« PreviousContinue »
Then breathing a groan o'er his clay,
| A stream so clear as Rocnabad, She hung on his tomb-stone, and died. A bower so sweet as Mosellay,
O! when these fair, perfidious maids,
$ 9. Song. Gay. 'Twas when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel Jay deploring,
All on a rock reclin'd.
She cast a wistful look ;
That trembled o'er the brook.
In vain with love our bosoms glow:
Speak not of fate:-ah! change the theme,
Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days; Why didst thou, rent'rous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas?
And let my lover rest:
To that within my breast !
Views tempests in despair ;.
To losing of my dear?
Where gold and di'monds grow,
But none that loves you so.
Beauty has such resistless power,
But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear :
How can they say that nature
Has nothing made in vain ? Why then beneath the water
Do hideous rocks remain ? No eyes these rocks discover,
That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wand'ring lover,
And leave the maid to weep.
What cruel answer have I heard !
All melancholy lying,
Thus wail'd she for her dear;
Each billow with a tear :
His floating corpse she spied ;
She bow'd her head, and died.
Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
§ 10. A Persian Song of Ilafiz.
SIR WILLIAM JONES. Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charın my sight,
§ 11. Song. And bid these arms thy neck en fold; That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Hard by the hall, our master's house, Would give thy poet more delight
Where Mersey flows to meet the main; Than als Bocara's vaunted gold,
Where woods, and winds, and waves dispose Than all the gems of Samarcand.
A lover to complain; Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
With arms across, along the strand And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Poor Lycon walkd, and hung his head; Whate'er the frowning zealots say:
Viewing the footsteps in the sand, Tell them their Eden cannot show
| Which a bright nymph had made.
The tide, said he, will soon erase
But curse on party's hateful strife, The marks so lightly here imprest;
That led the favor'd youth astray! But time or tide will ne'er deface
The day the rebel clans appear'd, Her image in my breast.
O had he never seen that day! Am I some savage beast of prey,
| Their colors and their sash he wore, Am I some horrid monster grown,
And in that fatal dress was found; That thus she flies so swift away,
And now he must that death endure Or meets me with a frown?
Which gires the brave the keepest wound. That bosom soft, that lily skin
How pale was then his true-love's cheek, (Trust not the fairest outside show !)
When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! Contains a marble heart within,
For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale, or yet so chill appear.
“O Dawson, monarch of my heart, Those criinson drops which stain the ground, Think not thy death shall end our loves, And beautify each shell.
For thou and I will never part. Ah! fair one, moderate thy flight,
“ Yet might sweet mercy find a place, I will no more in vain pursue,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes, But take my leave for a long night;
O George! without a pray'r for thee Adieu ! lov'd maid, adieu.
My orisons should never close. With that he took a running leap,
“ The gracious prince that gave him life He took a Lover's Leap indeed,
Would crown a never-dying flame; And plung'd into the sounding deep,
And every tender babe I bore Where hungry fishes feed.
Should learn to lisp the giver's name. The melancholy hern stalks by;
“But tho', dear youth, thou shouldst be dragg'd Around the squalling sea-gulls yell;
To yonder ignominious tree; Aloft the croaking ravens fly,
Thou shalt not want a faithful friend And toll his funeral bell.
To share thy bitter fate with thee." The waters roll above his head,
O then her mourning-coach was callid, The billows toss it o'er and o'er,
The sledge mov'd slowly on before; His ivory bones lie scattered,
Though borne in his triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her favorite more.
The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes $ 12. Song. Jemmy Dawson". Shenstone.
With calm and steadfast eye she saw. Come listen to my mournful tale,
Distorted was that blooming face, Ye tender hearts and lovers dear;
Which she had fondly lov'd so long; Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
And stifled was that tuneful breath, Nor will you blush to shed a tear.
Which in her praise had sweetly sung: And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid !
And severed was that beauteous neck, Do thou a pensive ear incline;
Round which her arms had fondly clos’d; For thou canst weep at every woe,
And mangled was the beauteous breast And pity every plaint but mine.
On which her love-sick head repos’d;
And ravish'd was that constant heart,
She did to every heart prefer;
For, though it could its king forget,
'Twas true and loyal still to her. And dearly was he lov'd again. One tender maid she lov'd him dear,
Amid those unrelenting flames Of gentle blood the damsel came:
She bore this constant heart to see ; And faultless was her beauteous form,
But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, And spotless was her virgin fame.
