Chapter I: Front Matter

Crosland, T.W.H. [ed.] (1903) "English Songs and Ballads" (The World's Classics Series)

(Produced by Lewis Jones)

ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS

COMPILED BY T W. H. CROSLAND

LONDON GRANT RICHARDS 48 LEICESTER SQUARE 1903

Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE

First Impression April 1902 Second Impression April l903

NOTE

ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS' must not be regarded as 'a choice,' but simply as a bringing together of poetical pieces which are, presumably, well known to the average person,--that is to say, the compiler has endeavoured to illustrate the general taste rather than his own preference.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

(Transcriber's note: No author is cited for the first song in the collection, "My Swete Sweting." Page references in the "Index of First Lines" and in the "Index of Authors" have been expunged since they do not apply to this electronic version; please use electronic searches to locate poems.)

About the sweet bag of a bee A chieftain to the Highlands bound Ae fond kiss, and then we sever Agincourt, Agincourt Ah, my swete swetyng Alas! my love, you do me wrong Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd All ye woods, and trees, and bowers And did you not hear of a jolly young Waterman An old song made by an aged old pate A parrot from the Spanish main Arm, arm, arm, arm, the scouts are all come in A simple child As I came thro' Sandgate Ask me no more where Jove bestows Ask me no more, the moon may draw the sea A spirit haunts the year's last hours As thro' the land at eve we went A sweet disorder in the dress Attend all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise A weary lot is thine, fair maid A Well there is in the west country A wet sheet and a flowing sea

Beauty clear and fair Be it right or wrong, these men among Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Bird of the wilderness Blame not my Lute! for he must sound Blow, blow, thou winter wind Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear Break, break, break Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride But are ye sure the news is true

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain Come all ye jolly shepherds Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer Come follow, follow me Come into the garden, Maud Come live with me and be my love Come not, when I am dead Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving

Dear is my little native vale Doubt thou the stars are fire Drink to me only with thine eyes Duncan Gray came here to woo

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Fair daffodils, we weep to see Fair pledges of a fruitful tree Fair stood the wind for France Fear no more the heat o' the sun Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow For auld lang syne, my dear Four and twenty bonny boys From Oberon, in fairy land From the forests and highlands From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested Full fathom five thy father lies

Gather the rose-buds while ye may God Lyaeus, ever young God prosper long our noble King God save our gracious King Go fetch to me a pint o' wine Go, lovely Rose Good-morrow to the day so fair Good people all, of every sort Go where glory waits thee Green fields of England, wheresoe'er

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be Hang fear, cast away care Hark! now everything is still Hark, hark, the lark at Heaven's gate sings He is gone on the mountain Her arms across her breast she laid Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee Here's a health unto His Majesty Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen Hide me, O twilight air Home they brought her warrior dead Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake How should I your true love know

I arise from dreams of thee I cannot eat but little meat I come from haunts of coot and hern I come, I come! ye have called me long I knew an old wife lean and poor I lov'd a lass, a fair one I'm lonesome since I cross'd the hill I'm sitting on the stile, Mary In going to my naked bed In good King Charles's golden days In her ear he whispered gaily In the merry month of May In Wakefield there lives a jolly pinder I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he Is there for honest poverty I tell thee, Dick, where I have been It is an ancient Mariner It is the miller's daughter I travelled among unknown men It was a blind beggar had long lost his sight It was a friar of orders gray It was a lover and his lass It was a summer evening It was the frog in the well It was the time when lilies blow I've seen the smiling I wander'd by the brook-side

John Anderson, my jo, John John Gilpin was a citizen

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King King Death was a rare old fellow

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks Lawn as white as driven snow Lay a garland on my hearse Let me the canakin clink, clink Let the bells ring, and let the boys sing Lithe and listen, gentlemen Long the proud Spaniards had vaunted to conquer us Lord, thou hast given me a cell Love wakes and weeps

Maxwelltown braes are bonnie Men of England who inherit Mine be a cot beside the hill Move eastward, happy earth, and leave My banks they are furnished with bees My heart is sair, I darena tell My heart is wasted with my woe My mind to me a kingdom is O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut

Napoleon's banners at Boulogne No stir in the air, no stir in the sea Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are Now, now the mirth comes Now ponder well, you parents dear Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white Now the hungry lion roars

