I tremble when the
tempests
darkly screen
Thy face from mine.
Thy face from mine.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v28 - Songs, Hymns, Lyrics
Oh, where, etc.
Did your eyes ever follow
The wings of the swallow
Here and there, light as air, o'er the meadow field glance ?
For if not, you've no notion
Of the exquisite motion
Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance.
Oh, where, etc.
If y' inquire why the nightingale
Still shuns th' invitin' gale
That wafts every song-bird but her to the west,
Faix she knows, I suppose,
Ould Kenmare has a Rose
That would sing any bulbul to sleep in her nest.
Oh, where, etc.
When her voice gives the warnin'
For the milkin' in the mornin',
Ev'n the cow known for hornin' comes runnin' to her pail;
The lambs play about her,
And the small bonneens snout her
Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail.
Oh, where, etc.
When at noon from our labor
We draw neighbor wid neighbor
From the heat of the sun to the shelter of the tree,
Wid spuds fresh from the bilin',
And new milk, you come smilin',
All the boys' hearts beguilin', alannah machree!
Oh, where, etc.
But there's one sweeter hour
When the hot day is o'er,
And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above,
And she's sittin' in the middle;
When she's guessed Larry's riddle,
Cries, "Now for your fiddle, Shiel huv, Shiel Dhuv. "
(
## p. 16336 (#36) ###########################################
16336
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Oh, where
Can her like be found ?
No where,
The country round,
Spins at her wheel
Daughter as true,
Sets in the reel,
Wid a slide of the shoe,
a slinderer,
tinderer,
purtier,
wittier colleen than you,
Rose, aroo !
ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES.
IRISH LULLABY
a
I”
'D ROCK my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold on
bough of the willow,
To the shoheen ho of the wind of the west and the lulla lo of the
soft sea billow.
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear:
Mother is here beside your pillow.
I'd put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat on the beauti-
ful river,
Where a shoheen whisper the white cascades, and a lulla lo the
green flags shiver.
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear:
Mother is here with you for ever.
Lulla lo! to the rise and fall of mother's bosom 'tis sleep has bound
you,
And oh, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest could love have
found you?
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear:
Mother's two arms are clasped around you.
ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES.
## p. 16337 (#37) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16337
THE NUT-BROWN MAID
B
E it ryght or wrong, these men among
On women do complayne:
Affyrmynge this, how that it is
A labour spent in vayne
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man agayne:
For late a man do what he can,
Theyr favour to attayne,
Yet yf a newe do them persue,
Theyr first true lover than
Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banyshed man.
I say nat nay, but that all day
It is bothe writ and sayd
That woman's faith is, as who sayth,
All utterly decayd;
But neverthelesse ryght good wytnésse
In this case might be layd,
That they love true and continúe:
Recorde the Not-browne Mayd, -
Which, when her love came, her to prove,
To her to make his mone,
Wold nat depart; for in her hart
She loved but hym alone.
Than betwaine us late us dyscus
What was all the manere
Betwayne them two: we wyll also
Tell all the payne and fere
That she is in. Now I begyn
I
So that ye me answere;
Wherfore all ye that present be
I
pray you gyve an ere:-
I am the knyght: I come by nyght,
As secret as I can;
Sayinge, "Alas! thus standeth the case:
I am a banyshed man. ”
SHE
And I your wyll for to fulfyll
In this wyll nat refuse;
XXVII-1022
## p. 16338 (#38) ###########################################
16338
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Trustying to shewe, in wordès fewe,
That men have an yll use
(To theyr own shame) women to blame,
And causelesse them accuse:
Therfore to you I answere nowe,
All women to excuse,-
Myne owne hart dere, with what you chere
I pray you, tell anone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
It standeth so,-a dede is do
Whereof grete harme shall growe:
My destiny is for to dy
A shamefull deth, I trowe;
Or elles to fle: the one must be.
None other way I knowe,
But to withdrawe as an outlawe,
And take me to my bowe.
Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true!
None other rede I can;
For I must to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.
SHE
O Lord, what is thys worldys blysse,
That changeth as the mone!
My somers day in lusty May
Is derked before the none.
I here you say farewell: nay, nay,
We départ nat so sone.
Why say ye so ? wheder wyll ye go?
Alas! what have ye done ?
All my welfáre to sorrowe and care
Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
I can beleve it shall you greve,
And somewhat you dystrayne:
But aftyrwarde, your paynes harde
Within a day or twayne
## p. 16339 (#39) ###########################################
.
16339
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Shall some aslake; and ye shall take
Comfort to you agayne.
Why sholde ye ought? for to make thought,
Your labour were in vayne.
And thus I do; and pray you to
As hartely as I can:
For I must to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.
