822, in 3 vols., from the original MSS. in the possession of his grandson the Karl of Essex, with notes by Horace Walpole. This song— the only one of tlic many which is a shade above metUocrity— is an imitation of Martial, Lib. vi. Ep. xxxiv. The greater portion of the songs of this writer were produced between 1730 and 1745. In lUtson's "English Songs" this is inserted with the music, under the title of " Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses." The author of the music is unknown. PRETTY LITTLE SUE. From the " Myrtle and the Vine," A.D. 17S0. My fair, ye swains, is gone astray; The little wand'rcr lost her way In gathering flow'rs the other day; Sing high, sing high, sing low : Oh, lead her home, ye gentle swains. Who know an absent lover's pains; And bring in safety o'er the plains My pretty little Sue. Whene'er a charmins; form you see. Serenely erave, sedately free. Oh, bring her, for it must be she ; Sing high, sing high, sing low : When such a tuneful voice you hear As makes you think a syren 's near. Oh, bring her, — for it is my dear. My })rctty little Sue. But rest, my soul, and bless your fate ; The gods who form'd her so complete Will safely guard her harmless feet ; Sing high, sing high, sing low : Oh, lead her home, ye gentle swains. Who know an absent lover's pains, And bring in safety o'er the plains ]My pretty little Sue. 70 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. IF 'TIS LOVE TO WISH YOU NEAR. AVords and Music by Charles Dibdix, born 1745, died 1814. If 'tis love to wish you near, To tremble when the wind I hear. Because at sea you floating rove ; If of you to dream at night, To languish when you're out of sight, — If this be loving, then I love. If, when you're gone, to count each hour. To ask of every tender power That you may kind and faithful prove ; If void of falsehood and deceit, I feel a pleasure when we meet, — If this be lo\ing, then I love. To wish your fortune to partake, Determin'd never to forsake. Though low in poverty we strove ; If, so that me your wife you'd call, I offer you my little all, — If this be loving, then I love. HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. Tv. B. SnEKiDAX, born 1751, died 1816. Had I a heart for falsehood fram'd, I ne'er could injure you ; For though your tongue no promise claim' d. Your charms would make me true : To you no soul shall bear deceit. No stranger offer wrong ; But friends in all the aged you'll meet. And lovers in the young. For when they learn that you have blest Another with yoiu' heart. They'll bid aspiring passion rest. And act a brother's part ; SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 71 Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong ; For friends in all the aged you'll meet. And lovers in the young. COUNTY GUY. Sir Walter Scott, born 1771, (lied 1832. O 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 tiill'd all day. Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour : But where is County Guy ? The -sillage maid steals through the shade. Her shepherd's suit to hear ; To beauty shy, by lattice high. Sings high-born Cavalier. The star of love, all stars above. Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; Now high and low the influence know : But where is County Guy ? OH! SAY NOT WOMAN'S HEART IS BOUGHT. Words by Pocock, in the operatic play " The Heir of Veroni," produced in "(817, at Covent Garden Theatre. The music by John Whiiiaker. Oh ! say not woman's heart is bought With vain and empty treasure ; Oh ! say not woman's heart is caught By every idle pleasure. When first her gentle bosom knows Love's flame, it wanders never ; Deep in her heart the passion glows, — She loves, and loves for ever. 72 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Oh ! say not woman's false as fair. That like the bee she ranges ; Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare. As fickle fancy changes. Ah, no ! the love that first can warm Will leave her bosom never ; No second passion e'er can charm, — She loves, and loves for ever. FARE\YELL. LOEB Byron, born 1788, died 1824. Music by F. Rojiee. Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail' d on high. Mine will not all be lost in air. But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Tis vain to speak, to weep, to sigh ; Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell. When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in the word — Farewell ! farewell ! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; But in ray breast and in my brain Awake the pangs that pass not by. The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My sovil nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel ; I only know I loved in vain — I only feel — Farewell ! farewell ! I SAW THEE WEEP. Lord Byron. I SAW thee weep ; the big bright tear Came o'er that eye of blue ; And then methought it did appear A violet dropping dew : SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 73 I saw thee smile ; the sapphire's blaze Beside thee ceas'd to shine : It could not match the li\ing rays That fiU'd that glance of thine. As clouds from yonder sun receive A deep and mellow dye, Which scarce the shade of coming eve Can banish from the sky, — Those smiles unto the moodiest mind Their own pure joy impart ; Their sunshine leaves a glow behind That lightens o'er the heart. WHEN WE TWO PARTED. Lord Byron. When we two parted In silence and tears. Half broken-hearted, To sever for j^ears. 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 ? 7A SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. They know not I know thee. Who knew thee too Avell ! Long, long shall I rue thee. Too deeply to tell. In secret we met ; In silence I grieve That my heart would, forget. Thy spirit deceive ! If I should meet thee After long years. How should I greet thee ? With silence and tears ! LOVE AND GLORY. Thomas Dibdin, born. 1771, (lied 1841. iliisio by John Braham, in the opera of "TheEngUshPleet." Young Henry was as brave a youth As ever grac'd a martial story ; And Jane was fair as lovely truth : She sighed for Love, and he for Gloiy, With her his faith he meant to plight. And told her many a gallant story ; Till Avar, their coming joys to bhght, Call'd him away from Love to Glory. Young Henry met the foe with pride ; Jane followed, fought ! — ah, hapless story ! — In man's attire, by Henry's side. She died for Love, and he for Glory. LOVE'S FOLLIES. W. T. MoNCKiEFF, from Poems privately printed A.D. 1820. When lull'd in passion's dream my senses slept. How did I act 1 — e'en as a waward child ; I smil'd with pleasure when I should have wept. And wept with sorrow when I should have smil'd. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 75 When Gracia, beautiful but faithless fair, \yho long in passion's bonds my heart had kept, First •nith false blushes pitied my despair, I smil'd Tv-ith pleasure ! — should I not have wept ? And when, to gratify some wealthier wight. She left to grief the heart she had beguil'd. The heart grew sick, and saddening at the sight, I wept with sorrow ! — should I not have smil'd? OH, NO! WE NEVER MENTION HER. Thomas Hayxes Bayley, born 1797, died 1839. JIusic by Alexander Lee. Oh, no ! we never mention her, her name is never heard ; My lips are now forbid to speak that once familiar word : From sport to sport they hurry me, to Imnish my regret ; And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget. They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see ; But were I in a foreign land, they'd find no change in me. 'Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met, I do not see the hawthorn-tree ; but how can I forget ? For oh ! there are so many things recall the past to me, — The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea ; The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set ; — Ay, every leaf I look upon forbids that I forget. They tell me she is happy now, the gayest of the gay ; They hint that she forgets me too, — but I heed not w hat they say : Perhaps like me she struggles with each feeling of regret ; But if she loves as I have loved, she never can forget. 76 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. WHY ARE YOU WANDERING HERE, I PRAY? From Ken-NT's comedy of " Sweethearts and Wives." Music by I. Xatkan. " Why are you wand' ring here, I pray ?" An old man ask'd a maid one day. " Looking for poppies so bright and red. Father," said she, " I'm hither led." " Fie, lie !" she heard him cry, " Poppies 'tis known to all who rove. Grow in the field and not in the grove. " Tell me," again the old man said, " Why are you loit'ring here, fair maid ?" " The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear, Father," said she, " I'm come to hear." " Fie, fie !" she heard him cry, " Nightingales all, so people say. Warble by night, and not by day." SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 11 The sage look'd grave, the maiden shy, — When Lubin jump'd o'er the style hard by ; The sage look'd graver, the maid more glum, Lubin, he tv^iddled his finger and thumb : " Fie, fie !" was the old man's cry ; " Poppies like these I own are rare. And of such nightingales' songs beware." SALLY. Words and Music by Samuel Lover. " Sally, Sally, shilly shally ! Sally, why not name the day?" " Harry, Harry ! I will tarry longer in love's flow'ry way." " Sally, why not make your mind up? why embitter thus my cup?" " Harry, I've so great a mind, it takes a long time making up." " Sally, Sally ! in the valley you have promis'd many a time, On the summer Sunday morning, as we heard the matin chime ; Listening to those sweet bells ringing, calling grateful hearts to pray, I have whisper' d, 'Oh, how sweetly they'll proclaim our wedding- day!'" " Harry, Plarry ! I'll not marry, till I find your eyes don't stray : At Kate Riley you so slily stole a wink the other day." " But Kate Riley, she's my cousin." — " Harry, I have cousins too ; If you will have close relations, I have cousiifs close as you." " Sally, Sally ! do not rally, do not mock my tender woe : Play me not thus shilly shally ; Sally, do not tease me so ; Whilst you're smiling, hearts beguiling, doing all a woman can, Think, though you're almost an angel, I am but a mortal man." ADIEU, ADIEU, OUR DREAM OF LOVE! Thomas K. IIervky. From the " Poetical Sketch-Book," 1829. Adieu, adieu ! — our dream of love Was far too sweet to linger long ; Such hopes may bloom in bowers above, But here they mock the fond and young. 78 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. We met in hope, we part in tears ! Yet, oil, 'tis sadly sweet to know That life, in all its "future years, Can reach us A\ith no heavier blow ! Our souls have drunk in early youth The bitter dregs of earthly ill ; Our bosoms, blighted in their truth, Have learn' d to suffer and be still ! The hour is come, the spell is past ; ' Far, far from thee, my only love. Youth's earliest hope, and manhood's last. My darken' d spirit turns to rove. Adieu, afheu ! oh, dull and dread Sinks on the ear that parting knell ! Hope and the dreams of hope, lie dead, — To them and thee — farewell, farewell ! I THINK ON THEE IN THE NIGHT. Thomas K. IIervey. I THINK on thee in the night, When all beside is still. And the moon comes out, with her pale, sad light, To sit on the lonely hill ; When the stars are all like dreams. And the breezes all like sighs. And there comes a voice from the far-off streams, Like thy spirit's low replies. I think on thee by day, ']Mid the cold and busy crowd. When the laughter of the young and gay Is far too glad and loud ! I hear thy soft, sad tone. And thy young sweet smile I see : ]My heart, — my heart were all alone, But for its dreams of thee ! SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ELLEN EVELINA. Charles Mackay. Thou hast smiles for all the world, Ellen Evelina ; Beautiful those smiles may be, Warm as sunshine and as free : But I'd rather, I confess, Love a maid, who, smihng less. Gave her sweetest smiles to me, Ellen Evelina. Thou canst -\vin the world's applause, Ellen Evelina ; Thou'rt a wit and hel esprit, Li^-ing upon flattery : But I'd rather all my days Love a woman seeking praise. Not from others, but from me, Ellen Evelina. "When thou singest, hearts beat low, Ellen Evelina ; Admiration great and free Lingers on thy melody : But no song, however fair. In my fancy can compare. With a whisper' d — ''' I love thee," Ellen Evehna. Oft I think against my will, Ellen Evelina, Notwithstanding all I see Bright and beautiful in thee, That thou lovest, O my heJh ! Thy enchanting self too well. To give love enough to me, Ellen Evelina. 80 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Thou hast chosen, — so have I, — Ellen Evelina ; In thy track I'll cease to run, I will end as I begun : She whom I would choose for life, For my love, my friend, my wfe, Must have heart, — and thou hast none, Ellen Evelina. BROKEN SILENCE. By J. Westlakd Maeston, author of the " Patrician's Daughter." Oh, break not her silence ! — she listens to voices Whose tones are a feeling, whose echoes a thrill ; And more than in aught that is real, she rejoices In dreams which presage what they ne'er can fulfil, — The dreams, the first fond dreams of love ! Oh, break not her silence ! — her heart is replying To chords that are swept by a breeze from the past ; No hymn in the present can match with that sighing O'er hopes which, though vanish' d, were dear to the last,- The hopes, the first bright hopes of youth ! Thou canst not break her silence ! — no word that is spoken Can now wound her ear, no regret dim her eyes ; Thou canst not break her silence ; yet, hark ! it is broken, — "Come hither, come hither," — a voice from the skies! " Come hither," — a voice from the skies ! BLUE IS THE SKY. G. Meredith. Blue is the sky, blue is thine eye,- Which shall I call heaven ? Star is there, and soul is here, — Tell me which is heaven. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. SI T cannot know unless thou say, So kin are both in orb and ray. So full of heavenly feature ; The fall of dews, the flush of hues. The tenderness of soften' d vdews. Lovely ahke by night and day. And both of heavenly nature. Blue is the sky, blue is thine eye, — Both would image heaven ; Light is there, and love is here, — Each the child of heaven. Oh, might it be, and may it be. That I who worship heaven in thee. May so fulfil thy mission. That light and love from heaven above. And star and soul, my bridal dove. May blend and open heaven to me. Through thy celestial vision ! LOVE IN HATE. Chaeles Mackat. From " Legends of the Isles, and other rooms," 1S45. Music by Johx Gkay. Once I thought I could adore him. Rich or poor, belov'd the same ; Now I hate him and abhor him. Now I loathe his very name ; Spurn' d at, when I sued for pity — llobb'd of peace and virgin fame. If my hatred could consume him. Soul and body, heart and brain ; If my will had power to doom him To eternity of pain ; I would strike — and die, confessing That I had not lived in vain. Oh, if in my bosom lying, I could work him deadly scathe ! 82 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Oh, if I could clasp him dying, And receive his parting breath ; In one burst of burning passion I would kiss him into death ! I would cover with embraces Lips that once his love confess' d. And that falsest of false faces, Mad, enraptur'd, vmrepress'd ; — Then, in agony of pity, I would die upon his breast. LOVE NOT. Hon. Mrs. Norton. Music by John Blocklet. Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay ! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow'rs — Things that are made to fade and fall away. When they have blossom' d but a few short hours. Love not, love not I Love not, love not ! The thing you love may die — May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ; The silent stars, the blue and smihng sky. Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. Love not, love not ! Love not, love not ! The thing you love may change. The rosy lip may cease to smile on you ; The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not, love not ! Love not, love not ! Oh warning vainly said In present years as in the years gone by ; Love flings a halo round the dear one's head. Faultless, immortal — till they change or die. Love not, love not ! PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. - ^- Under the title of Pastoral and Rural Songs may be included some of the most beautiful specimens of our early poetical lite- rature. Vast quantities of these songs, once popular among the English people, anterior to the reign of Elizabeth, have perished altogether. Many of them, in all probabihty, were never committed to the custody of print and paper, and escaped with the breath of the wandering minstrels who composed and sang them. Others, again, at a somewhat later period, fared but little better at the hands of Time. " The ancient songs of the people," says D' Israeli the elder, " perished by ha^-ing been printed in single sheets, and by their humble purchasers having no other hbrary to preserve them than the walls on which they 84 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS, pasted them. Those we now have consist of a succeeding race of ballads." The pastoral love-songs, which we owe chiefly to the writers of the age of the Stuarts, include few compositions so beautiful as Marlowe's "Passionate Shepherd to his Love," and Sir Walter Raleigh's " Reply." The shepherds of that race of lyrists were, with few exceptions, merely stage shepherds in the usual theatrical costume, and the shepherdesses were " ladies of quality" dressed up for the occasion. Even Shakspeare him- self, who touched or borrowed nothing that he did not improve, could make little of this kind of composition. It was not true to nature ; and yet it continued, in that decline of literary taste which began in the reign of Charles the Second, to have charms for writers, readers, and singers. Such ditties as the following had far more ^itahty than merit : — By a murmuring stream a fair shepherdess lay ; " Be so kind, O ye njinphs," I oft heard her say, " Tell Strephon I die, if he passes this way. And that love is the cause of my mourning. False shepherds, that tell me of heauty and charms, You deceive me, for Strephon's cold heart never warms ; Yet bring me the swain, let me die in his arms ; Oh, Strephon's the cause of my mourning ! " The satire of Pope and the verses of the Lady of Quality (which we have already quoted) did not prodilce much effect in putting a stop to this affectation, and the age persisted in looking with favour upon pastoral love-songs, in which all lovers were represented as shepherds and shepherdesses, billing and cooing amid their sheep, by the side of " purling brooks." Corydon wept among his flocks because Chloe or Phcebe was cruel ; and Chloe called upon echo to repeat the name of Cory- don, the falsest of shepherds and of men. The pastoral mania lasted for a considerable time ; and traces of it are to be found in the popular songs of the last half of the eighteenth and the commencement of the present century, when it finally went out, much to the gratification of all lovers of true poetry. The rural songs, that make no attempt at describing the loves and sorrows of Strephon and the Amyntas, and the other mas- querading shepherds, are of a higher class than these. The pleasures and enjoyments of a country hfe have always been, PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 85 and always will be, themes for song ; and descriptions of natural scenery, intermingled with those sentiments and feehngs which they naturally prompt — gaiety to the gay, and sadness to the sad — will ever inspire the true lyrist. The songs of a succeeding age, like those which charmed our forefathers and which charm ourselves, must draw largely from this source ; and the banish- ment of wine as a subject of lyric eulogy, and of paganism as a subject of illustration for modern thought and feeling, will increase the number of those purer compositions, which the present age has begun to insist upon, and which the next will insist upon more strongly. 86 PASTORAL, AND RURAL, SONGS. ^ 'J r.M.. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. Christopher Marlowe, bom 15 — , died 1593. Come live with me and be my love. And we will all the pleasures prove. That valleys, groves, and hills and fields. The woods or steepy mountains yields. And we will sit upon the rocks. Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks. By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses. And a thousand fragrant posies ; A cap of flowers and a kirtle Embroider' d o'er with leaves of mjTtle ; A gown made of the finest wool. Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; Fair lined slippers for the cold. With buckles of the purest gold ; PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 87 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. 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. This song, so well known to all readers of Izaak Walton, is sung to an old English n^elody— the author unknown,— and has been set as a glee by "Webbe, and as a ballad- song by Dr. Arne. THE NYMPH'S REPLY.* Sir AValter Kaleigh, born 1552, died IGlSi. If all the world and love were young. And truth on every shepherd's tongue. These pleasures might my passion move To live with thee and be thy love. But fading flowers in every field To winter floods their treasures yield : A honey' d tongue, a heart of gall. Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy ^own, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. Are all soon wither' d, broke, forgotten. In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds. Thy coral clasps and amber studs, Can me with no enticements move To live with thee and be thy love. But could youth last, could love still breed. Had joy no date, had age no need ; Then those delights my mind might move To Uve with thee and be thy love. * This song, attributed to Raleigh, was originally printed with the signature of " Ignoto," and has been set as a glee by Webbe. It is also sung to the music of the original song. 83 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONG?. PHILLIS THE FAIR. Nicholas Bhetox, born 1555, died 16 — . On a hill there grows a flower. Fair befall the dainty sweet ; By that flower there is a bower Where the heavenly Muses meet. In that bower there is a chair Fringed all about with gold. Where doth sit the fairest fair That ever eye did yet behold. It is Phillis fair and bright, She that is the shepherd's joy. She that Venus did despite, And did Wind her httle boy. Who would not that face admire ? Who would not this saint adore ? Who would not this sight desire. Though he thought to see no more ? Tliou that art the shepherd's queen, Look upon thy love-sick swain ; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life agair. PHILLIDA AND CORYDON. Nicholas Bretoit. Music by Dr. Wilsox. 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, PhiUida and Cory don. PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 89 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 loved a truer youth. Then with many a pretty oath, Yea and nay, and faith and troth. Such as silly shepherds use When they will not love abuse ; Love, that had been long deluded. Was with kisses sweet concluded ; And Phillida with garlands gay Was made the lady of the May. This sang, as we learn from " Percy's Relics," was sunp: before Queen Elizabeth at Elvetham in Hampshire, as she opened the casement of her frallery window in the morning, by " three excellent musitians disguised in auncient country attire." Another version, slightly different, is given in England's " Helicon." YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING. From Thomas Heywood's " Faire Maide of the Exchange," 1615. 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. 90 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. Go tell her through your chirping hills 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. Oh, fly, make haste ; see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber ; Sing round about her rosy bed. That, waking, she may wonder. Sing to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love by you and you ; And when you hear her kind reply. Return with pleasant warbUngs. WHAT PLEASURE HAVE GREAT PRINCES ? From Btrd's " Songs and Sonnets of Sadness and Pietie," 1588. What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice. Than herdmen wild, who careless In quiet Ufe 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 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 91 On favourite presumptous. Whose pride is vaiu and sumptuous. All day their flocks each tendeth ; At night they take their rest, More quiet than he who sendeth His ship into the East, Where gold and pearl are plenty. But getting very dainty. For lawyers and their pleading. They 'steem it not a straw ; They think that honest meaning Is of itself a law : Where conscience judgeth plainly. They spend no money vainly. Oh, happy who thus liveth. Not caring much for gold. With clothing which suiRceth To keep him from the cold ; Though poor and plain his diet. Yet merry it is, and quiet. WELCOME, WELCOME, DO I SING. William Browne, born 1590, died 1645. From a MS. copy of his Poems in the Lansdowne collection. Welcome, welcome, do I sing. Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never. Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love, that to the voice is near. Breaking from your ivory pale. Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. 92 PASTORAL AND RURAL S'ONGS. Love, that looks still on your eyes. Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries. Shall not want the summer's sun. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. Love, that still may see your cheeks. Where all rareness still reposes. Is a fool, if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. Love, to whom your soft lip yields. And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odours of the fields Never, never, shall be missing. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. Love that question would renew. What fair Eden was of old ; Let him rightly study you. And a brief of that behold. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c. We are indebted to Browne for having preserved in his " Shepherd's Pipe" a curious poem by Oecleve. Mr. Warton conceives his works to " have been well known to Milton," and refers to " Britannia's Pastorals" for the same assemblage of circumstances in a morning landscape as were brought together more than thirty years afterwards by Milton in a passage of " L'Allegro," and which has been supposed to serve as the repository of imagery on that subject for all succeeding poets. — Ellis. INVITATION TO MAY. From Thomas Morlet's Ballads, 1595. Now is the month of maying. When merry lads are playing,, Fa, la, la. Each with his bonny lass. Upon the greeny grass. Fa, la, la. PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 96 The spring, clad all in gladness. Doth laugh at winter's sadness. Fa, la, la. And to the bagpipe's sound The nymphs tread out their ground. Fa, la, la. Fie, then, why sit we musing. Youth's sweet delight refusing. Fa, la, la. Say, dainty nymphs, and speak. Shall we play at barley-break ?* Fa, la, la. An old English melody Sheridan used for the finale of " The Duenna." THE SHEPHERDS' HOLIDAY. James Shieley, horn 1596, died 1666. Woodmen, shepherds, come away. This is Pan's great holiday, Throw oif cares ; With your heaven-aspiring airs Help us to sing, While valleys with your echoes ring. Nymphs that dwell within these groves. Leave your arbours, bring your loves ; Gather posies, Crown your golden hair with roses ; As you pass. Foot like fairies on the grass. Joy crowns our bowers ; Philomel, Leave oflF Tereus' rape to tell ; Let trees dance. As they at Thracian lyre did once ; Mountains play ; This is the shepherds' holiday. * A game popular in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and peculiar to the month of May. ,94 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. THE PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S LIFE. John Chalkhill. From Walton's "Angler," 1653. Set as a glee by Hoksley. Oh, the sweet contentment The countryman doth find, High trololUe, loUie, lol ; high troloUie, 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, loUie, 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 trololhe, 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 dav. 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 ; PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 95 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 troloUie, loUie, 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. AMINTOR'S WELL-A-DAY. Dr. R. Hughes. From Lawes's third book of AjTes, 1653 Chloris, now thou art fled away, Amintor's sheep are gone astray. And all the joy he took to see His pretty lamps run after thee Is gone, is gone, and he alway Sings nothing now but — Well-a-day ! His oaten pipe, that in thy praise Was wont to sing such roundelays. Is thrown away, and not a swain Dares pipe or sing within his plain : 'Tis death for any now to say One word to him but — ^Well-a-day ! The maypole, where thy httle feet So roundly did in measures meet. Is broken down, and no content Comes near Amintor since you went. All that I ever heard him say. Was Chloris, Chloris— Well-a-day ! 98 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. Upon these banks you used to thread He ever since hath laid his head, And whisper' d there such pining woe, As not a blade of grass \\dll grow. O Chloris ! Chloris ! come away, And hear Amintor's — Well-a-day ! COLIN'S COMPLAINT. Nicholas Eo-we, born 1673, died 1718. Despairing beside a clear stream A shepherd forsaken was laid ; And while a false nymph was his theme, A willow supported his head. The wind that blew over the plain To his sighs with a sigh did reply. And the brook, in return to his pain. Ran mournfully murmuring by. Alas ! sUly swain that I was. Thus sadly complaining, he cried ; When first I beheld that fair face, 'Twere better by far I had died. She talk'd, and I bless' d her dear tongue ; When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great ; I listen' d, and cried, when she sung. Was nightingale ever so sweet ? How foolish was I to believe She could doat on so lowly a clown. Or that her fond heart would not grieve To forsake the fine folk of the town : To think that a beauty so gay. So kind and so constant would prove. Or go clad, like our maidens, in grey. Or hve in a cottage on love ! What though I have skill to complain. Though the Muses my temples have crown' d ; Y» hat though, when they hear my soft strain. The virgins sit weeping around ? PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 9/ Ah, Colin ! thy hopes are in vain ; Thy pipe and thy laurel resign ; Thy false one inclines to a swain Whose music is sweeter than thine. All you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray' d, Wliatever I suffer, forbear. Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly ; 'Twas hers to be false and to change, — 'Tis mine to be constant and die. If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found. Let her come with the nymphs of the plain. And see me laid low in the ground : The last humble boon that I crave. Is to shade me with cypress and yew ; And when she looks down on my grave. Let her own that her shepherd was true. Then to her new love let her go. And deck her in golden array ; Be finest at every fine show. And frolic it all the long day : While Colin, forgotten and gone. No more shall be talk'd of or seen. Unless when beneath the pale moon His ghost shall glide over the green. This sone: is usually sung to the ancient melody entitled "Grim King of the Ghosts. ' The author is supposed to have aUuded in this pastoral to his own disap- pointment m 5?ainins the atfections of the Countess Dowager of Warwick, afterwards married to Joseph Addison. 98 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. AS I WALKED FORTH ONE SUMMER'S DAY. From Playford's "Airs and Dialogues," 1C7G. As I walk'd forth one summer's day To view the meadows green and gay, A cool retreating bower I spied. That flourish' d near the river's side, Where oft in tears a maid would cry, "Did ever maiden love as I ?" Then o'er the grassy fields she'd walk. And nipping flowers low by the stalk, Such flowers as in the meadow grew, — The deadman's thumb and harebell blue ; And as she pull'd them, still cried she, "Alas, none ever lov'd like me !-" Such flowers as gave the sweetest scent She bound about with knotty bent ; And as she bound them up in bands. She sigh'd, and wept, and wrung her hands ; "Alas, alas!" still sobbed she, "Alas, none ever lov'd like me !" PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 99 When she had fill'd her apron full Of all the flowers that she could cull, The tender leaves serv'd for a bed. The scented flowers to rest her head ; Then down she laid, nor sigh'd, nor spake, — With love her gentle heart did break. THE SUN WAS SUNK BENEATH THE HILL. Anonymous, but often attributed to John Gat. The sun was sunk beneath the hill. The western clouds were lin'd with gold. The sky was clear, the winds were still. The flocks were pent within the fold ; When from the silence of the grove. Poor Damon thus despair' d of love. Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose From the bare rock or oozy beach. Who from each barren weed that grows Expects the grape or blushing peach. With equal faith may hope to find The truth of love in womankind. I have no herds, no fleecy care. No fields that wave with golden gram. No pastures green or gardens fair, A woman's venal heart to gain ; Then all in vain my sighs must prove. For I, alas ! have nought but love. How wretched is the faithful youth. Since women's hearts are bought and sold ! They ask no vows of sacred truth ; Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold. Gold can the frowns of scorn remove. But I, alas ! have nought but love. To buy the gems of India's coast. What weaUh, what treasure can suffice ? Yet India's shore shall never boast The living lustre m thine eyes ; 100 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. For these the world too cheap would prove ; But I, alas ! have nought but love. Then, Sylvia, since nor gems nor ore Can with thy brighter self compare. Consider that I offer more Than glittering gems— a soul sincere : Let riches meaner beauties move ; Who pays thy worth, must pay in love. H- \i> ,.t ^'^< DAME DURDEN. Anonymous. Date uncertain. Dame Durden kept five serving girls To carry the milking pail ; She also kept five labouring men To use the spade and flail. PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 101 'Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail, And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail. 'Twas John kiss'd Molly, And Dick kiss'd Betty, And Joe kiss'd Dolly, And Jack kiss'd Katty, And Dorothy Draggletail, And Humphrey with his flail, And Kitty was a charming girl to carry the milking pail. Dame Durden in the morn so soon She did begin to call ; To rouse her servants, maids and men. She then began to bawl. 'Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail. And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail. 'Twas John kiss'd Molly, &c. 'Twas on the morn of Valentine, The birds began to prate. Dame Durden' s servants, maids and men. They all began to mate. 'Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail, And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail . 'Twas John kiss'd Molly, And Dick kiss'd Betty, And Joe kiss'd Dolly, And Jack kiss'd Katty, And Dorothy Draggletail, And Humphrey with his flail, And Kitty was a charming girl to carry the milking pail. THE SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT. Charles Hamilton (Lord Binning), died 1732-3. Did ever swain a nymph adore As I ungrateful Nanny do ? Was ever shepherd's heart so sore — "Was ever broken heart so true ? My eyes are swell 'd with tears ; but she Has never shed a tear for me. 102 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. If Nanny call'd, did Robin stay. Or linger when she hade me run ? She only had the word to say, And all she ask'd was quickly done : I always thought on her ; but she Would ne'er bestow a thought on me. To let her cows my clover taste. Have I not rose by break of day ? When did her heifers ever fast. If Robin in his yard had hay ? Though to my fields they welcome were, I never welcome was to her. If Nanny ever lost a sheep, I cheerfully did give her two ; Did not her lambs in safety sleep Within my folds in frost and snow ? Have they not there from cold been free ? But Nanny still is cold to me. Whene'er I climb 'd our orchard trees. The ripest fruit was kept for Nan ; Oh, how those hands that drown 'd her bees Were stung, I'll ne'er forget the pain ! Sweet were the combs as sweet could be ; But Nanny ne'er look'd sweet on me. If Nanny to the well did come, 'Twas I that did her pitchers fill ; Full as they were, I brought them home ; Her corn I carried to the mill ; My back did bear her sacks, but she Would never bear the sight of me. To Nanny's poultry oats I gave, I'm sure she always had the best ; Within this week her pigeons have Eat up a peck of peas at least ; Her little pigeons kiss, but she Would never take a kiss from me. PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 103 Must Robin always Nanny woo, And Nanny still on Robin frown ? Alas, poor wretch ! what shall I do, If Nanny does not love me soon ? If no relief to me she'll bring, I'll hang me in her apron string. THE CHOICE OF A RURAL WIFE. Anonymous : about 1740. Would you choose a wife for a happy life ; Leave the court, and the country take. Where Susan and Doll, and Nancy and Moll, Follow Harry and John, v.hilst harvest goes on, And merrUy, merrily rake. Leave the London dames — ^be it spoke to their shames- To he in their beds till noon. Then get up and stretch, then paint too and patch, Some widgeon to catch, then look to their watch. And wonder they rose up so soon. Then coffee and tea, both green and bohea, Is serv'd to their tables in plate ; Where their tattles do run as swift as the sun, Of what they have won, aud who is undone. By their gaming and sitting up late. The lass give me here, though brown as my beer. That knows how to govern her house ; That can milk her cow, or farrow her sow. Make butter or cheese, or gather green peas, And values fine clothes not a sous. This, this is the girl, worth rubies and pearl ; This is the wife that will make a man rich : We gentlemen need no quality breed To squander away what taxes would pay, In troth we care for none such. 104 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. JOHNNY AND JENNY. Edwaed Mooke, born 1712, died 1757. Music by Dr. Botce. HE. Let rakes for pleasure range the town. Or misers doat on golden guineas ; Let plenty smile or fortune frown, The sweets of love are mine and Jenny's. SHE, Let wanton maids indulge desire ; How soon the fleeting pleasure gone is ! The joys of virtue never tire, And such shall still be mine and Johnny's. BOTH. Together let us sport and play. And live in pleasure where no sin is ; The priest shall tie the knot to-day, And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's. HE. Let roving swains young hearts invade — The pleasure ends in shame and folly ; So Willy woo'd, and then betray'd The poor believing simple Molly. SHE. So Lucy lov'd, and lightly toy'd. And laugh 'd at harmless maids who marry ; But now she finds her shepherd cloy'd. And chides too late her faithless Harry. PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 105 BOTH. Together still we'll sport and play, And live in pleasure where no sin is ; The priest shall tie the knot to-day, And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's. HE. By cooling streams our flocks we'll feed. And leave deceit to knaves and ninnies. Or fondly stray where Love shall lead. And every joy be mine and Jenny's. SHE. Let guilt the faithless bosom fright. The constant heart is always bonny ; Content, and peace, and sweet delight, And love, shall live with me and Johnny. BOTH. Together still we'll sport and play, And live in pleasure where no sin is ; The priest shall tie the knot to-day, And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's. THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL. On Richmond Hill there lives a lass More bright than May-day morn. Whose charms all other maids surpass,— A rose without a thorn. This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet. Has won my right good-will ; I'd crowns resign to call her mine. Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. 106 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air, And wanton through the grove, Oh, whisper to my charming fair, I die for her I love ! How happy will the shepherd be Who calls this nymph his own ! Oh, may her choice be fix'd on me ! Mine's fix'd on her alone. Mr. ITpton, who wrote the ahove son^, wrote many others for the convivial enter- tainments at Vauxhall Gardens towards the close of the last century. The music of this song, composed by Mr. Hook, father of the late Theodore Hook, was long popularly ascribed to the Prince" of Wales. It was a great favourite with George III. THE FARMER'S SON. From the " MjTtle and the Vine, or Complete Vocal Library," 1800. Good people, give attention, while I do sing in praise Of the happy situation we were in in former days ; When my father kept a farm, and my mother milk'd her cow, How happily we lived then to what we do now ! When my mother she was knitting, my sister she would spin, And by their good industry they kept us neat and clean ; I rose up in the morning, with my father went to plough, — How happily we Hved then to what we do now ! • My brother gave assistance in tending of the sheep ; When tired with our labour, how contented we could sleep ! Then early in the morning we again set out to plough, — How happily we lived then to what we do now ! Then to market with the fleece, when the little herd were shorn. And our neighbours we supplied with a quantity of com ; For half-a-crown a bushel we would sell it then I vow, — How happily we lived then to what we do now ! PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 107 I never knew at that time, go searcli the country round. That hutter ever sold for more than four-pence per pound. And a quart of new milk for a penny from the cow, — How happily we hved then to what we do now ! How merry would the farmers then sing along the road, "When wheat was sold at market for five pounds a load ! . They'd drop into an alehouse, and drink " God speed the plough," — How happily we hved then to what we do now ! A hlessing to the squire, for he gave us great content, And well he entertain 'd us when my father paid his rent ; With flagons of good ale he'd drink, "Farmer, speed the plough,"- How happily we lived then to what we do now ! At length the squire died, sir — oh, "bless his ancient pate ! — Another fiU'd with pride came as heir to the estate ; He took my father's farm away, and others too, I vow. Which brought us to the wretched state that we are in now. May Providence hefriend us, and raise some honest heart The poor for to disburden, who long have felt the smart ; To take the larger farms and diidde them into ten. That we may live as happy now as we did then. A much older song, but in no wise resembling this, appears with the same title in Chappell's Collection of Ancient English Melodies. «^"-i^^^>- 108 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. THE SUFFOLK YEOMAN'S SONG. J. Hughes. Good neighbours, since you've knock'd me dowTi, I'll sing you a song of songs the crown. For it shall be to the fair renown Of a race that yields to no man. When order first on earth began, Each king was then a husbandman ; lie honour' d the plough And the barley-mow, Maintain 'd his court from off his farm. And kept all round him tight and warm, Like a right-down Suffolk yeoman. The plough was then a nation's boast. And the pride of those who rul'd the roast. And so felt one well worth a host — A brave and a noble Roman. Some here may call to mind his name. But the thing is true, and it's all the same ; In war and debate He sav'd the state. PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. 109 He made the haughty foe to bow ; And when all was done went back to plough. Like a home-bred Suffolk yeoman. Said Horace, "I'm grown sick of court. And Caesar's crack champagne and port ; To sing and pun for great folks' sport, Is the life of a raree showman ; I long, 'mid all the fun of Rome, To see how my farm goes on at home." Now his parts were renown 'd The world around ; But he stuck to his turnips, wheat, and hops ; And yet trust me if he grew such crops As a thriving Suffolk yeoman. Good freeholders and stout, were they. Who form'd our warlike realm's array. When Europe trembled many a day At the name of an English bowman ; The arm that drew the gallant bow Could pitch on the rick and barley-mow ; They lov'd the tough yew, And the spot where it grew. For that was near our good old church ; "And we'll never leave her in the lurch," Says my loyal Suffolk yeoman. When George the Third adorn 'd our throne. His manly ways were just our own, Then Britons stood in arms alone. And defied each foreign foeman. The good old King, he fear'd his God, But he fear'd no man on earth who trod ; He lov'd his farm, And he found a charm In every useful sterling art. And he wore the home-spun coat and heart Of a manly Suffolk yeoman. Since then the brave, the wise, and great Have been plain folks of our estate ; We claim a pride of ancient date, 110 PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. A pride that will injure no man ; Though Scotch philosophers and Jews Would starve us out, and our name abuse, We'll stand by the King, The Church, and each thing That our loyal fathers honour'd most ; And such shall be the pride and boast Of a manly Suffolk yeoman. A WISH. Samuel Eogers. Set as a glee by Horsley. 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 among the trees. Where first our marriage-vows were given. With merry peals shall swell the breeze. And point with taper spire to heaven. THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND. Eliza Cook. The sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle ; The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while ; But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls, And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals. PASTORAL AND RURAL SONGS. Ill We'll pluck the brilliant poppies and the far-famed barley-corn. To wreathe withbursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn ; We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land, — I The ploughshare of Old England and the sturdy peasant band ! i The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told ; We see it in the teeming barns and fields of waving gold ; Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain Imgers there : God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled everywhere ! The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust ; ' But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust. I Fill up, fill up, with glovnng heart, and pledge our fertile land, — The ploughshare of Old England and the sturdy peasant band ! CONYIYIAL SONGS. HE Bacchanalian and Con^mal Songs of the Eiighsh people are not of a high order of merit. The most elegant of them are translations, or paraphrases, ot the Odes of Anacreon — the only author who has eminently succeeded in wreath- ing the flowers of fancy around the drink- ing-cup, or in rendering even tolerable, to the taste of a refined and civilised people, the praises of intoxication. But CONVIVIAL SONGS. 113 in borrowing from Anacreon, the English song-writers, with the exception of Thomas Moore, who added new graces even to Ana- creon, too often forgot, or were unable to borrow his elegance and wit. The result is, that the greater portion of English drinking-songs would be more appropriate to the worship of Silenus than of Bacchus. " Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne," as depicted by Shakspeare, has been the divinity of song-writers, not one of whom seems to have had any idea of the intellectual Dionysius of the Greeks. Bacchus has been degraded by the moderns into a kind of superhuman FalstafF — a sensual monster — abusing the gifts of Heaven instead of using them. Some of the early drinking songs are valuable for preserving traits of national manners, which might otherwise have been lost. Bishop Still's song of "Good Ale" is one of this class; and a few others are entitled to the same praise. But in the age succeeding that of Elizabeth — when the simple and the natural in poetry of all kinds began to decay — the convivial songs, like those in celebration of the passion of love, partook largely of the mythological character ; and for more than two centuries, the vulgarised Bacchus, who sits astride upon a barrel on public-house signs, was the deity of topers, and presided over their feasts. The " Muses " and the " Graces " were appealed to, to lend their aid ; and " Care," an impersonation unknown to the ancients, was evermore called upon to let herself be drowned in the bowl. It was not till near the end of the eight- eenth century that the song-worship of Bacchus began to decline ; and when mythology went out of fashion in love-songs, it was to a great extent driven from the drinking-songs also. Baron Dawson, the author of a lyric entitled " Squire Jones," published in the seventeenth century, though among the first to ridicule the constant mythological allusions of the versifiers, fell into the same fault himself when he spoke of drinking : Ye poets who write And brag of your drinking famed Helicon's brcok, Though all ye get by't Is a dinner ofttimes, In reward for your rhymes, With Humphrey the Duke. H 114 CONVIVIAL SONGS. Learn Bacchus to follow, Aiul quit your Apollo ; Forsake all the Muses— those senseless old crones ; Our jingling of glasses Your rhyming surpasses, When crown'd with good claret and bumpers, Squire Jones ! " But the complaint wliicli we feel bound to reiterate against the vulgarity of tone, and the unworthiness of the sentiments in our convi\ial songs, is not a new one. " There is nothing," says Hugh Kelly, in the *' Babbler" (No. 30), quoted in the introduction to the Rev. H. Plumptre's Collection of Songs (1805), "at which I am more offended than the unpardonable vein of ignorance and brutality so generally introduced in our drinking-songs ; nor anything, in my opinion, which throws a greater reflection upon the understanding of a sensible society. If we examine the principal number of these pretty compo- sitions, we shall find that absolute intoxication is recommended as the highest felicity in the world, and receive the most posi- tive assurances of being upon an equality with angels, the very moment we sink ourselves into a situation considerably lower than men. " It has been justly observed, that every nation, in propor- tion as it is civilised, has abolished intemperance in wine ; and consequently must be barbarous in proportion as it is addicted to excess. The remark, I am rather apprehensive, will be found no very great compliment to the people of this kingdom. We are apt to place good-fellowship in riot, and have but too natural a promj)titude in imagining that the happiness of an evening is promoted by an extravagant circulation of the glass ; hence are our songs of festivity (as I have already taken notice) fraught with continual encomiums on the pleasures of intoxi- cation, and the whole tribe of bacchanalian lyrics perpetually telling us how wonderfully sensible it is to destroy our senses, and how nothing can be more rational in a human creature than to drink till he has not left himself a single glimmer of reason at all. " But if, abstracted from the brutal intention of our drink- ing-songs in general, we' should come to consider their merit as literary performances, how very few of them should we find CONVIVIAL SONGS. 115 worth a station on a cobbler's stall, or deserving the attention of an auditory at Billingsgate ! — the best are but so many strings of unmeaning puns and ill-managed conceits, and betray not more the ignorance of their encouragers than the barrenness of their authors. Let me only ask the warmest advocate for this species of composition, what, upon a cool reflection, he thinks of the following song :'■' "By the gaily circling glass We can see how minutes pass ; By the hollow cask we're told How the waning night grows old ; Soon, too soon, the busy day Calls us from our sports away. What have we with day to do ? Sons of care, 'twas made for you. The foregoing little song, though one of the least offensive in the whole round of a bon-vivant collection, has neither thought nor expression to recommend it ; and can, when sung, be termed no more than an agreeable piece of impertinence, calculated to supply a want of understanding in the company. I forbear to mention ' The Big-bellied Bottle,' and a variety of similar productions, which are universally known, and deserve to be universally despised." The most notable attempt to reform the character of English drinking-songs was made by the Captain Morris already men- tioned ; a gentleman whose good voice, pleasing manners, and readiness to sing for the amusement of the brilliant society in which he moved, made him a great favourite. Although he did not banish Bacchus altogether from his effusions, he strove to impart a more modern and natural as well as more gentle- manly tone to the drinking-lyrics which he wrote and sang ; but his compositions of this class possessed no other merit. They were deficient in strength, originality, and wit, and were quite worthy, in most respects, of being attributed to " the Lady of Quahty," if that eminent " Myth" could be supposed to have so far forgotten herself as to have written for the mess-table. * Written by Garrick, and introduced in Milton's Masque " Comus ; " the music by Dr. Arne. 116 CONVIVIAL SONGS. " Come, sip thy glass, my rosy lass, 'Twill prove a bless'd infusion, 'Twill witch thy sight with wild delight, And brighten love's illusion. 'Twill round thee ope a world of hope, A heaven of sweet emotion ; Then let's not blight the sure delight Tor want of true devotion." If such stanzas as these were more decorous, they were certainly not so vigorous, or by any means so appropriate to their purpose, as the roystering ditties which they were intended to supersede ; and it was not until Richard Brinsley Sheridan first, and Thomas Moore afterwards, lent their genius to celebrate the glories of the wine-cup, that poetry was in any way concerned in the drinking- songs of the English nation. An exception must be made in favour of some of the Sea-Songs of Charles Dibdin, in which the daring con^•iviahty of the Enghsh sailor is admirably represented. The taste for bacchanalian songs, like the practice of bacchanalian excess, has long been on the decline. If an apology be necessary for presenting the reader with so many compositions of this class, it must be found in the fact that a collection of Enghsh songs would be incomplete ^\dthout them ; and that, as illustrative not only of the history of manners, but of the historv' of literature, it was necessary to include specimens of them. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 117 GOOD ALE. By John- Still, Bishop of Bath and Wells, born 1542, died 1C07. I CANNOT eat but little meat, My stomach is not good ; But sure, I think that I can drink With any that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I am nothing a-cold ; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare, — Both foot and hand go cold ; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough. Whether it be new or old. I love no roast but a nut-brown toast. And a crab laid in the fire ; A little bread shall do me stead, — Much bread I don't desire. No frost, no snow, no wind I trow Can hurt me if I wold ; I am so wrapt and thoroughly lapt Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare, — Both foot and hand go cold ; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough. Whether it be new or old. 118 CONVIVIAL SONGS. And Tib my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek. Full oft drinks she till you may see The tears run down her cheek ; Then doth she troul to me the bowl. Even as a maltworm should, And saith, " Sweetheart, I take my part Of this jolly good ale and old." Back and side go bare, go bare, — , Both foot and hand go cold ; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough. Whether it be new or old. Now let them drink till they nod and wink. Even as good fellows should do ; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to ; And all poor souls that have scour' d bowls, Or have them lustily troul' d, God save the lives of them and their wives. Whether they be young or old. Back and side go bare, go bare, — Both foot and hand go cold ; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough. Whether it be new or old. The comedy of " Gammer Gurton's Needle," in which this song appears, wSs first acted in 1566, but not printed until 1575. " It is believed to have been," says Mr. Ellis, in his " Specimens of .\ncient English Toetry," " the earliest English drama that exhibited any approaches to i-egular comedy." " The music," says Bitson, "-was set four parts in "one, by Mr. Walker, before the year 1600." COME, THOU MONARCH OF THE VINE. From "Antony and Cleopatra," by Shakspeare. Come, thou monarch of the vine, Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne. In thy vats our cares be drown' d. With thy grapes our hairs be crown' d, Cup us till the world go round. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 119 ^4s."T<< ■'i'\ THE LEATHER BOTTEL. From " The Antidote to Melancholy," 1G82. 'Tavas God above that made all things, The heavens, the earth, and all therein ; The ships that on the sea do swim. To guard from foes, that none come in ; And let them all do what they can, 'Tis but for one end — the use of man ; So I wish in heav'ia his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. Now what do you say to these cans of wood ? Oh no, in faith they cannot be good ; For if the bearer fall by the way. Why on the ground his liquor doth lay ; 120 CONVIVIAL SONGS. But had it been in a leather bottel, Although he had fallen, all had been well ; So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. Then what do you say to these glasses fine ? Oh, they shall have no praise of mine ; For if you chance to touch the brim, Down falls the liquor and all therein ; But had it been in a leather bottel, And the stopple in, all had been well ; So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. Then what do you say to these black-pots three ? If a man and his wife should not agree, Why they'll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill In a leather bottel they may tug their fill, And pull away till their hearts do ache, And yet their liquor no harm can take ; So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. Then what do you say to these flagons fine ? Oh, they shall have no praise of mine ; For when a lord is about to dine. And sends them to be fill'd with wine, The man with the flagon doth run away. Because it is silver most gallant and gay ; So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. A leather bottel we know is good. Far better than glasses or cans of wood. For when a man's at work in the field. Your glasses and pots no comfort will yield ; But a good leather bottel standing by. Will raise his spirits whenever he's dry ; So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 121 At noon the haymakers sit them down, To drink from their bottels of ale nut-brown ; In summer too, when the weather is warm, A good bottel full will do them no harm. Then the lads and the lassies begin to tattle ; But what would they do without this bottel ? So I wish in hcav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. There's never a lord, an earl, or knight. But in this bottel doth take delight ; For when he's hunting of the deer. He oft doth wish for a bottel of beer. Likewise the man that works in the wood, A bottel of beer will oft do him good ; So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. And when the bottel at last grows old, And will good liquor no longer hold. Out of the side you may make a clout To mend your shoes when they're worn out ; Or take and hang it up on a pin, 'Twill serve to put hinges and odd things in ; So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel. THE THIRSTY EARTH. Abraham Cowley. The thirsty earth drinks up the rain. And thirsts and gapes for drink again ; The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair. The sea itself (which one would think Should have but Httle need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up. So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. 122 CONVIVIAL SONGS. The busy sun (and one would guess By's drunken fiery face no less), Drinks up the sea, and when he's done. The moon and stars drink up the sun. They drink and dance by their own light. They drink and revel all the night : Nothing in nature's sober found. But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses here ; for why Sliould every creature drink but I ? Why, man of morals, tell me why ? Freely translated from Anacreon. The music to this song-, says Ritson, was originally set hy ivir. Roger Hill, and is to he found in " Playford's Second Book of Airs and Dialogues, by Lawes and other excellent masters, 1669." BEGONE, DULL CARE. Begone, dull Care, — I prithee begone from me ; Begone, dull Care, — thou and I shall never agree ; Long time thou hast been tarrpng here. And fain thou wouldst me kill ; But i' faith, dull Care, Thou never shalt have thy will. Too much care will make a young man gray ; And too much care will turn an old man to clay, My wife shall dance, and I will sing, So merrily pass the day ; For I hold it still the wisest thing To drive dull care away. This popular ditty is as old as the year 1687, -vrhen it first appeared in " Playford's Musical Companion." CONVIVIAL SONGS. 123 DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN. Here's health to the Queen, and a lasting peace, To faction an end, to wealth increase ; Come, let's drink it while we have breath, For there's no drinking after death ; And he that will this health deny, Down among the dead men let him lie. Let charming beauty's health go round. In whom celestial joys are found. And may confusion still pursue The senseless woman-hating crew ; And they that woman's health deny, Down among the dead men let them lie. In smiling Bacchus' joy I'll roll. Deny no pleasure to my soul ; Let Bacchus' health round briskly move. For Bacchus is a friend to love ; And he that will this health deny, Down among the dead men let him lie. May love and wine their rights maintain. And their united pleasures reign. While Bacchus' treasure crowns the board, We'll sing the joys that both afford ; And they that won't with us comply, Down among the dead men let them lie. From a note in the handwriting of Dr. Burney, in his collection of English songs in nine volumes, in the British Museum, it appears that the author of this song was a " Mr. Dyer, and that it was first sung at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields." It seems to have been published early in the reign of George I. The author of the music, a fine characteristic English melody, is not known. HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? .\nonymous. From a half-sheet song, with the music, printed about the year 1710. How stands the glass around ? For shame, ye take no care, my boys ! How stands the glass around ? Let mirth and vdne abound ! The trumpets sound. 124 CONVIVIAL SONGS. The colours flying are, my boys, To fight, kill, or wound : May we still be found Content with our hard fare, my boys. On the cold ground ! Why, soldiers, why Should we be melancholy, boys ! Why, soldiers, why. Whose business 'tis to die? What sighing ? fie ! Shun fear, drink on, be jolly, boys ! 'Tis he, you, or I. Cold, hot, wet, or dry. We're always bound to follow, boys. And scorn to fly. 'Tis but in vain (I mean not to upbraid you, boys) 'Tis but in vain For soldiers to complain ; Should next campaign Send us to Him that made us, boys, We're free from pain ; But should we remain, A bottle and kind landlady Cures all again. The author of the beautiful music of tliis song is unkno-mi. The melody— which is plaintive, and not at all of a bacchanalian character— has lately been revived by Sir II. R. Bishop, to a song by Charles Mackay, entitled " The Mother's Lament," one of the Series of National English Melodies published in the " Illustrated London News." This is commonly called General Wolfe's song, and is said to have been sung by him on the night before the battle of Quebec ; but it has been invariably printed as a duet. COME NOW, ALL YE SOCIAL POWERS. Altered and enlarged from the finale of Bickerstapfe's " Lionel and Clarissa, or the School for Fathers." Music by Chakles Dibdin. Come now, all ye social powers. Shed your influence o'er us ; Crown with joy the present hours, Enliven those before us. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 125 Bring the flask, the music bring, — Joy shall quickly find us ; Sport and dance, and laugh and sing, And cast dull care behind us. Love, thy godhead I adore, Source of generous passion ; Nor will we ever bow before Those idols, Wealth and Fashion. Bring the flask, &c. Why the plague shou.d we be sad Whilst on earth we moulder ? Rich or poor, or grave or mad. We every day grow older. Bring the flask, &c. Friendship! oh, thy smile's divine, Bright in all its features ; What but friendship, love, and wine, Can make us happy creatures ? Bring the flask, &c. Since the time will pass away, Spite of all our sorrow, Let's be blithe and gay to-day, And never mind to-morrow. Bring the flask, the music bring, Joy shall quickly find us ; Sport and dance, and laugh and sing. And cast dull care behind us. The first three verses alone are by Bickerstaffe. WHEN I DRAIN THE ROSY BOWL. From the works of Anacreon, Sappho, &c., transhxtcd by the llev. Francis Fawkes. 8vo, London : 176L When I drain the rosy bowl, Joy exhilarates the soul ; To the Nine I raise my song. Ever fair and ever young. 126 CONVIVIAL SONGS. When full cups my cares expel. Sober counsel, then farewell ! Let the winds that murmur sweep All my sorrows to the deep. When I drink dull time away. Jolly Bacchus, ever gay. Leads me to delightful bowers. Full of fragrance, full of flowers. When I quaff the sparkling wine. And my locks with roses twine ; Then I praise life's rural scene — Sweet sequester' d, and serene. When I drink the bowl profound (Richest fragrance flowing round) And some lovely nymph detain, Venus then inspires the strain. When from goblets deep and wide I exhaust the gen'rous tide. All my soul unbends — I plav Gamesome with the young and gay. Music by Baildon, a celebrated Eng-lisb glee-composer, between 17G0 and 1780. BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY. Busy, curious, thirsty fly. Drink with me, and drink as I ; Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip, and sip it up. Make the most of life you may ; Life is short, and wears awav. Both alike are mine and thine. Hastening quick to their decline ; Thine' s a summer, mine's no more. Though repeated to threescore ; Threescore summers, when they're gone. Will appear as short as one. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 127 Yet this difference we may see 'Twixt the hfe of man and thee : Thou art for this hfe alone, Man seeks another when 'tis gone ; And though allow 'd its joys to share, 'Tis virtue here hopes pleasure there. The old sheet-copies of this ballad say, " Made extempore by a gentleman, occasioned by a fly drinking out of bis cup of ale." The gentleman is stated on some authorities to have been Vincent Bourne, and the date of the production, 1744. It -was set to music as a duet for two voices by Dr. Greene. The last verse in the above copy was added by the Rev. J. Plumtre. The song is also attributed to Oldys, the antiquary. WITH AN HONEST OLD FRIEND. Poetry and Music by Hexky Carey. With an honest old friend and a merry old song. And a flask of old port, let me sit the night long ; And laugh at the malice of those who repine That they must s\Adg porter, while I can drink wine. I envy no mortal, though ever so great, Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate ; But what I abhor, and esteem as a curse. Is poorness of spirit, not poorness of purse. Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay. Let's merrily pass life's remainder away ; Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise, For the more we are envied the higher we rise. WHAT IS WAR AND ALL ITS JOYS ? Thomas Chatterton, born 1752, died 1770. What is war and all its joys ? Useless mischief, empty noise ; What are arms and tro])hies won 1 Spangles glittering in the sun. Rosy Bacchus, give me wine ; Happiness is only thine. 128 CONVIVIAL SONGS. What is love without the bowl ? 'Tis a languor of the soul ; Crown 'd with ivy Venus charms, Ivy courts me to her arms. Bacchus, give me love and wine ; Happiness is only thine. A POT OF PORTER, HO ! From the " Myrtle and the Vine, or Complete Vocal Library," vol. ii. A.D. 1800. When to Old England I come home, Fal lal, fal lal la ! What joy to see the tankard foam, Fal lal, fal lal la ! When treading London's well-known ground, If e'er I feel my spirits tire, I haul my sail, look up around. In search of Whitbread'' s best entire. I spy the name of Calvert, Of Curtis, Cox, ^' Co. I give a cheer and bawl for't, "A pot of porter, ho !" T\Tien to Old England I come home. What joy to see the tankard foam ! With heart so light and frolic high, I drink it off to liberty ! Wliere wine or water can be found, Fal lal, fal lal la ! I've travell'd far the world around, Fal lal, fal lal la ! Again I hope before I die. Of England's can the taste to try ; For many a league I'd go about To take a draught of Gifford's stout ; I spy the name of Truman, Of Maddox, Meux, ^^ Co. The sight makes me a new man, — "A pot of porter, ho!" CONVIVIAL SONGS. 129 When to Old England I come home, What joy to see the tankard foam ! With heart so light, and frolic high, I drink it off to liberty ! ENGLISH ALE. From the " Myrtle and tlie Vine." D'ye mind me ? I once was a sailor. And in different countries I've been. If I lie, may I go for a tailor ! But a thousand fine sights I have seen : I've been cramm'd with good things like a wallet. And I've guzzled more drink than a whale ; But the very best stuflP to my palate Is a glass of your English good ale. Your doctors may boast of their lotions. And ladies may talk of their tea ; But I envy them none of their potions, — A glass of good stingo for me ! The doctor may sneer if he pleases. But my recipe never will fail. For the physic that cures all diseases Is a bumper of English good ale. When my trade was upon the salt ocean, Wliy there I had plenty of grog ; And I Uk'd it, because I'd a notion It sets one's good spirits agog ; But since upon land I've been steering, Experience has alter' d my tale. For nothing on earth is so cheering As a bumper of English good ale, 130 CONVIVIAL SONGS. HERE'S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN. K. B. Sheridan. From the corned}- of the " School for Scandal." The music by" Linlet. Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Now to the widow of fifty ; Here's to the flaunting extraAagant quean, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty : Let the toast pass. Drink to the lass, I warrant she '11 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 eves. And now to the nymph with but one, sir : Let the toast pass, &c. Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow. Now to her that's as brown as a berry ; Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that's merry : Let the toast pass, &c. 