ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS

COMPILED BY

T.W.H. CROSLAND

LONDON

GRANT RICHARDS

48 LEICESTER SQUARE

1902

Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, (late) Printers to Her Majesty

NOTE

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

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

INDEX OF AUTHORS

SONGS AND BALLADS

MY SWETE SWETYNG

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

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

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

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

THINKING

LORD VAUX

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

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

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

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

THE FALLING OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS

RICHARD EDWARDES

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

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

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

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

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

THE LOVER'S LUTE

SIR THOMAS WYATT

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

CHRISTOPER MARLOWE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD

JOHN STILL

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

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

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

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

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON

NICHOLAS BRETON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SPRING

THOMAS NASH

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

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

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

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS

SIR EDWARD DYER

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEATH THE LEVELLER

JAMES SHIRLEY

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

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

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

YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING

THOMAS HEYWOOD

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

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

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

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

PACK CLOUDS, AWAY

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

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

SLEEP

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER

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

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

SONG TO PAN

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

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

ASPATIA'S SONG

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

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

BEAUTY CLEAR AND FAIR

JOHN FLETCHER

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

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

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

LET THE BELLS RING, AND LET THE BOYS SING

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

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

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

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

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

WEEP NO MORE

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

PAN

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

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

GOD LYAEUS

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

A BATTLE-SONG

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

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

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

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

MY LADY GREENSLEEVES

ANONYMOUS

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

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

I bought thee petticoats of the best,
The cloth so fine as fine as might be;
I gave thee jewels for thy chest,
And all this cost I spent on thee.

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

Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,
With gold embroidered gorgeously;
Thy petticoat of sendal right:
And these I bought thee gladly.

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

Greensleeves now farewell! adieu!
God I pray to prosper thee!
For I am still thy lover true:
Come once again and love me!

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

MY TRUE LOVE

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

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

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

DIRGE

JOHN WEBSTER

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

THE SHROUDING

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

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

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

CONTENT

THOMAS DEKKER

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

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

TROLL THE BOWL

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

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

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

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

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

SIR PATRICK SPENS

ANONYMOUS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL-GREEN

PART I

It was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,
He had a fair daughter of beauty most bright;
And many a gallant brave suitor had she,
For none was so comely as pretty Bessee.

And though she was of favour most faire,
Yet seeing she was but a poor beggar's heyre,
Of ancyent housekeepers despised was she,
Whose sons came as suitors to pretty Bessee.

Wherefore in great sorrow fair Bessy did say,
Good father, and mother, let me go away
To seek out my fortune, whatever it be,
This suite then they granted to pretty Bessee.

Then Bessy, that was of beauty so bright,
All cladd in grey russet, and late in the night
From father and mother alone parted she,
Who sighed and sobbed for pretty Bessee.

She went till she came to Stratford-le-Bow;
Then knew she not whither, nor which way to go:
With tears she lamented her hard destinìe,
So sad and so heavy was pretty Bessee.

She kept on her journey until it was day,
And went unto Rumford along the high way;
Where at the Queen's arms entertained was she:
So fair and well-favoured was pretty Bessee.

She had not been there a month to an end,
But master and mistress and all was her friend:
And every brave gallant, that once did her see,
Was straightway enamour'd of pretty Bessee.

Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,
And in their songs daily her love was extolled;
Her beauty was blazed in every degree;
So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee.

The young men of Rumford in her had their joy
She showed herself courteous, and modestly coy;
And at her commandment still would they be;
So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee.

Four suitors at once unto her did go;
They craved her favour, but still she said no;
I would not wish gentles to marry with me;
Yet ever they honoured pretty Bessee.

The first of them was a gallant young knight,
And he came unto her disguised in the night:
The second a gentleman of good degree,
Who wooed and sued for pretty Bessee.

A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,
He was the third suitor, and proper withal:
Her master's own son the fourth man must be,
Who swore he would die for pretty Bessee.

And, if thou wilt marry with me, quoth the knight,
I'll make thee a lady with joy and delight;
My heart's so enthralled by thy beautie,
That soon I shall die for pretty Bessee.

The gentleman said, Come, marry with me,
As fine as a lady my Bessy shall be:
My life is distressed: O hear me, quoth he;
And grant me thy love, my pretty Bessee.

Let me be thy husband, the merchant did say,
Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay;
My ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee,
And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.

Then Bessy she sighed, and thus she did say,
My father and mother I mean to obey;
First get their good will, and be faithful to me,
And then you shall marry your pretty Bessee.

To every one this answer she made,
Wherefore unto her they joyfully said,
This thing to fulfil we all do agree;
But where dwells thy father, my pretty Bessee?

My father, she said, is soon to be seen:
The silly blind beggar of Bednall-green,
That daily sits begging for charitìe,
He is the good father of pretty Bessee.

His marks and his tokens are known very well;
He always is led with a dog and a bell:
A silly old man, God knoweth, is he,
Yet he is the father of pretty Bessee.

Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for me.
Nor, quoth the innholder, my wife thou shalt be:
I loth, said the gentle, a beggar's degree,
And therefore adieu, my pretty Bessee.

Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse,
I weigh not true love by the weight of the purse,
And beauty is beauty in every degree;
Then welcome unto me, my pretty Bessee.

With thee to thy father forthwith I will go.
Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be so;
A poor beggar's daughter no lady shall be,
Then take thy adieu of pretty Bessee.

But soon after this, by break of the day
The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away.
The young men of Rumford, as thick as might be,
Rode after to fetch again pretty Bessee.

As swift as the wind to ryde they were seen,
Until they came near unto Bednall-green;
And as the knight lighted most courteouslìe,
They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.

But rescue came speedily over the plain,
Or else the young knight for his love had been slain.
This fray being ended, then straightway he see
His kinsmen come railing at pretty Bessee.

Then spake the blind beggar, Although I be poor,
Yet rail not against my child at my own door:
Though she be not decked in velvet and pearl,
Yet will I drop angels with you for my girl.

And then, if my gold may better her birth,
And equal the gold that you lay on the earth,
Then neither rail nor grudge you to see
The blind beggar's daughter a lady to be.

But first you shall promise, and have it well known,
The gold that you drop shall all be your own.
With that they replied, Contented be we.
Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee.

With that an angel he cast on the ground,
And dropped in angels full three thousand pound;
And oftentimes it was proved most plain,
For the gentlemen's one the beggar dropt twain:

So that the place, wherein they did sit,
With gold it was covered every whit.
The gentlemen then having dropt all their store,
Said, Now, beggar, hold, for we have no more,

Thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright.
Then marry, quoth he, my girl to this knight;
And here, added he, I will now throw you down
A hundred pounds more to buy her a gown.

The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seen,
Admired the beggar of Bednall-green:
And all those, that were her suitors before,
Their flesh for very anger they tore.

Thus was fair Bessy matched to the knight,
And then made a lady in others' despite:
A fairer lady there never was seen,
Than the blind beggar's daughter of Bednall-green.

But of their sumptuous marriage and feast,
What brave lords and knights thither were prest,
The second fitt shall set forth to your sight
With marvellous pleasure and wished delight.

PART II

Of a blind beggar's daughter most bright,
That late was betrothed unto a young knight;
All the discourse thereof you did see:
But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.

Within a gorgeous palace most brave,
Adorned with all the cost they could have,
This wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe,
And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.

All kind of dainties and delicates sweet
Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meet;
Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,
Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.

This marriage through England was spread by report,
So that a great number thereto did resort
Of nobles and gentles in every degree;
And all for the fame of pretty Bessee.

To church then went this gallant young knight;
His bride followed after, an angel most bright,
With troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen,
As went with sweet Bessy of Bednall-green.

This marriage being solemnized then,
With musick performed by the skilfullest men,
The nobles and gentles sat down at that tide,
Each one admiring the beautiful bride.

Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done,
To talk, and to reason a number begun:
They talked of the blind beggar's daughter most bright,
And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.

Then spake the nobles, 'Much marvel have we,
This jolly blind beggar we cannot here see.'
My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base,
He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.

'The praise of a woman in question to bring
Before her own face, were a flattering thing,
But we think thy father's baseness,' quoth they,
'Might by thy beauty be clean put away.'

They had no sooner these pleasant words spoke,
But in comes the beggar clad in a silk cloak;
A fair velvet cap, and a feather had he,
And now a musician forsooth he would be.

He had a dainty lute under his arm,
He touched the strings, which made such a charm,
Says, Please you to hear any musick of me,
I'll sing you a song of pretty Bessee.

With that his lute he twanged straightway,
And thereon began most sweetly to play;
And after that lessons were played two or three,
He strain'd out this song most delicatelìe.

'A poor beggar's daughter did dwell on a green,
Who for her fairness might well be a queen:
A blithe bonny lass, and a dainty was she,
And many one called her pretty Bessee.

'Her father he had no goods, nor no land,
But begged for a penny all day with his hand;
And yet to her marriage he gave thousands three,
And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.

'And if any one here her birth do disdain,
Her father is ready, with might and with main,
To prove she is come of noble degree:
Therefore never flout at pretty Bessee.'

With that the lords and the company round
With hearty laughter were ready to swound;
At last said the lords, Full well we may see,
The bride and the beggar's beholden to thee.

On this the bride all blushing did rise,
The pearly drops standing within her fair eyes,
O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth she,
That through blind affection thus doteth on me.