Of all the girls that are so smart Of a' the airts the wind can blaw Of Nelson and the North Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray Oft in the stilly night Oh, call my brother back to me Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home Oh! the days are gone when Beauty bright Oh, the sweet contentment Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland laddie gone O Jenny's a' weet, poor body O listen, listen, ladies gay O mistress mine, where are you roaming O, my luve 's like a red red rose O Nanny, wilt thou go with me On either side the river lie On Linden when the sun was low, On that deep-retiring shore On the banks of Allan Water Orpheus with his lute made trees O sing unto my roundelay O swallow, swallow, flying south Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered Over hill, over dale O waly, waly up the bank O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms O whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad O world! O life! O time! O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West

Pack clouds, away, and welcome, day Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Piping down the valleys wild Proud Maisie in the wood

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair

Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae Rich and rare were the gems she wore Rose cheek'd Laura, come

Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled Shall I, wasting in despair She dwelt among untrodden ways She is a winsome wee thing She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps She stood breast high among the corn She walks in beauty like the night Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more Sing his praises, that doth keep Some asked me where the rubies grew Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules Some years of late, in eighty-eight So now is come our joyfullest part So, we'll go no more a-roving Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king Still to be neat, still to be drest Sweet and low, sweet and low Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind Tell me, where is fancy bred The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold The boy stood on the burning deck The breaking waves dashed high The bride cam' out o' the byre The deil cam' fiddlin' thro' the toun The feathered songster chanticleer The fountains mingle with the river The glories of our blood and state The harp that once through Tara's halls The King sits in Dunfermline town The laird o' Cockpen, he's proud an' he 's great The lawns were dry in Euston park The minstrel boy to the war is gone There be none of Beauty's daughters There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, There come seven gypsies on a day There is a garden in her face There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet There was a youth, a well beloved youth There was three kings into the East There were three ladies play'd at the ba' There were three sailors of Bristol city The splendour falls on castle walls The stars are with the voyager The stately homes of England The time I've lost in wooing They grew in beauty side by side Three fishers went sailing out into the west Tiger, tiger, burning bright 'Tis the last rose of summer Toll for the brave Turn, gentle hermit of the dale 'Twas in the prime of summer time

Under the greenwood tree

Was this fair face the cause, quoth she Wha 'll buy my caller herrin' When all among the thundering drums When all is done and said When Britain first, at Heaven's command When cats run home, and light is come When daffodils begin to peer, When daisies pied and violets blue, When Hercules did use to spin When icicles hang by the wall When love with unconfined wings When o'er the hill the Eastern star When the British warrior queen When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye 's come hame When this old cap was new When we two parted Where gang ye, thou silly auld carle Where the bee sucks, there lurk I While larks with little wing Who is Sylvia? what is she Why does your brand so drop with blood Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Why so pale and wan, fond lover With fingers weary and worn

Ye gentlemen of England Ye little birds that sit and sing Ye mariners of England You are old, father William, the young man cried You spotted snakes with double tongue

INDEX OF AUTHORS

ANONYMOUS

BARNARD, LADY ANNE BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER BLAKE, WILLIAM BLOOMFIELD, ROBERT BRETON, NICHOLAS BROWNING, ROBERT BURNS, ROBERT BYRON, LORD

CAMPBELL, THOMAS CAMPION, THOMAS CAREW, THOMAS CAREY, HENRY CHALKHILL, JOHN CHATTERTON, THOMAS CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH COCKBURN, MRS COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR COWPER, WILLIAM CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN

DALRYMPLE, SIR DAVID DIBDIN, CHARLES DRAYTON, MICHAEL DUFFERIN, LADY

EDWARDES, RICHARD

FLETCHER, JOHN

GARRICK, DAVID GAY, JOHN GOLDSMITH, OLIVER

HAMILTON, WILLIAM HEMANS, FELICIA HERBERT, GEORGE HERRICK, ROBERT HEYWOOD, THOMAS HOGG, JAMES, HOLCROFT, THOMAS HOOD, THOMAS HOUGHTON, LORD

JONSON, BEN

KEATS, JOHN KINGSLEY, REV. CHARLES

LOVELACE, RICHARD

MACAULAY, LORD MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS MOORE, THOMAS

NAIRNE, LADY NASH, THOMAS

PARKER, MARTIN PERCY, THOMAS PROCTOR, B.W.