SHE
Now, syth that ye have shewed to me
The secret of your mynde,
I shall be playne to you agayne,
Lyke as ye shall me fynde.
Syth it is so, that ye wyll go,
I wolle not leve behynde:
Shall never be sayd, the Not-browne Mayd
Was to her love unkynde.
Make you redy, for so am I,
Allthough it were anone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wyll thynke and say:
Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde,
That ye be gone away,
Your wanton wyll for to fulfyll,
In grene wode you to play;
And that ye myght from your delyght
No lenger make delay.
Rather than ye sholde thus for me
Be called an yll womán,
Yet wolde I to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.
SHE
Though it be songe of old and yonge,
That I sholde be to blame,
Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large
In hurtynge of my name:
For I wyll prove that faythfulle love
It is devoyd of shame:
## p. 16340 (#40) ###########################################
16340
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
In your dystresse and hevynesse,
To part with you, the same:
And sure all tho, that do not so,
True lovers are they none;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
I counceyle you, remember howe
It is no maydens lawe,
Nothynge to dout, but to renne out
To wode with an outlawe:
For ye must there in your hand bere
A bowe, redy to drawe;
And as a thefe, thus must you lyve,
Ever in drede and awe:
Wherby to you grete harme myght growe:
Yet had I lever than
That I had to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.
SHE
I thinke nat nay, but as ye say,
It is no maidens lore:
But love may make me for your sake,
As I have sayd before,
To come on fote, to hunt, and shote,
To gete us mete in store;
For so that I your company
May have, I aske no more:
From which to part, it maketh my hart
As colde as ony stone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
For an outlawe this is the lawe,
That men hym take and bynde;
Without pyté, hanged to be,
And waver with the wynde.
If I had nede, (as God forbede ! )
What rescous coude ye fynde ?
Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe
For fere wolde drawe behynde:
## p. 16341 (#41) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16341
And no mervayle; for lytell avayle
Were in your counceyle than:
Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.
SHE
Right wele know ye, that woman be
But feble for to fyght:
No womenhede it is indede
To be bolde as a knyght:
Yet in such fere yf that ye were
With enemyes day or nyght,
I wolde with stande, with bowe in hande,
To greve them as I myght,
And you to save; as women have
From deth, men many one:
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
НЕ
Yet take good hede; for ever I drede
That ye coude nat sustayne
The thornie wayes, the deep valléies,
The snowe, the frost, the rayne,
The colde, the hete: for dry or wete,
We must lodge on the playne;
And, us above, none other rofe
But a brake bush, or twayne:
Which some sholde greve you, I beleve;
And ye wolde gladly than
That I had to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.
SHE
Syth I have here bene partynére
With you of joy and blysse,
I must also part of your wo
Endure, as reson is;
Yet am I sure of one plesúre
And shortely, it is this:
That where ye be, me semeth, pardé,
I could not fare amysse.
Without more speche,
I
you
beseche
That we were sone agone;
## p. 16342 (#42) ###########################################
16342
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
If ye go thyder, ye must consyder,
Whan ye have lust to dyne,
There shall no mete be for you gete,
Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne.
No schetés clene, to lye betwene,
Made of threde and twyne;
None other house but leves and bowes,
To cover your hed and myne.
O myne harte swete, this evyll dyéte
Sholde make you pale and wan;
Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.
SHE
Amonge the wild dere, such an archére
As men say that ye be
Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle,
Where is so grete plenté;
And water clere of the ryvére
Shall be full swete to me:
With which in hele I shall ryght wele
Endure, as ye shall see;
And, or we go, a bedde or two
I can provyde anone:
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
Lo! yet, before, ye must do more,
Yf ye wyll go with me:
As cut your here up by your ere,
Your kyrtel by the kne;
With bowe in hande, for to withstande
Your enemyes, yf nede be:
And this same nyght, before daylight,
To wode-warde wyll I fle.
Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill,
Do it shortely as ye can;.
Els wyll I to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.
## p. 16343 (#43) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16343
SHE
I shall as nowe do more for you
Than longeth to womanhede;
To shote my here, a bowe to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede.
O my swete mother, before all other
For you I have most drede:
But nowe adue! I must ensue
Where fortune doth me lede.
All this make ye: now let us fle;
The day cometh fast upon:
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
Nay, nay, nat so; ye shall nat go,
And I shall tell ye why:
Your appetyght is to be lyght
Of love, I wele espy;
For lyke as ye have sayd to me,
In lyke wyse hardely
Ye wolde answére whosoever it were,
In way of company.
It is sayd of olde, Sone hot, sone colde;
And so is a woman.
Wherfore I to the wode wyll go
Alone, a banyshed man.