If this be thy father, the nobles did say,
Well may he be proud of this happy day;
Yet by his countenance well may we see,
His birth and his fortune did never agree:

'And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray
(And look that the truth thou to us do say)
Thy birth and thy parentage, what it may be;
For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.'

'Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one,
One song more to sing, and then I have done;
And if that it may not win good report,
Then do not give me a groat for my sport.

'Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shall be;
Once chief of all the great barons was he,
Yet fortune so cruel this lord did abase,
Now lost and forgotten are he and his race.

'When the barons in arms did king Henry oppose,
Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;
A leader of courage undaunted was he,
And oft-times he made their enemies flee.

'At length in the battle on Evesham plain,
The barons were routed, and Montfort was slain;
Most fatal that battle did prove unto thee,
Though thou wast not born then, my pretty Bessee!

'Along with the nobles, that fell at that tide,
His eldest son Henry, who fought by his side,
Was felled by a blow he received in the fight;
A blow that deprived him for ever of sight.

'Among the dead bodies all lifeless he lay,
Till evening drew on of the following day,
When by a young lady discovered was he;
And this was thy mother, my pretty Bessee!

'A baron's fair daughter stept forth in the night
To search for her father, who fell in the fight,
And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he lay,
Was moved with pity, and brought him away.

'In secret she nurst him, and swaged his pain,
While he through the realm was believed to be slain:
At length his fair bride she consented to be,
And made him glad father of pretty Bessee.

'And now, lest our foes our lives should betray,
We clothed ourselves in beggars' array;
Her jewels she sold, and hither came we:
All our comfort and care was our pretty Bessee.

'And here have we lived in fortune's despite,
Though poor, yet contented with humble delight:
Full forty winters thus have I been
A silly blind beggar of Bednall-green.

'And here, noble lords, is ended the song
Of one, that once to your own rank did belong:
And thus have you learned a secret from me,
That ne'er had been known, but for pretty Bessee.'

Now when the fair company every one,
Had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown,
They all were amazed, as well they might be,
Both at the blind beggar, and pretty Bessee.

With that the fair bride they all did embrace,
Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race
Thy father likewise is of noble degree,
And thou art well worthy a lady to be.

Thus was the feast ended with joy and delight,
A bridegroom most happy then was the young knight,
In joy and felicitie long lived he,
All with his fair lady, the pretty Bessee.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD

Now ponder well, you parents dear,
These words, which I shall write;
A doleful story you shall hear,
In time brought forth to light.
A gentleman of good account
In Norfolk dwelt of late,
Who did in honour far surmount
Most men of his estate.

Sore sick he was, and like to die,
No help his life could save;
His wife by him as sick did lie,
And both possest one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kind,
In love they liv'd, in love they died,
And left two babes behind:

The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three yeares old;
The other a girl more young than he,
And fram'd in beauty's mould.
The father left his little son,
As plainly doth appeare,
When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred pounds a yeare.

And to his little daughter Jane
Five hundred pounds in gold,
To be paid down on marriage-day,
Which might not be controll'd:
But if the children came to die,
Ere they to age should come,
Their uncle should possesse their wealth;
For so the will did run.

Now, brother, said the dying man,
Look to my children dear;
Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friends else have they here:
To God and you I recommend
My children dear this daye;
But little while be sure we have
Within this world to stay.

You must be father and mother both,
And uncle all in one;
God knows what will become of them,
When I am dead and gone.
With that bespake their mother dear,
O brother kind, quoth she,
You are the man must bring our babes
To wealth or miserie:

And if you keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward;
But if you otherwise should deal,
God will your deeds regard.
With lips as cold as any stone,
They kist their children small:
God bless you both, my children dear;
With that the tears did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake
To this sick couple there,
The keeping of your little ones,
Sweet sister, do not feare;
God never prosper me nor mine,
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children dear,
When you are laid in grave.

The parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,
And brings them straite unto his house,
Where much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a day,
But, for their wealth, he did devise
To make them both away.

He bargain'd with two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood,
That they should take these children young,
And slay them in a wood.
He told his wife an artful tale,
He would the children send
To be brought up in fair Londòn,
With one that was his friend.

Away then went those pretty babes,
Rejoycing at that tide,
Rejoycing with a merry mind,
They should on cock-horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they rode on the way,
To those that should their butchers be,
And work their lives' decay:

So that the pretty speech they had,
Made Murder's heart relent;
And they that undertook the deed,
Full sore did now repent.
Yet one of them, more hard of heart,
Did vow to do his charge,
Because the wretch, that hired him,
Had paid him very large.

The other won't agree thereto,
So here they fall to strife;
With one another they did fight,
About the children's life:
And he that was of mildest mood,
Did slay the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood;
The babes did quake for fear!

He took the children by the hand,
Tears standing in their eye,
And bade them straightway follow him,
And look they did not cry:
And two long miles he led them on,
While they for food complain:
Stay here, quoth he, I'll bring you bread,
When I come back again.

The pretty babes, with hand in hand,
Went wandering up and down;
But never more could see the man
Approaching from the town;
Their pretty lips with black-berries,
Were all besmear'd and dyed,
And when they saw the darksome night,
They sat them down and cryed.

Thus wandered these poor innocents,
Till death did end their grief,
In one another's arms they died,
As wanting due relief:
No burial this pretty pair
Of any man receives,
Till Robin-redbreast piously
Did cover them with leaves.

And now the heavy wrath of God
Upon their uncle fell;
Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,
His conscience felt an hell:
His barns were fir'd, his goods consum'd,
His lands were barren made;
His cattle died within the field,
And nothing with him stayd.

And in a voyage to Portugal
Two of his sons did die;
And to conclude, himself was brought
To want and misery:
He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land
Ere seven years came about.
And now at length this wicked act
Did by this means come out:

The fellow, that did take in hand
These children for to kill,
Was for a robbery judg'd to die,
Such was God's blessed will:
Who did confess the very truth,
As here hath been display'd:
Their uncle having died in gaol,
Where he for debt was laid.

You that executors be made,
And overseers eke,
Of children that be fatherless,
And infants mild and meek;
Take you example by this thing,
And yield to each his right,
Lest God with such like misery
Your wicked minds requite.

ROBIN HOOD AND THE PINDER OF WAKEFIELD

In Wakefield there lives a jolly pinder,
In Wakefield, all on a green;

'There is neither knight nor squire,' said the pinder,
'Nor baron that is so bold,
Dare make a trespasse to the town of Wakefield,
But his pledge goes to the pinfold.'

All this beheard three witty young men,
'Twas Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John;
With that they spied the jolly pinder,
As he sate under a thorn.

'Now turn again, turn again,' said the pinder,
'For a wrong way have you gone;
For you have forsaken the king his highway,
And made a path over the corn.'

'Oh, that were great shame,' said jolly Robin,
'We being three, and thou but one':
The pinder leapt back then thirty good foot,
'Twas thirty good foot and one.

He leaned his back fast unto a thorn,
And his foot unto a stone,
And there he fought a long summer's day,
A summer's day so long,
Till that their swords, on their broad bucklers,
Were broken fast unto their hands.

* * * * * *

'Hold thy hand, hold thy hand,' said Robin Hood,
'And my merry men every one;
For this is one of the best pinders
That ever I try'd with sword.

'And wilt thou forsake thy pinder his craft,
And live in the green wood with me?'

* * * * * *

'At Michaelmas next my covenant comes out,
When every man gathers his fee;
I'le take my blew blade all in my hand,
And plod to the green wood with thee.'

'Hast thou either meat or drink,' said Robin Hood,
'For my merry men and me?'

* * * * * *

'I have both bread and beef,' said the pinder,
'And good ale of the best';
'And that is meat good enough,' said Robin Hood,
'For such unbidden guest.

'O wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft
And go to the green wood with me?
Thou shalt have a livery twice in the year,
The one green, the other brown shall be.'

'If Michaelmas day were once come and gone,
And my master had paid me my fee,
Then would I set as little by him
As my master doth set by me.'

THE NUT-BROWN MAID

He. Be it right or wrong, these men among
On women do complain;
Affirming this, how that it is
A labour spent in vain,
To love them well; for never a deal
They love a man again:
For let a man do what he can,
Their favour to attain,
Yet, if a new do them pursue,
Their first true lover then
Laboureth for nought; for from their thought
He is a banished man.

She. I say not nay, but that all day
It is both written and said,
That woman's faith is, as who saith,
All utterly decayed;
But, nevertheless, right good witnèss
In this case might be laid,
That they love true, and continùe:
Record the Nut-brown Maid:
Which, when her love came, her to prove,
To her to make his moan,
Would not depart; for in her heart
She loved but him alone.

He. Then between us let us discuss
What was all the manner
Between them two: we will also
Tell all the pain, and fear,
That she was in. Now I begin,
So that ye me answèr;
Wherefore, all ye, that present be,
I pray you give an ear.
'I am the knight; I come by night,
As secret as I can;
Saying, alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banished man.'