ROGERS, SAMUEL ROSS, ALEXANDER

SCOTT, SIR WALTER SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE SHENSTONE, WILLIAM SHIRLEY, JAMES SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP SOUTHEY, ROBERT STILL, JOHN SUCKLING, SIR JOHN

TENNYSON, LORD THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THOMPSON, JAMES

VAUX, LORD

WALLER, EDMUND WEBSTER, JOHN WITHER, GEORGE WOLFE, CHARLES WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM WYATT, SIR THOMAS

SONGS AND BALLADS

MY SWETE SWETING

AH, my swete swetyng! My lytyle prety swetyng, My swetyng will I love wherever I go; She is so proper and pure, Full stedfast, stabill and demure, There is none such, ye may be sure, As my swete swetyng.

In all this world, as thynketh me, Is none so pleasant to my eye, That I am glad soe ofte to see, As my swete swetyng.

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

Above all other prayse must I, And love my pretty pygsnye, For none I fynd so womanly As my swete swetyng.

_LORD VAUX_

THINKING

WHEN all is done and said, In the end thus shall you find, He most of all doth bathe in bliss That hath a quiet mind: And, clear from worldly cares, To deem can be content The sweetest time in all his life In thinking to be spent.

The body subject is To fickle Fortune's power, And to a million of mishaps Is casual every hour: And Death in time doth change It to a clod of clay; Whenas the mind, which is divine, Runs never to decay.

Companion none is like Unto the mind alone; For many have been harmed by speech Through thinking, few, or none. Fear oftentimes restraineth words, But makes not thought to cease; And he speaks best that hath the skill When for to hold his peace.

Our wealth leaves us at death; Our kinsmen at the grave; But virtues of the mind unto The heavens with us we have. Wherefore, for virtue's sake, I can be well content, The sweetest time of all my life To deem in thinking spent.

_RICHARD EDWARDES_

THE FALLING OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS

IN going to my naked bed as one that would have slept, I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept; She sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, That would not cease, but cried still, in sucking at her breast. She was full weary of her watch, and grieved with her child; She rocked it and rated it, till that on her it smiled: Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write, In register for to remain, of such a worthy wight; As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat, Much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat. And proved plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life, Could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife: Then kissed she her little babe, and sware by God above, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright, Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might; When manhood shall be matched so that fear can take no place, Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace, And leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout, That might before have lived in peace their time and nature out: Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt, That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt; Since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed, And force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed; So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun, And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some: Thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

I marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout, To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about; Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can smoothly smile, And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile; Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout, Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out: Thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

_SIR THOMAS WYATT_

THE LOVER'S LUTE

BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound Of this or that as liketh me; For lack of wit the Lute is bound To give such tunes as pleaseth me; Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch my change, Blame not my Lute!

My Lute, alas! doth not offend, Though that perforce he must agree To sound such tunes as I intend To sing to them that heareth me; Then though my songs be somewhat plain, And toucheth some that use to feign, Blame not my Lute!

My Lute and strings may not deny, But as I strike they must obey; Break not them so wrongfully, But wreak thyself some other way; And though the songs which I indite Do quit thy change with rightful spite, Blame not my Lute!

Spite asketh spite, and changing change, And falsed faith must needs be known; The faults so great, the case so strange; Of right it must abroad be blown: Then since that by thine own desert My songs do tell how true thou art, Blame not my Lute!

Blame but thyself that hast misdone, And well deserved to have blame; Change thou thy way, so evil begone, And then my Lute shall sound that same; But if till then my fingers play, By thy desert their wonted way, Blame not my Lute!

Farewell! unknown; for though thou break My strings in spite with great disdain, Yet have I found out for thy sake, Strings for to string my Lute again: And if perchance this silly rhyme Do make thee blush at any time, Blame not my Lute!

_CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE_

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

COME live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.

_JOHN STILL_

JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD

I CANNOT eat but little meat, My stomach is not good; But sure I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a-cold; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire; A little bread shall do me stead, Much bread I not desire, No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold; I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd Of jolly good ale and old.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she till ye may see The tears run down her cheek. Then doth she trowl to me the bowl Even as a maltworm should, And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old.'

Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to; And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, Or have them lustily troll'd, God save the lives of them and their wives Whether they be young or old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old.

_NICHOLAS BRETON_

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON

IN the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing Forth I went forsooth a-maying.

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

Much ado there was, God wot! He would love, and she would not, She said, never man was true: He says none was false to you;

He said he had lov'd her long; She says love should have no wrong, Corydon would kiss her then; She says, maids must kiss no men,

Till they do for good and all, When she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth, Never lov'd a truer youth.