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 them together : Let the toast pass, &c. THIS BOTTLE'S THE SUN OF OUR TABLE. Tt. B. Shekidan. From the comic opera of " The Duenna." The music by LiNLEY. This bottle's the sun of our table. His beams are rosy wine ; ^Ve planets that are not able Without his help to shine. Let mirth and glee abound ; I You'll soon grow bright "With borrow' d light. And shine as he goes round. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 131 THE BROWN JUG. From the opera of the " Poor Soldier," by J. O'Keefe. The sons? itself is a para- phrase of a classic poem, and is attributed to the Kev. Feancis Fawkes. The music f by William Shield. i Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale (Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale) Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul As e'er crack'd a bottle or fathom'd a bowl. In boozing about 'twas his pride to excel, And among jolly topers he bore oft' the bell. I It chanc'd, as in dog-days he sat at his ease ' In his flow'r-woven arbour, as gay as you please. With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his claj-. His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut. And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. His body, when long in the ground it had lain. And Time into clay had resolv'd it again, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug, Now sacred to friendship, to mirth, and mild ale ; So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale. THE WINDS WHISTLE COLD. From the opera of " Guy Mannering." Daniel Terrv, born 1780, died 182S. The music by Sm H. R. Bishop. The winds whistle cold. And the stars glimmer red : The flocks are in fold, A'nd the cattle in shed. When the hoar frost was chill Upon moorland and hill. And was fringing the forest-bough, Our fathers would troul The bonny brown bowl ; And so will we do now, Jolly hearts ! And so will we do now. 132 CONVIVIAL SONGS. GaflFer Winter may seize Upon milk in the pail ; 'Twill be long ere he freeze The bold brandy and ale ; For our fathers so bold. They laugh' d at the cold, When Boreas was bending his brow ; For they quaff' d mighty ale. And they told a blithe tale ; And so will we do now. Jolly hearts ! And so will we do now. A GLASS IS GOOD. From 0'Kf.efe's farce of the " Sprigs of Laurel." The music hy William Shield. A GLASS is good, and a lass is good. And a pipe is good in cold weather ; The world is good, and the people are good, And we're all good fellows together. A bottle is a very good thing, With a good deal of good wine in it ; A song is good, when a body can sing, And to finish, we must begin it. For a glass is good, and a lass is good, And a pipe is good in cold weather ; The world is good, and the people are good, And we're all good fellows together. A friend is good when you're out of good luck. For that is the time to try him ; For a justice good the haunch of a buck, With such a good present you'll buy him ; A fine old woman is good when she's dead ; A rogue very good for good hanging ; A fool is good by the nose to be led. And my song deserves a good banging. For a glass is good, and a lass is good, And a pipe is good in cold weather ; The world is good, and the people are good. And we're all good fellows together. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 133 MAY WE NE'ER WANT A FRIEND. Thomas Dibdix. The music by John Davy. Since the first dawn of reason that beam'cl on my mmd, And taught me how favour 'd by fortune my lot, To share that good fortune I still was inclin'd, And impart to who wanted what I wanted not. 'Tis a maxim entitled to ev'ry one's praise, When a mail feels distress, like a man to relieve him ; And my motto, though simple, means more than it says, — " May we ne'er want a friend, nor a bottle to give him !" The heart by deceit or ingratitude rent. Or by poverty bow'd, though of e\als the least. The smiles of a friend may invite to content. And we all know content is an excellent feast. 'Tis a maxim entitled to ev'ry one's praise. When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him ; And my motto, though simple, means more than it says, — " May we ne'er want a friend, nor a bottle to give him !" A BUMPER OF GOOD LIQUOR. From the "Duenna," by II. B. Sheridan. Set as a trio by Linley. A BUMPER of good liquor Will end a contest quicker Than justice, judge, or vicar ; So till a cheerful glass, And let good humour pass : But if more deep the quarrel. Why sooner drain the barrel, Than be the hateful fellow That's crabbed when he's mellow. A bumper, &c. 134 CONVIVIAL SONGS. FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. LOKD Byhon. Fill the g-oblet a2;ain ! for I never before Felt the glow -which now gladdens my heart to its core ; Let us drink ! who would not? since, through life's varied round. In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; I have lov'd, who has not ? but what heart can declare That pleasure existed while passion was there ? In the days of my youth — when the heart's in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing — I had friends, who has not ? but what tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange ; Friendship shifts with the sunbeam ; — thou never canst change ; Thou grow'st old, who does not? but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase \nth its years ? Yet, if blest to the utmost that love can bestow. Should a rival bow down to our idol below. We are jealous, who's not? thou hast no such alloy, For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. "When the season of youth and its vanities past. For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; There we find, do we not ? in the flow of the soul. That truth, as of yore, is confin'd to the bowl. "When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth. And misery's triumph commenc'd over mirth, Hope was left, was she not ? but the goblet we kiss. And care not for hope, who are certain of bliss. Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown. The age of our nectar shall gladden our own. We must die ! who must not ? May our sins be forgiven. And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. CONVIVIAL SONGS. 135 THE BEST OF ALL GOOD COMPANY. Barry Cornwall. The music by Hexry Phillips. Sing ! — Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings ? Ah ! who is this lady fine ? The vine, boys, the vine ! The mother of mighty wine. A roamer is she O'er wall and tree. And sometimes very good company. Drink ! — who drinks To her who blusheth and never thinks ? Ah ! who is this maid of thine ? The grape, boys, the grape ! Oh, never let her escape Until she be turn'd to wine ! For better is she Than vine can be. And very, very good compan}^ Dream ! — Who dreams Of the god that governs a thousand streams ? Ah ! who is this spirit fine ? 'Tis wine, bovs, 'tis wine ! God Bacchus, a friend ot mnie. Oh, better is he Than grape or tree. And the best of all good company. A SONG AFTER A TOAST. Charles Mackay. From " Legemls of the Isles." The music by W. IIobbs. If he to whom this toast we drink Has brought the needy to his door ; Or rais'd the wretch from ruin's brink From the abundance of his store ; 136 CONVIVIAL SONGS. If he hath sooth' d tlie mourner's woe, Or help'd young merit into fame, This night our cups shall overflow In honour of his name. If he he poor, and yet has striven To ease the load of human care ; If to the famish' d he has given One loaf that it was hard to share ; If, in his poverty erect, He never did a deed of shame ; Fill high ! we'll drain in deep respect A bumper to his name. But rich or poor, if still his plan Has been to play an honest part ; If he ne'er fail'd his word to man, Or broke a trusting woman's heart ; If emulation fire his soul To snatch the meed of virtuous fame ; Fill high ! we'll drain a flowing bowl In honour of his name. THE DREAM OF THE REVELLER. Charles Mackat. The music by IIeney Russell. Around the board the guests were met. The lights aboA e them beaming. And in their cups, replenish'd oft. The ruddy wine was streaming ; Their cheeks were flush' d, their eyes were bright, Their hearts with pleasure bounded. The song was sung, the toast was given, And loud the revel sounded. I drain' d a goblet with the rest. And cried, " Away with sorrow ! Let us be happy for to-day — What care we for the morrow?" CONVIVIAL SONGS. 137 But as I spoke my sight grew dim, And slumber deep came o'er me ; xlnd mid the whirl of mingling tongues, This vision pass'd before me. Methought I saw a demon rise : He held a mighty bicker, Whose burnish' d sides ran brimming o'er "With floods of burning hquor ; Around him press' d a clamorous crowd, To taste this liquor greedy. But chiefly came the poor and sad, The suffering and the needy. All those oppress' d by grief or debt. The dissolute, the lazy, Blear-eyed old men and reckless youths. And palsied women crazy ; "Give, give !" they cried, "give, give us drink, To drown all thought of sorrow ; If we are happy for to-day, "We care not for to-morrow !" The first drop warm'd their shivering skins, And drove away their sadness ; The second lit their sunken eyes. And fiU'd their souls with gladness ; The third drop made them shout and roar, And play each furious antic ; The fourth drop boil'd their very blood ; And the fifth drop drove them frantic. " Drink !" said the demon, " drink your fill ! Drink of these waters mellow ! They'll make your eye-balls sear and dull, And turn your white skins yellow ; They'll fill your homes w^th care and grief. And clothe your backs with tatters ; They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts ; But never mind — what matters ? 138 CONVIVIAL SONGS. " Though -sdrtue sink and reason fail. And social ties dissever, I'll be your friend in hour of need, And find you homes for ever ; For I have built three mansions high. Three strong and goodly houses, To lodge at last each jolly soul Who all his life carouses. " The first it is a spacious house. To all but sots appalling, Wliere, by the parish bounty fed. Vile in the sunshine crawling, The worn-out drunkard ends his days. And eats the dole of others, A plague and burden to himself. An eyesore to his brothers. " The second is a lazar-house. Rank, fetid, and unholy ; Where, smitten by diseases foul. And hopeless melancholy. The T"ictims of potations deep Pine on a couch of sadness. Some calling death to end their pain. And others wrought to madness. " The third and last is black and high. The abode of guilt and anguish. And full of dungeons deep and fast, Where death-doom' d felons languish. So drain the cup and fill again. One of my goodly houses Shall lodge at last each jolly soul Who to the dregs carouses !" But well he knew — that demon old — How vain was all his preaching, The ragged crew that round him flock'd Were heedless of his teaching ; CONVIVIAL SONGS. 139 Even as they heard his fearful words, Thev cried with shouts of lau2:htcr, "Out on the fool who mars to-day With thoughts of an hereafter ! " "We care not for thy houses three ; We live but for the present ; And merry will we make it yet. And quaif our bumpers pleasant." Loud laugh' d the fiend to hear them speak. And lifting high his bicker, " Body and soul are mine," said he ; " I'll have them both for hquor." ^J MOEAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. Among all nations in which poetry has been cultivated, song- writers have ever found abundance of exercise in their vocation in adapting to music the expression of moral sentiment, or in making the satire of manners more agreeable, more popular, and more permanently useful, by the union of poetry and music. Some of the most beautiful songs in the English language belong to this class ; and there has been no song-writer worthy of the name who has not occasionally forsaken the amatory, convivial, or patriotic departments of his art — long erroneously considered by false critics to be the only legitimate spheres of song — to praise virtue, to condemn vice, to hold folly up to richcule, and to depict the good or ill manners of society. The songs of this description are exceedingly numerous, and are of every degree of merit and demerit, ranging from the broadest comedy to the seriousness of the sermon and even of the hymn. The vanity of human life, the instabihty of greatness, the charms of friend- MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 141 ship, the pleasures of temperance, the hlessmgs of a contented mind, the consolations of old age, and a thousand similar topics, are true sources of inspiration for the lyrist ; while subjects of more public interest — the growth or decay of national virtue, and the condition, hopes, aspirations, and fears of the people in general, or of large and important sections of them, afford, in like manner, abundant opportunities for the moral or satirical song-writer. "Poets," as Mr. Emerson finely and truly says, " should be lawgivers ; that is, the boldest lyric inspiration should not chide or insult, but should commence and lead the civil code and the day's work." It was in reference to this class of songs that Fletcher of Saltoun uttered the famous dictum (not his own) on the im- portance of song-writing. In his "Account of a Conversation concerning the right Regulation of Governments for the common Good of Mankind," he complains that " the poorer sort of both sexes are daily tempted to all manner of wickedness by infamous ballads sung in every corner of the streets. I knew," he adds, " a very wise man that believed if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation. And we find that most of the ancient legislators thought they could not well reform the manners of any city without the help of a lyric, and sometimes of a dramatic poet." The extension of education and the triumphs of the printing-press, have rendered the labours of the moral and satirical song-writers of less value than in the time of the ancient legislators, or than in those times, comparatively recent, when Fletcher of Saltoun wrote ; but even in our day, a false error may be propped up by a song, and a great truth advanced by the same agency. So that the dictum still retains a portion of its ancient value. The moral and satirical songs are here included together ; for if satire be not moral, it is an abuse ; and the lessons of morality have often a better chance of being effective if sharpened by judicious satire. There are vast numbers of political songs and ballads of this class, which have been produced from the days of the civil wars to our own, which would alone fill many interesting volumes, valuable for the light they would throw 142 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS, upon the contemporary history of the period at which they Avere issued ; or for their description of costume or of manners. Some of the best and more permanently pleasing of the ancient com- positions of this class are here selected, together with a few of the modern songs which have become popular. WOMEN ARE BEST WHEN THEY ARE AT REST. Anonymous. Originally printed in 1559-60. Women are best when they are at rest ; But when is that, I pray ? By their good will they are never still, By night and eke by day. If the Aveather is bad, all day they gad. They heed not -wind or rain ; And all their gay gear they ruin or near : For why — they not refrain. Then must they chat of this and that ; Their tongues also must walk ; Wheresoever they go, they must alway do so. And of their bad husbands talk. When cometh the night, it is never right, But ever somewhat wrong ; If husljands be weary, they are so merry. They never cease their song. Then can they chide while at their side Their husbands strive to sleep ; "Why, how you snore ! go lie on the floor :" Such is the coil they keep. So women are best when they are at rest. If you can catch them still ; Cross them, they chide, and are worse — I have tried — If you grant them their will. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 143 Give them their way, they still say nay, And change their mind in a trice ; Let them alone, or you will o^m That mine was good advice. THE CUCKOO'S SONG. Anonj-mous. Originally printed in 1556. Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the beechen-tree ; Your wives you well should look to. If you take advice of me. Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the morn, When of married men Full nine in ten Must be content to wear the horn. Full merrily sings the cuclcoo Upon the oaken-tree ; Your Avives yovi well should look to. If you take advice of me. Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the day. For married men But now and then Can 'scape to bear the horn awaj'. Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the ashen-tree ; Your wives you well should look to. If you take ad\dce of me. Cuckoo I cuckoo ! alack the noon When married meir Must watch the hen. Or some strange fox will steal her soon. Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the alder-tree ; Your wives you well should look to, If you take advice of me. 144 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the eve When married men Must bid good den To such as horns to them do give. Full merrily sings the cuckoo Upon the aspen tree ; Your wives you well should look to. If you take advice of me. Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! alack the night When married men Again and again Must hide their horns in their despite. The reader will notice the resemblance between this song and the following by Shakspeare— " When daises pied," &c. Probably Shakspeare was indebted to the anonymous author for the idea. WHEN DAISIES PIED. William Shakspeare. The music by Dr. Arne. When daisies pied, and violets blue. And lady-smocks all silver white. And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue. Do paint the meadows vdth delight. The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men, for thus sings he : Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! Oh, 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 ! Oh, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear ! MORAL ANB SATIRICAL SONGS. 14.' THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. Sir Henry Wotton. How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will, Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill ! Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepar'd for death, Untied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath. Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice hath ever imderstood ; How deeepest wounds are given by praise. Nor rules of state, but rules of good. Who hath his life from rumours freed. Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; Whose state can neither flatterers feed. Nor ruin make oppressors great. Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend. This man is freed from servile hands. Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all. THE CONTENTED MAN'S SONG. From Hugh Compton's " Pierides ; or the Muses' Mount." I HAVE no riches, neither know I where the mines of silver grow ; The golden age I cannot find. Yet there is plenty in my mind ; 'Tis wealth I crave, 'tis wealth that I require. Yet there's no wealth to fill my vain desire. Nor hopes thereof to still my cra^dng lyre. K 146 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. What shall I do in such a case ? I am accounted mean and base : Both friends and strangers frown on me, 'Cause I am gall'd with poverty. Well, let them frown : yet I will not lament Nor value tliem ; though Fortune has not lent To me her blessing, yet I am content. DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. •Tames Shirley, born 1594, died 1666. Set for two voice by Edwakd CoLEJiAX. See Ritson's "English Songs," vol. iii. The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate : Death lays his icy hands on kings. Sceptre and crown Must tumble down. And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field. And ]dant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield — They tame but one another still. Early and 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 moi'e your mighty deeds ; Upon death's purple altar now. See where the victor-\ictim bleeds : All heads must come To the cold tomb ; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 147 WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW. Anonymous. A.D. IGCC. From a black-letter copy among the " Koibiirgh Songs and Ballads." Ritsou says that this song is tu'ig to an olden tune, entitled "I'll nere be drunk agatne." 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 nohles of our land Were much delighted then To have at their command A crew of lusty men ; Which hy their coats were known Of tawney, red, or hlue, With crests on their sleeves shewn. When this old cap was new. 148 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. Now pride hath banish' d all. Unto our land's reproach. When he whose means are small Maintains both horse and coach ; Instead of an hundred men. The coach allows but two ; This was not thought on then, When this old cap was new. Good hospitality Was cherish' d then of many ; Now poor men starve and die. And are not help'd by any ; For charity waxeth cold. And love is found in few ; This was not in time of old. When this old cap was new. Where'er you travell'd then. You might meet on the way Brave knights and gentlemen, Clad in their country grey. That courteous would appear, And kindly welcome you ; No Puritans then were. When this old cap was new. Our ladies in those days In civil habit went ; Broad-cloth was then worth praise, And gave the best content : French fashions then were scorn' d, Fond fangles then none knew ; Then modesty women adorn' d. When this old cap was new. A man might then behold At Christmas in each hall, Good fires to curb the cold. And meat for great and small ; The neighbours friendly bidden. And all had welcome true ; The poor from the gates not chidden. When this old cap was new. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 149 Black-jacks to every man Were fill'd with wine and beer ; No pewter pot nor can In those days did appear : Good cheer in a nobleman's house Was counted a seemly show ; We wanted not brawn nor souse, When this old cap was new. We took not such delight In cups of silver fine ; None under the degree of knight In plate drank beer or vnne ; Now each mechanical man Hath a cupboard of plate for show. Which wa5 a rare thing then, 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 them from their due ; Poor soldiers had their right. When this old cap was new. Which made them forward still To go, although not jjrest ; And going with good will. Their fortvuies 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. 150 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. WHO SO PALE AND WAN ? Sir John Suckling. Sung by Mrs. Cross, in the " Mock Astrologer ;" set to music by Mr. Eamondon, and also by Dr. Arne. Y/hy so pale and -vvaii, 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 wdll not move, This cannot take her ; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her. The devil take her ! TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED. From " Two Broadsides against Tobacco," 1672. This Indian weed, now wither'd quite. Though green at noon, cut down at night. Shews thy decay ; All flesh is hay : Thus think, and smoke tobacco. The pipe, so lily-like and weak. Does thus thy mortal state bespeak : Thou art e'en such, Gone with a touch : Thus think, and smoke tobacco. And when the smoke ascends on high. Then thou behold'st the vanity Of worldly stuif, Gone with a puflF : Thus think, and smoke tobacco. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 1.5] And when the pipe grov/s foul within. Think on thy soul defiled with sin ; For then the fire ,' It does require : Thus think, and smoke tobacco. k And see'st the ashes cast away, Then to thyself thou mayest say. That to the dust Return thou must : Thus think, and smoke tobacco. The fore^^oina: is a slightly altered version of a song which was first printed in 1672, in " Two Broadsides against Tobacco." The author is unknown. The following is the original copy : The Indian weed wither'd quite, Green at noon, cut down at night. Shews thy decay ; All flesh is hay : Thus think, then drink tobacco. The pipe that is so lily white Shews thee to be a mortal wight. And even such, Gone with a touch : Thus think, then drink tobacco. And when the smoke ascends on high. Think thou behold'st the yanity Of worldly stviff, Gone Avith a puff : Thus think, then drink tobacco. And when the pipe grows foul mthin, Think on thy soul defil'd with sin ; And then the fire It doth require : Thus think, then drink tobacco. The ashes that are left behind May serve to put thee still in mind. That unto dust Return thou must. Thus think, then drink tobacco. 152 MORAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. THE VICAR OF BRAY.* Usually sung to an ancient English melody known by the name of " The Country Garden." In good King Charles' golden days. When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high churchman I was. And so I go preferment : To teach my flocks I never miss'd Kings are by God appointed, And damn'd are those that do resist. Or touch the Lord's anointed. And this is law I will maintain Until my dying day, sir. That whatsoever king shall reign, I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. * "The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire," says D'Israeli, in his Curiosities of Literature. " was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eight, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary^ and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. A\Tien this scandal to the gown was reproached for his Yersatility of religious creeds, and taxed for being a turncoat, and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied : ' Not so, neither ; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to hve and cUe the Vicar of Bray.' " " Pendleton, the celebrated Vicar of Brav," says another statement, which has recently gone the round of the newspapers, " subsequentlv became rector of St. Stephen's, AValbrook. It is related that in the reign of Edward 'VI, Lawrence Sanders, the martyr, an honest but mild and timorous man, stated to Pendleton his fears that he had not strength of mind to endure the persecution of the times, and was answered by Pendleton that ' he would see every drop of his fat and the last morsel of his flesh MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 15S When royal James obtain' d the crown, And Popery came in fashion. The penal laws I hooted down down. And read the Declaration : The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution ; And had become a Jesuit But for the Revolution. And this is law, &c. When William was our King declar'd. To ease the nation's grievance, With this new wind about I steer' d. And swore to him allegiance ; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance ; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance. And this is law, &c. When gracious Anne became our queen. The Church of England's glory. Another face of things was seen. And I became a Tory : Occasional conformists base, I damn'd their moderation. Although the Church in danger was By such prevarication. And this is law, &c. consumed to ashes ere he wovild swerve from the faith then established. He, however , changed with the times, saved his fat and his ttesh, and became rector of St. Stephen's, whilst the mild and diffident Sanders was burnt in Smithlield." In a note in Nichols' " Select Poems," 1782, vol. viii. p. 234, it is stated that the Song of the Vicar of Bray is said to have been written by an officer in Colonel Fuller's regiment, in the reign of King George I. It is founded on an historical fact ; and although it reflects no great honour on the hero of the poem, is humourovisly ex- pressive of the complexion of the times, in the successive reigns from Charles II. to George I." Extract of a letter from Mr. Brome to Mr. Rawlins, dated June 14, 1735 : " * * * I have had a long chase after the Vicar of liray, on whom the proverb. Mr. Ilearne, though born in that neighbourhood, and should have mentioned it (Leland, 'Itinerary,' vol. V. p. 114.), knew not who he was, but in his last letter desired me if I found him out, to let him know it. Dr. Fuller in his ' Worthies,' and Mr. Kay from him, takes no notice of him in his ' Proverbs.' I suppose neither knew his name. But I am informed it is Simon .illeyn or Allen who was Vicar of Bray about 1540, and died 1588, so was Vicar of Bray near fifty years. You now partake of the sport that has cost me some pains to take'."— Letters'from the Bodleian, vol. ii. part 1, p. 100. 154 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men look'd big, sir,, I turn'd a cat-in-pan once more, And so became a Whig, sir. And tlius preferment I procur'd, From our new faith's defender ; And ahuost every day abjur'd The Pope and the Pretender. And this is law, &c. Th' 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, &c. A MAN TO MY MIND. JoHX CuxiXGHAJi, born A.D. 1728. Since wedlock's in vogue, and stale -vdrgins despis'd, To all bachelors greeting these lines are premis'd. I'm a maid that Avould marry, but where shall I find (I -wish not for fortune) a man to my mind 1 Not the fair-weather fop, fond of fashion and lace ; Not the squire, that can wake to no joys but the chase ; Not the free-thinking rake, whom no morals can bind ; Neither this, that, nor t' other's the man to my mind. Not the ruby-fac'd sot, that topes world without end ; Not the drone who can't rehsh his bottle and friend ; Not the fool that's too fond, nor the churl that's unkind ; Neither this, that, nor t' other's the man to my mind. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 155 Not the wretcli with full bags, \nthout breeding or merit ; Not the flash that's all fury without any spirit ; Not the fine Master Fribble, the scorn of mankind ; Neither this, that, nor t' other's the man to my mind. But the youth in whom merit and sense may conspire. Whom the brave must esteem and the fair should admire ; In whose heart love and truth are with honour combin'd ; This — this — and no other's the man to my mind. This author's poems were printed in 1771, and dedicated to David Garriek. He was the manac^er of the Newcastle Theatre, and an actor of some repute. The exact year of his death is unknown, but it was prior to 1780. FROM THE COURT TO THE COTTAGE. Poetry and music by Harry Caret, 1743. From the court to the cottage convey me away. For I'm weary of grandeur and what they call gay ; Where pride without measure. And pomp without pleasure. Make life in a circle of hurry decay. Far remote and retir'd from the noise of the town, I'll exchange my brocade for a plain russet gown ; My friends shall be few, But well chosen and true, And sweet recreation our evenin2;s shall cro^^ii. a With a rural repast (a rich banquet for me), On a mossy green turf, near some shady old tree. The river's clear brink Shall afford me my drink. And temperance my friendly physician shall b?. Harry Carey was the author of a great number of songs, among others, of " Sally in our Alley," one of the most popular ever ^^•rittcn, but a composition of no merit, and solely indebted to the beauty of the melody to which it was sung for the extra- ordinary favour it enjoyed. It popularity caused several imitations of it to be pubUshcd, and Carey himself was among the first to set the example. Most of Carey's melodies are exceedingly beautiful. 156 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. I'll sing you a good old song. Made by a good old pate. Of a fine old English gentleman "Who had an old estate. And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate ; With a good old porter to reheve The old poor at his gate, Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time. His hall so old was hung around "With pikes, and guns, and bows. And swords, and sood old bucklers. That had stood against old foes ; 'Twas there "his worship" held his state In doublet and trunk hose. And quaif'd his cup of good old sack. To warm his good old nose. Like a fine, &c. When winter's cold brought frost and snow. He open'd house to all ; And though threescore and ten his years, He featly led the ball ; Nor was the houseless wanderer E'er driven from his hall ; For while he feasted all the great. He ne'er forgot the small. Like a fine, &c. But time, though sweet, is strong in flight. And years roll sv^iftly by ; And autumn's falling leaves proclaim' d. The old man — he must die ! He laid him down right tranquilly. Gave up life's latest sigh ; And mournful stillness reign' d around. And tears bedew' d each eye For this good, &c. J MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 157 Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade Of theatres and fancy balls, "At home," and masquerade : And much more economical, For all his bills were paid. Then leave your new vagaries quite. And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, &c. " The excellent sonar of the Old and Young Courtier," on -n-hich this is closely modelled is, says Percy, in his Relics of Ancient Engrlish Poetry, " from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, compared with another printed among some miscellaneous jjoems and songs, in a book entitled ' The Prince d' Amour, 1660.' " FAIR ROSALIND. From " The Convivial Songster," 1782. Fair Rosalind in woful vnse Six hearts has bound in thrall ; As yet she undetermined lies Which she her spouse shall call. Wretched, and only wretched he To whom that lot shall fall ; For if her heart aright I see, She means to please them all. SIR MARMADUKE. George Colma^ " the younger," born 17G2, died 1836. The music by Stephen Storage. Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight ; Good man ! old man ! He's painted standing bolt upright, With his hose roll'd over his knee ; His perri wig's as white as chalk. And on his fist he holds a hawk, And he looks like the head Of an ancient family. 158 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. His dining-room was long and wide Good man ! old man ! His spaniels lay by the fire-side ; — And in other parts, d'je see Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats ! And he looked like the head Of an ancient family. He never turned the poor from the gate ; Good man ! old man ! But was always ready to break the pate Of his country's enemy. What knight could do a better thing Than serve the poor and fight for his king ? And so may every head Of an ancient family. From tlie play of the " Iron Chest," foimded upon Good-n-in's novel of " Caleb Williams.' WHAT IS'T TO US WHO GUIDES THE STATE. Prom the " Convivial Songster," 1782. What is't to us who guides the state ? Who's out of favour or who's great ? Who are the ministers or spies ? Wlio vote for places or who buys ? The world will still be ruled by knaves. And fools contending to be slaves. Small things, my friend, serve to support Life — troublesome at best, and short. Our youth runs out, occasion flies Grey hairs come on, and pleasure dies ; Who would the present blessing lose For empire which he cannot use ? Kind Providence has us supplied With what to others is denied, — Virtue, which teaches to condemn And scorn ill actions and ill men. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 159 Beneath this hme-tree's fragrant shade, On beds of flowers supmely laid. Let's then all other cares remove. And drink and sing to those we love. ABRAHAM NEWLAND. Words by Upton. The music adapted by W. Ree\'e, from tlie old Ena^lish IMelody popularly known as " The Rogue's March," usually played by military bands when a soldier is drummed out of a regiment. Published in the " Whim of the Day," a Collec- tion of Songs for 1800. There ne'er was a name so handed by fame Through air, through ocean, and through land. As one that is wrote upon every banknote. And you all must know Abraham Newland, O Abraham Newland ! Notified Abraham Newland ! T have heard people say, sham Abraham you may, But you must not sham Abraham Newland. For fashion or arts should you seek foreign parts, ' It matters not wherever you land, Jew, Christian, or Greek, the same language they speak. That's the lanaiuage of Abraham Newland. O Abraham Newland ! Wonderful Abraham Newland ! Though with compliments cramm'd, you may die and be d — d. If you haVn't an Abraham Newland. The world is incUn'd to think Justice is blind. Lawyers know very well they can vievv^ land ; But, lord, what of that ! she'll bhnk like a bat At the sight of an Abraham Newland. O Abraham Newland ! Magical Abraham Newland ! Though Justice 'tis known can see through a millstone. She can't see through Abraham Newland. You patriots who bawl for the good of us all, — Kind souls ! here like mushrooms they strew land. Though loud as a drum, each proves orator mum, If attack' d by stout Abraham Newland. IGO MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS, O Abraham Newland ! In\'incible Abraham Newland ! No argmnent's found in the world half so sound As the logic of Abraham Newland, The French say they're coming, but sure they are humming ; I know what they want if they do land ; "We'll make their ears ring in defence of our king, Our country, and Abraham Newland. O Abraham Newland ! Darling Abraham Newland ! No tri-colour'd elf, nor the de^-il himself. Shall e'er rob us of Abraham Newland. Mr. Abraham Newland -was cashier at the Bank of England towards the close of the last century. THE GUINEA. rrom the " Whim of the Day," for 1801. INIaster Abraham Newland' s a monstrous good man. But when you've said of him whatever you can, Why all his soft paper would look very blue. If it warn't for the yellow boys — pray, what think you ? "With Newland' s own letters of credit proceed, Pray, what would you do where the people can't read? But the worst of all dunces, we know very well. Only shew them a guinea, I warrant they'll spell. Then you lawyers, and doctors, and such sort of folks, Who with fees and such fun, you know, never stand jokes ; In defence of my argument try the whole rote, Sure they'll all take a guinea before a pound-note. The French would destroy all our credit and trade. If they were not unable, ashamed, or afraid : They may talk of our king, but let who will be victor. They'd be dev'lish glad to get hold of his picture. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. lul From a picture like this we true Britons can't part, While the glorious original reigns in our heart ; Besides, with such tars as our navy can hoast. And our king and his picture, we must rule the roast. 'i'he music of this song is universally known as " The Russian Dance tunc." 'TWAS MERRY IN THE HALL='= Our ancient English melodies Are banish' d out of doors, And nothing's heard in modern days But signoras and signors. Such airs I hate. Like a pig in a gate ; Give me the good old strain, When 'twas merry in the hall, The beards wagg'd all, — We shall never see the hke again i On beds of down our dandies lay. And waste the cheerful morn. While our squires of old would raise the day With the sovmd of the bugle horn ; And their wives took care The feast to prepare, * In the second part of Henry IV., act v. sc. 3, occur these lines : " Be merry, be merry, my wife as all, For women are shrews, both short and tall ; 'Tis merry in hall when beards wag all, And welcome merry Shrovetide," Mr. Warton, in his " History of English Poetry," observes that this rhjTiie is found in a poem by Adam Da\'ie, called the " Life of Alexander :" " Merry swithe it is in halle. When the beards waveth alle." In the " Briefe Conceipts of English Policye," by William Stafford, 1581, it is asserted that it is a conunon proverb, " "lis merry in hall when beards wag all." In the " Serv- ing Man's Comfort," 1598, occurs the passage, " which done, grace said, and the table taken up, a song is sung, the under-song or holding whereof is, ' It is merry in haull, where beards wag all.' " The song as now given is modern, and was introduced to the public by Mr. Murray, of the Edinburgh Theatre, who sang it in the character of Hir Mark Chwe, in " A Roland for an Oliver." L 1G2 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. For when they left the plain, Oh ! 'twas merry in the hall, The heards wagg'd all, — We shall never see the like again ! 'Twas then the Christmas tale was told Of goblin, ghost, or fairy, And they cheer' d the hearts of the tenants old With a cup of good canary. And they each took a smack Of the cold black-jack. Till the fire burn'd in each brain ; Oh ! 'twas merry in the hall. The beards wagg'd all, — ]May we soon see the like again ! THE GOOD TIME COMING. Charles Mackay. The music by Henry Russell. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : We may not live to see the day. But earth shall glisten in the ray Of the good time coming. Cannon balls may aid the truth. But thought's a weapon stronger ; We'll win our battle by its aid ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : The pen shall supersede the sword. And Right, not Might, shall be the lord. In the good time coming. Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind. And be acknowledged stronger : The proper impulse has been given ; — Wait a little longer. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 163 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 pro^e which is the stronger ; Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : Hateful rivalries of creed Shall not make their martyrs bleed In the good time coming. Religion shall be shorn of pride. And flourish all the stronger ; And Charity shall trim her lamp ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : And a poor man's family Shall not be his misery In the good time coming. Every child shall be a help, To make his right arm stronger ; The happier he, the more he has ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : Little children shall not toil. Under, or above, the soil. In the good time coming. But shall play in healthful fields Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; And every one shall read and write ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : The people shall be temperate. And shall love instead of hate. In the good time coming. lC-4 MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. They shall use and not abuse, And make all virtue stronger ; The reformation has begun ; — JFait a little loiiger. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : Let us aid it all we can. Every woman, every man. The good time coming. Smallest helps, if rightly given. Make the impulse stronger ; 'Twill be strong enough one day ; — Wait a little longer. These verses appeared originally in the second number of the " DaUy News," as one of the series entitled " Voices from the Crowd." KING DEATH. Bakby Cornwall. From " English Songs," 1834. The music by Chevalier Neukomm. King Death was a rare old fellow, He sat where no sun could shine. And he lifted has hand so yellow. And pour'd out his cold-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 cold-black wine. All came to the rare old fellow. Who laugh' d till his eyes dropp'd brine. And he gave them his hand so yellow. And pledged them in Death's black wine. Hurrah ! for the coal-black wine. MORAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 166 LITTLE FOOLS AND GREAT ONES. Charles Mackay. From " Legends of the Isles, and other Poems," 1845. The music by IIexry Russell. When at the social board you sit, And pass around the wine, Remember, though abuse is vile, That use may be divine : That heaven in kindness gave the grape To cheer both great and small — That little fools will drink too much, But great ones not at all. And when in youth's too fleeting hours You roam the earth alone, And have not sought some loving heart, That you may make your own ; Remember woman's priceless worth, And think, when pleasures pall — That little fools will love too much. But great ones not at all. And if a friend deceived you once. Absolve poor human kind ; Nor rail against your fellow-men With malice in your mind : But in your daily intercourse, Remember, lest you fall — That little fools confide too much, But great ones not at all. In weal or woe, be truthful still, And in the deepest care. Be bold and resolute, and shun The coward foe — Despair. Let work and hope go hand in hand, And know whate'er befall — That little fools will hope too much. But great ones not at all. 16G MORAL AND SATIRICAL, SONGS. In work or pleasure, love or drink. Your rule be still the same — Your work not toil, your pleasure pure. Your love a steady flame ; Your drink not maddening, but to cheer So shall your bliss not pall — For little fools enjoy too much. But great ones not at all. SEA-SONGS. It has often been asserted that England possessed neither na- tional songs nor a national music ; but this, like many other assertions which have long held their ground in the opinions of those who, without thinking for themselves, are content to take their guidance from others, has no foundation in fact That Eng- land possesses a music of her own, no one who has studied the subject and remembers the compositions of Bull, Lawes, Boyce, Carey, Davy, Arnold, Arne, Leveridge, Ackeroyde, Purcell, and Shield, as well as the older melodies that float on the popular breath, and the newer compositions of the last and the present age, can doubt. That England possesses a multitude of songs which are national in the best sense of the word, every one who has read the sea-songs of Charles Dibdin, of Thomas Campbell, and of many other inferior writers, will strenuously maintain. The sea-songs of Thomas Campbell are among the finest lyrical compositions in the English, or any other language ; and those of Charles Dibdin, although written in a less elevated tone, came fresh from, and appealed as freshly to — the popular heart. 168 SEA-SONGS. If there be any excess of nationality among Englishmen, it leans towards the naval sujjremacy and glory of their country ; and from the time when Henry the Eight sent his great fleet to Boulogne harbour till the day when Nelson fell at Trafalgar, the sea and its heroes have been sung amid the constant and heart}- applause of the English multitude. Although very excellent sea-songs were written before the time of Charles Dibdin, that Avriter — linng in a time when this country was engaged in a struggle,, amid which the national safety from invasion depended almost entirely upon her " wooden walls" and her hardy ma- riners — excelled all his predecessors, and made for himself so wide and enduring a reputation, as to be entitled above any other man to the designation of the greatest of English song- writers. Dibdin's sea-songs are intensely and entirely English ; they are English in their sound feeling, in their contempt of danger, in their rude gaiety, and in their true-heartedness ; they are quite as English even in their prejudices, and would not suit the sailors of any other people. Every reader or hearer knows, though he may never have been at sea, though he may not have mixed with sailors, and though he may have received only the old traditionary or stage notions of their character, that the pictures are true, that the feelings are real, and such as no stranger could have invented ; just as sometimes in a portrait we know it to be a likeness from those little peculiar traits which carry conviction, though at the same time we may never have seen the indi\idual represented. Who can mistake the character of Dibdin's "Poor Jack?" Who does not feel that he is a genuine Englishman and a true sailor, and that there is no sailor like him on the face of the ocean either for his peculiar virtues or his peculiar failings ? Almost equal to " Poor Jack," though of a difiFerent strain, are the songs " Nothing like grog," and " The Sailor's sheet- anchor," in which the jdiilosophy of drinking is laid down with a quaintness of humour and a truthfulness of character which, however objectionable in a moral point of view, are so real and life-hke, that we can almost smell tar and tobacco, and the fumes of rum-and-water, as we read. SEA-SONGS. 169 Of a similar character, but more original and varied in its illustrations, is the song entitled " Grieving's a folly," in which a sailor, after depicting the good and generous qualities of the many messmates with whom he had sailed, and describing the accidents that carried them from the world, winds up each dole- ful case by a reflection on the uselessness of sorrow, and a call to his hsteners to be happy while they may. " Jack at the windlass" is still better, and is just such homespun satire as the world would expect from a sailor with a keen eye for the ludicrous — with a discrimination enabling him to detect cant and hypocrisy — and with the easy good-nature that would rather laugh at follies than grieve at them. Dibdin's hero loves his messmates all the more from not being such paragons of virtue as to be a thousandfold better than himself — a touch of nature which every one will recognize. •' Lovely Nan" and " The Sailor's Journal" are specimens of another kind, — the genuine affection of a simple heart, expressed in language that looks more truthful and sincere because tinctured with the idioms of his profession, and interlarded Avith sea similes. But every page of Charles Dibdin's excellent songs supphes a new variety ; and though every song seems the genuine expression of the sentiment of a British sailor that lived and moved and had his being among us, and not a stage sailor made up for show, there is but little repetition of sentiment or imagery. The poet had the greatest of all poetic arts in high perfection — that of thoroughly placing himself in the position of the characters he represented, and losing sight entirely of his own individuality in the portraiture of theirs. Charles Dibdin, though inferior in those lighter graces which charm the drawing-room, is, as a popular song- writer, by far the best our literature has produced. He has succeeded in pleasing the strong point in the national character, and though it is to be hoped for the sake of Great Britain and of the world, and of the mighty interests of civilization involved in the continuance of peace between all nations, that these stirring songs may never more be needed to incite the courage of our mariners, it is certain that in the peaceful days which we have long enjoyed, and which we still hope to enjoy, such sea-songs as those of Dibdin will exercise a beneficial influence upon the I/O SEA-SONG. character of the maritime population. If they now and then speak more warmly in praise of the sensual pleasures of the bottle than is desirable, it must be remembered, in the author's defence, that intemperance at the time at which he wrote was a national vice, in which the noble and the educated indulged to as great an extent as the ignoble and the ignorant ; that if common sailors drank, admirals did so likewise, and that both sailors and admirals where no worse than the general society, high and low, of their country. Dibdin, notwithstanding this fault of his age, has the most brilliant merits of his own. His songs invariably instil the sentiments of humanity, generosity, mercy, hospitality, truth, and kindliness of heart, a chivalrous though rough admiration for female virtue and loveliness, and a manly sincerity and independence of character. As Dibdm said of them himself, with honest pride, " His songs have been considered an object of national consequence ; they have been the solace of sailors in long voyages, in storms, and in battle ; and have been quoted in mutinies to the restoration of order and discipline." A few songs, appealhig as strongly and as virtuously to the feelings of other classes of the people, would be a national benefit. Charles Dibdin set all his own sea-songs to music, and in most instances the melody is equal to the words. — ~-=sn?j,-^sr(5^-- Mki^^^i 1] 1 mil Hiii 3sa S^BSBeL THE MARINER'S SONG. Fi'om the comedy of " Common Conditions," 157G. Lustily, lustily, lustily let us sail forth, The wind trim doth serve us, it blows from the north. All things we have ready and nothing we want To furnish our ship that rideth hereby ; Victuals and weapons they be nothing scant. Like worthy mariners ourselves we will try. Lustily, lustily, &c. Her flags be now trimm'd, set flaunting aloft, Our ship for swift swimming, oh ! she doth excel ; We fear no enemies, we have 'scaped them oft ; Of all ships that swimmeth she beareth the bell. Lustily, lustily, &c. 1/2 SEA-SONGS. And here is a master excelleth in skill, And our master's mate he is not to seek ; And here is a boatswain will do his good will. And here is a ship, boy, we never had leak. Lustily, lustily, &c. If fortune then fail not, and our next voyage prove. We will return merrily, and make good cheer. And hold altogether as friends link'd in love. The cans shall be fill'd with wine, ale, and beer. Lustily, lustily, &c. THE MARINER'S GLEE. From " Deuteromeiia ; or, the Second Part of Musick's Melodic," &c., 1609. We be three poor mariners Newly come from the seas ; We spend our lives in jeopardy. While others live at ease. Shall we go dance the round, a round, Shall we go dance the round ? And he that is a bully boy,* Come pledge me on the ground. We care not for those martial men That do our states disdain ; But we care for those merchant-men That do our states maintain. To them we dance this round, a round, To them we dance this round ; And he that is a bully boy. Come pledge me on the ground. This and the preceding song are probably the earliest nautical songs in our language. frou'^-^"^^"" '^°^^ "°* ^^^'^ ^'^^^ ^ braggart, but a jolly fellow— one fond of fun and " \\'hat sayest thou, iulh Bottom V— Midsummer's Night Dream. SEA-SONGS. 1 73 YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. Martyn Parker. The music by Dr. Calcott. Ye gentlemen of England That live at home at ease, Ah ! little do you think upon The dangers of the seas. Give hear unto the mariners. And they will plainly shew All the cares and the fears When the stormy winds do blow. When the stormy, &c. If enemies oppose us When England is at war With any foreign nation, We fear not wound or scar ; Our roaring guns shall teach 'em Our valour for to kuow. Whilst they real on the keel. And the stormy winds do blow. And the stormy, &c. 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, &c. Tbere is a more modern and considerably extended version of this song. -<^^^:5g5^s.^5 174 SKA-SONGS. TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW ON LAND. The Eakl of Doeset, born 1G37, died 170G.* To all you ladies now on land. We men at sea indite ; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write : The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you. With a fa, la, la, la, la. For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain ; Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind. To wave the azure main. Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down in ships at sea. With a fa, la, la, la, la. Then if we write not hy each post. Think not we are unkind ; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchman or by wind : Our tears we'll send a speedier way — The tide shall bring them twice a-day. With a fa, la, la, la, la. The king, with wonder and surprise. Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Then e'er they did of old ; But let them know it is our tears Brmg floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs. With a fa, la, la, la, la. * On the 2nd of January, 1665, Mr. Pepys went, by appointment, to dine with Lord Brouncker at his house in the Piazza, CoVent Garden. He says : " I received much mirth with a ballad I brought with me, made from the seamen at sea to their ladies in town : saying Sir WilUam Pen, Sir George Askue, and Sir George Lawson, made it." In 1665, Lord Buekhurst, afterwards Earl of Dorset, attended the Duke of York as a volunteer in the Dutch war, and was in the battle of June 3, when eighteen Dutch ships were taken, fourteen others were destroyed, and Opdam, the admiral, who engaged the the duke, was blown up beside him, with all his crew. On the day before the battle, he is said to have composed the celebrated song, '■ To all you ladies now on land," with SEA-SONGS. 1/5 Should foggy Opdam chance to know, Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe. And quit their fort at Goree : For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind ? With a fa, la, la, la, la. Let wind and weather do its worst. Be ye to us but kind ; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow shall wc find : 'Tis then no matter how things go. Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. AVith a fa, la, la, la, la. To pass our tedious hours away. We throw a merry main, Or else at serious ombre play ; But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone when we left you. With a fa, la, la, la, la. But now our fears tempestuous grow. And cast our hopes away ; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play. Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand or flirt your fan. With a fa, la, la, la, la. When any mournful tune you hear. That dies in every note. As if it sigh'd with each man's care, , For being so remote : equal tranquillity of mind and promptitude of ^vit. Seldom any splendid story is wholly true. I have heard from the late Earl of Orrery, who was likely to have had good liereditary intelligence, that Lord Buckhurst had been a week employed upon it, and only retouched or finished it on the memorable evening. But even this, whatever it may subtract from his facility, leaves him his courage.— JonNSON's Lives of the Poets. This song has been set as a glee by Ur. CalCott ; but is usually sung to an old English melody, of which the author is unknown. 175 SEA- SONGS. Then think how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were play'd. With a fa, la, la, la, la. In justice you cannot refuse To think of our distress. When we, for hopes of honour, lose Our certain happiness : All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love. With a fa, la, la, la, la. And now we've told you all our loves. And likewise all our fears ; In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears ; Let's hear of no inconstancy. We have too much of that at sea. With a fa, la, la, la, la. BLACK-EYED SUSAN. John Gay, born 1688, died 1732. The music arranged by Leveribge, but adapted by him from an older melody. 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 1 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 swithly 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 falUng 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. SEA-SONGS. 177 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. HEARTS OF OAK. David Gareick, born 1716, died 1779. The music by Tr. Arne. Come, cheer up, my lads ! 'tis to gloiy we steer. To add something more to this wonderful year : To honour we call you, not press you like slaves ; For who are so free as the sons of the waves ? Hearts of oak are our ships. Gallant tars are our men ; We always are ready : Steady, boys, steady ! We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. We ne'er see our foes but we wsh them to stay ; They never see us but they wish us away ; If they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore ; For if they won't fight us, we cannot do more. Hearts of oak, &c. They swear they'll invade us, these terrible foes ! They frighten our women, our children, and beaux ; But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o'er. Still Britons they'll find to receive them on shore. Hearts of oak, &c. Britannia triumphant, her ships sweep the sea ; Her standard is Justice — her watchword, " Be free !" Then cheer up, my lads ! with one heart let us sing, " Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and king." Hearts of oak, &c. 1/8 SEA-SONGS. THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. "William Cowpee, born 1731, died 1800. Toll, for the brave. The brave that are no more ! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore. Eight hundred of the brave, \\liose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel. And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset ; Down went the Royal George With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave ! Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done. It was not in the battle ; No tempest gave the shock ; She sprang no fatal leak ; She ran upon no rock. SEA-SONGS. 17!) His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kenipenfelt went down With t\nce 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 charg'd with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. But Kempenfclt is gone, His victories are o'er ; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the waves no more. This song is usually sung to the air of Handel's " March in Scipio.' THE STORM. George Alexander Stev-exs, died 178-1. (Often attributed to Falconer, the author of " The Shipwreck." CeasEj rude Boreas, blust'ring railer! List, ye landsmen, all to me. Messmates, hear a brother sailor Sing the dangers of the sea ; From bounding billows, first in motion. When the distant whirwinds rise. To the tempest-troubled ocean. Where the seas contend with skies. Hark ! the boatswain hoarsely baAvling, " By topsail- sheets and haulyards stand ! Down top-gallants quick be hauling ; Down your stay-sails, hand, boys, hand ! Now it freshens, set the braces ; Quick the top-sail-sheets let go ; LuflF, boys, luff! don't make wry faces; Up your top-sails nimbly clew !" 180 SEA-SONGS. Now all you on down-beds sporting, Fondly lock'd in beauty's arms. Fresh enjoyments wanton courting. Safe from all but love's alarms : Hound us roars the tempest louder, Think what fear our minds enthrals ; Harder yet, it yet blows harder, — Now again the boatswain calls : " The top-sail-yard point to the wind, boys ; See all clear to reef each course ; Let the fore-sheet go ; don't mind, boys. Though the weather should be worse. Fore and aft the sprit-sail-yard get ; Reef the mizen ; see all clear : Hands up ! each preventive brace set ; Man the fore-yard : cheer, lads, cheer !" Now the dreadful thunder's roaring. Peal on peal contending clash ; On our heads fierce rain falls pouring, In our eyes blue lightnings flash. One wide water all around us. All above us one black sky ; Different deaths at once surround us : Hark ! what means that dreadful cry ? " The foremast's gone !" cries eVry tongue out, " O'er the lee twelve feet 'hove deck : A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out ; Call all hands to clear the wreck. Quick, the lanyards cut to pieces ; Come, my hearts, be stout and bold ; Plumb the well — the leak increases, — Four feet water in the hold !" While o'er the ship wild waves are beating. We for wives and children mourn ; Alas ! from hence there's no retreating ; Alas ! to them there's no return. Still the leak is gaining on us ! Both chain-pumps are chok'd below : Heaven have mercy here upon us ! For only that can save us now. SEA-SONGS. 181 O'er the lea-beam is the land, boys ; Let the guns o'erboard be thrown; To the pumps call ev'ry hand, boys ; See ! our mizen-mast is gone. The leak we've found it cannot pour fast ; We've lighted her a foot or more ; Up and rig a jury fore-mast : She rights! she rights, boys! we're oflP shore. Another stanza to this song- appears in some collections ; but we omit it, as not neces- sary to the completion of the story, and as quite unworthy of the sentiment which pervades the rest of the piece. According to some versions, the last line should read, "She rights! she rights, boys! wear offshore." The original air of "The storm" iis " Welcome, brother debtor," to be found in " Caliope," collection of songs, 1730. The ballad of "Admiral Hosier's Ghost," is also sung to the same tune. COME, BUSTLE, BUSTLE. From the " Convi-vial Songster," 1782. Come, bustle, bustle, drink about. And let us merry be ; Our can is full, we'll see it out. And then all hands to sea. And a sailing we will go, will go. And a sailing we will go. Fine miss at dancing school is taught The minuet to tread ; But we go better when we've brought The fore-tack to cathead. And a sailing, &c. The jockey's call'd to horse, to horse. And swiftly rides the race ; But swifter far we shape our course When we are giving chase. And a saihng, &c. When horns and shouts the forest rend. The pack the huntsmen cheer, As loud we holloa when we send A broadside to Mounseer. And a sailing, &c. 182 SEA-SONGS. With gold and silver streamers fine. The ladies' rigging shew ; But English ships more grandly shine, When prizes home we tow. And a sailing, i&rc. What's got at sea we spend on shore With sweethearts and with wives. And then, my boys, hoist sail for more ; Thus sailors pass their lives. And a sailing they do go, do go ; And a sailing they do go. THE BAY OF BISCAY, O ! Andrew Cherry. The music by John Da-s-y. Loud roar'd the dreadful thunder. The rain a deluge showers. The clouds were rent asunder By lightning's vi\id powers : The night both drear and dark. Our poor devoted bark. Till next day, there she lay In the Bay of Biscay, O ! Now dash'd upon the billow. Our opening timbers creek ; Each fears a wat'ry pillow, — None stops the dreadful leak ; To cling to slipp'ry shrouds Each breathless seaman crowds. As she lay, till the day. In the Bay of Biscay, ! At length the wish'd-for morrow Broke through the hazy sky ; Absorb' d in silent sorrow. Each heaved a bitter sigh ; The dismal wreck to view Struck borrow to the crew, As she lay, on that day. In the Bay of Biscay, O ! SEA-SONGS. 183 Her yielding timbers sever. Her pitchy seems are rent. When Heaven, all bonnteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent ; A sail in sight appears, We hail her with three cheers : Now we sail, with the gale, From the Bay of Biscay, ! THE MID-WATCH. RiCHAKD Brimsley Siieuidan. The music by Wm. Linley. When 'tis night, and the mid-watch is come. And chilling mists hang o'er the darken' d main. Then sailors think of their far-distant home. And of those friends they ne'er may see again ; But when the fight's begun, Each serving at his gun. Should any thought of them come o'er your mind, Think only should the day be won. How 'twill cheer Their hearts to hear That their their old companion he was one. Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind Have left on shore, some pretty girl and true. Who many a night doth listen to the wind. And sighs to think how it may fare with you ; Or, when the fight's begun. You, serving at your gun. Should any thought of her come o'er your mind, Think only should the day be won. How 'twill cheer Her heart to hear That her old companion he was one. 184 SEA-SONGS. POOR JACK. Words and music by Charles Dibdin. Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see, 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me, And it a'nt to a little I'll strike. Though the tempest top-gallant mast smack smooth should smite, And shiver each splinter of wood. Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse every thing tight. And under reef 'd foresail we'll scud : Avast ! nor don't think me a milksop so soft. To be taken for trifles aback ; For they say there's a providence sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! I heard our good chaplain palaver one day About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ; And, my timbers ! what lingo he'd coil and belay ; Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch ; For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see. Without orders that come down below ; And a many fine things that proved clearly to me That providence takes us in tow : For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft Take the top-sails of sailors aback. There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! I said to our Poll — for, d'ye see, she would cry — When last we weigh' d anchor for sea, Wliat argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye? Why, what a damn'd fool you must be ! Can't you see, the world's vnde, and there's room for us all. Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? And if to old Bayj I should go, friend Poll, You never will hear of me more. What then? All's a hazard : come, don't be so soft : Perhaps I may laughing come back ; For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft. To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! SEA-SONGS. 185 D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch All as one as a piece of the ship, And with her brave the vs'Orld, not offering to flinch, From the moment the anchor's a-trip. As for me, in all weathers, ail times, sides and ends. Nought's a trouble from a duty that springs. For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's. And as for my life, 'tis the king's. Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft, As for grief to be taken aback. For the same little cherub that sits up aloft "Will look out a good berth for poor Jack ! BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW. W^ords and music by Charles Dibdin. Blow high, blow low, let tempest tear. The main-mast by the board ; My heart, vnth thoughts of thee, my dear. And love well stored. Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear. The roaring winds, the raging sea. In hopes on shore To be once more Safe moor'd with thee ! Aloft while mountains high we go. The whistling winds that scud along. And surges roaring from below. Shall my signal be. To think on thee ; And this shall be my song : Blow high, blow low, &c. 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 on the sea. The burden of my song shall be — Blow high, blow low, &c. 186 SEA-SONGS. LOVELY NAN. The words and music by Charles Dibdix. Sweet is the ship that under sail Spreads her white bosom to the gale ; Sweet, oh ! sweet's the flowing can ; Sweet to poise the labouring oar. That tugs us to our native shore. When the boatswain pipes the barge to man ; Sweet sailing with a fa v' ring breeze ; But, oh ! much sweeter than all these. Is Jack's dehght — his lovely Nan. The needle, faithful to the north. To shew of constancy the worth, A curious lesson teaches man ; The needle, time may rust — a squall Capsize the binnacle and all. Let seamanship do all it can ; My love in worth shall higher rise : Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize INIy faith and truth to lovely Nan. When in the bilboes I was penn'd For ser\ing of a worthless friend. And every creature from me ran ; No ship performing quarantine Was ever so deserted seen ; SEA-SONGS. 187 None hail'd me — woman, child, or man : But though false friendship's sails were furl'd. Though cut adrift by all the world, I'd all the world in lovely Nan. I love my duty, love my friend. Love truth and merit to defend. To moan their loss who hazard ran ; I love to take an honest part. Love beauty with a spotless heart, By manners love to shew the man ; To sail through life by honour's breeze : — 'Twas all along of loving these First made me doat on lovely Nan. TOM BOWLING. Words and music by 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 too. 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 dispatches. In vain Tom's life has doiF'd ; For though his body's under hatches. His soul is gone aloft. 188 SEA-SONGS. TRUE COURAGE. Words and music by Chaeles Dibdin. "Why, what's that to you, if my eyes I'm a wiping? A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way ; 'Tis nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping ; But they that han't pity, why I pities they. Says the captain, says he (I shall never forget it), " If of courage you'd know, lads, the true from the sham ; 'Tis a furious lion in battle, so let it ; But, duty appeased, 'tis in mercy a lamb." There was bustling Bob Bounce, for the old one not caring, - Helter-skelter, to work, pelt away, cut and drive ; Swearing he, for his part, had no notion of sparing And as for a foe, why he'd eat him alive. ^g. But when that he found an old prisoner he'd wounded. That once saved his life as near drowning he swam. The lion was tamed, and, with pity confounded. He cried over him just all as one as a lamb. That my friend Jack or Tom I should rescue from danger, Or lay my life down for each lad in the mess. Is nothing at all, — 'tis the poor wounded stranger, And the poorer the more I shall succour distress : For however their duty bold tars may delight in. And peril defy, as a bugbear, a flam, t^ Though the lion may feel surly pleasure in fighting, He'll feel more by compassion when turn'd to a lamb. The heart and the eyes, you see, feel the same motion, And if both shed their drops 'tis all to the same end ; And thus 'tis that every tight lad of the ocean Sheds his blood for his coimtry, his tears for his friend. If my maxim's disease, 'tis disease I shall die on, — You may snigger and titter, I don't care a damn ! In me let the foe feel the paw of a hon. But the battle once ended, the heart of a lamb. SEA-SONGS. 