She. And I your will for to fulfil
In this will not refuse;
Trustying to show, in words few,
That men have an ill use
(To their own shame) women to blame,
And causeless them accuse;
Therefore to you I answer now,
All women to excuse,—
Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer
I pray you, tell anon;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. It standeth so; a deed is done
Whereof great harm shall grow:
My destiny is for to die
A shameful death, I trow;
Or else to flee. The one must be;
None other way I know,
But to withdraw as an outlàw,
And take me to my bow.
Wherefore adieu, my own heart true!
None other rede I can:
For I must to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. O Lord, what is this worldis bliss,
That changeth as the moon!
My summer's day in lusty May
Is derked before the noon.
I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay,
We dèpart not so soon,
Why say ye so? whither will ye go?
Alas! what have you done?
All my welfàre to sorrow and care
Should change, if you were gone;
For in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. I can believe, it shall you grieve,
And somewhat you distrain;
But, afterward, your paines hard
Within a day or twain
Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take
Comfort to you again.
Why should ye ought? for to make thought,
Your labour were in vain.
And thus I do; and pray you to,
As hartely, as I can;
For I must to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. Now, sith that ye have showed to me
The secret of your mind,
I shall be plain to you again,
Like as ye shall me find.
Sith it is so, that ye will go,
I will not live behind;
Shall never be said, the Nut-brown Maid
Was to her love unkind:
Make you readỳ, for so am I,
Although it were anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind,
I love but you alone.

He. Yet I you rede to take good heed
What men will think, and say:
Of young and old it shall be told,
That ye be gone away,
Your wanton will for to fulfil,
In green-wood you to play;
And that ye might for your delight
No longer make delay.
Rather than ye should thus for me
Be called an ill womàn,
Yet would I to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. Though it be sung of old and young,
That I should be to blame,
Theirs be the charge, that speak so large
In hurting of my name:
For I will prove that faithful love
It is devoid of shame;
In your distress, and heaviness,
To part with you, the same:
And sure all those, that do not so,
True lovers are they none;
For, in my mind, of all mankind,
I love but you alone.

He. I counsel you, Remember how,
It is no maiden's law,
Nothing to doubt, but to run out
To wood with an outlàw:
For ye must there in your hand bear
A bow, readỳ to draw,
And, as a thief, thus must you live,
Ever in dread and awe;
Whereby to you great harm might grow:
Yet had I liever than,
That I did to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. I think not nay, but as ye say,
It is no maiden's lore:
But love may make me for your sake,
As I have said before,
To come on foot, to hunt, and shoot
To get us meat in store;
For so that I your company
May have, I ask no more:
From which to part, it maketh my heart
As cold as any stone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. For an outlàw this is the law,
That men him take and bind;
Without pitie, hangèd to be,
And waver with the wind.
If I had need (as God forbid!)
What socours could ye find?
Forsooth, I trow, ye and your bow
For fear would draw behind:
And no marvèl; for little avail
Were in your counsel then:
Wherefore I will to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. Right well know ye that woman be
But feeble for to fight;
No womanhede it is indeed
To be bold as a knight:
Yet, in such fear if that ye were
With enemies day or night,
I would withstand, with bow in hand,
To grieve them as I might,
And you to save; as women have
From death men many one;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. Yet take good heed; for ever I dread
That ye could not sustain
The thorny ways, the deep vallèys,
The snow, the frost, the rain,
The cold, the heat: for dry, or wet,
We must lodge on the plain;
And, us above, no other roof
But a brake bush, or twain:
Which soon should grieve you, I believe,
And ye would gladly than
That I had to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. Sith I have here been partynère
With you of joy and bliss,
I must alsò part of your woe
Endure, as reason is:
Yet am I sure of one pleasùre;
And shortly, it is this:
That, where ye be, me seemeth, pardè,
I could not fare amiss.
Without more speech, I you beseech
That we were soon agone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. If you go thyder, ye must consider,
When ye have lust to dine,
There shall no meat be for you gete,
Neither beer, ale, nor wine;
No shétes clean, to lie between,
Made of thread and twine;
None other house but leaves and boughs,
To cover your head and mine,
Lo, mine heart sweet, this evil diéte
Should make you pale and wan;
Wherefore I will to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. Among the wild deer, such an archère
As men say that ye be,
Ne may not fail of good vitayle,
Where is so great plentè:
And water clear of the rivère
Shall be full sweet to me;
With which in hele I shall right wele
Endure, as ye shall see;
And, or we go, a bed or two
I can provide anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. Lo yet, before, ye must do more,
If ye will go with me:
As cut your hair up by your ear,
Your kirtle by the knee;
With bow in hand, for to withstand
Your enemies, if need be:
And this same night before daylight,
To woodward will I flee.
If that ye will all this fulfil,
Do it shortly as ye can:
Else will I to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. I shall as now do more for you
Than 'longeth to womanhede;
To shote my hair, a bow to bear,
To shoot in time of need.
O my sweet mother, before all other
For you I have most dread!
But now, adieu! I must ensue,
Where fortune doth me lead.
All this make ye: Now let us flee;
The day cometh fast upon;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go,
And I shall tell you why,—
Your appetite is to be light
Of love, I well espy:
For, like as ye have said to me,
In likewise hardily
Ye would answere whosoever it were,
In way of company.
It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold;
And so is a womàn.
Wherefore I to the wood will go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. If ye take heed, it is no need
Such words to say by me;
For oft ye prayed, and long assayed,
Or I loved you, pardè:
And though that I of ancestry
A baron's daughter be,
Yet have you proved how I you loved,
A squire of low degree;
And ever shall, whatso befall;
To die therefore anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. A baron's child to be beguil'd!
It were a cursèd deed;
To be felàwe with an outlàw!
Almighty God forbid!
Yet better were the poor squyère
Alone to forest yede,
Than ye shall say another day,
That, by my cursèd rede,
Ye were betrayed: Wherefore, good maid,
The best rede that I can,
Is, that I to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. Whatever befall, I never shall
Of this thing be upbraid:
But if ye go, and leave me so,
Then have ye me betrayed.
Remember you well, how that ye deal;
For, if ye, as ye said,
Be so unkind, to leave behind,
Your love, the Nut-brown Maid,
Trust me truly, that I shall die
Soon after ye be gone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. If that ye went, ye should repent;
For in the forest now
I have purvayed me of a maid,
Whom I love more than you;
Another more fair than ever ye were,
I dare it well avow;
And of you both each should be wroth
With other, as I trow:
It were mine ease to live in peace;
So will I, if I can;
Wherefore I to the wood will go,
Alone, a banished man.

She. Though in the wood I understood
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I will be yours:
And she shall find me soft and kind,
And courteous every hour;
Glad to fulfil all that she will
Command me to my power:
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,
Yet would I be that one,
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. Mine own dear love, I see the prove
That ye be kind and true;
Of maid, and wife, in all my life,
The best that ever I knew.
Be merry and glad, be no more sad,
The case is changèd new;
For it were ruth, that, for your truth,
Ye should have cause to rue.
Be not dismayed; whatsoever I said
To you when I began;
I will not to the green-wood go;
I am no banished man.

She. These tidings be more glad to me,
Than to be made a queen,
If I were sure they should endure;
But it is often seen,
When men will break promise, they speak
The wordis on the spleen.
Ye shape some wile me to beguile,
And steal from me, I ween:
Then were the case worse than it was,
And I more wobegone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.

He. Ye shall not need further to dread;
I will not disparàge
You (God defend), sith ye descend
Of so great lineàge.
Now understand; to Westmoreland,
Which is my heritage,
I will you bring; and with a ring,
By way of marriàge
I will you take, and lady make,
As shortly as I can.
Thus have you won an Erle's son,
And not a banished man.

Here may ye see, that woman be
In love, meek, kind, and stable:
Let never man reprove them than,
Or call them variable;
But rather pray God that we may
To them be comfortable;
Which sometimes proveth such, as He loveth,
If they be charitable.
For sith men would that women should
Be meek to them each one;
Much more ought they to God obey,
And serve but Him alone.

SIR HUGH OF LINCOLN

Four and twenty bonny boys
War playing at the ba';
Then up and started sweet Sir Hugh,
The flower amang them a'.

He hit the ba' a kick wi's fit,
And kept it wi' his knee,
That up into the Jew's window
He gart the bonny ba' flee.

'Cast doun the ba' to me, fair maid,
Cast doun the ba' to me';
'O ne'er a bit o' the ba' ye get
Till ye cum up to me.'

'Cum up, sweet Hugh, cum up, dear Hugh,
Cum up and get the ba'';
'I canna cum, I darna cum,
Without my playferes twa.'

'Cum up, sweet Hugh, cum up, dear Hugh,
Cum up and play wi' me';
'I canna cum, I darna cum,
Without my playferes three.'

She's gane into the Jew's garden,
Where the grass grew lang and green;
She pow'd an apple red and white,
To wyle the young thing in.

She wyl'd him into ae chamber,
She wyl'd him into twa;
She wyl'd him to her ain chamber,
The fairest o' them a'.

She laid him on a dressing-board
Where she did sometimes dine;
She put a penknife in his heart
And dressed him like a swine.

Then out and cam the thick, thick blude,
Then out and cam the thin;
Then out and cam the bonny heart's blude,
Where a' the life lay in.

She row'd him in a cake of lead,
Bad him lie still and sleep;
She cast him into the Jew's draw-well,
Was fifty fadom deep.

She's tane her mantle about her head,
Her pike-staff in her hand;
And prayed Heaven to be her guide
Unto some uncouth land.

His mither she cam to the Jew's castle,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'

She cam into the Jew's garden,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'

She cam unto the Jew's draw-well,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'

'How can I speak, how dare I speak,
How can I speak to thee?
The Jew's penknife sticks in my heart,
I canna speak to thee.

'Gang hame, gang hame, O mither dear,
And shape my winding-sheet,
And at the birks of Mirryland town
There you and I shall meet.'

When bells war rung and Mass was sung,
And a' men bound for bed,
Every mither had her son,
But sweet Sir Hugh was dead.