“ Now, now," she cried, “I follow thee! • Captain James Dawson, the amiable and unfortunate subject of these beautiful Stanzas, was one of the eight officers belonging to the Manchester regiment of volunteers, in the service of the young Chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-Common, in 1746 : and this Ballad, written about the time, is founded on a remarkable circumstance which actually happened at his execution. Just before his death he wrote a song on his own misfortunes, which is supposed to be still extant.
" My death, my death, alone can show
$ 14. Song. Sir John SUCKLING. The pure and lasting love I bore :
Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Accept, o Heaven ! of woes like ours,
Pry'thee why so pale? And let us, let us weep no more.”
Will, when looking well can't move her, The dismal scene was o'er and past,
Looking ill prevail ? The lover's mournful hearse retir'd;
Pr'ythee why so pale? The maid threw back her languid head,
Why so dull and mute, young sinner? And, sighing forth his name, expir'd !
Prythee why so mute? Though justice ever must prevail,
Will, when speaking well can't win her, The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
Saying nothing do't? For seldom shall she hear a tale
Pr’ythee why so mute? So sad, so tender, and so true.
Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love, $ 13. Song. A Morning Piece: or, a Hymn Nothing can make her ; for the Hay-makers. SMART.
The devil take her. Brusk chaunticleer his matins had begun,
And broke the silence of the night : And thrice he call'd aloud the tardy sun, $ 15. Song. Humphrey Gublin's Courtskip. And thrice he hail'd the dawn's ambiguous
A courting I went to my love, light;
Who is sweeter than roses in May; Back to their graves the fear-begotten phantoms
And when I came to her, by Jove,
The devil a word could I say,
I walk'd with her into the garden,
There fully intending to woo her ;
But may I be ne'er worth a farthing,
If of love I said any thing to her. Behind him came Health from her cottage of thatch,
I clasp'd her hand close to my breast, Where never physician had lifted the latch.
While my heart was as light as a feather ;
Yet nothing I said, I protest, First of the village Colin was awake,
But," Madam, 'uis very fine weather." And thus he sung, reclining on his rake:
To an arbor I did her altend,
She ask'd me to come and sit by her;
I crept to the furthermost end,
For I was afraid to come nigh her.
I ask'd her which way was the wind,
For I thought in some talk we must enter :
“ Why, Sır, (she answer'd, and grion de) In her cleanly homespun vest.
Have you just sent your wits for a venture ?"
Then I follow'd her into her house, The abbey-bells, in wak’ning rounds,
There I vow'd I iny passion would try; The warning peal have given ;
But there I was still as a mouse;
O what a dull booby was I!
$16. Song. The Despairing Lover. WALSH.
Distracted with care, Sylvia and Sol arise, and all is day!
For Phillis the fair,
Since nothing could more her,
Poor Damon, her lover,
Resolves in despair
Nor bear so much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above
Would soon finish his woes.
When, in rage, he came iher,
Beholding how steep
The sides did appear,
His torments projecting,
$18. Song. Moore.
When Damon languish'd at my feet,
And I believ'd him true,
The moments of delight how sweet!
But oh! how swist they flew]
The sunny hill, the flow'ry vale,
The garden, and the grove,
Have echo'd to his ardent tale,
And yows of endless love.
The conquest gain'd, he left his prize,
He left her to complain;
To talk of joy with weeping ayes,
And measure time by pain.
But Heaven will take the mourner's part,
In pity to despair;
And the last sigh that rends the heart
Shall waft the spirit there. $ 17. Song A coBeLeR there was, and he livid in a stall Which serv'd him for parlour, for kitchen, and hall;
§ 19. Song. The Lass of the Hill. No coin in his pocket, no care in his pate,
Miss Mary Joxes. No ambition had he, nor duns at his gate.
On the brow of a hill a young shepherdess Derry down, down, down, derry down.
dwelt, Contented he work’d, and he thought himself Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt: happy
For a few sober maxims still ran in her head, If at night he could purchase a jug of brown That 'twas better to earn ere she ate her browa nappy :
bread; How he'd laugh then, and whistle, and sing That to rise with the lark was conducive to too, most sweet!
