O can that soft and gentle mien
Extremes of hardship learn to bear,
Nor sad regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nancy! canst thou love so true,
Through perils keen with me to go,
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of woe?
Say, should disease or pain befal,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor wistful those gay scenes recal,
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?

[This very lovely song is the composition of Bishop Percy the wellknown Editor of the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, a man who has done more for English Literature than any other half dozen antiquaries, and one who had the finest taste and the truest feeling for poetry. This, writes Burns, is "perhaps the most beautiful ballad in

the English language."]

CELIA, LET NOT PRIDE UNDO YOU.

Celia, let not pride undo you,
Love and life fly swiftly on;
Let not Damon still pursue you,
Still in vain, till love is gone:
See how fair the blooming rose is,
See by all how justly priz'd;
But when it its beauty loses,

See the wither'd thing despis'd.

When those charms that youth have lent you,
Like the roses are decay'd,

Celia, you'll too late repent you,

And be forc'd to die a maid!

Die a maid! die a maid! die a maid!
Celia, you'll too late repent you,
And be forc'd to die a maid!

WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Born 1728-Died 1774.

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can sooth her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is to die.

FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

The wretch condemn'd with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way:

And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.

MAY EVE,

or

KATE OF ABERDEEN.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

Born 1729-Died 1773.

The silver moon's enamour'd beam,
Steals softly thro' the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go balmy sleep!
('Tis where you've seldom been,)
May's vigil while the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,

"Till morn unbar her golden gate,
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!

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,

We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love:

And see-the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green;

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen!

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,

Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead,

Or tune the reed to love:

For see the rosy May draws nigh,

She claims a virgin queen;

And hark! the happy shepherds cry,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen!"

[The life of John Cunningham, the author of this beautiful song,

was one of disappointment and misery.]

DELIA.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

The gentle swan with graceful pride
Her glossy plumage laves,
And sailing down the silver tide,
Divides the whispering waves:
The silver tide, that wandering flows,
Sweet to the bird must be!

But not so sweet-blithe Cupid knows,
As Delia is to me.

A parent bird, in plaintive mood,
On yonder fruit-tree sung,

And still the pendent nest she view'd,
That held her callow young:
Dear to the mother's fluttering heart

The genial brood must be;

But not so dear (the thousandth part!)

As Delia is to me.

The roses that my brow surround

Were natives of the dale;

Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound,
Before their sweets grew pale!
My vital bloom would thus be froze,

If luckless torn from thee;

For what the root is to the rose,

My Delia is to me.