THE GYPSY COUNTESS

There come seven gypsies on a day,
Oh, but they sang bonny, O!
And they sang so sweet, and they sang so clear,
Down cam the earl's ladie, O.

They gave to her the nutmeg,
And they gave to her the ginger;
But she gave to them a far better thing,
The seven gold rings off her fingers.

When the earl he did come home,
Enquiring for his ladie,
One of the servants made this reply,
'She's awa with the gypsie laddie.'

'Come saddle for me the brown,' he said,
'For the black was ne'er so speedy,
And I will travel night and day
Till I find out my ladie.'

'Will you come home, my dear?' he said,
'Oh will you come home, my honey?
And by the point of my broad sword,
A hand I'll ne'er lay on you.'

'Last night I lay on a good feather-bed,
And my own wedded lord beside me,
And to-night I'll lie in the ash-corner,
With the gypsies all around me.

'They took off my high-heeled shoes,
That were made of Spanish leather,
And I have put on coarse Lowland brogues,
To trip it o'er the heather.'

'The Earl of Cashan is lying sick;
Not one hair I'm sorry;
I'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips
Than all his gold and his money.'

THERE WERE THREE LADIES

There were three ladies play'd at the ba',
With a hey, hey, an' a lilly gay.

Bye cam three lords an' woo'd them a',
Whan the roses smelled sae sweetly.

The first o' them was clad in yellow:
'O fair May, will ye be my marrow?'
Whan the roses smelled sae sweetly.

The niest o' them was clad i' ried:
O fair May, will ye be my bride?'

The thrid o' them was clad i' green:
He said, 'O fair May, will ye be my queen?'

THE HEIR OF LINNE

PART I

Lithe and listen, gentlemen,
To sing a song I will begin:
It is of a lord of faire Scotlànd,
Which was the unthrifty heir of Linne.

His father was a right good lord,
His mother a lady of high degree;
But they, alas! were dead, him froe,
And he lov'd keeping companie.

To spend the day with merry cheer,
To drinke and revell every night,
To card and dice from eve to morne,
It was, I ween, his heart's delight.

To ride, to run, to rant, to roar,
To alwaye spend and never spare,
I wot, an' it were the king himself,
Of gold and fee he mote be bare.

So fares the unthrifty lord of Linne
Till all his gold is gone and spent;
And he maun sell his lands so broad,
His house, and lands, and all his rent.

His father had a keen stewàrde,
And John o' the Scales was called he:
But John is become a gentel-man,
And John has got both gold and fee.

Says, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne,
Let nought disturb thy merry cheer;
If thou wilt sell thy lands soe broad,
Good store of gold I'll give thee here.

My gold is gone, my money is spent;
My land now take it unto thee:
Give me the gold, good John o' the Scales,
And thine for aye my land shall be.

Then John he did him to record draw,
And John he cast him a gods-pennie;
But for every pound that John agreed,
The land, I wis, was well worth three.

He told him the gold upon the bord,
He was right glad his land to win:
The gold is thine, the land is mine,
And now I'll be the lord of Linne.

Thus he hath sold his land so broad,
Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
All but a poor and lonesome lodge,
That stood far off in a lonely glen.

For so he to his father hight.
My son, when I am gone, said he,
Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad,
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:

But swear me now upon the roode,
That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend;
For when all the world doth frown on thee,
Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.

The heir of Linne is full of gold:
And come with me, my friends, said he,
Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make,
And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.

They ranted, drank, and merry made,
Till all his gold it waxed thin;
And then his friends they slunk away;
They left the unthrifty heir of Linne.

He had never a penny left in his purse,
Never a penny left but three,
And one was brass, another was lead,
And another it was white monèy.

Now well-aday, said the heir of Linne,
Now well-aday, and woe is me,
For when I was the lord of Linne,
I never wanted gold nor fee.

But many a trusty friend have I,
And why should I feel dole or care?
I'll borrow of them all by turns,
So need I not be never bare.

But one, I wis, was not at home;
Another had payd his gold away;
Another call'd him thriftless loon,
And bade him sharply wend his way.

Now well-aday, said the heir of Linne,
Now well-aday, and woe is me!
For when I had my lands so broad,
On me they liv'd right merrilee.

To beg my bread from door to door
I wis, it were a burning shame:
To rob and steal it were a sin:
To work my limbs I cannot frame.

Now I'll away to that lonesome lodge,
For there my father bade me wend;
When all the world should frown on me,
I there shold find a trusty friend.

Part II

Away then hied the heir of Linne
O'er hill and holt and moor and fen,
Untill he came to the lonesome lodge,
That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.

He looked up, he looked down,
In hope some comfort for to win:
But bare and lothly were the walls.
Here's sorry cheer, quo' the heir of Linne.

The little window dim and dark
Was hung with ivy, brere, and yew;
No shimmering sun here ever shone;
No wholesome breeze here ever blew.

Nor chair, nor table he mote spy,
No cheerful hearth, no welcome bed,
Nought save a rope with a running noose,
That dangling hung up o'er his head.

And over it in broad lettèrs,
These words were written so plain to see:
'Ah! graceless wretch, hast spent thine all,
And brought thyself to penurìe?

'And this my boding mind misgave
I therefore left this trusty friend:
Let it now shield thy foule disgrace,
And all thy shame and sorrows end.'

Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,
Sorely shent was the heir of Linne;
His heart, I wis, was near to burst
With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin.

Never a word spake the heir of Linne,
Never a word he spake but three:
'This is a trusty friend indeed,
And is right welcome unto me.'

Then round his neck the cord he drew,
And sprang aloft with his bodìe:
When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,
And to the ground came tumbling he.

Astonished lay the heir of Linne, Nor knewe if he were live or dead: At length he looked, and saw a bill, And in it a key of gold so redd.

He took the bill, and lookt it on, Strait good comfort found he there: It told him of a hole in the wall, In which there stood three chests in-fere.

Two were full of the beaten gold, The third was full of white monèy; And over them in broad lettèrs These words were written so plain to see:

'Once more, my son, I set thee clear; Amend thy life and follies past; For but thou amend thee of thy life, That rope must be thy end at last.'

'And let it be,' said the heir of Linne; 'And let it be, but if I amend: For here I will make mine avow, This read shall guide me to the end.'

Away then went with a merry cheer, Away then went the heir of Linne; I wis, he neither ceas'd nor stayed, Till John o' the Scales' house he did win.

And when he came to John o' the Scales, Up at the window then looked he: There sate three lords upon a row, Were drinking of the wine so free.

And John himself sate at the bord-head, Because now lord of Linne was he. I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales, One forty pence for to lend me.

Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
Away, away, this may not be:
For a curse upon my head he said,
If ever I trust thee one pennìe.

Then bespake the heir of Linne,
To John o' the Scales' wife then spake he:
Madame, some alms on me bestow,
I pray for sweet saint Charitìe.

Away, away, thou thriftless loone,
I swear thou gettest no alms of me;
For if we shold hang any losel here,
The first we would begin with thee.

Then bespake a good fellòwe,
Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord;
Sayd, Turn again, thou heir of Linne;
Some time thou wast a well good Lord:

Some time a good fellow thou hast been,
And sparedst not thy gold and fee:
Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence,
And other forty if need be.

And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales,
To let him sit in thy companie:
For well I wot thou hadst his land,
And a good bargain it was to thee.

Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
All hot he answered him againe:
Now a curse upon my head, he said,
But I did lose by that bargàine.

And here I proffer thee, heir of Linne,
Before these lords so fair and free,
Thou shalt have it back again better cheap,
By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.

I draw you to record, lords, he said.
With that he cast him a god's pennie:
Now by my fay, sayd the heir of Linne,
And here, good John, is thy monèy.

And he pull'd forth three bags of gold,
And layd them down upon the board:
All woebegone was John o' the Scales,
Soe shent he could say never a word.

He told him forth the good red gold,
He told it forth with mickle dinne,
The gold is thine, the land is mine,
And now I'm again the lord of Linne.

Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe,
Forty pence thou didst lend me:
Now I am again the lord of Linne,
And forty pounds I will give thee.

I'll make thee keeper of my forest,
Both of the wild deere and the tame;
For unless I reward thy bounteous heart,
I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.

Now well-aday! sayth John o' the Scales:
Now well-aday! and woe is my life!
Yesterday I was lady of Linne,
Now I'm but John o' the Scales his wife.

Now fare thee well, said the heir of Linne;
Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said he.
A curse light on me, if ever again
I bring my lands in jeopardy.

THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER

An old song made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;
Like an old courtier of the queen's
And the queen's old courtier.

With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages;
They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,
And never knew what belong'd to coachman, footmen, nor pages,
But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;
Like an old courtier ...

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks.
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,
And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks:
Like an old courtier ...

With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns and bows,
With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows,
And an old frize coat to cover his worship's trunk hose,
And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose;
Like an old courtier ...

With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come,
To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,
With good chear enough to furnish every old room,
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb,
Like an old courtier ...

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,
That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds,
Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds,
And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds;
Like an old courtier ...

But to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd,
Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind,
To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind:
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd;
Like a young courtier of the king's
And the king's young courtier.

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land,
Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command,
And takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land,
And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand;
Like a young courtier ...

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare,
Who never knew what belong'd to good house-keeping, or care,
Who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air,
And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair;
Like a young courtier ...

With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood,
Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good,
With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,
And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood;
Like a young courtier ...