Then with many a pretty oath, Yea and nay, faith and troth, Such as silly shepherds use, When they will not love abuse;

Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded; And Phillida with garlands gay Was made the lady of May.

_THOMAS NASH_

SPRING

SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring! the sweet Spring!

_SIR EDWARD DYER_

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS

My mind to me a kingdom is, Such perfect joy therein I find, That it excels all other bliss That God or nature hath assigned: Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely port, nor wealthy store, Nor force to win a victory; No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to win a loving eye; To none of these I yield as thrall, For why, my mind despise them all.

I see that plenty surfeits oft, And hasty climbers soonest fall; I see that such as are aloft, Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, and keep with fear: Such cares my mind can never bear.

I press to bear no haughty sway; I wish no more than may suffice; I do no more than well I may, Look what I want, my mind supplies; Lo, thus I triumph like a king, My mind's content with any thing.

I laugh not at another's loss, Nor grudge not at another's gain; No worldly waves my mind can toss; I brook that is another's bane; I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

My wealth is health and perfect ease, And conscience clear my chief defence, I never seek by bribes to please, Nor by desert to give offence; Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all do so as well as I!

_JAMES SHIRLEY_

DEATH THE LEVELLER

THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

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

The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

_THOMAS HEYWOOD_

YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING

Yz, little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: --Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.

PACK CLOUDS, AWAY

PACK clouds, away, and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing! To give my Love good-morrow! To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast! Sing, birds, in every furrow! And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow, You pretty elves, among yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow! To give my Love good-morrow! Sing, birds, in every furrow!

_BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER_

SLEEP

COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving Lock me in delight awhile; Let some pleasing dreams beguile All my fancies; that from thence I may feel an influence All my powers of care bereaving!

Though but a shadow, but a sliding, Let me know some little joy! We that suffer long annoy Are contented with a thought Through an idle fancy wrought: O let my joys have some abiding!

SONG TO PAN

ALL ye woods, and trees, and bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers That inhabit in the lakes, In the pleasant springs or brakes, Move your feet To our sound, Whilst we greet, All this ground, With his honour and his name That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great and he is just, He is ever good, and must Thus be honoured. Daffodillies, Roses, pinks, and loved lilies, Let us fling, Whilst we sing, Ever holy, Ever holy, Ever honoured, ever young! Thus great Pan is ever sung.

ASPATIA'S SONG

LAY a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!

_JOHN FLETCHER_

BEAUTY CLEAR AND FAIR

BEAUTY clear and fair, Where the air Rather like a perfume dwells; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins and blush disclose, And come to honour nothing else:

Where to live near And planted there Is to live, and still live new; Where to gain a favour is More than light, perpetual bliss-- Make me live by serving you!

Dear, again back recall To this light, A stranger to himself and all! Both the wonder and the story Shall be yours, and eke the glory; I am your servant, and your thrall.

LET THE BELLS RING, AND LET THE BOYS SING

LET the bells ring, and let the boys sing, The young lasses skip and play; Let the cups go round, till round goes the ground, Our learned old vicar will stay.

Let the pig turn merrily, merrily, ah And let the fat goose swim; For verily, verily, verily, oh! Our vicar this day shall be trim.

The stewed cock shall crow, cock-a-loodle-loo, A loud cock-a-loodle shall he crow; The duck and the drake shall swim in a lake Of onions and claret below.

Our wives shall be neat, to bring in our meat To thee our most noble adviser; Our pains shall be great, and bottles shall sweat, And we ourselves will be wiser.

We'll labour and smirk, we'll kiss and we'll drink, And tithes shall come thicker and thicker; We'll fall to our plough, and have children enow, And thou shalt be learned old vicar.

WEEP NO MORE

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone: Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. Joys as winged dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.

PAN

SING his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm, Pan, the father of our sheep; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, O great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing! Thou who keep'st us chaste and free As the young spring: Ever be thy honour spoke, From that place the morn is broke, To that place day doth unyoke!

GOD LYAEUS

GOD LYAEUS, ever young, Ever honour'd, ever sung, Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes, In a thousand lusty shapes Dance upon the mazer's brim, In the crimson liquor swim; From thy plenteous hand divine Let a river run with wine: God of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear.