[meet! health, Saying, Just to a hair I have made both ends | And to folks in a cottage, contentment was Derry down, down, &c.
wealth. But love, the disturber of high and of low, Now young Roger, who liv'd in the valley That shoots at the peasant as well as the beau;
below, He shot the poor cobbler quite thro' the heart; Who at church and at market was reckon'd a I wish he had hit some more ignoble part.
beau, Derry down, down, &c.
| Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail, It was from a cellar this archer did play,
And would rest on his pitchfork to tell her his tale:
[heart; Where a buxom young damsel continually lay; Her eyes shone só bright when she rose every
i With his winning behaviour he melted her day,
But, quite artless herself, she suspected no art. That she shot the poor cobbler quite over the He had sighd, and protested, had kneelid and
way. Derry down, down, &c.
And could lie with the grandeur and air of a He sung her love-songs as he sat at his work,
lord : But she was as hard as a Jew or a Turk: Then her eyes he commended in language well Whenever he spoke she would Aounce and dress'd, would fleer,
And enlargd on the torments that troubled his Which put the poor cobbler quite into despair, breast; Derry down, down, &c.
Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on He took up his awl that he had in the world,
her mind, And to make away with himself was resolv'd; That
was resolu'd: That in downright compassion to love she inHe pierced through his body instead of the sole,
clin'd. So the cobbler he died, and the bell it did toll, But as soon as he melted the ice of her breast, Derry down, down, &c.
All the flames of his love in a moment decreas'd; And now, in good will, I advise, as a friend, And at noon he goes flaunting all over the vale, All cobblers take warning by this cobbler's end: Where he boasts of his conquest to Susan and Keep your hearts out of love, for we find, by Nell: what's past,
Though he sees her but seldom, he's always That love brings us all to an end at the last,
in haste, Derry down, down, down, derry down. I And, if ever he mentions her, makes her his jest.
All the day she goes sighing, and hanging her $21. Song. Parnell. - head,
My days have been so wondrous free, And her thoughts are so pester’d, she scarce
The little birds that fly earns her bread;
With careless ease from iree to tree The whole village cries shame, when a-milking
Were but as bless'd as I.
W she goes, That so little affection is shown to the cows : | Ask gliding waters, if a tear But she heeds not their railing, e'en let them Of mine increas'd their stream? rail on,
Or ask the Aying gales, if e'er And a fig for the cows now her sweetheart is I lent a sigh to them? gone.
But now my former days retire, Now beware, ye young virgins of Britain's gay And I'm by beauty caught; isle,
The tender chains of sweet desire How ye yield up a heart to a look or a smile : Are fix'd upon my thought. For Cupid is ariful, and virgins are frail,
An eager hope within my breast And you 'll find a false Roger in every vale,
Does every doubt controul; Who to court you, and tempt you, will try all | And lovely Nancy stands confest his skill;
The fav’rite of my soul.
Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines,
Ye swains that haunt the grove,
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds, $ 20. Song. Barton Booth, Esq.
Ye close retreats of love!
With all of nature, all of art,
Assist the dear design;
( teach a young, unpractis'd heart, Refreshing as descending rains
To make her ever mine.
As nuch as of despair;
Nor ever covet to be great, Constant as gliding waters roll,
Unless it be for her. Whose swelling tides obey the moon!
'Tis true, the passion in my mind From ev'ry other charmer free,
Is mix'd with soft distress : My life and love shall follow thee.
Yet, while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it less.
Of verdant spring, her note renews;
$ 22. Song. May Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen. As I pursue my soul's desire.
CUNNINGNAM. Nature must change her beauteous face, | The silver moon's enamor'd beain And vary as the seasons rise ;
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
To beds of state go, balmy sleep,
("Tis where you've seldom been) Devouring time, with stealing pace,
| May's vigil while the shepherds keep Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow;
With Kate of Aberdeen.
In rosy chaplets gay,
Till morn unbar her golden gate, Love from the soul can ne'er divide.
And give the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare
The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair
As Kate of Aberdeen.
We'll rouse the nodding grore;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And see, the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green :
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, When time and death shall be no more.
"Tis Kate of Aberdeen!