With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays,
And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays,
With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days,
And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys;
Like a young courtier ...

With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,
On a new journey to London straight we all must begone,
And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John,
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone;
Like a young courtier ...

With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat,
With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat,
With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,
Who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat;
Like a young courtier ...

With new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold,
For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold;
And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,
Which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold,
Among the young courtiers of the king,
Among the king's young courtiers.

THE WINNING OF CALES

Long the proud Spaniards had vaunted to conquer us,
Threatning our country with fyer and sword;
Often preparing their navy most sumptuous
With as great plenty as Spain could afford.
Dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums;
Tantara, tantara, the Englishman comes.

To the seas presentlye went our lord admiral,
With knights couragious and captains full good;
The brave Earl of Essex, a prosperous general,
With him prepared to pass the salt flood.

At Plymouth speedilye, took they ship valiantlye,
Braver ships never were seen under sayle,
With their fair colours spread, and streamers o'er their head.
Now bragging Spaniards, take heed of your tayle.

Unto Cales cunninglye, came we most speedilye,
Where the kinges navy securelye did ryde;
Being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks,
Ere any Spaniards our coming descryde.

Great was the crying, the running and ryding,
Which at that season was made in that place;
The beacons were fyred, as need then required;
To hyde their great treasure they had little space.

There you might see their ships, how they were fyred fast,
And how their men drowned themselves in the sea;
There you might hear them cry, wayle and weep piteously,
When they saw no shift to 'scape thence away.

The great St. Phillip, the pryde of the Spaniards,
Was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea;
But the St. Andrew, and eke the St. Matthew,
Wee took in fight manfullye and brought away.

The Earl of Essex, most valiant and hardye,
With horsemen and footmen march'd up to the town;
The Spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed,
Did fly for their savegard, and durst not come down.

Now, quoth the noble Earl, courage my soldiers all,
Fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have;
And be well rewarded all from the great to the small;
But look that the women and children you save.

The Spaniards at that sight, thinking it vain to fight,
Hung upp flags of truce and yielded the towne;
Wee marched in presentlye, decking the walls on hye,
With English colours which purchas'd renowne.

Entering the houses then, of the most richest men,
For gold and treasure we searched eche day;
In some places we did find, pyes baking left behind,
Meate at fire rosting, and folkes run away.

Full of rich merchandize, every shop catch'd our eyes,
Damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre:
Which soldiers mèasur'd out by the length of their swords;
Of all commodities eche had a share.

Thus Cales was taken, and our brave general
March'd to the market-place, where he did stand:
There many prisoners fell to our several shares,
Many crav'd mercye, and mercye they fannd.

When our brave general saw they delayed all,
And would not ransome their towne as they said,
With their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds,
Their joint-stools and tables a fire we made;
And when the town burned all in a flame,
With tara, tantara, away we all came.

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON

There was a youth, a well-beloved youth,
And he was a squire's son;
He loved the bayliffe's daughter dear,
That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coy and would not believe
That he did love her so,
No nor at any time would she
Any countenance to him show.

But when his friends did understand
His fond and foolish mind,
They sent him up to faire London
An apprentice for to bind.

And when he had been seven long years,
And never his love could see:
Many a tear have I shed for her sake,
When she little thought of me.

Then all the maids of Islington
Went forth to sport and play,
All but the bayliffe's daughter dear;
She secretly stole away.

She pulled off her gown of green,
And put on ragged attire,
And to faire London she would go
Her true love to enquire.

And as she went along the high road,
The weather being hot and dry,
She sat her down upon a green bank,
And her true love came riding bye.

She started up, with a colour so redd,
Catching hold of his bridle-reine;
One penny, one penny, kind sir, she said,
Will ease me of much pain.

Before I give you one penny, sweetheart,
Pray tell me where you were born.
At Islington, kind sir, said she,
Where I have had many a scorn.

I prythe, sweetheart, then tell to me,
O tell me, whether you know,
The bayliffe's daughter of Islington.
She is dead, sir, long ago.

If she be dead, then take my horse,
My saddle and bridle also;
For I will unto some far country,
Where no man shall me know.

O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth,
She standeth by thy side;
She is here alive, she is not dead,
And ready to be thy bride.

O farewell grief, and welcome joy,
Ten thousand times therefore;
For now I have found mine own true love,
Whom I thought I should never see more.

CHEVY CHASE

PART I

God prosper long our noble King,
Our lives and safeties all!
A woeful Hunting once there did
In Chevy Chase befall.

To drive the deer, with hound and horn,
Earl Percy took the way;
The child may rue, that is unborn,
The hunting of that day!

The stout Earl of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods,
Three summer days to take;

The chiefest harts in Chevy Chase,
To kill and bear away.
These tidings to Earl Douglas came
In Scotland, where he lay.

Who sent Earl Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The English Earl, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold,
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well, in time of need,
To aim their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,
To chase the fallow deer.
On Monday, they began to hunt,
Ere daylight did appear;

And long before high noon they had
A hundred fat bucks slain:
Then, having dined, the drovers went
To rouse the deer again.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
The nimble deer to take,
That with their cries the hills and dales
An echo shrill did make.

Lord Percy, to the quarry went,
To view the slaughtered deer,
Quoth he, 'Earl Douglas promiséd
This day to meet me here:

'But if I thought he would not come,
No longer would I stay!'
With that, a brave young gentleman,
Thus to the Earl did say:

'Lo! yonder doth Earl Douglas come!
His men in armour bright!
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears
All marching in our sight!

'All pleasant men of Tividale,
Fast by the river Tweed.'
'O, cease your sports!' Earl Percy said,
'And take your bows with speed;

'And now with me, my countrymen,
Your courage forth advance;
For there was never champion yet,
In Scotland, nor in France,

'That ever did on horseback come;
And, if my hap it were,
I durst encounter man for man,
With him to break a spear!'

Earl Douglas, on his milk-white steed,
Most like a baron bold,
Rode foremost of his company,
Whose armour shone like gold.

'Show me,' said he, 'whose men you be,
That hunt so boldly here?
That, without my consent, do chase
And kill my fallow deer?'

The first man that did answer make,
Was noble Percy he,
Who said, 'We list not to declare,
Nor show, whose men we be:

'Yet we will spend our dearest blood
Thy chiefest harts to slay.'
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath,
And thus in rage did say:

'Ere thus I will outbravèd be,
One of us two shall die:
I know thee well! An earl thou art,
Lord Percy. So am I.

'But, trust me, Percy, pity it were,
And great offence, to kill
Any of these, our guiltless men!
For they have done no ill.

'Let thou and I, the battle try;
And set our men aside.'
'Accursed be he,' Earl Percy said,
'By whom it is denied!'

Then stepped a gallant squire forth,
Witherington was his name,
Who said, 'I would not have it told
To Henry our king, for shame,

'That e'er my Captain fought on foot,
And I stood looking on.
You be two earls,' quoth Witherington,
'And I a squire alone.

'I'll do the best that do I may,
While I have power to stand:
While I have power to wield my sword,
I'll fight with heart and hand.'

Our English archers bent their bows,
Their hearts were good and true.
At the first flight of arrows sent,
Full fourscore Scots they slew.

'To drive the deer with hound and horn!'
Douglas bade on the bent.
Two captains moved, with mickle might,
Their spears to shivers went.

They closed full fast on every side;
No slackness there was found:
But many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground.

O, Christ! it was a grief to see,
And likewise for to hear,
The cries of men lying in their gore,
And scattered here and there.

At last, these two stout earls did meet.
Like captains of great might,
Like lions wood, they laid on load,
And made a cruel fight:

They fought, until they both did sweat,
With swords of tempered steel,
Till blood adown their cheeks, like rain,
They trickling down did feel.

'Yield thee, O Percy,' Douglas said,
'In faith! I will thee bring,
Where thou shalt high advancèd be,
By James, our Scottish King!

'Thy ransom I will freely give!
And this report of thee,
"Thou art the most courageous knight
That ever I did see!"'

'No, Douglas,' quoth Earl Percy then,
'Thy proffer I do scorn;
I will not yield to any Scot
That ever yet was born!'

With that, there came an arrow keen
Out of an English bow,
Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart,
A deep and deadly blow.

Who never said more words than these,
'Fight on, my merry men all!
For why? My life is at an end,
Lord Percy sees my fall!'

Then leaving life, Earl Percy took
The dead man by the hand,
Who said, 'Earl Douglas, for thy sake,
Would I had lost my land!

'O, Christ! my very heart doth bleed
For sorrow, for thy sake,
For, sure, a more redoubted knight
Mischance could never take!'

A knight, amongst the Scots there was,
Which saw Earl Douglas die;
Who straight in heart did vow revenge
Upon the Lord Percy.

PART II

Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called;
Who, with a spear most bright,
Well mounted on a gallant steed,
Ran fiercely through the fight.

And passed the English archers all,
Without or dread or fear;
And through Earl Percy's body then
He thrust his hateful spear.

With such a vehement force and might,
He did his body gore:
The staff ran through the other side,
A large cloth-yard and more.

Thus did both those nobles die,
Whose courage none could stain.
An English archer then perceived
The noble earl was slain.

He had a good bow in his hand,
Made of a trusty tree.
An arrow of a cloth-yard long,
Up to the head drew he.

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery,
So right the shaft he set;
The grey-goose wing that was thereon,
In his heart's blood was wet.