A BATTLE-SONG

ARM, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in; Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. Behold from yonder hill the foe appears; Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears! Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring; O view the wings of horse the meadows scouring! The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums! Dub, dub!

They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes: See how the arrows fly That darken all the sky! Hark how the trumpets sound! Hark how the hills rebound-- Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara!

Hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in! The battle totters; now the wounds begin: O how they cry! O how they die! Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder! See how he breaks the ranks asunder! They fly! they fly! Eumenes has the chase, And brave Polybius makes good his place: To the plains, to the woods, To the rocks, to the floods, They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow! Hark how the soldiers hollow! Hey, hey!

Brave Diodes is dead, And all his soldiers fled; The battle 's won, and lost, That many a life hath cost.

_ANONYMOUS_

MY LADY GREENSLEEVES

ALAS! my love, you do me wrong To cast me off discourteously; And I have loved you so long, Delighting in your company.

Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves!

I bought thee petticoats of the best, The cloth so fine as fine as might be; I gave thee jewels for thy chest, And all this cost I spent on thee. Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves!

Thy smock of silk, both fair and white, With gold embroidered gorgeously; Thy petticoat of sendal right: And these I bought thee gladly. Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves!

Greensleeves now farewell! adieu! God I pray to prosper thee! For I am still thy lover true: Come once again and love me! Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves!

_SIR PHILIP SIDNEY_

MY TRUE LOVE

MY true love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for another given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a better bargain driven: My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

_JOHN WEBSTER_

DIRGE

CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

THE SHROUDING

HARK! now everything is still, The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud!

Much you had of land and rent; Your length in clay's now competent: A long war disturb'd your mind; Here your perfect peace is sign'd.

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping? Sin their conception, their birth weeping, Their life a general mist of error, Their death a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet, And--the foul fiend more to check-- A crucifix let bless your neck; 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; End your groan and come away.

_THOMAS DEKKER_

CONTENT

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? O punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? O sweet content! Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king! O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

TROLL THE BOWL

COLD's the wind, and wet's the rain, Saint Hugh be our good speed! Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, Nor helps good hearts in need.

Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, And here, kind mate, to thee! Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, And down it merrily.

Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, Hey derry derry down-a-down. Ho! well done, to let me come, Ring compass, gentle joy!

Troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, And here, kind mate, to thee! Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, And down it merrily.

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, Saint Hugh be our good speed! Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, Nor helps good hearts in need.

_ANONYMOUS_

SIR PATRICK SPENS

THE king sits in Dunfermline toun, Drinking the blude-red wine; Oh whare will I get a gude sailor, To sail this ship o' mine?'

Then up and spake an eldern knight Sat at the king's right knee; 'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail'd the sea.'

The king has written a braid letter, And seal'd it wi' his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter to Noroway, 'Tis thou maun tak' her hame.'

The first line that Sir Patrick read, A loud laugh laughed he; The neist line that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his ee.

'O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out at this time o' the year, To sail upon the sea?'

'Be't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet, Our ship maun sail the faem; The king's daughter to Noroway, 'Tis we maun tak' her hame.'

They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; And they hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say--

'Ye Scotisman spend a' our king's gowd, And a' our queenis fee.' 'Ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud, Sae loud 's I hear ye lee!'

'For I brought as much o' the white monie As gane my men and me, And a half-fou o' the gude red gowd, Out owre the sea with me.

'Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a', Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'O say na sae, my master dear, I fear a deadlie storm.

'I saw the new moon late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm!'

They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the tap-masts lap, It was sic a deadlie storm; And the waves cam' owre the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn.

'O whare will I get a gude sailor Will tak' the helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall tap-mast, To see if I can spy land.'

'O here am I, a sailor gude, To tak' the helm in hand, Till ye get up to the tall tap-mast, But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land.'

He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bout flew out o' the gude ship's side, And the saut sea it cam in.

'Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And wap them into our gude ship's side, And letna the sea come in.'

They fetch'd a wab o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And they wapp'd them into the gude ship's side, But aye the sea cam' in.

O laith, laith were our Scots lords' sons To weet their coal-black shoon, But lang ere a' the play was play'd, They wat their hats abune.

And mony was the feather-bed That fluttered on the faem, And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam' hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand.

And lang, lang may the maidens sit, Wi' the gowd kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves, For them they'll see nae mair.

Half owre, half owre to Aberdour 'Tis fifty fathom deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL-GREEN