Old Ballads Part 9

This la.s.s so neat, with smiles so sweet.

Has won my right good-will; I'd crowns resign to call her mine-- Sweet la.s.s of Richmond Hill.

Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air, And wanton through the grove, Oh, whisper to my charming fair, I'd die for her I love!

How happy will the shepherd be Who calls this nymph his own!

Oh, may her choice be fix'd on me?

Mine's fix'd on her alone.

_James Upton._

TELL ME NOT, SWEET.

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 s.h.i.+eld.

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

_Richard Lovelace._

SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES.

She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met, Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet; Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone, The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown.

I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow.

A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore, The expression of her features was more thoughtful than before, And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain, To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne'er might view again.

I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow.

And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there, The widow's sombre cap conceal'd her once luxuriant hair; She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near, To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear!

I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now, In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow.

_Thomas Haynes Bayly._

O NANNY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME?

O Nanny, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?

Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown?

No longer drest in silken sheen, No longer deck'd with jewels rare, Say, can'st thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nanny, when thou'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?

Say, can'st thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind?

Oh, can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hards.h.i.+p learn to bear, Nor sad regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nanny, can'st thou love so true, Through perils keen with me go; Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe?

Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou a.s.sume the nurse's care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath, Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death?

And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

_Thomas Percy D.D._

D'YE KEN JOHN PEEL?

D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?

D'ye ken John Peel at the break of the day?

D'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away, With his hounds and his horn in the morning?

CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.

'Twas the sound of his horn brought me from my bed, And the cry of his hounds has me ofttimes led; For Peel's view holloa would 'waken the dead, Or a fox from his lair in the morning.

CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.

D'ye ken that hound whose voice is death?

D'ye ken her sons of peerless faith?

D'ye ken that a fox with his last breath Cursed them all as he died in the morning!

CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.

Yes, I ken John Peel and auld Ruby too, Ranter and Royal and Bellman so true; From the drag to the chase, From the chase to the view, From the view to the death in the morning.

CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.

And I've follow'd John Peel both often and far.

O'er the rasper-fence, the gate, and the bar, From Low Denton side up to Scratchmere Scar, When we vied for the brush in the morning.

CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.

Then here's to John Peel with my heart and soul.

Come fill, fill to him a br.i.m.m.i.n.g bowl: For we'll follow John Peel thro' fair or thro' foul, While we're wak'd by his horn in the morning.

CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.

_John Woodstock Graves._