This fight did last from break of day
Till setting of the sun:
For when they rang the evening bell,
The battle scarce was done.

With stout Earl Percy there were slain
Sir John of Egerton,
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
Sir James, that bold Baron.

And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
Both Knights of good account,
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain,
Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wail,
As one in doleful dumps,
For when his legs were smitten off,
He fought upon his stumps.

And with Earl Douglas there were slain
Sir Hugh Montgomery;
And Sir Charles Murray, that from field
One foot would never flee.

Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too,
His sister's son was he:
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,
But savèd he could not be.

And the Lord Maxwell, in like case,
Did with Earl Douglas die.
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears
Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fifty-three;
The rest in Chevy Chase were slain,
Under the greenwood tree.

Next day did many widows come
Their husbands to bewail:
They washed their wounds in brinish tears;
But all would not prevail!

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood,
They bore with them away.
They kissed them, dead, a thousand times,
Ere they were clad in clay.

The news was brought to Edinborough,
Where Scotland's King did reign,
That brave Earl Douglas suddenly
Was with an arrow slain.

'O, heavy news!' King James did say,
'Scotland may witnèss be,
I have not any captain more
Of such account as he!'

Like tidings to King Henry came,
Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland,
Was slain in Chevy Chase.

'Now, God be with him!' said our king,
'Sith it will no better be;
I trust I have, within my realm,
Five hundred as good as he!

'Yet shall not Scots, nor Scotland, say
But I will vengeance take;
And be revengèd on them all,
For brave Earl Percy's sake.'

This vow the king did well perform
After, on Humbledown,
In one day fifty knights were slain,
With lords of great renown;

And of the rest, of small account,
Did many thousands die.
Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy Chase,
Made by the Earl Percy.

God save our king; and bless this land
With plenty, joy, and peace!
And grant henceforth, that foul debate
'Twixt noblemen may cease!

THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT

MICHAEL DRAYTON

Fair stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort
March'd towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopp'd his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power.

Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the King sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet, have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raised.

And for myself, quoth he,
This my full rest shall be,
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.

Poictiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell,
No less our skill is,
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat,
Lop'd the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread,
The eager vanward led;
With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen.
Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear, was wonder;
That with cries they make,
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which did the signal aim
To our hid forces:
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went,
Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry;
O when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

SONG OF THE ENGLISH BOWMEN

ANONYMOUS

Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt,
Where English slew and hurt
All their French foemen?
With their pikes and bills brown,
How the French were beat down,
Shot by our Bowmen?

Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt,
Never to be forgot,
Or known to no men?
Where English cloth-yard arrows
Killed the French like tame sparrows,
Slain by our Bowmen?

Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt?
English of every sort,
High men and low men,
Fought that day wondrous well,
All our old stories tell,
Thanks to our Bowmen!

Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt?
Where our fifth Harry taught
Frenchmen to know men:
And, when the day was done,
Thousands there fell to one
Good English Bowman!

Agincourt, Agincourt!
Know ye not Agincourt?
Dear was the vict'ry bought
By fifty yeomen.
Ask any English wench,
They were worth all the French,
Rare English Bowmen!

WINTER

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whit!
Tu-who! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all about the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whit!
Tu-who! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

INGRATITUDE

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh, ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh, ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh, ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh, ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

FIDELE

Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to lie i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.

SYLVIA

Who is Sylvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admirèd be.

Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness,
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness,
And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing,
That Sylvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.

SONG

Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it;
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover ne'er find my grave
To weep there.

A SEA DIRGE

Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them,—
Ding, dong, bell.

OPHELIA'S SONG

How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.

He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.

And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead:
Go to thy death-bed:
He never will come again.

His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll:
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan:
God ha' mercy on his soul!

WHEN DAISIES PIED

When daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

IT WAS A LOVER

It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green cornfield did pass
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie,
In spring time, etc.

This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
In spring time, etc.

And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;
For love is crowned with the prime
In spring time, etc.

SWEET AND TWENTY

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

MUSIC

Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.

Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing-care and grief-of-heart
Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

THE PEDLAR

Lawn as white as driven snow;
Cypress black as e'er was crow;
Gloves as sweet as damask roses;
Masks for faces and for noses;
Bugle bracelet, necklace amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber;
Golden quoifs and stomachers,
For my lads to give their dears:
Pins and poking-sticks of steel,
What maids lack from head to heel:
Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;
Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry:
Come buy.

SOLDIER'S SONG

And let me the canakin clink, clink;
And let me the canakin clink:
A soldier's a man;
A life's but a span;
Why, then, let a soldier drink.

King Stephen was a worthy peer,
His breeches cost him but a crown;
He held them sixpence all too dear,
With that he call'd the tailor lown.

He was a wight of high renown,
And thou art but of low degree:
'Tis pride that pulls the country down;
Then take thine auld cloak about thee.

DOUBT NOT

Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.

ARIEL

Where the bee sucks, there lurk I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

SIGH NO MORE, LADIES

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more;
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea, and one on shore;
To one thing constant never;
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into, Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy,
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe,
Into, Hey nonny, nonny.

THE SWEET O' THE YEAR

When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

The lark, that tirra-lyra chants,
With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the hay.

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?
The pale moon shines by night:
And when I wander here and there,
I then do most go right.

If tinkers may have leave to live,
And bear the sow-skin budget,
Then my account I well may give,
And in the stocks avouch it.

HARK! HARK! THE LARK!

(Cloten's Song)

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phœbus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs,
On chalic'd flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty bin;
My lady sweet, arise.

OVER HILL, OVER DALE

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours;
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

ONE IN TEN

Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, done fond,
Was this King Priam's joy?
With that she sighèd as she stood,
With that she sighèd as she stood,
And gave this sentence then;
Among nine bad if one be good,
Among nine bad if one be good,
There's yet one good in ten.

PUCK

Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
While the screech-owl, screeching loud,
Puts the wretch, that lies in woe,
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide;
And we fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecate's team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic; not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallow'd house:
I am sent with broom before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.
Through the house give glimmering light,
By the dead and drowsy fire:
Every elf and fairy sprite
Hop as light as bird from brier;
And this ditty, after me,
Sing, and dance it trippingly.
First, rehearse your song by rote,
To each word a warbling note:
Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
Will we sing, and bless this place.

LULLABY

You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,
Come not near our fairy queen.

Philomel, with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby.
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good-night, with lullaby.

Weaving Spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby.
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good-night, with lullaby.

SONG

Tell me where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed: and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring fancy's knell:
I'll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.
Ding, dong, bell.

CHERRY-RIPE

THOMAS CAMPION

There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which, when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

LAURA

Rose-cheeked Laura, come;
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's
Silent music, either other
Sweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flow
From consent divinely framed;
Heaven is music, and thy beauty's
Birth is heavenly.

These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them,
Only beauty purely loving
Knows no discord,
But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renewed by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
Selves eternal.

COME, CHEERFUL DAY

Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me;
For while thou view'st me with thy fading light
Part of my life doth still depart with thee,
And I still onward haste to my last night:
Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly—
So every day we live, a day we die.

But O ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest,
How are my days deprived of life in you
When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,
By feignèd death life sweetly to renew;
Part of my life, in that, you life deny:
So every day we live, a day we die.

FOLLOW THY FAIR SUN

Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
Though thou be black as night
And she made all of light,
Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!
Though here thou liv'st disgraced,
And she in heaven is placed,
Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!

Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth,
That so have scorchèd thee
As thou still black must be
Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.

Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!
There comes a luckless night
That will dim all her light;
—And this the black unhappy shade divineth.

Follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd!
The sun must have his shade,
Till both at once do fade,—
The sun still proved, the shadow still disdainèd.

TO CELIA

BEN JONSON

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine,
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee!

SONG FROM 'CYNTHIA'S REVELS'

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep.
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright!

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close.
Bless us then with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright!

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal-shining quiver,
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe how short soever;
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!

THE SWEET NEGLECT

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast:
Still to be poud'red, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a looke, give me a face,
That makes simplicitie a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art,
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

THE WEAVER'S SONG

ANONYMOUS

When Hercules did use to spin,
And Pallas wrought upon the loom,
Our trade to flourish did begin,
While conscience went not selling broom;
Then love and friendship did agree
To keep the bands of amity.

When princes' sons kept sheep in field,
And queens made cakes of wheated flour,
The men to lucre did not yield,
Which brought good cheer in every bower;
Then love and friendship ...

But when the Gyants huge and high,
Did fight with spears like weavers' beams,
Then they in iron beds did lye,
And brought poor men to hard extreams;
Yet love and friendship ...

Then David took his sling and stone,
Not fearing great Goliah's strength,
He pierc't his brains, and broke the bone,
Though he were fifty foot of length;
For love and friendship ...

But while the Greeks besiegèd Troy,
Penelope apace did spin;
And weavers wrought with mickle joy,
Though little gains were coming in;
For love and friendship ...

Had Helen then sate carding wooll,
(Whose beauteous face did breed such strife),
She had not been Sir Paris' trull,
Nor caused so many to lose their life;
Yet we by love did still agree
To hold the bands of amity.

Or had King Priam's wanton son
Been making quills with sweet content,
He had not then his friends undone,
When he to Greece a-gadding went;
For love and friendship ...

The cedar-trees endure more storms
Then little shrubs that sprout on high;
The weavers live more void of harms
Then princes of great dignity;
While love and friendship doth agree ...