189 THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. This song is sometimes attributed to Thomas Hood, and at others to Charles Dibdin ; but the real author was William Pitt, Esq., late Master Attendant at Jamaica Dotk Yard, and afterwards of Malta, where he died in 1840. One night came on a hurricane. The sea was mountains rolhng, When Barney BuntUne slew'd his quid. And said to Billy Bowline : "A strong nor-wester's blowing, Bill ; Hark ! don't ye hear it roar now ! Lord help 'em, how I pities them Unhappy folks on shore now ! Fool-hardy chaps as live in towns, Wliat danger they are all in. And now lie quaking in their beds. For fear the roof should fall in : Poor creaturs, how they envies us. And wishes, I've a notion. For our good luck, in such a storm. To he upon the ocean ! And as for them that's out all day. On business from their houses. And late at night returning home, To cheer their babes aiid spouses ; While you and I, Bill, on the deck Are comfortably lying. My eyes ! what tiles and chimney-pots About their heads are flying ! Both you and I have oftimes heard How men are kill'd and undone. By overturns from carriages, By thieves, and fires in London. We know what risks these landsmen run. From noblemen to tailors ; Then, Bill, let us thank Providence That you and I are sailors." 190 SEA-SONGS. HEAVING OF THE LEAD. This song was written for the operatic farce " Hertford Bridge ;'' the music by "Wm. Shield. For England when with fav'ring gale Our gallant ship up Channel steer' d, And, scudding under easy sail. The high blue western land appear' d ; To heave the lead the seaman sprung. And to the pilot cheerly sung, " By the deep — nine ! " And hearing up to gain the port. Some well-known object kept in view ; An abbey-tow' r, the harbour-fort. Or beacon to the vessel true ; While oft the lead the seaman flung. And to the pilot cheerly sung, " By the mark — seven ! " And as the much-loved shore we near, With transport we behold the roof Where dwelt a friend or partner dear. Of faith and love a matchless proof. The lead once more the seaman flung, And to the watchful pilot sung, " Quarter less — five !" Now to her berth the ship draws nigh : We shorten sail — she feels the tide — " Stand clear the cable," is the cry — The anchor's gone ; we safely ride. The watch is set, and through the night We hear the seaman with delight Proclaim—" All's well ! " ^^^^m^-"^ SEA-SONGS. 191 EVERY BULLET HAS ITS BILLET. I'm a tough true-hearted sailor, Careless and all that, d'ye see. Never at the times a railer — What is time or tide to me ? All must die when fate shall will it. Providence ordains it so : Every bullet has its billet, — Man the boat, boys — Yeo, heave yeo ! " Life's at best a sea of trouble. He who fears it is a dunce ; Death to me's an empty bubble, I can never die but once. Blood, if duty bids, I'll spill it ; Yet I have a tear for woe :" Every bullet has its billet, — Man the boat, boys — Yeo, heave yeo ! Shrouded in a hammock, glory Celebrates the falling brave ; Oh, how many, fam'd in story, Sleep below in ocean's cave ! Bring the can, boys — let us fill it ; Shall we shun the fight ? Oh, no ! Every bullet has its billet, — Man the boat, boys — Yeo, heave yeo ! LIFE'S LIKE A SHIP. From a small volume of LjTical Poetry, privately printed at the expense of Mr. George Fryer, in 1798. This song is ascribed to Carey by Ritson, but published as Dibdin's in Davy's edition. Life's like a ship, in constant motion. Sometimes high and sometimes low. Where every one must brave the ocean. Whatsoever wind may bloAv ; If unassail'd by squall or show'i'. Wafted by the gentle gales. Let's not lose the fav'ring hour. While success attends the sails. 192 SEA-SONGS. Or, if the wayward winds sliould bluster. Let us not give way to fear ; But let us all our patience muster. And learn from reason how to steer : Let Judgment keep you ever steady, 'Tis a ballast never fails : Should dangers rise, be ever ready To manage well the swelling sails. Trust not too much your own opinion While your vessel's under weigh ; Let good example bear dominion — That's a compass will not stray : When thund'ring tempests make you shudder, Or Boreas on the surface rails. Let good Discretion guide the rudder. And ProAidence attend the sails. Then when you're safe from danger, riding In some welcome port or bay, Hope be the anchor you confide in. And care awhile ensl umber' d lay ; Or, when each can's with liquor flowing. And good fellowship prevails. Let each true heart, with rapture glowing. Drink success unto our sails. THE LAND, BOYS, WE LIVE IN. From the " Myrtle and the Vine," vol. ii. The music by Wm. Reeve. Since our foes to invade us have long been preparing, 'Tis clear they consider we've something worth sharing. And for that mean to visit our shore ; It behoves us, however, with spirit to meet 'em. And though 'twill be nothing uncommon to beat 'em. We must try how they'll take it once more. So fill, fill your glasses, be this the toast given — Here's England for ever, the land, boys, we live in ! So fill, fill your glasses, be this the toast given — Here's England for ever, huzza SEA-SONGS. 193 Here's a health to our tars on the wide ocean rangino;. Perhaps even now some broadsides are exchanging — We'll on shipboard and join in the fight ; And when with the foe we are firmly engaging, Till the fire of our guns lulls the sea in its raging, On our country we'll think with delight : So fill, fill your glasses, &c. On that throne where once Alfred in glory was seated, Long, long may our king by his people be greeted ; Oh ! to guard him we'll be of one mind. May religion, law, order be strictly defended. And continue the blessings they first were intended, In union the nation to bind ! So fill, fill your glasses, &c. THE DEATH OF NELSON. S. J. Arnold. (From the opera of " The Americans.") The music by Jonx Braham. RECITATIVE. O'er Nelson's tomb, with silent grief oppress' d Britannia mourns her hero now at rest ; But those bright laurels ne'er shall fade with years Whose leaves are water' d by a nation's tears. AIR. 'Twas in Trafalgar's bay We saw the Frenchmen lay ; Each heart was bounding then. We scorn' d the foreign yoke. Our ships were British oak, And hearts of oak our men. Our Nelson mark'd them on the wave, Three cheers our gallant seamen gave. Nor thought of home and beauty. Along the line this signal ran — " England expects that every man This day will do his duty." N 194 SEA-SONGS. And now the cannons roar, Along the afirighted shore ; Brave Nelson led the way : His ship the Victory named ; Long be that Victory famed ! For victory crown' d the day. But dearly was that conquest bought, Too well the gallant hero fought For England, home, and beauty. He cried, as 'midst the fire he ran, " England shall find that every man This day will do his duty !" At last the fatal wound Which shed dismay around. The hero's breast received : " Heav'n fights on our side ; The day's our own !" he cried : " Now long enough I've lived. In honour's cause my life was pass'd. In honour's cause I fall at last. For England, home, and beauty ! " Thus ending life as he began ; England confess' d that every man That day had done liis duty. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. Thomas Campbeli, born 1777, died 1844. 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 ! SEA-SONGS. 195 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. Mrs. Ireland, who saw much of Campbell at this time (1799), mentions that it was in the musical evenings, at her mother's house, that he appeared to derive the greatest enjoyment. At these soir(5es his favourite song- was " Ye gentlemen of England," with the music of which he was particularly struck, and determined to write new words for it. Hence this noble and stirring IjTic of " Ye mariners of England," part of which, if not all, he is said to have composed after one of these family parties. It was not, how- ever, until after he had retired to Ratisbon, and felt his patriotism kindled by the announcement of war with Denmark, that he finished the original sketch, and sent it home to Mr. Terry of the " :Morning Chronicle."— ii/e of Thomas Campbell, by W. Beattie, M.D. 19G SEA-SONGS, THE ARETHUSA. Prince Hoake, born 1754, died 1834. The music by Shield, in the opera of she " Lock and Key.'' Come, all ye jolly sailors bold, Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, "While English glory I unfold — Huzza to the Arethusa ! She is a frigate tight and brave As ever stemm'd the dashing wave ; Her men are staunch To their fav'rite launch ; And when the foe shall meet our fire. Sooner than strike, we'll all expire On board of the Arethusa. 'Twas with the spring fleet she went out, The English Channel to cruise about, "When four French sail, in shore so about. Bore down on the Arethusa. The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie — The Arethusa seem'd to fly : Not a sheet or a tack, Or a brace did she slack ; Though the Frenchmen laugh' d, and thought it stuff; But they knew not the handful of men how tough On board of the Arethusa. On deck fiA^e hundred men did dance. The stoutest they could find in France ; We with two hundred did advance On board of the Arethusa. Our captain hail'd the Frenchman, "Ho !" The Frenchman then cried out, "Hollo !" " Bear down, d'ye see. To our admiral's lee." "No, no!" says the Frenchman, "that can't be." " Then I must lug you along with me," Says the saucy Arethusa. SEA-SONGS. 197 The fight was oflf the Frenchman's land ; "We forced them back upon the strand ; For we fought till not a stick would stand Of the gallant Arethusa. And now we've driven the foe ashore, Never to fight with Britons more. Let each fill a glass To his fav'rite lass, A health to the captains and officers true. And all that belong to the jovial crew On board of the Arethusa. THE MINUTE GUN. K. S. Shaepe. Duet by M. P. Kino, in Arnold's " Up all Night.' When in the storm on Albion's coast The night-watch guards his wary post, From thoughts of danger free, He marks some vessel's dusky form. And hears, amid the howling storm, The minute gun at sea. Swift on the shore a hardy few The life-boat man with gallant crew. And dare the dangerous wave : Through the wild surf they cleave their way, Lost in the foam, nor know dismay. For they go the crew to save. But, oh, what raptures fills each breast. Of the hopeless crew of the ship distress' d? Then, landed safe, what joy to tell Of all the dangers that befell ! Then is heard no more. By the watch on the shore. The minute gun at sea. 198 SEA-SONGS. THE ORIGIN OF GUNPOWDER. Tho.mas Dibdin's " English Fleet." The muBic by John Beaham. When Vulcan forged the bolts of Jove, In Etna's roaring glow, Neptune petition' d he might prove Their use and power below ; But finding in the boundless deep Their thunders did but idly sleep, He with them arm'd Britannia's hand. To guard from foes her native land. Long may she hold the glorious right ; And when through circling flame She darts her thunder in the fight. May justice guide her aim ! And when opposed in future wars. Her solchers brave and gallant tars Shall launch her fires from every hand On every foe to Britain's land. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Thomas Campbell. 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 thy land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine, Wliile the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line : SEA-SONGS. 199 It was ten of April morn by the chime, As they drifted on their path ; Their 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 hps 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 shatter' d sail ; Or, in conflagration pale. Like 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 bless' d our chief. That he gave her wounds repose j 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. 200 SEA-SONGS. Now joy. Old England raise. For the tidings of thy might. By the festal cities' hlaze. 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. THE SPANISH ARMADA. JoHx O'Keefe. The music by Da. Arnold, In May fifteen hundred and eighty and eight, ^ Cries Philip, "The English I'll humble; I've taken it into my majesty's pate, And their hon, oh, down he shall tumble ! They lords of the sea!"— then his sceptre he shook,— *' I'll prove it an arrant bravado. By Neptune ! I'll sweep them all into a nook With the in\'incible Spanish Armada ! " This fleet then sail'd out, and the winds they did blow. Their guns made a terrible clatter ; Our noble Queen Bess, 'cause she wanted to know. Quill' d her ruff, and cried, "Pray, what's the matter?" " They say, my good queen," rephed Howard so stout, " The Spaniard has drawn his toledo. Cock sure that he'll thump us, and kick us about. With th' invincible Spanish Armada." » A captain in the fleet "justly entitled the gallant and the good " by Lord Nelson. SEA-SONGS. 201 The lord mayor of London, a very wise man. What to do in this case vastly wonder' d : Says the queen, " Send in fifty good ships if you can." Says my lord, " Ma'am, I'll send in a hundred." Our fire' ships they soon struck their cannons all dumb. For the dons run to Ave and Credo. Great Medina roars out, " Sure the devil is come For th' imincible Spanish Armada." On Effingham's squadron, though all in a breast. Like open-mouth curs they came bowling : His sugar-plums finding they could not digest. Away home they ran yelping and howling. When'er Britain's foes shall, with envy agog, In our Channel make such a bravado — Huzza, my brave boys ! we're stiU able to flog An invincible Spanish Armada ! THE SEA. Barry Corn-wall. The music by the Chevalier Neukomm. The sea, the sea, the open sea, The blue, the fresh, the ever free : Without a mark, without a bound ; It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies. Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea, I'm on the sea ; I am where I would ever be. With the blue above and the blue below. And silence whereso'er I go. If a storm should come and awake the deep. What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love, oh, how I love to ride On the fierce, the foaming, bursting tide. Where every mad wave drowns the moon. And whistles aloft its tempest tune ; And tells how goeth the world below. And why the south-west wind doth blow. 202 SEA-SONGS. I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the deep sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast. Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest — And a mother she was and is to me, For I was born on the open sea. The waves were white, and red the morn. In the noisy hour when I was born ; The whale it whistled, the porpoise roll'd. And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; And never was heard such an outcry wild. As welcom'd to life the ocean child. I have lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a rover's life. With wealth to spend and a power to range. But never have sought or sigh'd for change ; And death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wide mibounded sea ! A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. Allan Cunningham. 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 ou the lee. Oh, for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the swelling breeze. And white waves heaving high. The white waves heading high, my lads. The good ship tight and free, — The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. SEA-SONGS. 203 There's a tempest in yon horn'd moon. And lightning in yon cloud ; And hark, the music, mariners ! The wind is wakening loud. The wind is wakening loud, my boys. The lightning flashes free ; The hollow oak our palace is. Our heritage the sea. THE NEGLECTED SAILOR. Edward Rtjshton, of Liverpool, born 1756, died 1814. Usually sung to the air of the " Vicar of Bray." I SING the British seaman's praise, A theme renown' d in story ; It well deserves more polish' d lays, — Oh, 'tis your boast and glory : When mad-brain' d war spreads death around. By them you are protected ; But when in peace the nation's found. These bulwarks are neglected. 204 SEA-SONGS. Then, oh. protect the hardy tar, Be mindful of his merit, And when again you're plunged in war, He'll shew his daring spirit. THien thickest darkness covers all Far on the trackless ocean ; When lightnings dart, when thunders roll, And all is wild commotion ; When o'er the bark the white topt waves With hoist' rous sweep are rolling. Yet coolly still the whole he braves. Untamed amidst the howling. Then, oh, protect, &c. ^\Tien deep immersed in sulph'rous smoke. He seeks a glowing pleasure. He loads his gun, he cracks his joke. Elated beyond measure ; Though fore and after the blood-stain' d deck Should lifeless trunks appear. Or should the vessel float a wreck. The sailor knows no fear. Then, oh, protect, &c. When long becalm' d on southern brine. When scorching beams assail him. When all the canvass hangs supine. And food and water fail him ; Then oft he dreams of Britain's shore, Where plenty still is reigning : — They call the watch — his rapture's o'er ; He sighs, but scorns complaining. Then, oh, protect, &c. Or burning on that noxious coast, Where death so oft befriends him ; Or pinch' d by hoary Greenland frost. True courage still attends him. No time can this eradicate ; He glories in annoyance ; He fearless braves the storm of fate. And bids grim death defiance. Then, oh, protect, &c. SEA-SONGS. Why should the man who knows no fear In peace be e'er neglected ? Behold him move along the pier, Pale, meagre, and dejected ; Behold him begging for employ. Behold him disregarded : Then view the anguish of his eye, And say, are tars regarded ? Then, oh, protect, &c. To them your dearest rights you owe. In peace, then, would you starve them 1 "What say ye, Britain's sons ? — Oh, no ! Protect them and preserve them. Shield them from poverty and pain, 'Tis policy to do it ; Or when war shall come again, O Britons, ye may rue it. Then, oh, protect, &c. 205 rrlT^-PATEIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. N G L I S H literature possesses but two patriotic songs which can be considered pre-eminently national, — the anthems of " God save the Queen" and " Rule Britan- nia." Neither of these, as a poetical com- position, is of the highest order of merit ; and both of them owe their great popu- larity almost entirely to the beautiful music with which their indifferent poetry has been associated. As regards our patriotic songs in general, the English people have so long been accus- tomed to attribute to the naval service the chief glory and PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 207 defence of the country, that the sea-songs have become, with the two great exceptions named, more patriotic in their character than the songs which celebrate the deeds of the military. The Battle of Waterloo has not produced a song which can be compared with those splendid lyrics, the " Battle of the Baltic" and "Ye mariners of England." Indeed, it would appear that however popular the " red coats" may be among the ladies of the land, they are not by any means so popular as the "blue" among the poets and the musicians. The dangers and the glories, the hardships and the rewards, the grief and the joy of soldiers, have found echoes comparatively faint in the hearts of the people. Even the patriotic song of " Rule Britannia," included in this series, partakes more of the character of a naval, than of a military — anthem. t../C>sO>^l?5iC$Xi>'^3\^ FROM MERCILESS INVADERS.* From merciless invaders, From wicked men's dence, O God ! arise and help us To quell our enemies : Sink deep their potent na\des, Their strength and courage break : O God ! arise and save us, For Jesus Christ his sake. * " This," says Mr. Cliappell, in a note in liis collection of National English Airs, " is a sort of hymn, which ajipears to have been written at the time of the threatened invasion of the Spanish Armada, and is here given from a manuscript in the possession of R. Pearsall, Esq., bearing the date of 1588. The mixture of devotion and defiance in the words forms a curious sample of the spirit of the times." Mr. Pearsall, the proprietor of the manuscript, in a note communicated to Mr. Chappell, says, " The original MS. came into my possession, with some family papers, derived from my father's maternal grandfather, John Still, who was the greatgrandson of John Still, Bishop of Bath and Wells, in the time of EU/.abeth," (author of ' Gammer Gurton's Needle,' and the song of 'Jolly good ale and old'). "He was," adds Mr. Pearsall, " a very distinguished amateur of music ; and I feel confident that both the music and the words are the bishop's own compositicm. The BIS. is headed thus : — ' A hvmne to be sung by all England— Women, Vouthes, Clarkes, and Souldiers ; made by J. S.' " 208 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Though cruel Spaiu aud Parma With heathen legions come, O God ! arise and arm us, — We'll die for our home ; We will not change our credo. For pope, nor book, nor hell ; And if the devil come himself. We'll hound him hack to hell. I 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. *' The national song of God save the King [may it long continue to be sung as now, God save the Queen !] is generally believed to have been composed by Dr. John Bull, for King James the First, A.D. 1667. The authorship both of the words and music has long been a matter of dispute, and has excited almost as much contro- versy as the authorship of the letters of Junius. Mr. Chappell, in the notes to his collection of Old English Airs, states that "about the year 1796, George Saville Carey asserted his father's claim to the authorship of this song, and made a journey to Windsor m the hope of obtaining some pecuniary recompense from the king. His claim was acquiesced in by Archdeacon Coxe, m his anecdotes of J. C. Smith, Han- del's amanuensis ; and by Mr. S. Jones, in his ' Biographia Dramatica.' It was by no means G. S. Carey's wish, though he claimed the authorship for his father, to prove also that it was first written for King James, as that would have defeated his hopes of reward ; and probably his concealment of that fact tended more than any thing else to throw a suspicion upon his statement. It was immediately proved, upon concurrent testimonies, to have been sung ' God save great James, our king ; ' and from that time we maj' date the endless discussions and assertions on the sub- ject. Although it is impossible to prove at this distance of time that Harry Carey was actually the author and composer of the National Anthem, yet, there being not a shadow of proof of any other claim, his having the direct and positive attestations of J. C. Smith and Dr. Harrington, coupled with the strong internal evidence in both words and music, leave little doubt on the subject. Add to this, that the accounts of Dr. Burney and Dr. Cooke, of its having been sung ' God save great James,' are clearly reconcileable with its being his production ; and all attempts to prove a copy before Carey's time have failed ; moreover, it is admitted that he sang it in public (announcing it as his own production) five years before the first publication ; and his not claiming it when it attamed its great popularity in 1745 being explained by his having put an end to his existence three years before, at the advanced age of eighty, and leaving his son an infant." PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 209 O Lord our God, arise. Scatter his enemies. And make them fall ! Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks ; On him 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 ! THE SOLDIER'S GLEE. From " Deuteromelia ; or, the Second Part of Musick's Melodic," &c., 1609. We be soldiers three — Pardonnez-moi, je vous en prie — Lately come forth of the low country, With never a penny of monie. Here, good fellow, I drink to thee ! — Pardonnez-moi, je vous en prie — To all good fellows, wherever they be. With never a penny of monie. And he that vrill not pledge me this — Pardonnez-moi, je vous en prie — Pays for the shot, whatever it is, With never a penny of monie. Charge it again, boy, charge it again — Pardonnez-moi, je vous en prie — As long as there is any ink in thy pen, With never a penny of monie. o 210 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. COME, IF YOU DARE. John Dktdex. rrom Purcell's opera of " King Arthur." " Come, if you dare !" our trumpets sound, " Come, if you dare !" the foes rebound ; "We come, we come !" Says the double beat of the thund'ring drum : Now they charge on amain, Now they rally again. The gods from above the mad labour behold. And pity mankind that will perish for gold. The fainting foeman quit their ground, Their trumpets languish in the sound — They fly! they fly! "Victoria! Victoria!" the bold Britons cry. Now the victory's won. To the plunder we run ; Then return to our lasses like fortunate traders. Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish' d invaders. HE COMES, HE COMES, THE HERO COMES. The music and words by H. Carey. He comes, he comes, the hero comes ! Sound the trumpet, beat the drums. From port to port let canons roar, — He's welcome to the British shore. Prepare, prepare, your songs prepare ! Loudly rend the echoing air : From pole to pole your joys resound, For virtue's his, with glory crown' d. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 211 RULE BRITANNIA. James Thomson, author of " The Seasons," born 1700, died 1748. When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main. This was the charter of the land. And guardian angels sang the strain : Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. The nations, not so blest as thee, Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall ; Whilst thou shall flourish, great and free. The dread and envy of them all : Rule Britannia, &c. Still more majestic shalt thou rise. More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serve but to root thy native oak : Rule Britannia, &c. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; All their attempts to hurl thee down Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame. And work their woe — but thy renown : Rule Britannia, &c. To thee belongs the rural reign ; Thy cities shall with commerce shine : All thine shall be the subject main. And every shore encircle thine : Rule Britannia, &c. The Muses, still veith Freedom found. Shall to thy happy coast repair ; Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crown' d. And manly hearts to guard the fair : Rule Britannia, &c. This celebrated song -was first sung as the iinale to the " Masque of Alfred," the music by Dr. Ame, a performance which was the joint production of James Tliomson and David Mallet. The masque was written by the command of the Prince of Wales, father of George III., for his entertainment of the court, and was fli'st performed at Clifden in 1740, on the birthday of II.R.H. the Princess of Wales. — -.-.ifintn—^ THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND. Henry Fielding and Richard Lei-eridge. When mighty roast beef was the Enghshman's food. It ennobled our hearts and enriched our blood ; Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good. Oh ! the roast beef of Old England, And oh ! the old English roast beef. But since we have learn' d from effeminate France To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance. We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance. Oh ! the roast beef, &c. Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong, And kept open house with good cheer all day long, Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song, Oh ! the roast beef, &c. When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne, Ere coffee and tea, and such slip-slops were known, The world was in terror if e'en she did frowi. Oh ! the roast beef, &c. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 213 In those days, if fleets did presume on the main, They seldom or never return' d back again ; As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain. Oh ! the roast beef, &c. Oh, then we had stomachs to eat and to fight, And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves right ; But now we're a — hum ! — I could, but, — good night ! Oh ! the roast beef, &c. The " Roast Beef of Old England " was first printed in Walsh's " British Miscellany," n. d. (about 1740). It was written and composed by Richard Leveridge, with the exception of the two first verses, which are I'Molding's. (See " Don Quixote in England," 1733). It was introduced in the opera of " The Haunted Tower." THE DEATH OF THE BRAVE. William Collims, born 1720, died 175G. 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. See there shall dress a sweeter sod Than fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung : There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey. To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there. This song was arranged as a glee by Dr. Cooke, and became a great favourite of the public at the period of Nelson's death. THE BRITISH GRENADIERS. Anonymous. From an engi-aved music-sheet, printed about 1780. An old English melody. The author of the music unknown. Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these ; But of all the world's brave heroes, there's none that can compare, With a tow, row row, row row, row row, to the British grenadier. 214 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon-hall. Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal ; But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears. Sing tow, row row, row row, row row, to the British grenadiers. Then Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war, Brave Neptune with his trident, Apollo in his car, » And all the gods celestial, descending from their spheres. Behold with admiration the British grenadiers. Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades. Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand-grenades ; We throw them from the glacis about the Frenchman's ears, With a tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British grenadiers. And when the siege is over, we to the town repair. The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier, — Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who knows no doubts or fears, Then sing tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British grenadiers. Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the looped clothes. May they and their commanders live happy all their years. With a tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British grenadiers. THE SOLDIER'S DRINKING SONG. From the " Convivial Songster." The music by Handel, from the opera of " Scipio." Let's drink and sing. My brother- soldiers bold. To country and king, Like jolly hearts of gold ! If mighty George commands us we're ready to obey ; To fight the foe, alert we go where danger points the way. Nor wounds nor slaughter fright us. Nor thund'ring cannon balls ; Nor beds of down delight us Like scaling city walls. i PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 215 With sword and gun We'll make the foe to fly : No Britons dare to run, — All Britons dare to die. And when at length returning, with honour, gold, and scars. We cheerful come to view the home we left for foreign wars. Again we'll meet the danger. Again renew the fight, And tell the list'ning stranger What foes we put to flight. Then drink and sing. My brother soldiers bold, To country and to king, Like jolly hearts of gold ! While merry fifes so cheerful our sprightly marches play. While drums alarm our bosoms warm, they drive our cares away. Content we follow glory. Content we seek a name ; And hope in future story To swell our country's fame. THE BRAVE MEN OF KENT. Tom D'Uhfey. Sung to an old English melody ; author unknown. When Harold was invaded. And, failing, lost liis crown, And Norman William waded Through gore to pull him down ; When counties round, with fear profound. To mend their sad condition. And lands to save, base homage gave. Bold Kent made no submission. Sing, sing in praise of men of Kent, So loyal, brave, and free : 'Mongst Britain's race, if one surpass, A man of Kent is he. 216 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. The hardy stout freeholders. That knew the tyrant near. In girdles and on shoulders A grove of oaks did bear ; Whom when he saw in battle draw. And thought how he might need 'em, He turn'd his arms, allow' d their terms Replete with noble freedom. Then sing in praise, &c. And when, by barons wrangling, Hot faction did increase, And vile intestine jangling Had banish' d England's peace. The men of Kent to battle went. They fear'd no wild confusion. But, join'd with York, soon did the work. And made a bless'd conclusion. Then sing in praise, &c. The gen'rous, brave, and hearty. All o'er the shire we find ; And for the low-church party, They're of the brightest kind. For king and laws they prop the cause Which high-chvirch has confounded ; They love with height the moderate right, But hate the crop-ear'd Roundhead. Tlien sing in praise, &c. The promis'd land of blessing. For our forefathers meant. Is now in right possessing. For Canaan sure was Kent : The dome at Knoll, by fame enroll 'd. The church at Canterbury, The hops, the beer, the cherries here. May fill a famous story. Sing, sing in praise of men of Kent, So loyal, brave, and free : 'Mongst Britain's race, if one surpa: A man of Kent is he. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 217 ADDITIONAL STANZAS. From the " Humming Bird." Canterbury, 1786. Augmented still in story, Our ancient fame shall rise. And Wolfe, in matchless glory. Shall soaring reach the skies ; Quebec shall own, with great renown, And France, with awful wonder ; His deeds can tell how great he fell. Amidst his god-like thunder. Then sing in praise of men of Kent, All loyal, brave, and free : Of Britain's race, if one surpass, A man of Kent is he. And though despotic power With iron reins may check. Our British sons of freedom Their parent cause will back : With voice and pen they forthwith stand. Brave Sawbridge soon will tell them. That virtue's cause and British laws. Bold men of Kent won't fail them. Then sing in praise of men of Kent, All loyal, brave, and free : Of Britain's race, if one surpass, A man of Kent is he. When royal George commanded Militia to be raised. The French would sure have landed. But for such youths as these : Their oxen stall, and cricket-ball. They left for martial glory ; The Kentish lads shall win the odds Your fathers did before you. Then sing in praise of men of Kent, All loyal, brave, and free : Of Britain's race, if one surpass, A man of Kent is he. These stanzas were added in honour of General Wolfe, a native of the county of Kent. 218 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. A SOLDIER, A SOLDIER FOR ME. From the "Humming Bird." Canterbury, 1786. A SOLDIER, a soldier, a soldier for me — His arms are so bright. And he looks so upright, So gallant and gay, "When he trips it away, "Who is so nice and well-powder' d as he? Sing ruh a dub rub ; a dub rub a dub ; a dub a dub dub dub ;- Thunder and plunder ! A soldier, a soldier, a soldier for me. Each morn when we see him upon the parade, He cuts such a flash. With his gorget and sash. And makes such ado, With his gaiter and queue. Sleeping or waking, who need be afraid ? Sing rub a dub, &c. Or else when he's mounted, so trim and so tall, With broadsword in hand. The whole town to command. Such capers, such prances. Such ogling, such glances. Our hearts gallop ofP, and are left at Whitehall, Sing taran tantaran ; tantaran tantaran tan — Trumpet and thump it, — A soldier, a soldier, a soldier for me ! A soldier,, &c. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 219 A KNAPSACK AND A CHEERFUL HEART. The music, founded by Charles Dibdix upon the old Cathedral chant, " John, come, kiss me now," appears in the " Convivial Songster," 1780. We soldiers drink, we soldiers sing, We fight our foes, and love our king, With all our wealth two words impart, A knapsack and a cheerful heart. While the merry, merry fife and drum Bid intruding care be dumb. Sprightly still we sing and play, And make dull life a holiday. Though we march, or though we halt, Or though the enemy we assault ; Though we're cold, or though we're warm. Or though the sleeping town we storm. Still the merry, merry fife and drum, &c. Are lasses kind, or are they shy. Or do they pout they know not why ? While full the knapsack, light the heart. Content we meet, content we part. For the merry, merry fife and drum, &c. We sigh not for the toils of state ; We ask not of the rich or great ; For, be we rich, or be we poor, Are purses full, or duns at door : Still the merry, merry fife and drum, &c. Thus we drink, and thus we sing ; We beat our foes, and love our king. While all our wealth two words impart, A knapsack and a cheerful heart. For the merry, merry fife and drum Bid intruding care be dumb. Sprightly still we sing and play. And make dull life a hoUday. 220 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. THE SOLDIER. W. Smyth. From Aikin's " Vocal Poetry," 1810. What dreaming drone was ever blest. By thinking of the morrow ? To-day be mine — I leave the rest To all the fools of sorrow ; Give me the mind that mocks at care. The heart, its own defender ; The spirits that are light as air. And never beat surrender. On comes the foe — to arms — to arms- We meet — 'tis death or glory ; 'Tis victory in all her charms. Or fame in Britain's story ; Dear native land ! thy fortunes frown, And ruffian's would enslave thee ; Thou land of honour and renown, Who would not die to save thee ? 'Tis you, 'tis I, that meets the ball ; And me it better pleases In battle with the brave to fall. Than die of cold diseases ; Than drivel on in elbow-chair With saws and tales unheeded, A tottering thing of aches and care. Nor longer loved nor needed. But thou — dark is thy flowing hair. Thy eye with fire is streaming, And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air. Health sits in triumph beaming ; Then, brother soldier, fill the wine. Fill high the wine to beauty ; Love, friendship, honour, all are thine. Thy country and thy duty. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 221 THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND. From Thomas Dibdin's " Cabinet." The music arranged by W. Reeve, from the old English melody of the " Rogue's March. Daddy Neptune, one day, to Freedom did say, If ever I lived upon dry land. The spot I should hit on would be little Britain ! Says Freedom, "Why, that's my own island!" Oh, 'tis a snug little island ! A right little, tight little island ! Search the globe round, none can be found So happy as this little island. Julius Csesar the Roman, who yielded to no man. Came by water — he couldn't come by land ; And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn'd their backs on. And all for the sake of our island. Oh, what a snug little island ! They'd all have a touch at the island ! Some were shot dead, some of them fled, And some stay'd to hve on the island. Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman, Cried, " D — n it, I never liked my land ! It would be much more handy to leave this Normandy, And live on your beautiful island." Says he, " 'Tis a snug little island : Shan't us go to visit the island ? " Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump, And he kick'd up a dust in the island. But party deceit help'd the Norman's to beat ; Of traitors they managed to buy land ; By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne'er had been lick'd. Had they stuck to the king of their island. Poor Harold, the king of our island. He lost both his life and his island. That's all very true : what more could he do ? Like a Briton he died for his island ! 222 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. The Spanish Armada set out to invade — a, 'Twill sure, if they ever come nigh land. They couldn't do less than tuck up Queen Bess, And take their full swing on the island. Oh, the poor queen of the island ! The dons came to plunder the island ; But snug in her hive the queen was alive, And "buzz " was the word of the island. These proud pufF'd-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes Of our wealth ; but they hardly could spy land. When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck And stoop to the lads of the island ! Huzza for the lads of the island ; The good wooden walls of the island ; Devil or don, let them come on, Jtnd see how they'd come off the island ! Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune. In each saying, "This shall be my land;" Should the "Army of England," or all it could bring, land. We'd shew 'em some play for the island. We'd fight for our right to the island ; We'd give them enough of the island ; Invaders should just bite once at the dust, But not a bit more of the island. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Thomas Campbell. The music by T. Attwood. Our bugles sang trvice, 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. WTien reposing that night on my pallet of straw. By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain. In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 223 Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track, 'Twas in autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my father, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft In hfe's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. And knew the sweet strains that the corn reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends ncA'er to part ; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. And wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. " Stay, stay with us, rest — thou art weary and worn ! " And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay ; But sorrow return' d with the dawning of morn. And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away ! UPON THE PLAINS OF FLANDERS. Thomas Campbell. Air, " The British. Grenadiers." Upon the plains of Flanders, Our fathers long ago. They fought like Alexanders Beneath old Marlborough ; And still in fields of conquest Our valour bright has shone, With Wolfe and Abercrombie, And Moore and Wellington. Our plumes have waved in combats That ne'er shall be forgot. Where many a mighty squadron Reel'd backwards from our shot. In charges with the bayonet. We lead our bold compeers ; But Frenchmen like to stay not For British grenadiers. 224 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Once boldly at Vimiera They hoped to play their parts. And sing fal lira, lira, To cheer their drooping hearts.* But English, Scotch, and Paddy-whacks, We gave three hearty cheers. And the French soon turn'd their backs To the British grenadiers. At St. Sebastiano's, And Badajos's town. Where, raging like volcanoes. The shell and shot came down, With courage never wincing, We scaled the ramparts high. And waved the British ensign In glorious victory. And what could Buonaparte, With all his cuirassiers. In battle do, at Waterloo, With British grenadiers ? Then ever sweet the drum shall beat That march unto our ears, Whose martial roll awakes the soul Of British grenadiers. * At Vimiera the Frencli ranks advanced singing ; the British only cheered. — Mte by Thomas Campbell; quoted m his Life by Dr. Beattie. Of the prodig-ies of British valour performed on this glorious field (Waterloo) Campbell spoke and wrote with enthusiastic admiration ; but among the tributary stanzas thus inspired, there was nothing perhaps more characteristic in style and spiiit than the foregoing.— it/e of Thomas Campbell, by Dr. Beattie. t-^>'^>-= SPORTING SONGS. MM S a people, the English are pre-eminently fond of sporting, and have been so from the earliest times ; but this passion has left few enduring traces upon our poeti- cal literature. Somerville's "Chase" is the only sporting poem the language can boast, and it is a poem deserving of more than the niggardly praise which Dr. Johnson has bestowed upon it in his " Lives of the Poets." But beyond this, there is little or nothing to shew in our poetry of which sporting literature can 226 SPORTING SONGS. justly be proud, unless it be an occasional description in the rhymed romances of Sir Walter Scott. The roaring choruses of "Hark forward!" or "Tantivy," or "Tantarara." or, worse than all, "Yoicks! Tally-ho!" were doubtless exciting enough at sportsmen's festivals in the bygone days ; although they do not look well in print, and have no attractions for the mere reader. It requires a good singer, a loud chorus of willing voices, and the contagious enthusiasm of a large company, to render such roystering ballads at all agreeable, or even tolerable, and paper and prmt invariably rob them of their attractions. Of all such attempts descriptive of the plea- sures of field-sports, scarcely one has reached mediocrity, whether as regards music, style, or sentiment. They have either called forth the just condemnation of the lover of music, or a smile of derision in the sportsman, from their want of characteristic terms and descriptions, and very often a feeling bordering on disgust in the well-educated man from the coarseness of their expressions. It is easy to account for this by the fact that such compositions principally date from a period when the minds and habits of men were as coarse as their compositions ; but it is difficult to account for the equally certain fact that no recent attempts have been made to take up the same subject by those capable of producing music and poetry of a higher order. The Squire "Western of the novehst is a character which is no longer the prototype of the sportsman. The follower of the chase in 1/00 was coarse in manner and mind, but it was not the chase that made him so. The coarseness was in society generally ; for if there were Squire Westerns in those days, there were also Commodore Trunnions and Parson Trullabers. The state of the roads rendered a journey from Devonshire or Yorkshire an under- taking of quite as much trouble and necessary preparation as is now a trip by the overland route to India. In those days the foxhunter came once in half-a-dozen years, or perhaps once in his life, to see the sights of London ; now he goes into the country for a few months to enjoy the chase — he is at the cover side at eleven in the forenoon, and often amid all the refinements of the opera by eleven at night. The real poetry of field-sports yet remains to be written. The only songs we have upon the subject SPORTING SONGS. 227 are for the most part the effusions of rude writers, and the home- hest diction seems to have been considered the most appropriate, or at all events the most likely to please the rough and ready- gentlemen vi^ho a hundred or a hundred and fifty years ago leaped five-bar gates, and lived their lives among hounds and horses. Even Dibdin, so admirable in his sea-songs, became coarse when he sang of the sports of the field. English songs in praise of angling, cricketing, and skating, are, as literary compositions, of a much more refined class than the other sporting lyrics. Mr. Armiger, of Melton Mowbray, who published, in 1830, a collection of songs and ballads relating to racing, hunting, cours- ing, shooting, hawking, angling, and archery, has selected no less than three hundred lyrics of these various kinds ; which number, great as it is, is far from having exhausted the subject ; for, wdtli a view of presenting an original compilation, he purposely excluded from it every song to be found in a similar volume, published in 1810, under the title of "Songs of the Chase," containing up- wards of three hundred and fifty songs upon the same topics. The object of his volume was to shew the groundlessness of " the complaint frequently made at the festive board of a dearth of sporting songs," an object in which he most undoubtedly succeeded, although his collection might be cited to prove what neither he nor the previous editor intended to shew — a dearth of genius in writers of this class. The selection here made includes some of the most ancient sporting songs in the language — valuable on that account, if on no other — and also some of the most popular of later compositions. 228 SPORTING SONGS. THE THREE ARCHERS. We three archers be. Rangers that rove throughout the north country. Lovers of ven'son and hberty. That value not honours or money. "We three good fellows be, That never yet ran from three times three, Quarterstaff, broadsword, or bowmanry ; But give us fair play for our money. We three merry men be. At a lass or a glass under greenwood tree ; Jocundly chanting our ancient glee. Though we had not a penny of money. This song, of which the editor has not been able to trace the first appearance, is modelled upon the style of, or is a parody upon, " The Soldiers's Glee, from the •' Douteromdia." See "Military and Patriotic Song-s." SPORTING SONGS. 229 ROBIN, LEND TO ME THY BOW. From a curious musical miscellany, called, " Pamelia," 4to, Lond. 1609. The sons:, however, is mucli older than the date of the book, being frequently mentioned by Elizabethan writers. Now, Robin, lend to me thy bow. Sweet Robin, lend to me thy bow ; For I must now a-hunting with my ladye go. With my sweet ladye go. And whither will thy ladye go ? Sweet Wilkin tell it unto me ; And thou shalt have my hawk, my hound, and eke my bow. To wait on thy ladye. My lady will to Uppingham,* To Uppingham, forsooth, will she ; And I myself appointed for to be the man To wait on my ladye. * A market-town in Rutlandshire. 230 SPORTING SONGS. Adieu, good Wilkin, all beshrewd. Thy hunting nothing pleaseth me ; Bvit yet beware thy babbling hounds stray not abroad. For ang'ring of thy ladye. My hounds shall be led in the line. So well I can assure it thee ; Unless by view of strain some pursue I may find. To please my sweet ladye. With that the ladye she came in. And wili'd them all for to agree ; For honest hunting never was accounted sin, Nor never shall for me. THE ANGLER. John Chalkhill. Oh ! the gallant fisher's life. It is the best of any ; 'Tis full of pleasure, void ot strife. And 'tis beloved by many ; SPORTING SONGS. 231 Other joys Are but toys ; Only this Lawful is ; For our skill Breeds no ill. But content and pleasure. In a morning up we rise Ere Aurora's peeping. Drink a cup to wash our eyes, Leave the sluggard sleeping ; Then we go. To and fro, With our knacks At our backs. To sixch streams As the Thames, If we have the leisure. When we please to walk abroad For our recreation, In the fields is our abode. Full of delectation ; Where in a brook, With a hook. Or a lake, Fish we take ; There we sit For a bit. Till we fish entangle. We have gentles in a horn. We have paste and worms too ; We can watch both night and morn. Suffer rain and storms too ; None do here Use to swear ; Oaths do fray Fish away ; We sit still. Watch our quill : Fishers must not wrangle. 232 SPORTING SONGS. If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter. To an oaser hedge we get, For a friendly shelter : "Where, in a dyke, Perch or pike. Roach or dace. We do chase. Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging ; We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow. That defends us from a shower. Making earth our pillow ; Where we may Think and pray. Before death Stops our breath : Other joys Are but toys. And to be lamented. OLD TOWLER. Anonymous. Eighteenth century. The music by W. Shield. Bright chanticleer proclaims the dawn, And spangles deck the thorn. The lowing herds now quit the lawn, The lark springs from the corn : Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng, Fleet Towler leads the cry. Arise the burden of my song, — This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, chevy ! Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy ! Hark ! hark ! tantivy ! This day a stag must die. SPORTING SONGS. 233 The cordial takes its merry round, The laugh and joke prevail, The huntsman blows a jo\'ial sound, The dogs snuflf up the gale ; The upland wilds they sweep along. O'er fields, through brakes they fly ; The game is rous'd ; too true the song — This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, &c. Poor stag ! the dogs thy haunches gore. The tears run down thy face. The huntsman's pleasure is no more, His joys were in the chase ; Alike the gen'rous sportsman burns To win the blooming fair, But yet he honours each by turns. They each become his care. With a hev, ho, &c. THE HIGH-METTLED RACER. Charles Dibdix. See the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun. What confusion, — but hear! — "I'll bet you, sir!" — "Done, done!" A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near. Lords, hawkers, and jockeys, assail the tir'd ear ; While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest. Pamper' d prancing, and pleased, his head touching his breast. Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate. The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate. Next Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush ; They run him at length, and they have him at bay. And by scent or by view cheat a long tedious day ; 234 SPORTING SONGS. While alike born for sports in the field or the course. Always sure to come thorough — a staunch and fleet horse ; And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, The high-mettled racer is in at the death. Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of the stud. Lame, spavin' d, and wind-gall 'd, but yet with some blood ; While knowing postilions his pedigree trace. Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race ; And what matches he'd won to the ostler's count o'er. As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door ; Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad. The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road. At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late, Bow'd down by diseases, he bends to his fate ; Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill. Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour glass stands still ; And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view In the very same cart which he yesterday drew ; Wliilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds, The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds. SPORTING SONGS. 235 WHEN A SHOOTING WE DO GO. Anonymous. Date uncertain. Eighteenth centurj'. The season's in for partridges, Let's take our guns and dogs ; It sha'nt be said that we're afraid Of quagmires or of bogs. When a shooting we do go, do go, do go. When a shooting we do go. Now Flora she doth beat the scent, And after follows Phillis ; Through hedge and brake the way let's take. For all our aim to kill is. When a shooting, &c. And should success attend us. What pleasure it will prove ; Let's charge, and prime, and lose no time. While through the fields we rove, When a shooting, &c. 236 SPORTING SONGS. It is not for ourselves we shoot, 'Tis to oblige our neighbours ; And when they eat, they may debate On the produce of our labours, When a shooting, &c. Of shooting, then, let us partake ; What pastime is so pleasant ? The partridge gone, we'll charge each gun. And so proceed to pheasant. When a shooting, &c. And when those seasons they are o'er. Perchance, if we've good luck. We'll take the chase, and never cease Till we have shot a buck, When a shooting, &c. How sumptuously we then shall feast. On ven'son steep'd in wine ; On dainties rare, how we shall fare. Like Alexanders dine ! When a shooting, &c. In friendship and in harmony. Let's join in social bands ; And try who most his friend can toast. And so unite ovir hands. And a shooting, &c. The chorus or burden of this and the following sonsf appears to have been a great favourite with the popular writers of the last century. It has been reproduced in an almost countless number of songs, upon every variety of subject. The liberality of the sportsmen of former days, mentioned in the fourth stanza, might well be imitated by their mercenary successors. ^^5^:9H SPORTING SONGS. 237 A HUNTING WE WILL GO. Henry Fielding, born 1707, died 1754. The dusky night rides down the sky. And ushers in the morn ; The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn. And a hunting we will go. The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay : " My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows ; You cannot hunt to-day." Yet a hunting we will go. Away they fly to 'scape the rout. Their steeds they soundly switch ; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out. And some thrown in the ditch. Yet a hunting we will go. Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, And sweeps across the vale ; And when the hounds too near he spies. He drops his bushy tail. Then a hunting we will go. Fond echo seems to like the sport. And join the jovial cry ; The woods, the hills the sound retort. And music fills the sky. When a hunting we do go. At last his strength to faintness worn, Poor Reynard ceases flight ; Then hungry, homeward we return. To feast away the night. And a drinking we do go. 238 SPORTING SONGS. Ye jovial hunters, in the morn Prepare then for the chase ; Eise at the sounding of the horn, And health with sport embrace. When a hunting we do go. There arc several versions of this song, of various degrees of length and of merit. " This song," says Mr. Chappell, in his collection of national English airs, " was ori- ginally to the tune of 'A begging we will go' (1660)." The words by Fielding are contained in his ballad opera of " Don Quixote in England," but have been since some- what altered. TOM MOODY. Words by Andrew Cherry. The music by Wm. Shield. You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ; The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell ; A more able sportsman ne'er follow' d a hound Through a country well known to him fifty miles round. No hound ever open'd with Tom near the wood. But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good ; And all vrith attention would eagerly mark. When he cheer' d up the pack, " Hark ! to Rookwood, hark ! hark ! High ! — wind him ! and cross him ! Now, Rattler, boy !— Hark ! " Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's -green drest. Supported poor Tom to "an earth" made for rest; His horse, which he styled his Old Soul, next appear' d. On whose forehead the brush of his last fox was rear'd ; Whip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound. And here and there foUow'd an old straggling hound. Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace. Nor the welkin resound to his burst in the chase ! With " High over ! — now press him ! Tally-ho !— Tally-ho ! " Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath ; "Since T see you're resolv'd to be in at the death. SPORTING SONGS. 239 One favour bestow — 'tis the last I shall crave, — Give a rattling view-halloo thrice over my grave ; And unless at that warning I lift up my head, My boys you may fairly conclude I am dead ! " Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the sky. For every voice join'd in the tally-ho cry, Tally-ho ! Hark forward ! Tally-ho! Tally-ho!" THE CRICKETER. Anonymous. Eighteenth Century. To live a life free from gout, pain, or phthisic. Athletic employment is found the best physic ; The nerves are by exercise harden' d and strengthen' d. And vigour attends it, by which life is lengthen' d. Derry down, &c. What conduces to health deserves recommendation, 'Twill entail a strong race on the next generation ; And of all the field-games ever practised or known. That cricket stands foremost each Briton must own. Derry down, &c. Let dull pensive souls boast the pleasure of angling, And o'er ponds and brooks be eternally dangling ; Such drowsy worm-killers are fraught with delight. If but once in a week they obtain a fair bite. Derry down, &c. The cricketer, noble in mind as in merit, A taste for oppression can never inherit ; A stranger to swindling, he never would wish To seduce by false baits and betray a poor fish. Derry down, &c. No stings of remorse hurts the cricketer's mind. To innocent animals never unkind. 240 SPORTING SONGS. The guiltless his doctrine is ever to spare, hare. Derry down, &c. Averse to the hunting or killing the hare. To every great duke, and to each noble lord. Let each fill his glass with most hearty accord ; And to all brother knights, whether absent or present, Drink health and success, from the peer to the peasant. Derry down, 8zc. FAR AWAY. From " Songs of the Chase," 1810. The portals of the east divide ; The orient dawn is just descried. Mild and grey : The starry fires elude the sight ; The shadows fly before the light Far away. Now hark ! the woodland haunt is found ! For now the merry bugles sound Their sylvan lay : As each sweet measure floats along. Sweet echo wakes her mimic song Far away. The stag now rous'd right onward speeds ; O'er hill and dale, o'er moor and meads. He's fain to stray ; His flight the shouting peasants view ; His steps the dasliing hounds pursue Far away. All day untir'd, his route we trace. Exulting in the joyous chase Of such a day ! At length, at mild eve's twilight gleam. He's taken in the valley stream Far away. SPORTING SONGS. 241 THE BOY IN YELLOW. From " Songs of the Chase," 1810. "When first I strove to win the prize, I felt my youthful spirits rise ; Hope's crimson flush illumed my face. And all my soul was in the race. When weigh' d and mounted, 'twas my pride Before the starting-post to ride ; My rivals drest in red and green, But I in simple yellow seen. In stands around fair ladies swarm, And mark with smiles my slender form ; Their lovely looks new ardour raise, For beauty's smile is merit's praise ! The flag is dropt — the sign to start — Away more fleet than winds we dart, And though the odds against me lay, The boy in yellow vnns the day ! 242 SPORTING SONGS. Though now no more we seek the race, I trust the jockey keeps his place ; For still to win the prize I feel An equal wish, an equal zeal ; And still can beauty's smile impart Delightful tremors through this heart : Indeed, I feel it flutter now — Yes, while I look, and while I bow ! My tender years must vouch my truth — For candour ever dwells with youth ; Then sure the sage might well believe A face like mine could ne'er deceive. If here you e'er a match should make. My life upon my luck I'll stake ; And 'gainst all odds, I think you'll say, The boy in yellow wins the day. NOW NIGHT HER DUSKY MANTLE FOLDS. From " Songs of the Chase," 1810. Now Night her dusky mantle folds. The larks are soaring high ; And morn her golden shaft has shot, To gild the eastern sky ; We sportsmen scour the distant plains, The hounds pursue their prey ; While echoes round the valleys sound. Hark forward, hark away ! O'er mountain top and river deep The fox for shelter flies. And cowering into coverts strong. His cunning vainly tries ; His death proclaims the sportsman's joy, The dogs they seize their prey ; AVhile echoes round the valleys sound. Hark forward, hark away ! SPORTING SONGS. 243 HUNTING, LOVE, AND WINE. From " Songs of the Cbase," 1810. Say, what is wealth without delight .' 'Tis dross, 'tis dirt, 'tis useless quite ; Better be poor and taste of joy, Than thus your wasted time employ. Then let a humble son of song Repeat those pleasures most divine ; The joys that life's best hours prolong Are those of hunting, love, and wine. For hunting gives us jocund health. We envy not the miser's wealth. But chase the fox or timid hare, And know delight he cannot share. Then home at eve we cheerly go. Whilst round us brightest comforts shine With joy shut in, we shut out woe. And sing of hunting, love, and wine. Mild love attunes the soul to peace. And bids the toiling sportsman cease ; This softer passion's pleasing pow'r With bliss ecstatic wings the hour ; It soothes the mind to sweetest rest. Or savage thoughts might there entwine ; Thus he alone is truly blest Whose joys are hunting, love, and wine. 'Tis wine exhilarates the heart When sinking under sorrow's smart ; 'Tis that can ease the wretch's woe, And heighten every bliss we know. But wine's abuse makes man a beast, Be all with moderation mine ; Life will appear one endless feast, Wliile blest with hunting, love, and wine. 244 SPORTING SONGS. ^' j5^^ -^^ RINGWOOD. From " Songs of the Chase," 1810. Ye darksome woods where echo dwells. Where every bud with freedom swells To meet the glorious day : The morning breaks ; again rejoice, And with old Ringwood's well-known voice Bid tuneful echo play. We come, ye groves, ye hills, we come, The vagrant fox shall hear his doom. And dread our jovial train. The shrill horn sounds, the courser flies. While every sportsman joyful cries, " There's Ringwood's voice again ! " Ye meadows, hail the coming throng ; Ye peaceful streams that wind along, Repeat the Hark-away ! Far o'er the downs, ye gales, that sweep. The daring oak that crowns the steep. The roaring peal convey. SPORTIXG SONGS. 245 The chiming notes of cheerful hounds. Hark ! how the hollow dale resounds ; The sunny hills how gay ! But where' s the note, hrave dog, like thine ? Then urge the steed, the chorus join, " 'Tis Ringwood leads the way. THE SKATER'S SONG. From Armiger's " Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet." This hleak and frosty morning. All thoughts of danger scorning. Our spirits brightly flow ; We're all in a glow, Through the sparkling snow. While a-skating we go. With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la. To the sound of the merry horn. From right to left we're plying. Swifter than winds we're flying ; Spheres on spheres surrounding. Health and strength abounding. In circles we sleep : Our poise still we keep. Behold how we sweep The face of the deep ! With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la. To the sound of the merry horn. Great Jove looks on us smihng. Who thus the time beguiling : Though the waters he seal. Still we row on oui keel. Our weapons are steel. And no danger we feel, With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, To the sound of the merry horn. 246 SPORTING SONGS. See, how our train advances, See how each skater lances ; Health and strength aboundmg, While horns and oboes sounding ; The Tritons shall blow Their conch-shells below. And their beards fear to shew, "While a-skating we go, With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la. To the sound of the merry horn. Written for the Edinburgh Skating Club. HARK ! THE HOLLOW WOODS RESOUNDING. I'rom Armiger's " Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet." Set as a glee by J. Stafford Smith. Hark ! the hollow woods resounding Echo to the hunter's cry ; Hark ! how all the vales surrounding To his cheering voice reply. Now swift o'er hills aspiring He pursues the gay deliglit. Distant woods and vales retiring Seem to vanish from his sight. Flying still, and still pursuing. See the fox, the hounds, the men ; Cunning cannot save from ruin. Far from refuge, wood, and den. Now they kill him, homeward hie him. To a joA-ial night's repast ; Thus no sorrow e'er comes nigh them. Health continues to the last. Hark ! the hollow woods resounding Echo to the hunter's cry ; Hark ! how all the vales surrounding To his cheering voice reply. There are several versions of this song. SPORTING SONGS. 247 THE TUNEFUL SOUND OF ROBIN'S HORN. Anonymous. Eighteenth, century. The tuneful sound of Robin's horn Hath welcom'd thrice the blushing morn; Then haste, Clorinda, haste away, And let us meet the rising day. And through the greenwood let us go, With arrows keen and bended bow ; There breathe the mountain's fresh'ning gale, Or scent the blossoms in the Aale. For Nature now is in her prime, 'Tis now the lusty summer time, When grass is green, and leaves are long. And feather' d warblers tune their song. At noon, in some sequester' d glade. Beneath some oak tree's ample shade. We'll feast, nor envy all the fare Which courtly dames and barons share. See, see in yonder glen appear In wanton herds the fallow-deer ; Then haste, my love, oh, haste away ! And let us meet the rising day. THE FOX-HUNTER'S HALL. . Anonj-mous. Eighteenth century. Ye fox-hunters, stag, ay, and hare-hunters too, Whose aim is to rub off the furrows of care, Like Nimrods the fleet-footed brusher pursue. And taste of the sweets of the morn-breathiug air ! Come hither, come hither, at jollity's call, And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! To friendship, true friendship, the toast shall go round, To love and the pleasure derived from the chase ; For while love and friendship in union are found, What bliss can of hunting, fox-hunting, take place ? Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call, And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! 248 SPORTING SONGS. The breeze of the morn, hke the Up-kiss of love. Invites us to hail it as something divine ! While the sound of the horn, like a harp from above. Awakens a joy for which thousands repine. Then hither, come hither, at jolhty's call, And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! What's life without love ? and what's gold without health ? A phantom, a fly-trap, or dream at the best ; While health, love, and friendship, are treasures of wealth. And those that possess them with Paradise blest. Then hither, come hither, at jollitj^'s call, And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall ! THE HEALTH OF SPORTING. Anonymous. Eighteenth century. Keep silence, good folks, and I pi-ay you attend. For I'm no common singer you'll find in the end. Tally-ho! Tally-ho! I'm a hunting physician, and cure ev'ry ill. Disorders and pains, without bolus or pill. Tally-ho, &c. Let the man who's (hsturb'd by misfortune and care Away to the woodlands and vallevs repair. Tally-ho, &c. Let him hear but the notes of the sweet swelling horn. With the hounds in full cry, and his troubles are gone. Tally-ho, &c. Let the lovers who secretly simper and sigh. And droop at the sight of a blue or black eye ; — Tally-ho, &c. Brush up to 'em boldly and try 'em again. For women love sportsmen, as sportsmen love them. Tally-ho, &c. Should you chance to be bless' d with a termagant wife. Who instead of the jov, is the plague of your life ; Tally-ho, &c. SPORTING SONGS. 249 When madam her small-shot begins to let go, Why draw on your boots, and away, tally-ho ! Tally-ho, &c. Ye poor forlorn devils, oppressed with the hip. Who thus the sweet moments of pleasure let slip ; Tally-ho, &c. As soon as the whimsy your fancy surrounds. You have nothing to do but get after the hounds. Tally-ho, &c. Come here, ye old codgers, whose nerves are unstrung. Come follow the hounds, and vou'll hunt vourselves young. Tally-ho, &c. 'Twill cure the short cough and rheumatic pain ; Do but cry tally-ho, and you're all young again. Tally-ho, &c. If Death, that old poacher, to smuggle you strives, Get astride on your saddle, and hunt for your lives : — Tally-ho, &c. Never heed his grim looks if your gelding can go ; You cannot be caught while you cry tally-ho. Taliy-ho, &c. THE HUNTSMAN'S DIRGE. The smiling morn may light the sky, And joy may dance in beauty's eye, Aurora's beams to see : The mellow horn's inspiring sound May call the blithe companions round. But who shall waken thee, Ronald? Thou ne'er wilt hear the mellow horn. Thou ne'er wilt quaif the breath of morn. Nor join thy friends with glee ; No glorious sun shall gild thy day. And beauty's fascinating ray No more shall shine on thee, Ronald ! 250 SPORTING SONGS. -.^.A^f;;SN'.'- W^\KEN, LORDS x\ND LADIES GAY. S>iR Walter Scott. The music by Dk. Johx Clarke of Hereford. Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here. With horse, and hawk, and hunting spear ! Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling. Merrily, merrily, mingle they, " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain grey, 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." SPORTING SONGS. 251 Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the greenwood haste away ; "We can shew you where he lies. Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; We can shew 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, Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk ? Think of this, and rise with day. Gentle lords and ladies gay. HUNTSMAN, REST? Sir Walter Scott, The music by Dr. John Clarke. Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done. While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun Bugles here shall sound reveille. Huntsman, rest! Sleep ! the deer is in his den. Sleep ! the hounds are by thee lying, Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest ! Huntsman rest ! thy chase is done. Think not of the rising sun, For at morning to assail ye Here no bugles sound reveille. Huntsman, rest! T is worth attention," says Dr. Percy, in his " Rehcs of EngUsh Poetry," " that the Enghsh have more songs and hallads on the subject of madness than any of their neighbours. Whether there be any truth in the insinuation that we are more hable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this class to our writers, we certainly do not find the same in the printed collections of French and Italian songs." Percy presents his readers with six mad songs. SPORTING SONGS. 253 as specimens of the English taste for this pecuhar class of com- positions. Of those which follow in the present collection only- two are included in his " Relics of English Poetry." It is certainly remarkable how much the genius of English writers loves to dally with, to philosophise upon, and to adorn the subject of madness. Of all Shakspeare's plays, Hamlet is midoubtedly the most popular, and it is difficult to decide whether the half- craze of Hamlet himself, or the utter prostration of the mind of the luckless Ophelia, is the more painfully and irresistibly attrac- . tive, or which of the two excites the most sympathy. The ! snatches of song sung 'by the mad Ophelia invariable melt an English audience to tears ; and the terrible madness of Lear, whenever it is represented on the stage, touches a chord in every heart. Sir Walter Scott, in his matchless fictions, has also made powerful use of madness, and of that state of mind — not actual lunacy, but not far removed from it — when reason trembles on the balance, and the spectator or the reader watches with excited and painful curiosity the moment when the tottering intellect shall be finally overthrown, and the madness — which was more than suspected — shall be completely revealed. Many of our song-writers have from an early period availed themselves of the popular interest in subjects of this kind ; and musical composers have done their best to aid the efforts of song-writers in rendering them attractive. The literature of other countries, as Percy has remarked, offers no such examples, and we seek in vain among the songs of the northern or the southern nations of Europe for similar specimens. Even the genius of the Germans, so akin to our own, fails to cope with us in the delineation of the picturesque horrors and touching sorrows of the mad. If any allusion be made to the subject in the writings of the continental critics, it is but to give additional currency to the old joke about English- men, which Shakspeare has put into the mouth of the clown in Hamlet : Hamlet. Ay, marry ! why was he sent into England ? Clotcn. Why — because he was mad : he shall recover his wits there ; or if he do not, 'tis no great matter there. Ha7nlet. Why? Clown. 'Twill not be seen in hihi there : there the men are all as mad as he. Many modern French poets and critics think that our English 254 MAD SONGS. madness regularly returns witli the month of November, and that suicides in that month are as plentiful as strawberries in June, or blackberries in September. It is our " sky " that does it, if we are to believe the French theory, and Waterloo-bridge was built on purpose to accommodate ladies and gentlemen afflicted with the national malady, and to render suicide both facile and agreeable. " O Bedlam ! " exclaims Auguste Barbier, in his " Lazare :" — " Bedlam ! monument de crainte et de douleur, D'autres penetreront plus avant dans ta masse Quant a moi, je ne puis que d^tourner la face, Et dire que ton temple aux antres ^touffans Est digne pour ses dieux d'avoir de tels enfans, J^t que le ciel brumeux de la sombre Angleterre Peut servir largement de dome au sanctuaire." Leaving the French to their joke, and declining to speculate whether English madness be not perhaps the consequence of that great wit of which Pope speaks — " Great wit to madness surely is allied, And thin partitions do their bounds di^^de " — in which case the English nation might bear the gibes of their continental friends with more equanimity for the sake of the compliment involved : — the follovnng specimen^ of our ancient and modern lyrics of madness may be permitted to speak for themselves. MAD SONGS. 255 THE MAD MAID'S SONG. Robert Herrick, born 1591. Good-morrow to the day so fair, Good-morrow, sir, to you ; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair. Bedabbled all with dew. Good-morrow to this primrose too ; Good-morrow to each maid That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid. Ah, woe is me ; woe, woe is me ; Alack and well-a-day ! For pity, sir, find out that bee Which bore my love away. 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 hiin ; 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. 256 MAD SONGS. THE MAD LOVER. Alexander Broome, born 1620, died 1666. I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink, This many and many year ; A.nd those three are plagues enough, one would think. For one poor mortal to bear. 'Twas drink made me fall into love, iVnd love made me run into debt ; And though I have struggled and struggled and strove, I cannot get out of them yet. There's nothing but money can cure me, And rid me of all my pain ; 'Twill pay all my debts. And remove all my lets ; And my mistress that cannot endure me. Will love me, and love me again ; Then I'll fall to loving and drinking again. ! THE MAD SHEPHERDESS. My lodging is on the cold ground, And very hard is my fare ; But that which troubles me most is. The unkindness of my dear. Yet still I cry, Oh, turn, love. And I prithee, love, turn to me ; For thou art the man that I long for. And alack, what remedy ! I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then. And I'll marry thee with a rush ring ; My frozen hopes shall thaw then. And merrily we will sing. Oh, turn to me my dear love. And I prithee, love, turn to me ; For thou art the man who alone canst Procure my liberty. ft MAD SONGS. 257 But if thou wilt harden thy heart still, And be deaf to my pitiful moan. Then I must endure the smart still, And lie in my straw all alone ; ' Yet still I cry. Oh, turn, love. And I prithee, love, turn to me ; For thou art the man that alone art The cause of my misery. This sons [of which the air is claimed hoth hy the Scotch and the Irish, but which is undoubtedly English, and which has been rendered familiar to modern ears by the beau- tiful version in Moore's Irish Melodies—" Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,"] was introduced into Davenant's comedy of " The Rivals," 1668 ; but it Is probably still older. The phrase " to marry with a rush ring," is introduced ia the ancient ballad of " The Winchester Wedding :"— " And Tommy was loving to Kitty, And wedded her with a rush ring ;" meaning a marriage without the rites of religion, and to be dissolved at the will of the parties as easily as a rush ring may be broken. TOM A BEDLAM, OR MAD TOM. William Basse ; from " The English Dancing Master," Forth from my dark and dismal cell, Or from the dark abyss of hell, Mad Tom is come to view the world again, To see if he can cure his distemper'd brain. Fears and cares oppress my soul : Hark ! how the angry furies howl ; Pluto laughs, and Proserpine is glad. To see poor angry Tom of Bedlam bad. Through the world I wander night and day. To find my straggling senses ; In angry mood I meet old time, With his pentateuch of tenses. "WTien me he spies, away he flies. For time will stay for no man : R 258 MAD SONGS. In vain with cries I rend the skies, For pity is not common. Cold and comfortless I lie : Help ! help ! or else I die. Hark ! I hear Apollo's team, The carman 'gins to whistle ; Chaste Dian' bends her how. And the boar begins to bristle. Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackle. And knock off my troublesome shackle ; Bid Charles make ready his wain. To bring me my senses again. Last night I heard the dog-star bark ; Mars met Venus in the dark ; Limping Vulcan beat an iron bar. And furiously made at the god of war. Mars with his weapon laid about ; Limping Vulcan had got the gout ; His broad horns did so hang in his light. That he could not see to aim his blows aright. *o' Mercury, the nimble post of heaven. Stood still to see the quarrel ; Barrel-belly' d Bacchus, giant-like. Bestrode a strong beer-barrel ; To me he drank whole butts. Until he burst his guts ; But mine was ne'er the wider. Poor Tom is very dry — A little drink for charity. Hark ! I hear Actseon's hounds. The huntsman's whoop and hallo ; Ringwood, Rockwood, Jowler, Bowman, All the chase do follow. MAD SONGS. 259 The man in the moon drinks claret, Eats powder' (1 beef, turnip, and carrot ; But a cup of old Malaga sack Will fire the bush at his back. ( I " The words of the latter half of this song are not now sunp;. Another song, set by I George Bayden, also called ' Mad Tom,' has been ' stitched' upon it."— Chappell. The music of "Mad Tom" has been attributed generally to Henry rurcell, but it is not to be found in his " Orpheus Britannicus." THE DISTRACTED LOVER. Henry Caeey. I GO to the Elysian shade. Where sorrow ne'er shall wound me ; Where nothing shall my rest invade. But joy shall still surround me. I fly from Celia's cold disdain, From her disdain I fly ; She is the cause of all my pain. For her alone I the. Her eyes are brighter than the mid-day sun, Wlien he but half his radiant course has rmi. When his meridian glories gaily shine, And gild all nature with a warmth divine. See yonder river's flowing tide. Which now so full appears ; Those streams that do so swiftly glide Are nothing but my tears. There I have wept till I could weep no more, And curst my eyes, when they have wept their store ; Then, like the clouds, that rob the azure main, I've drain'd the flood to weep it back again. Pity my pains. Ye gentle swains ! Cover me with ice and snow ; I scorch, I burn, I flame, I glow ! Fairies tear me, Quickly bear me 260 MAD SONGS. To the dismal shades below ! Where yelling, and howling, And grumbling, and growling, Strike the ear with horrid woe. Hissing snakes. Fiery lakes. Would be a pleasure and a cure : Not all the hells Where Pluto dwells Can give such pains as I endure. To some peaceful plain convey me, On a mossy carpet lay me. Fan me with ambrosial breeze ; Let me die, and so have ease ! The "Distracted Lover" was written by Henry Carey, a celebrated composer of music at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and author of several little theatrical entertainments, which are enumerated in "The Companion to the Playhouse," &c. The sprightliness of this songster's fancy could not preserve him from a very melancholy catastrophe, which was effected by his own hand."— Percy. OLD MAD TOM. From "The Thrush," 1749. I'm old mad Tom, behold me ! My wits are quite unframed ; I'm mad, I'm sure, and pass all cure. And in hopes of being proclaim'd. I'll mount the frosty mountain, And there I'll skim the weather ; I'll pluck the rainbow from the sky. And I'll splice both ends together. I'll mount the stairs of marble, And there I'll fright the gipsies ; And I'll play at bowls with sun and moon. And win them T\ith eclipses. MAD SONGS. 263 To guard him from all dangers. How happy should I be ! For I love my love, because I know My love loves me. I'll make a strawy garland, I'll make it wondrous fine. With roses, lihes, daisies I'll mix the eglantine ; And I'll present it to my love When he returns from sea ; For I love my love, because I know My love loves me. Oh, if I were a httle bird To build upon his breast, Or if I were a nightingale To sing my love to rest ; To gaze upon his lovely eyes All my reward should be ; For I love my love, because I know My love loves me. Oh, if I were an eagle To soar into the sky ! I'd gaze around with piercing eyes Where I my love might spy ; But, ah ! unhappy maiden. That love you ne'er shall see : Yet I love my love, because I know My love loves me." Sheridan used the same melody for the air " Had I a heart for falsehood framed," and - Moore also for the air " The harp that once m Tara's halls." OH, FOR MY TRUE-LOVE! From " The Myrtle and the Vine," 1800. Down by the river there grows a green willow. Sing, oh ! for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! I'll weep out the night there, the bank for my pillow. And all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! 264 MAD SONGS. "When chill blows the wind, and tempests are beating, I'll count all the clouds as I mark them retreating, For true lovers' joys, well-a-day, are as fleeting ; Sing all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! Maids, come in pity, when I am departed, Sing, oh ! for my true-love, my true-love, oh I When dead on the bank I am found broken-hearted. And all for my true-love, my true-love, oh ! Make me a grave, all while the wind's blowing. Close to the stream where my tears once were flowing, And over my corpse keep the green willow growing, 'Tis all for my true-love, my true-love, oh I THE MAD GIRL'S SONG. Thomas Dibdin. From " The Last Lays of the Three Dibdins," 1834. Oh, take me to your arms, my love. For keen the winds doth blow ! Oh, take me to your arms, my love, For bitter is my woe ! She hears me not, she cares not. Nor will she list to me ; And here I lie in misery Beneath the willow-tree. I once had gold and silver ; I thought them without end ; I once had gold and silver ; I thought I had a friend. My wealth is lost, my friend is false. My love is stol'n from me ; And here I lie in misery Beneath the willow-tree. -/e MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. "William Shakspeare ; from "As you like it." The music by Dk. Arxe, Under the greenwood tree Who loves to he 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. 266 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. WINTER. William Sh-^kspeare ; from " Love's Labour lost." The music by Dr. Aene. "When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. And Tom bears logs into the hall. And milk comes frozen home in the pail ; When blood is nipt, and ways be foul. Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whoo ! Tu-whit ! tu-whoo ! a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow. And coughing drown the parson's saw. And birds sit brooding in the snow. And Marion's nose looks red and raw ; When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. Then nightly sings the staring owl. Tu-whoo ! Tu-whit ! tu-whoo ! a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. William Shakspeare ; from " As you like it." The music by Dr. Arne. 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, oh ! sing heigh, oh ! unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then heigh, oh ! the holly ! This life is most jolly. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS., 267 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky ; Thou 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 ! &c. YOUTH AND AGE. Set as a glee by J. R. Stevens, and as a trio by Sir H. R. Bisiror. Crabbed Age and Youth Cannot hve together ; Youth is full of pleasure — Age is full of care ; Youth like summer morn — Age like winter weather ; Youth like summer, brave — Age like winter, bare ; Youth is full of sport — Age's breath is short ; Youth is nimble, Age is lame, Youth is hot and bold — Age is weak and cold ; Youth is wild, and Age is tame ; Age, I do abhor thee — Youth, I do adore thee ! Oh, my love — my love is gone. Age, I do defy thee ! Oh, sweet shepherd, hie thee ; Methinks thou stay'st too long. "This song:," savs Bishop Percy, "is found in the little collection of Shakspeare's sonnets, entitled ' The Passionate 'Pilprrhn.' " In ' The Garland of the Good-will,' it is reprinted with the addition of four more such stanzas, but e\idently written by a meaner pen. 268 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS, IN PRAISE OF MELANCHOLY. Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly ! There's nought in this life sweet. If man were wise to see't, . But only melancholy ; Oh, sweetest melancholy I Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, A sigh that, piercing, mortifies, A look that's fasten' d to the ground, A tongue chain' d up without a somid ! Fountain-heads and pathless groves, — Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly hous'd save hats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan ! These are the sounds we feed upon ; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Notliing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. Milton was possibly under some obligations to this song- when he wrote his " II Pcnseroso." Hazlitt calls it " the perfection of this kind of writing." (Lectures on Dram. Lit. 1840, p. 208.) It is generally attributed to Fletcher, who introduced it in the play of " The Nice Valour," act iii. sc. 3 ; but the author was more probably Dr. William Strode. See " Notes and Queries," vol. i. 1 LOSS IN DELAYS. Robert Southwell, bom 15C2, died 159C. Shun delays, they breed remorse. Take thy time, while time is lent thee ; Creeping snails have weakest force, Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee : Good is best when soonest wrought. Lingering labour comes to nought. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 269 Hoist up sail while gale doth last. Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure ; Seek not time when time is past. Sober speed is wisdom's leisure : After-wits are dearly bought. Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought. Time wears all his locks before. Take thou hold upon his forehead ; When he flies he turns no more. And behind, his scalp is naked : Works adjourn' d have many stays. Long demurs breed new delays. Seek thy salve while sore is green. Fester' d wounds ask deeper lancing ; After-cures are seldom seen. Often sought, scarce ever chancing : Time and place give best advice. Out of season, out of price. PANGLORY'S WOOING SONG. Giles Fletcher, born 1588, died 1623. Love is the blossom where there blows Every thing that lives or grows ; Love doth make the heavens to move, And the sun doth burn in love : Love the strong and weak doth yoke. And makes the i\y climb the oak. Under whose shadows lions wild, Soften' d by love, grow tame and mild. Love no med'cine can appease ; He burns the fishes in the seas ; Not all the skill his wounds can stanch, Not all the sea his thirst can quench. Love did make the bloody spear Once a leafy coat to wear. 270 MISCELLANEOrS SONGS. "Wliile in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for loAe that sing and play ; And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me. Thy wooing shall thy wimiing be ! See, see the flowers that below Now fi-eshly as the morning blow. And of all, the virgin rose. That as bright Aurora shows. How they all unleaved die Losing their virginity ; Like unto a summer shade. But now bom, and now they fade ! Every thing doth pass away ; There is danger in delay, — Come, come, gather then the rose ; Gather it, or it you lose. All the sands of Tagus' shore In my bosom casts its ore ; All the valley's swimming corn To my house is yearly borne ; Everj' grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine ; While ten thousand kings, as proud To carry up my train, have bow'd, And a world of ladies send me From my chamber to attend me : All the stars in heaven that shine. And ten thousand more, are mine. Only bend thy knee to me. Thy wooing shall thy winning be I THE COMMENDATION OF MUSIC. William Strode, born IGOO, died 1644. When whispering strains do softly steal With creeping passion through the heart. And at every touch we feel Our pulses beat, and bear a part ; MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 271 When threads can make A heart-string quake ; — Philosophy- Can scarce deny The soul consists of harmony. Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air, My senses rock'd with wonder sweet! Like snow on wool thy fallings are, Soft like a spirit's are thy feet. Grief, who need fear That hath an ear ? Down let hiai lie, And slumbering die, And change his soul for harmony. Fi-om a miscellany entitled " Wit Restored," 12mo, published 1G58. SWEET DAY, SO COOL. George Herbert, bom 1593, died 1632. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. The bridal of the earth and sky. Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to night, — For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angrj^ and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. Thy root is ever in the grave, — And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie ; My music shews you have your closes, — And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul. Like season' d timber, never gives, But when the whole world turns to coal, Then chiefly lives. 272 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. Richard Lovblace, born 1618, died 1658. When love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates ; When I he 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 confined, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty. And glories of my king : When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, — Enlarged winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make. Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage : If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, — Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty. This song to Althea will live as long as the EngUsh language.— Robeet Southet. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. T]?> HOPE. From Allison's " Hour's Recreations in Music," 1606. In hope a king doth go to war ; In hope a lover Uves full long ; In hope a merchant sails full far ; In hope just men do suffer wrong ; In hope the ploughman sows his seed : Thus hope helps thousands at their need. Then faint not, heart, among the rest ; Whatever chance, hope thou the best. MAN'S MORTALITY. Simon Wastell, from " The Microbiblia," 1623. Like as the damask rose you see. Or like the blossom on the tree. Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day. Or hke the sun, or like the shade. Or like the gourd which Jonas had. E'en such is man ; whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. The rose withers, the blossom blasteth ; The flower fades, the morning hasteth ; The sun sets, the shadow flies ; The gourd consumes, — and man he dies ! Like to the grass that's newly sprung. Or like a tale that's new begun. Or like the bird that's here to-day. Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span. Or like the singing of a swan. E'en such is man ; who lives by breath. Is here, now there, in life and death. The grass withers, the tale is ended ; The bird is flown, the dew's ascended ; The hour is short, the span is long ; The swan's near death, — man's life is done ! 274 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. MAY MORNING. JoiiK Milton. Now the blight morning star, day's harbinger. Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bomiteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing ; Thus we salute thee with our early sorg, And welcome thee, and wish thee long ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 275 HASTE THEE, NYMPH. John MiLTO>f. Haste thee. Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jolhty ; Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles. Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides. And Laughter holding both his sides. Ha! ha! ha! ha! The music of this song was composed by Handel, and introduced by John Kemble in Garrick's revived arrangement of Milton's masque of " Comus," GO, LOVELY ROSE! Edmund Waller, born 1G03, died 1687, Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows. When I resemble her to thee. How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young. And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide. Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the Hght retired : Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired. And not blush so to be admired. 276 JUISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 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. [Yet, though thou fade. From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; And teach the maid That goodness Time's rude hand defies, — That virtue lives when beauty dies.] The last stanza was added by Henry Kirke WTiite, and is the crowning grace of a beautiful poem, which would scarcely have been complete without it. THE FAIRIES' SONG. AnonjTnous. From the TixaU Poetry, temp Charles I, We dance on hills above the wind. And leave our footsteps there behind. Which shall to after ages last. When all our dancing days are past. Sometimes we dance upon the shore. To whistling winds and seas that roar ; Then we make the wind to blow. And set the seas a-dancing too. The thunder's noise is our delight. And lightnings make us day by night ; And in the air we dance on high To the loud music of the sky. About the moon we make a ring. And falling stars we wanton fling, Like squibs and rockets, for a toy ; While what frights others is our joy. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 277 But wten we'd hunt away our cares. We boldly mount the galloping spheres ; And riding so from east to west, "We chase each nimble zodiac beast. Thus giddy grown, we make our beds, With thick black clouds to rest our heads. And flood the earth with our dark showers, That did but sprinkle these our bowers. Thus having done with orbs and sky. Those mighty spaces vast and high. Then down we come and take the shapes, Sometimes of cats, sometimes of apes. Next turn'd to mites in cheese, forsooth. We get into some hollow tooth ; Wherein, as in a Christmas hall, We frisk and dance, the devil and all. Then we change our wily features Into yet far smaller creatures. And dance in joints of gouty toes. To painful tunes of groans and woes. 278 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE JOVIAL BEGGARS. From Playford's " Choice Aires," 1660. There was a jovial beggar. He had a wooden leg, Lame from his cradle, And forced for to beg. And a begging we will go, will go, will go. And a begging we will go. And a bag for his oatmeal. Another for his salt. And a pair of crutches. To shew that he can halt. And a begging, &c. A bag for his wheat. Another for his rye. And a little bottle by his side. To drink when he is a-dry. And a begging, &c. Seven years I begg'd For my old master "Wild ; He taught me to beg When I was but a child. And a begging, &c. I begg'd for my master. And got him store of pelf ; But, Jove now be praised, I'm begging for myself. And a begging, &c. In a hollow tree I live, and pay no rent ; Pro\ddence provides for me. And I am well content. And a begging, &c. Of all the occupations, A beggar's is the best. For whenever he's a-weary. He can lay him down to rest. And a begging, &c. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 2/9 I fear no plots against me, I live in open cell ; Then who would be a king When beggars live so well ? And a begging we will go, &c. This song is the prototype of many others in the Enf^lish language, including the popular favourite, "A hunting we will go," which appears among the Sporting-songs in this volume, and " A sailing we will go," which appears among the Sea-songs. THE PRAISE OF MILK. From "Playfoed's "Musical Companion," part II., 1687. Usually sung to the old English melody of " Packington's Pound," In praise of a dairy I purpose to sing ; But all things in order — first, God save the king ; And the queen, I may say. Who every May-day Has many fine dairy-maids, all fine and gay : Assist me, fair damsels, to finish my theme. Inspire my fancy with strawberry-cream. The first of fair dairy-maids, if you'll believe. Was Adam's own wife, our great grandmother Eve, Who oft milk'd a cow. As well she knew how. Though butter was then not so cheap as 'tis now She hoarded no butter nor cheese on a shelf. For butter and cheese in those days made itself. In that age or time there was no horrid money. Yet the children of Israel had both milk and honey. No queen could you see. Of the highest degree, But would milk the brown cow with the meanest she : Their lambs gave them clothing, their cows gave them meat, And in plenty and peace all their joys were complete. 280 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Amongst the rare virtues that milk does produce, For a thousand of dainties it's daily in use ; Now a pudding, I'll tell je, Ere it goes in the belly, Mvist have from good milk both the cream and the jolly : ! For a dainty fine pudding without cream or milk Is a citizen's wife without satin or silk. In the virtues of milk there is more to be muster' d Than charming delights both of cheese-cake and custard ; For at Tottenham Court You can have no sport. Unless you have custard and cheese-cake too for't ; And what's the jack -pudding that makes us to laugh, Unless he hath got a great custard to quaff ? Both pancake and fritter of milk have good store, But a Devonshire white-pot must needs have much more. No state you can think. Though you study and wink. From the lusty sack -posset to poor posset drink. But milk's the ingredient, though sack's ne'er the worse ; For 'tis sack makes the man, though 'tis milk makes the nurse. THE OLD MAN'S WISH. Dr. Walter Pope, born about 1630, died 1714. The music by Dr. Blow : see Kitson's " English Songs," vol. iii. If I hve to grow old, for I find I go down. Let this be my fate : — in a country town May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate. And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate. May I govern my passions with absolute sway, And grow wiser and better as strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. Near a shady grove and a murmuring brook. With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look ; With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile. And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 281 May I govern my passions with absolute sway, And grow wiser and better as strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more Of the best wits that reign' d in the ages before ; With roast mutton rather than ven'son or real. And clean though coarse linen at every meal. May I govern my passions with absolute sway. And grow wiser and better as strength wears away. Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor. With remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar ; With Monte Fiascone or Burgundy wine,* To drink the king's health as oft as I dine. May I govern my passions with absolute sway. And grow wiser and better as strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. With a courage undaunted may I face my last day ; And when I am dead may the better sort say. In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow, " He's gone, and has left not behind him his fellow : For he governed his passions with absolute sway. And grew wiser and better as strength wore away. Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay." It seems odd to modern notions, that so sensible a gentleman, who governed his passions with absolute sway, should have ever " got mellow " at all. Drunkenness, however, was considered a venial vice in those days by the few who did not consider it a positive virtue " in the evening." Some versions substitute for this line the following : " With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine." '^IS^.^iS^^S^iB^^ . 282 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. GENTLE STIR. A parody, attributed to Dean Swift, on a popular song by A. Bradley, begimung " Gently strike the warbling lyre," by Geminiani. Gently stir and blow the fire. Lay the mutton down to roast ; Dress it quickly, I desire ; — In the dripping put a toast. That I hunger may remove : Mutton is the meat I love. On the dresser see it lie. Oh, the charming white and red ! Finer meat ne'er met my eye. On the sweetest grass it fed : Let the jack go quickly round, — Let me have it nicely brown' d. On the the table spread the cloth. Let the knives be sharp and clean : Pickles get and salad both — Let them each be fresh and green : "With small beer, good ale, and wine. Oh, ye gods, how I shall dine ! Several attempts have been made to raise eating into the dignity, -which drinking has so long enjoyed, of being a theme for song, but all in vain. " The Eoast-Beef of Old England " is the only exception, amid a mass of failures. DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. William Collins. Set as a glee for four voices by Mrs. Park. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom. And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; But shepherd lads assemble here. And melting virgins own their love. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 283 No wither' d witch shall here be seen, No gobhns lead their nightly crew ; But female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew. The redbreast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his httle aid, With hoary moss and gather' d flowers To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds and beating rain In tempests shake the sylvan cell, Or 'midst the chase upon the plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore. For thee the tear be duly shed ; Belov'd till life can charm no more, And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead. SWEET MAY. Erasmus Darwin, born 1721, died 1802. Born in yon blaze of orient sky. Sweet May ! thy radiant form unfold. Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye And wave thy shadowy locks of gold. For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow. For thee descends the sunny shower. The rills in softer murmurs flow. And brighter blossoms gem the bower. Light Graces drest in flowery wreaths. And tiptoe Joys their hands combine. And Love his sweet contagion breathes, And laughing dances round thy shrine. Warm with new life, the glittering throngs, On quivering fin and rusthng wing. Delighted join their votive songs, And hail thee Goddess of the Spring ig- THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. Dr. Percy, editor of " Percy's Reliques." It was a friar of orders gray Walk'd forth to tell his beads ; And he met with a lady fair Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. " Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me. If ever at yon holy shrine My true-love thou didst see." " And how should I know your true-love From many another one ?" " Oh, by his cockle-hat and staif, 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." MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 285 " 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 hve. 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." 28G MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. " 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 ? WiU 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 awhile Beneath this cloister wall ; See, through the hawthorn blows cold the wind, And drizzly rain doth fall." MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 287 " 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." Dispersed through Shakespeare's plays are innumerahle little fragments of ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the editor of " Percy's Reliques" was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together and form them into a little tale, which is here submitted to the reader's candour. One small fragment was taken from Beaumont and Fletcher. — rERCY. <^xi■S*^.xs Mitx', '- -^--s- MERRILY GOES THE MILL. George Colman. Merrily rolls the mill-stream on. Merrily goes the mill, And merry to-night shall be my song, As ever the gay lark's trill. While the stream shall flow. And the mill shall go. And my garners are bravely stored : Come all who will. There's a welcome still At the joyful miller's board. Well may the miller's heart be light. Well may his song be gay. For the rich man's smile and the poor man's pray'r Have been his for many a day. And they bless the name Of the miller's dame MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 289 In cots where the lowly mourn ; For want and woe At her coming go, And joy and peace return. Fair is the miller's daughter too. With her locks of golden hair. With her laughing eye and sunny brow ; Still better is she than fair. She hath lighten' d toil With her winning smile ; And if ever his heart was sad. Let her sing the song He hath loved so long. And the miller's heart was glad. Merrily rolls the mill-stream on, &c. THE MILLER. Charles Highmore. Written for Robert Dodsley's entertainment, " The King and Miller of Mansfield." How happy a state does the miller possess. Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less ! On his mill and himself he depends for support. Which is better than servilely cringing at court. What though he all dusty and whiten' d does go. The more he's bepowder'd the more like a beau ; A clown in his dress may be honester far Than a courtier who struts in his garter and star. Though his hands are so daub'd they're not fit to be seen, The hands of his betters are not very clean ; A palm more polite may as dirtily deal ; Gold in handling will stick to the fingers like meal. What if, when a pudding for dinner he lacks. He cribs without scruple from other men's sacks. In this of right noble example he brags. Who borrow as freely from other men's bags. T 290 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Or should he endeavour to heap an estate. In this he would mimic the tools of the state, Whose aim is alone their own coffers to fill. As all his concern's to bring grist to the mill. He eats when he's hungry, he drinks when he's dry. And down when he's weary contented does lie ; Then rises up cheerful to work and to sing : If so happy a miller, then who'd be a king? The " Miller " seems to have been a favourite character -nith our song-writers froi the earliest times, and to have been generally depicted as a model of sturdy independenc* There is a song upon the subject in the poems of John Cunningham. See Bell's editia of the " British Poets," vol. ciii. The sentiment in the two concluding lines of th " Miller " is borrowed from the more ancient song of the " Jovial Beggars." THE PRETTY PARROT. From Aikin's " Vocal Poetry." Pretty Parrot, say, when I was away, And in dull absence pass'd the day. What at home was doing ? " With chat and play All were gay. Night and day Good cheer and mirth renewing. Singing, laughing all, like pretty, pretty Poll." Was no fop so rude boldly to intrude. And like a saucy lover would Court and tease my lady ? " A thing, you know. Made for show, Call'd a beau. Near her was always ready ; Ever at her call, hke pretty, pretty Poll." Tell me with what air he approched the fair. And how she could with patience bear % MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 291 All he did and utter' d ? " He still address' d. Still caress' d, Kiss'd and press' d, Sung, prattled, laugh' d and flatter' d ; Well received in all, like pretty, pretty Poll." Did he go away at the close of day, Or did he ever use to stay In a corner dodging ? " The want of light When 'twas night Spoil 'd my sight ; But I believe his lodging Was within her call, like pretty, pretty Poll." This lively and singular piece was probably popular at the time of writing] the ' Beggars' Opera," which has a duet to the same measure. — Aikin. THERE WAS A JOLLY MILLER. From Bickerstaff's "Love in a Village." 1762. There was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee, He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he ; And this the burden of his song for ever used to be, " I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me." I live by my mill, God bless her ! she's kindred, child, and wife ; T would not change my station for any other in life : No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor, e'er had a groat from me, I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me. When spring begins his merry career, oh, how his heart grows gay ! No summer's drought alarms his fears, nor winter's cold decay ; No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say, " Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day." Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing, The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing ; This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring, With heart and voice, let all agree, to say " Long live the king." The last two stanzas of this ])opular song appear to be by different hands, and to have been successively added at different times. The original idea is e\"idently concluded with the second stanza. Only the first stanza is sung on the stage. 292 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE ORIGIN OF THE PATTEN. Chakles DiBDiN. From the opera of the " Milkmaid." Sweet ditties would my patty sing : "Old Clie\-y Chase," "'God save the king," " Fair Rosamond," and " Sawny Scott," " Li-li-bu-le-ro," and what not. All these would sing my blue-eyed Patty, As with her pail she trudged along ; While still the burden of her song My hammer beat to blue-eyed Patty. But nipping frosts and chilling rain Too soon, alas ! choked every strain ; Too soon, alas ! the miry way Her wet-shod feet did sore dismay. And hoarse was heard my blue-eyed Patty ; While I for very mad did cry, " Ah ! could I but again," said I, "Hear the sweet voice of blue-eyed Patty !" Love taught me how ; I work'd, I sang ; My an\'il glow'd, my hammer rang. Till I had form'd from out the fire. To bear her feet above the mire. An engine for my blue-eyed Patty. Again was heard each tuneful close. My fair one in the patten rose. Which takes its name from blue-eyed Patty. THE UNCOMMON OLD MAN. From the " Conviyial Songster," 1782. There was an old man, and though 'tis not common. Yet, if he said true, he was born of a woman ; And though 'tis incredible, yet I've been told He was once a mere infant, but age made him old. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 293 Whene'er he was hungry he long'd for some meat, And if he could get it, 'twas said he would eat ; "When thirsty he'd drink, if you gave him a pot, And his liquor most commonly ran down his throat. He seldom or never could see without light, And yet I've been told he could hear in the night : He has oft been awake in the daytime, 'tis said. And has fallen fast asleep as he lay in his bed. 'Tis reported his tongue always mov'd when he talk'd, And he stirr'd both his arms and his legs when he walk'd ; And his gait was so odd, had you seen him you'd burst, For one leg or t'other Avould always be first. His face was the saddest that ever was seen, For if 'twere not wash'd it was seldom quite clean ; He shew'd most his teeth when he happen' d to grin. And his mouth stood across 'twixt his nose and his chin. At last he fell sick, as old chronicles tell. And then, as folks said, he was not very well ; But what is more strange, in so weak a condition. As he cou^ld not give fees, he could get no physician. What pity he died ! yet 'tis said that his death Was occasion 'd at last by the want of his breath ; But peace to his bones, which iia ashes now moulder, — Had he liv'd a day longer he'd been a day older. DULCE DOMUM. Sing a sweet, melodious measure. Waft enchanting lays arovind ; Home's a theme replete with pleasure :— Home ! a grateful theme resound. Home, sweet home ! an ample treasure ; Home ! with ev'ry blessing crown' d ; Home ! perpetual source of pleasure ; Home ! a noble strain resound. 294 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Lo ! the joyful hour advances, Happy season of deUght ! Festal songs and festal dances All our tedious toil requite. Leave, my wearied Muse, thy learning ; Leave thy task so hard to bear ; Leave thy labour, ease returning. Leave, my bosom, all thy care. See the year, the meadow, smiling ; Let us then a smile display : Rural sport our pain beguiling, Rural pastimes call away. Now the swallow seeks her dwelling. And no longer loves to roam : The example thus impelling, Let us seek our native home ! Let both men and steeds assemble. Panting for the wide champaign ; Let the ground beneath us tremble, "While we scour along the plain. Oh, what raptures ! oh, what blisses ! When we gain the lovely gate ; Mothers' arms and mothers' kisses. There our blest arrival wait. Greet our household gods with singing ; Lend, O Lucifer, thy ray ! Why should light, so slowly springing, All our promised joys delay? Founded upon the celebrated Latin song of the Winchester School-boys' " Dulce Domum." It first appeared in the " Gentleman's Magazine " for March 1796, under the signature of J. K. — ~-s-s'&f€K-'&'-= GLUGGITY GLUG. From the " Myrtle and the Vine." A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor good store. And he had drunk stoutly at supper ; He mounted his horse in the night at the door. And he sat with his face to the crupper : " Some rogue," quoth the friar, quite dead to remorse, — " Some thief, whom a halter will throttle. Some scoundrel has cut oflP the head of my horse While I was engaged at the bottle. Which went gluggity,, gluggity — glug — glug — glug." The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 'Twas tlie friar's road home straight and level; But, when spurr'd, a horse follows his nose, not his tail. So he scamper' d due north like the devil. "This new mode of docking," the friar then said, " I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill : And 'tis cheap — for he never can eat off his head. While I am engaged at the bottle. Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug." The steed made a stop — in a pond he had got. He was rather for drinking than grazing ; Quoth the friar, "'Tis strange headless horses should trot ; But to drink with their tails is amazing ! " 296 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Turning round to see whence tliis phenomenon rose. In the pond fell this son of a pottle ; Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose — I wish I were over a bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug." i VARIETY. Words and music by Charles Dibdin, for his entertaiament called "Variety." Ask you who is singing here, Who so bUthe can thus appear ? I'm the child of joy and glee. And my name's Variety. Ne'er have I a clouded face, Swdft I change from place to place, Ever wand' ring, ever free. And my name's Variety. Like a bird that skims the air. Here and there and every where ; Sip my pleasures like a bee, — Nothing's like Variety. Love's sweet passion warms my breast, Ro\'ing love but breaks the rest ; One good heart's enough for me. Though my name's Variety, Crowded scenes and lovely grove, All by turns I can approve ; Follow, follow, follow me. Friend of life, Variety. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 297 THE TURNING OF THE WHEEL, From " A Collection of Songs," with the music by Me. Levebidge. Engraved and printed for the author in Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, 1727. The wheel of life is turning quickly round. And nothing in this world of certainty is found ; The midwife wheels us in, and death wheels us out, — Good lack ! good lack ! how things are wheel' d ahout ! Some few aloft on Fortune's wheel do go, And as they mount up high, the others tumhle low ; For this we all agree, that fate at first did will That this great wheel should never once stand still. The courtier turns to gain his private ends. Till he so giddy grows he quite forgets his friends ; Prosperity ofttimes deceives the proud and vain. And wheels so fast it turns them out ao;ain. f Some turn to this, and that, and every way. And cheat, and scrape, for what can't purchase one poor day ; But this is far below the generous-hearted man, Who lives and makes the most of life he can. And thus we wheel about in life's short farce. Till we at last are wheel' d off in a rumbling hearse : The midwife wheels us in, and death wheels us out, — Good lack ! good lack ! how things are wheel' d about ! WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. The Hon. R. W. Spencer. One day when to Jove the black list was presented. The list of what fate for each mortal intends. At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented. And slipp'd in three blessings — wife, children and friends. In vain surly Pluto declared he was cheated. And justice Divine could not compass its ends ; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated. For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children, and friends. 298 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. The day-spring of youth still unclouded with sorrow. Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; But drear is the twilight of age if it horrow No warmth from the smiles of — wife, children, and friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends ; O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish, Bedew' d with the tears of — wife, children, and friends. IN THE SEASON OF THE YEAR. When I was bound apprentice In famous Lincolnshire, Full well I served my master For more than seven year ; Till I took up to poaching, As you shall quickly hear. Oh ! it's my delight on a shiny night, In the season of the year. As me and my comarade Were setting of a snare, 'Twas then we spied the gamekeeper, — For him we did not care ; For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, And jvimp o'er any where, — For it's my delight on a shiny night. In the season of the year. As me and my comarade Were setting four or five. And taking of 'em up again. We caught the hare alive ; We took the hare alive, my boys. And through the woods did steer, — Oh ! it's my delight on a shiny night, In the season of the year. We threw him o'er our shoulders. And then we trudged home ; We took him to a neighbour's house. And sold him for a crown ; MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 299 We sold liim for a crown, my boys. But I did not tell you where, — Oh ! it's my delight on a shiny night, In the season of the year. Success to every gentleman That lives in Lincolnshire, Success to every poacher That wants to sell a hare. Bad luck to every gamekeeper That will not sell his deer, — For it's my delight on a shiny night, In the season of the year. The date and origin of this song are unknown. Though it had not the sUghtest pretensions to literary merit, its subject, and the fine old English melody to which it is simg, have long 'made it popular among the English peasantry. " It has been sung," says Mr. Chappell, "by several hundred voices together at the harvest-homes of George IV." I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY. J. O'Keefe. From Shield's opera of " Robin Hood." I AM a friar of orders grey. And down in the valleys I take my way ; I pull not blackbury, haw, or hip, — Good store of venison fills my scrip ! My long bead-roll I merrily chant, Where'er I walk no money I want ; And why I'm so plump the reason I tell — Who leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire. Or knight of the shire. Lives half so well as a holy friar ? After supper of heaven I dream. But that is fat pullet and clouted cream ; Myself by denial I mortify — With a dainty bit of a warden-pie ; I'm cloth' d in sackcloth for my sin ; With old sack wine I'm lin'd within : 300 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper-bell is my bowl, ding dong. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire. Lives half so well as a holy friar ? ALL'S WELL. Thomas Dibdin, svmg in the " EngUsh Fleet," an opera, by S. J. Arnold. The music by John Bkaham. Deserted by the waning moon. When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon, On tower, or fort, or tented ground. The sentry walks his lonely round ; And should a footstep haply stray Where caution marks the guarded way : "Who goes there? Stranger, quicklv tell." "A friend "— " The word." " Good night ;" "All's well." Or sailing on the midnight deep. When weary messmates soundly sleep. The careful watch patrols the deck. To guard the ship from foes or wreck : And while his thoughts oft homewards veer, Some friendly voice salutes his ear — " What cheer ? Brother, quickly tell." " Above"—" Below." " Good night ;" " All's well." HOME, SWEET HOME ! J. Howard Payne, in the opera of " Clari, the Maid of Milan." The music by Sir H. R. Bishop. 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam. Be it ever so humble there's no place like home ! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home ! sweet home ! There's no place like home ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 301 An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain ; Oh, give me my lowly thatch' d cottage again ! The birds singing gaily, that came at my call : — Give me these, and peace of mind far dearer than all. Home, home ! &c. HARK! THE CONVENT-BELLS ARE RINGING. Thomas Haynes Bayley. The music by Alexander Lee. Hark ! the convent-bells are ringing, And the nuns are sweetly singing ; Holy Virgin, hear our prayer ! See the no\ice comes to sever Every worldly tie for ever ; Take, oh, take her to your care ! Still radiant gems are shining. Her jet-black locks entwining ; And her robes around her flowing With many tints are glowing. But all earthly rays are dim. Splendours brighter Now invite her. While thus we chant our vesper-hymn. Now the lovely maid is kneeling. With uplifted eyes appealing ; Holy Virgin, hear our prayer ! See the abbess, bending o'er her, Breathes the sacred vow before her ; Take, oh, take her to your care ! Her form no more possesses Those dark luxuriant tresses. The solemn words are spoken. Each earthly tie is broken, And all earthly joys are dim. Splendours brighter Now invite her, While thus we diant our vesper-hymn. 302 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEE WELL. Thomas Hatnes Batley. The music by Alexander Lee. Shades of ev'ning close not o'er us, Leave our lonely bark awhile ; Morn, alas ! will not restore us Yonder dim and distant isle. Still my fancy can discover Sunny spots where friends may dwell ; Darker shadows round us hover, — Isle of Beauty, fare thee well ! 'Tis the hour when happy faces Smile around the taper's light ; Who will fill our vacant places ? Who will sing our songs to-night ? Through the mist that floats above us Faintly sounds the vesper-bell. Like a voice from those who love us, Breathing fondly, Fare thee well ; When the waves are roimd me breaking. As I pace the deck alone. And my eye is vainly seeking Some green leaf to rest upon ; When on that dear land I ponder, Where my old companions dwell, Absence makes the heart grow fonder — Isle of Beauty, fare thee well ! SHOULD HE UPBRAID. Should he upbraid, I'll own that he'd prevail, And sing as sweetly as the nightingale ; Say that he frown, I'll say his looks I view As morning roses newly tipp'd with dew ; Say he be mute, I'll answer with a smile. And dance and play, and wrinkl'd care beguile. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 303 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. MELANCHOLY. Samuel Rogers. Go ! you may call it madness, folly — You shall not chase my gloom away ; There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not if I could be gay. Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure That fills my bosom when I sigh. You would not rob me of a treasure Monarchs are too poor to buy ! 304 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE TAMBOURINE SONG. Charles Mackat. Music by Frank Mori. I LOVE my little native isle, Mine emerald in a golden deep ; My garden where the roses smile, My vineyard where the tendrils creep. How sweetly glide the summer hours, \Yhen twilight shews her silver sheen ; And youths and maids from all the bowers Come forth to play the Tambourine ! At noon the fisher spreads his sail Upon our calm encircling sea ; The farmer labours in the vale, Or tends his vine and orange-tree. But soon as lingering sunset throws O'er woods and fields a deeper green, And all the west in crimson glows, They gather to the Tambourine. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 305 We love our merry native song, Our moss-grovs'n seats in lonely nooks, Our moonlight walks the beach along, For interchange of words and looks. When toil is done, and day is spent. Sweet is the dance with song between ; The jest for harmless pleasure meant. And tinkle of the Tam.bourine. My native isle, my land of peace — My father's home, my mother's grave - May evermore thy joys increase, And plenty o'er thy corn-fields wave ! May storms ne'er vex thine ocean surf. Nor war pollute thy valley green ; Nor fail the dance upon thy turf. Nor music of the Tambourine ! THAT SONG AGAIN! Thomas K. Hervey. That song again ! its wailing strain Brings back the thoughts of other hours, - And forms I ne'er may see again, — And brightens all life's faded flowers. In mournful murmurs o'er mine ear Remember' d echoes seem to roll. And sounds I never more can hear, Make music in my lonely soul. V 306 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. That swell again ! — now full and liigli The tide of feeling flows along, And many a thought that claims a sigh Seems mingling with the magic song. The forms I loved — and loved in vain, The hopes I nursed — to see them die. With fleetness, brightness, through my brain In phantom beauty wander by. Then touch the lyre, my own dear love ! My soul is like a troubled sea. And turns from all below, above. In fondness, to the harp and thee ! BE STILL, BE STILL, POOR HUMAN HEART. Eleanora L. MoNTAGir (Mrs. T. K. Hervey). Be still, be still, poor human heart, What fitful fever shakes thee now 1 The earth's most lovely things dejiart — And what art thou ? Thy spring than earth's doth sooner fade. Thy blossoms first with poison fill ; To sorrow born, for suffering made. Poor heart ! be still. Thou lookest to the clouds, — they fleet ; Thou turnest to the waves, — they falter ; The flower that decks the shrine, though sweet. Dies on its altar : And thou, more changeful than the cloud. More restless than the wandering rill. Like that lone flower in silence bow'd, Poor heart! be still. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 307 THE BRAVE OLD OAK. H. F. Chokley. The music by E. J. Loder. A SONG to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath rviled in the greenwood long ; Here's health and renown to his broad green crown. And his fifty arms so strong. There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down And the fire in the west fades out ; And he sheweth his might on a wild midnight When the storm through his branches shout. Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone ; And still flourish he, a hale green tree. When a hundred years are gone ! In the days of old, when the spring with cold. Had brighten' d his branches grey, Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet To gather the dew of May ; And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolick'd with lovesome swains : They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid But the tree it still remains. Then here's, &c. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes Where merry sounds to hear ; When the squire's wide hall and the cottage smr.Il Where filled with good English cheer. Now gold hath the sway we all obey. And a ruthless king is he ; But he never shall send our ancient friend To be toss'd on the stormy sea. Then here's, &-e. -.>c,f3»r' . 308 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. TUBAL CAIN. Chahles Mack ay. Old Tubal Cain was a man of might In the days when earth was young ; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright The strokes of his hammer rung ; And he lifted high his brawny hand On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers, As he fashion' d the sword and spear. And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork ! Hurrah for the spear and sword ! Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well. For he shall be king and lord ! " To Tubal Cain came many a one As he wrought by his roaring fire, And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade. As the crown of his desire ; And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted loud for glee. And gave him gifts of pearls and gold. And spoils of the forest free. And they sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Who hath given us strength anew ! Hurrah for the smith ! hurrah for the fire ! And hurrah for the metal true ! " But a sudden change came o'er his heart Ere the setting of the sun. And Tubal Cain was fiU'd with pain For the evil he had done. He saw that men, with rage and hate. Made war upon their kind ; That the land was red with the blood they shed In their lust for carnage blind. And he said, " Alas ! that ever I made. Or that skill of mine should plan. The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man ! " MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 309 And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe ; And his hand forbore to smite the ore. And his furnace smoulder' d low ; But he rose at last with a cheerful face And a bright courageous eye. And bared his strong right arm for work. While the quick flames mounted high : And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork ! " And the red sparks lit the air — " Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made ;" And he fashion' d the first ploughshare. And men, taught wisdom from the past. In friendship join'd their hands. Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And plough' d the willing lands ; And sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Our stanch good friend is he ; And for the ploughshare and the plough To him our praise shall be. But while oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord. Though we may thank him for the plough. We'll not forget the sword." SONG FOll TWILIGHT. Barry Cornwall. 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. 310 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Be mine by morning streams To watch and wander ; So may my spirit cast (Serpent-like) oiF the past. And my free soul at last Have leave to ponder. And should' st thou 'scape control. Ponder on love, sweet soul ; On joy, the end and goal Of all endeavour : But if earth's pains will rise, (As damps will seek the skies,) Then, night, seal thou mine eyes In sleep for ever. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. Eliza Cook. The music by Henry Russell. I LOVE it, I love it, and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, I've dedew'd it with tears, I've embalm'd it with sighs ; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would you know the spell ? — a mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I linger' d near The hallow' d seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother woidd give To fit me to die, to teach me to live. She told me that shame would never betide With truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watch' d her many a day. When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey ; And I almost worshipp'd her when she smil'd. And turu'd from her Bible to bless her child. Years roll'd on, but the last one sped — My idol was shatter' d, my earth-star fled ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. I learnt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. 'Tis past, 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now With quiv'ring breath and throbbing brow : 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 311 THE IVY GREEN. Charles Dickens. The music by Henry Ri-ssell. Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old ! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. 312 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. The walls must he crumhled, the stones decay'd. To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mould' ring dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings. And a stanch old heart has he ; How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend the huge oak-tree ! And slily he traileth along the ground. And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. "Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd. And nations scatter' d been ; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely davs Shall fatten upon the past ; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. Creeping where no hfe is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. THE WILD CHERRY-TREE. Barrry Cornwall. Oh, there never was yet so pretty a thing. By racing river or bubbling spring. Nothing that ever so merrily grew Up from the ground when the skies were blue ; Nothing so fresh — nothing so freC; As thou, my wild, wild cherry-tree ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Jove ! how it danc'd in the gusty hreeze I Jove ! how it frolick'd among the trees ! Dashing the pride of the poplar down, Stripping the thorn of his hoary crown ! Oak or ash — what matter to thee ! 'Twas the same to my wild, wild cherry-tree '. Never at rest, like a thing that's young. Abroad to the winds its arms it flung, Shaking its rich and crowned head. Whilst I stole up for its berries red. Beautiful berries ! beautiful tree ! Hurrah for the wild, wild cherry-tree ! Back I fly to the days gone by. And I see thy branches against the sky, I see on the grass thy blossoms shed, I see (and I ravish) thy berries red ; And I shout— like the tempest loud and free, Hurrah for the wild, wild cherry-tree ! 31 O THE BUD IS ON THE BOUGH. Francis Bennoch. Music by John Gkay. " The bud is on the bough, And the blossom on the tree ;" But the bud and the blossom Bring no joyousness to me. Wall'd up within the city's gloom, No pleasure can I know ; But like a caged hnnet sing. To chase away my woe ! The bud will grow a blossom. The blossom will grow pale. And as they die the fruit will spring. But fall when o'er the vale. Stern winter marches with his train In every wind that blows ; And I, unripe, with ripest fruit May in the dust repose. o 1-^ MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. But spring upon the seed will breathe, The seed become a tree ; And on the tree so beautiful Shall bud and blossom be : And shall I know a second spring ? Yes, brighter far than they ; When age puts on the blush of youth. And youth shall not decay ! FAIR FLOWER ! FAIR FLOWER ! W. T. MOXCRIEFF. Fair flower ! fair floAver ! Though thou seem'st so proudly growing, Though thou seem'st so sweetly blowing, With all heaven's smiles upon thee. The blight has fallen on thee. Every hope of hfe o'erthrowing, Fair flower ! fair flower ! Dear flower ! dear flower ! Vainly we our sighs breathe o'er thee, No fond breath can e'er restore thee ; Vainly our tears are falling, Thou'rt past the dew's recalling ; We shall live but to deplore thee. Dear flower ! dear flower ! Poor flower ! poor flower ! No aid now to health can win thee ; The fatal canker is within thee, Turning thy young heart's gladness To mourning and to madness ; Soon will the cold tomb enshrine thee, Poor flower ! poor flower ! Wan flower ! wan flower ! Oh, how sad to see thee lying, Meekly, calmly thus, though dying ; Sweeter m thy decaying Than all behind thee staying ; But vain, alas ! is now our sighing. Lost flower ! lost flower ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 315 UNDER THE HOLLY-BOUGH. Charles Mackay. Music by G. W. Gi.ovf.k, in the " Illustrated London News,' No. 350. Ye who have scorn' d each other. Or hijured friend or brother, In this fast-fading year ; Ye who, by word or deed, Have made a kind heart bleed. Come gather here. Let sinn'd against and sinning Forget their strife's beginning. And join in friendship now ; Be hnks no longer broken, Be sweet forgiveness spoken Under the holly-bough. Ye who have loved each other, Sister and friend and brother. In this fast-fading year ; Mother and sire and child, Young man and maiden mild. Come gather here ; And let your hearts grow fonder. As memory shall ponder Each past unbroken vow : Old loves and younger wooing Are sweet in the renewing Under the holly-bough. Ye who have nourish' d sadness. Estranged from hope and gladness. In this fast-fading year ; Ye with o'erburden'd mind Made aliens from your kind, Come gather here. Let not the useless sorrow Pursue you night and morrow ; If e'er you hoped, hope now — Take heart, uncloud your faces, And join in our embraces Under the holly-bough. 316 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE NIGHTS. Barry Cornwall. Oh, the Summer night Has a smile of Hght, And she sits on a sapphire throne ; Whilst the sweet winds load her With garlands of odour, From the bud to the rose o'er-hlown ! But the Autumn night Has a piercing sight. And a step both strong and free ; And a voice for wonder. Like the wrath of the thunder. When he shouts to the stormy sea ! And the Winter niglit Is all cold and white. And she singeth a song of pain ; Till the wild bee hummeth. And the warm spring cometh. When she dies in a dream of rain ! Oh, the night brings sleep To the greenwoods deep. To the birds of the woods its nest ; To care soft hours. To life new powers. To the sick and the weary — rest ! BID ME DISCOURSE. Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear. Or like a fairy trip upon the green ; Or like a nymph with bright and flowing hair. Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen. r MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 'MJ EVENING SONG. Thomas Miller. How many days with mute adieu Have gone down yon untrodden sky ; And still it looks as clear and blue As when it first was hung on high. The rolling sun, the frowning cloud That drew the lightning in its rear. The thunder tramping deep and loud, Have left no foot-mark there. The village-bells, with silver chime. Come soften'd by the distant shore ; Though I have heard them many a time. They never rung so sweet before. A silence rests upon the hill, A listening awe pervades the air ; The very flowers are shut and still. And bow'd as if in prayer. And in this hush'd and breathless close. O'er earth and air and sky and sea, A still low voice in silence goes. Which speaks alone, great God, of Thee. The whispering leaves, the far-off brook. The linnet's warble fainter grown. The hive-bound bee, the building rook, — All these their Maker own. Now Nature sinks in soft repose, A living semblance of the grave ; The dew steals noiseless on the rose. The boughs have almost ceased to wave ; The silent sky, the sleeping earth. Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod, All tell from whom they had their birth. And cry, "Behold a God!" 318 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE BUGLE SONG. Alfred Texnvsox. From "The Prineess." The splendour falls on castle walls. And snowy summits old in story. The long light shakes across the lakes. And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ; Blow, bugle — answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh, hark ! oh, hear ! how thin and clear. And thinner, clearer, farther going ; Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and scar. The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying ; Blow, bugle — answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky ! They faint on hill, on field on river ; Our echoes roll from soul to soul. And gi'ow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ; And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. --?J0^ A'rtEUNIVEP'^' .MLlrU/i'/jA