The shepherd sitting in the field
Doth tune his pipe with heart's delight;
When princes watch with spear and shield,
The poor man soundly sleeps all night;
While love and friendship doth agree ...

Yet this by proof is daily try'd,
For God's good gifts we are ingrate,
And no man through the world so wide
Lives well contented with his state;
No love and friendship we can see
To hold the bands of amity.

THE HONEST FELLOW

Hang fear, cast away care,
The parish is bound to find us
Thou and I, and all must die,
And leave this world behind us.
The bells shall ring, the clerk shall sing,
And the good old wife shall winde us;
And the sexton shall lay our bodies in the clay,
Where nobody shall find us.

ROBIN GOODFELLOW

From Oberon, in fairy land,
The king of ghosts and shadows there,
Mad Robin I, at his command,
Am sent to view the night-sports here.
What revel rout
Is kept about,
In every corner where I go,
I will o'ersee,
And merry be,
And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!

More swift than lightning can I fly
About this airy welkin soon,
And, in a minute's space, descry
Each thing that's done below the moon.
There's not a hag
Or ghost shall wag,
Or cry, 'ware goblins! where I go;
But Robin I
Their feats will spy,
And send them home with ho, ho, ho!

Whene'er such wanderers I meet,
As from their night-sports they trudge home,
With counterfeiting voice I greet,
And call them on with me to roam:
Through woods, through lakes;
Through bogs, through brakes;
Or else, unseen, with them I go,
All in the nick,
To play some trick,
And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho!

Sometimes I meet them like a man,
Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound;
And to a horse I turn me can,
To trip and trot about them round.
But if to ride
My back they stride,
More swift than wind away I go,
O'er hedge and lands,
Through pools and ponds,
I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When lads and lasses merry be,
With possets and with junkets fine;
Unseen of all the company,
I eat their cakes and sip their wine!
And, to make sport,
I puff and snort:
And out the candles I do blow:
The maids I kiss,
They shriek—Who's this?
I answer nought but ho, ho, ho!

Yet now and then, the maids to please,
At midnight I card up their wool;
And, while they sleep and take their ease,
With wheel to threads their flax I pull.
I grind at mill
Their malt up still;
I dress their hemp; I spin their tow;
If any wake,
And would me take,
I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When any need to borrow aught,
We lend them what they do require:
And, for the use demand we nought;
Our own is all we do desire.
If to repay
They do delay,
Abroad amongst them then I go,
And night by night,
I them affright,
With pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho!

When lazy queans have nought to do,
But study how to cog and lie:
To make debate and mischief too,
'Twixt one another secretly:
I mark their gloze,
And it disclose
To them whom they have wronged so:
When I have done,
I get me gone,
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho!

When men do traps and engines set
In loop-holes, where the vermin creep,
Who from their folds and houses get
Their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep;
I spy the gin,
And enter in,
And seem a vermin taken so;
But when they there
Approach me near,
I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho!

By wells and rills, in meadows green,
We nightly dance our heyday guise;
And to our fairy king and queen,
We chant our moonlight minstrelsies.
When larks 'gin sing,
Away we fling;
And babes new born steal as we go;
And elf in bed
We leave in stead,
And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!

From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I
Thus nightly revelled to and fro;
And for my pranks men call me by
The name of Robin Good-fellow.
Fiends, ghosts, and sprites,
Who haunt the nights,
The hags and goblins do me know;
And beldames old
My feats have told,
So vale, vale; ho, ho, ho!

TIME'S ALTERATION

When this old cap was new,
'Tis since two hundred year;
No malice then we knew,
But all things plenty were:
All friendship now decays
(Believe me, this is true);
Which was not in those days,
When this old cap was new.

The nobles of our land
Were much delighted then,
To have at their command
A crew of lusty men,
Which by their coats were known,
Of tawny, red, or blue,
With crests on their sleeves shewn,
When this old cap was new.

Now pride hath banished all,
Unto our land's reproach,
When he whose means is small,
Maintains both horse and coach:
Instead of a hundred men,
The coach allows but two;
This was not thought on then,
When this old cap was new.

Good hospitality
Was cherished then of many
Now poor men starve and die,
And are not helped by any:
For charity waxeth cold,
And love is found in few;
This was not in time of old,
When this old cap was new.

Where'er you travelled then,
You might meet on the way
Brave knights and gentlemen,
Clad in their country gray;
That courteous would appear,
And kindly welcome you;
No puritans then were,
When this old cap was new.

Our ladies in those days
In civil habit went;
Broad cloth was then worth praise,
And gave the best content:
French fashions then were scorned;
Fond fangles then none knew;
Then modesty women adorned,
When this old cap was new.

A man might then behold,
At Christmas, in each hall,
Good fires to curb the cold,
And meat for great and small:
The neighbours were friendly bidden,
And all had welcome true;
The poor from the gates were not chidden
When this old cap was new.

Black jacks to every man
Were filled with wine and beer;
No pewter pot nor can
In those days did appear:
Good cheer in a nobleman's house
Was counted a seemly show;
We wanted no brawn nor souse,
When this old cap was new.

We took not such delight
In cups of silver fine;
None under the degree of a knight
In plate drank beer or wine:
Now each mechanical man
Hath a cupboard of plate for a show;
Which was a rare thing then,
When this old cap was new.

Then bribery was unborn,
No simony men did use;
Christians did usury scorn,
Devised among the Jews.
The lawyers to be fee'd
At that time hardly knew;
For man with man agreed,
When this old cap was new.

No captain then caroused,
Nor spent poor soldiers' pay;
They were not so abused
As they are at this day:
Of seven days they make eight,
To keep from them their due;
Poor soldiers had their right,
When this old cap was new.

Which made them forward still
To go, although not prest;
And going with goodwill,
Their fortunes were the best.
Our English then in fight
Did foreign foes subdue,
And forced them all to flight,
When this old cap was new.

God save our gracious king,
And send him long to live:
Lord, mischief on them bring
That will not their alms give,
But seek to rob the poor
Of that which is their due:
This was not in time of yore,
When this old cap was new.

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR

GEORGE WITHER

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be griev'd or pin'd
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings, known,
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best,
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find.
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

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

I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE

I lov'd a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen.
But, fool as then I was,
I thought she lov'd me too:
But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

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

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

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

In summer time or winter
She had her heart's desire;
I still did scorn to stint her
From sugar, sack, or fire;
The world went round about,
No cares we ever knew:
But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

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

CHRISTMAS

So now is come our joyfullest part;
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy-leaves is dressed,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry!

Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas-blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meat choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie;
And, if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury it in a Christmas pie
And evermore be merry!

Rank misers now do sparing shun;
Their hall of music soundeth;
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run;
So all things there aboundeth.
The country folks themselves advance
With crowdy-muttons out of France;
And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry!

Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor that else were undone;
Some landlords spend their money worse,
On lust and pride in London.
There the roysters they do play,
Drab and dice their lands away,
Which may be ours another day,
And therefore let's be merry!

The client now his suit forbears;
The prisoner's heart is easèd;
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleasèd.
Though other's purses be more fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat,
And therefore let's be merry!

Hark! now the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you'll see them in the hall,
For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound;
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depth have found,
And there they will be merry!

The wenches with their wassail bowls
About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls;
The wild mare in is bringing;
Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box;
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbours come by flocks,
And here they will be merry!

Now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have,
And mate with everybody;
The honest now may play the knave,
And wise men play the noddy.
Some youths will now a-mumming go,
Some others play at Rowland-bo,
And twenty other game, boys, mo,
Because they will be merry!

Then wherefore, in these merry days,
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller:
And, while we thus inspirèd sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring;
Woods, and hills, and everything,
Bear witness we are merry!

ASK ME NO MORE

THOMAS CAREW

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

Ask me no more, whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

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

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

Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phœnix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

NIGHT-PIECE TO JULIA

ROBERT HERRICK

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee!

No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee!
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.

Then Julia let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And, when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,
My soul I'll pour into thee.

THE MAD MAID'S SONG

Good-morrow to the day so fair,
Good-morrow, sir, to you;
Good-morrow to my own torn hair,
Bedabbled all with dew.

Good-morrow to this primrose too;
Good-morrow to each maid
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid.

Ah, woe is me; woe, woe is me;
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;
I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave
In the bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there, I know ere this
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who so rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed;
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home; but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.

TO BLOSSOMS

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do you fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Tis pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

TO DAFFODILS

Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon:
Stay, stay,
Until the hast'ning day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And having prayed together, we
Will go with you along!

We have short time to stay as you;
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you or any thing:
We die,
As your hours do; and dry
Away
Like to the summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning-dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

JULIA

Some asked me where the rubies grew,
And nothing did I say,
But with my finger pointed to
The lips of Julia.

Some asked how pearls did grow, and where,
Then spake I to my girl,
To part her lips, and show me there
The quarelets of pearl.

One asked me where the roses grew,
I bade him not go seek;
But forthwith bade my Julia shew
A bud in either cheek.

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF THEIR TIME

Gather the rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But, being spent, the worse, and worst
Time shall succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while you may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

TWELFTH NIGHT, OR KING AND QUEEN

Now, now the mirth comes,
With the cake full of plums,
Where bean's the king of the sport here;
Beside, we must know,
The pea also
Must revel as queen in the court here.

Begin then to choose,
This night, as ye use,
Who shall for the present delight here;
Be a king by the lot,
And who shall not
Be Twelfth-day queen for the night here.

Which known, let us make
Joy-sops with the cake;
And let not a man then be seen here,
Who unurged will not drink,
To the base from the brink,
A health to the king and the queen here.

Next crown the bowl full
With gentle lamb's-wool;
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,
With store of ale, too;
And thus ye must do
To make the wassail a swinger.

Give them to the king
And queen wassailing;
And though with ale ye be wet here;
Yet part ye from hence,
As free from offence,
As when ye innocent met here.

THE BAG OF THE BEE

About the sweet bag of a bee,
Two Cupids fell at odds;
And whose the pretty prize should be,
They vowed to ask the gods.

Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stript them;
And taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipt them.

Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she'ad seen them,
She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes
And gave the bag between them.

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weatherproof;
Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry.
Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,
Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.
Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;
A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.
Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.
Lord, I confess, too, when I dine
The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee.
The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress,
Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent:
And my content
Makes those, and my beloved beet,
To be more sweet.
'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth;
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That sows my land:
All this, and better, dost Thou send
Me for this end:
That I should render for my part
A thankful heart,
Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly Thine:
But the acceptance—that must be,
O Lord, by Thee.

TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears
Speak grief in you,
Who were but born
Just as the modest morn
Teemed her refreshing dew?
Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,
Nor felt the unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years,
Or warped as we,
Who think it strange to see
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known
The reason why
Ye droop and weep;
Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?
Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?
Or brought a kiss
From that sweet heart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown
By your tears shed,
Would have this lecture read—
'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.'

DELIGHT IN DISORDER

A sweet disorder in the dress
[A happy kind of carelessness;]
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribands that flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility;
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

CHERRY RIPE

Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones—come and buy;
If so be you ask me where
They do grow?—I answer: There,
Where my Julia's lips do smile—
There's the land, or cherry-isle;
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.

VIRTUE

GEORGE HERBERT

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dews shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in its grave;
And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shows ye have your closes;
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber never gives;
But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

THE SPANISH ARMADO

Some years of late, in eighty-eight,
As I do well remember,
It was, some say, the middle of May,
And some say in September,
And some say in September.

The Spanish train launch'd forth amain,
With many a fine bravado,
Their (as they thought, but it prov'd not)
Invincible Armado,
Invincible Armado.

There was a man that dwelt in Spain
Who shot well with a gun a,
Don Pedro hight, as black a wight
As the Knight of the Sun a,
As the Knight of the Sun a.

King Philip made him Admiral,
And bid him not to stay a,
But to destroy both man and boy
And so to come away a,
And so to come away a.

Their navy was well victualled
With bisket, pease, and bacon,
They brought two ships, well fraught with whips,
But I think they were mistaken,
But I think they were mistaken.

Their men were young, munition strong,
And to do us more harm a,
They thought it meet to joyn their fleet
All with the Prince of Parma,
All with the Prince of Parma.

They coasted round about our land,
And so came in by Dover:
But we had men set on 'em then,
And threw the rascals over,
And threw the rascals over.

The Queen was then at Tilbury,
What could we more desire a?
Sir Francis Drake for her sweet sake
Did set them all on fire a,
Did set them all on fire a.

Then straight they fled by sea and land,
That one man kill'd threescore a,
And had not they all run away,
In truth he had kill'd more a,
In truth he had kill'd more a.

Then let them neither bray nor boast,
But if they come again a,
Let them take heed they do not speed
As they did you know when a,
As they did you know when a.

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING

SIR JOHN SUCKLING

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been;
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again can not be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or faer.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;
And there did I see coming down
Such folks as are not in our town;
Vorty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine
(His beard no bigger tho' than thine)
Walk'd on before the rest;
Our landlord looks like nothing to him;
The King (God bless him), 'twould undo him,
Should he go still so drest.

At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' the town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the green,
Or Vincent of the crown.

But wot you what? The youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing:
The parson for him staid:
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,
Perchance as did the maid.

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale)
For such a maid no Whitson-ale
Could ever yet produce;
No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juyce.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring;
It was too wide a peck:
And, to say truth (for out it must),
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way;
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half as fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare, a white was on,
No daisie make comparison
(Who sees them is undone);
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Kath'rine pear,
The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compared to what was next her chin
(Some bee had stung it newly);
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on a sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break
That they might passage get;
But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

Passion, oh me! how I run on!
There's that that would be thought upon,
I trow, beside the bride.
The business of the kitchen's great;
For it is fit that men should eat,
Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice
His summons did obey;
Each serving man, with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up like our train'd band,
Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be entreated?
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace
The company was seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And when 'twas named another's health,
Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,
(And who could help it, Dick?)

O' th' sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance:
Then dance again, and kiss:
Thus several ways the time did pass,
Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place,
And ev'ry man wish'd his.

By this time all were stolen aside
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know:
But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind
And did not mean to stay behind
Above an hour or so.

WHY SO PALE AND WAN?

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?
Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her.
The devil take her!

GO, LOVELY ROSE!

EDMUND WALLER

Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her, that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

THE FROG HE WOULD A-WOOING RIDE

ANONYMOUS

It was the frog in the well,
Humble dum, humble dum,
And the merry mouse in the mill,
Tweedle, tweedle, twino.

The frog would a-wooing ride,
Humble dum, humble dum,
Sword and buckler by his side,
Tweedle, tweedle, twino.

When upon his high horse set,
Humble dum, humble dum,
His boots they shone as black as jet,
Tweedle, tweedle, twino.

When he came to the merry mill pin,
Lady Mouse beene you within?
Then came out the dusty mouse,
I am lady of this house;

Hast thou any mind of me?
I have e'en great mind of thee.
Who shall this marriage make?
Our lord, which is the rat.

What shall we have to our supper?
Three beans in a pound of butter.
But, when supper they were at,
The frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat,

Then came in Tib, our cat,
And caught the mouse e'en by the back,
Then did they separate:
The frog leapt on the floor so flat;

Then came in Dick, our drake,
And drew the frog e'en to the lake,
The rat he ran up the wall,
And so the company parted all.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON

RICHARD LOVELACE

When love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round,
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts are free,—
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When linnet-like confinèd, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my king:
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,—
Enlargèd winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,—
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,—
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND

MARTIN PARKER

Ye gentlemen of England
That live at home at ease,
Ah! little do ye think upon
The dangers of the seas.
Give ear unto the mariners,
And they will plainly show
All the cares and the fears
When the stormy winds do blow.
When the stormy winds do blow.

If enemies oppose us
When England is at war
With any foreign nation,
We fear not wound or scar;
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em
Our valour for to know,
Whilst they reel on the keel,
And the stormy winds do blow.
And the stormy winds do blow.

Then courage, all brave mariners,
And never be dismay'd;
While we have bold adventurers,
We ne'er shall want a trade:
Our merchants will employ us
To fetch them wealth, we know;
Then be bold—work for gold,
When the stormy winds do blow.
When the stormy winds do blow.

THE FAIRY QUEEN

ANONYMOUS

Come follow, follow me,
You, fairy elves that be:
Which circle on the greene,
Come follow Mab your queene.
Hand in hand let's dance around,
For this place is fairye ground.

When mortals are at rest,
And snoring in their nest;
Unheard, and unespy'd,
Through key-holes we do glide;
Over tables, stools, and shelves,
We trip it with our fairy elves.

And, if the house be foul
With platter, dish, or bowl,
Upstairs we nimbly creep,
And find the sluts asleep;
There we pinch their armes and thighes;
None escapes, nor none espies.

But if the house be swept,
And from uncleanness kept,
We praise the household maid,
And duely she is paid:
For we use before we goe
To drop a tester in her shoe.

Upon a mushroome's head
Our table-cloth we spread;
A grain of rye, or wheat,
Is manchet, which we eat;
Pearly drops of dew we drink
In acorn cups fill'd to the brink.

The brains of nightingales,
With unctuous fat of snailes,
Between two cockles stew'd,
Is meat that's easily chew'd;
Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice,
Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,
Serve for our minstrelsie;
Grace said, we dance a while,
And so the time beguile:
And if the moon doth hide her head,
The gloe-worm lights us home to bed.

On tops of dewie grasse
So nimbly do we passe;
The young and tender stalk
Ne'er bends when we do walk:
Yet in the morning may be seen

THE PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S LIFE

JOHN CHALKHILL

Oh, the sweet contentment
The countryman doth find,
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;
That quiet contemplation
Possesseth all my mind:
Then care away, and wend along with me.

For courts are full of flattery,
As hath too oft been tried,
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;
The city full of wantonness,
And both are full of pride;
Then care away, and wend along with me.

But, oh! the honest countryman
Speaks truly from his heart,
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;
His pride is in his tillage,
His horses and his cart:
Then care away, and wend along with me.

Our clothing is good sheep-skins,
Grey russet for our wives,
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;
'Tis warmth and not gay clothing
That doth prolong our lives:
Then care away, and wend along with me.

The ploughman, though he labour hard,
Yet on the holy day,
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;
No emperor so merrily
Does pass his time away:
Then care away, and wend along with me.

To recompense our tillage
The heavens afford us showers,
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee
And for our sweet refreshments
The earth affords us bowers;
Then care away, and wend along with me.

The cuckoo and the nightingale
Full merrily do sing,
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;
And with their pleasant roundelays
Bid welcome to the spring:
Then care away, and wend along with me.

This is not half the happiness
The countryman enjoys,
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;
Though others think they have as much,
Yet he that says so lies:
Then care away, and wend along with me.