SHE
Yf ye take hede, it is no nede
Such wordes to say by me:
For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed,
Or I you loved, pardé;
And though that I of auncestry
A barons daughter be,
Yet have you proved howe I you loved,
A squyer of lowe degre:
And ever shall, whatso befall
To dy therfore anone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
A barons chylde to be begylde!
It were a cursèd dede;
## p. 16344 (#44) ###########################################
16344
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
To be feláwe with an outlawe!
Almighty God forbede!
Yet better were the pore squyére
Alone to forest yede,
Than ye sholde say another day,
That, by my cursèd dede,
Ye were betrayed; wherfore, good mayd,
The best rede that I can,
Is, that I to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.
SHE
Whatever befall, I never shall
Of this thyng you upbrayd;
But yf ye go, and leve me so,
Then have ye me betrayd.
Remember you wele, howe that ye 'dele:
For yf ye, as ye sayd,
Be so unkynde, to leve behynde
Your love, the Not-browne Mayd,
Trust me truly, that I shall dy
Sone after ye be gone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent:
For in the forest nowe
I have purvayed me of a mayd,
Whom I love more than you;
Another fayrére than ever ye were,
I dare it wele avowe:
And of ye bothe eche sholde be wrothe
With other, as I trowe.
It were myne ese, to lyve in pese;
So wyll I, yf I can:
Wherfore I to the wode wyll go
Alone, a banyshed man.
SHE
Though in the wode I undyrstode
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I will be your :
## p. 16345 (#45) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16345
And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde,
And courteys every hour;
Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll
Commaunde me to my power:
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,
Of them I wolde be one;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
Myne owne dere love, I se the prove
That ye be kynde and true;
Of mayd and wyfe, in all my lyfe,
The best that ever I knewe.
Be mery and glad, be no more sad,
The case is chaungèd newe;
For it were ruthe, that for your truthe
Ye sholde have cause to rewe.
Be nat dismayed: whatsoever I sayd
To you whan I began,
I wyll nat to the grene wode go,
I am no banyshed man.
SHE
These tydings be more gladd to me
Than to be made a quene,
Yf I were sure they sholde endure;
But it is often sene,
Whan men wyli breke promyse, they speke
The wordes on the splene.
Ye shape some wyle me to begyle,
And stele from me, I wene:
Than were the case worse than it was,
And I more wo-begone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.
HE
Ye shall nat nede further to drede;
I will nat dysparáge
You, (God forfend! ) syth ye descend
Of so grete a lynáge.
Nowe undyrstande: to Westmarlande,
Which is myne herytage,
## p. 16346 (#46) ###########################################
16346
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
I wyll you brynge, and with a rynge
By way of maryage
I wyll you take, and lady make,
As shortely as I can;
Thus have you won an erlys son
And not a banyshed man.
AUTHOR
Here may ye se that women be
In love, meke, kynde, and stable:
Late never man reprove them than,
Or call them variable.
But rather, pray God that we may
To them be comfortable;
Which sometyme proveth such, as he loveth,
Yf they be charytable.
For syth men wolde that women sholde
Be meke to them each one,
Moche more ought they to God obey,
And serve but hym alone.
PILGRIMAGE
G,
IVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staffe of faith to lean upon,
My scrip of joye - immortal diet -
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;-
And thus I take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's balmer,
While my soul, like peaceful palmer,
Traveleth towards the land of heaven;
Other balm will not be given.
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains,
There will I kiss
The bowle of blisse,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken-hill:
My soul will be a-dry before;
But after that will thirst no more.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
## p. 16347 (#47) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16347
LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY
O
VER the mountains
And over the waves;
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under foods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey;
Over rocks that are steepest, –
Love will find out the way.
Where there is no place
For the glow-worm to lye;
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dares not venture,
Lest herself fast she lay,-
If love come he will enter,
And soon find out his way.
You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight:
But if she whom love doth honor
Be concealed from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him
By having him confined;
And some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind:
But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that you may,
Blind love, if so ye call him,
Will find out his way.
You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The phenix of the East;
The lioness ye may move her
To give o'er her prey:
But you'll ne'er stop a lover,-
He will find out his way.
Author Unknown
## p. 16348 (#48) ###########################################
10348
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG
LY
OVE me little, love me long!
Is the burden of my song:
Love that is too hot and strong
Burneth soon to waste.
Still I would not have thee cold-
Not too backward, nor too bold:
Love that lasteth till 'tis old
Fadeth not in haste.
Love me little, love me long!
Is the burden of my song.
If thou lovest me too much,
"Twill not prove as true a touch;
Love me little more than such-
For I fear the end.
I'm with little well content,
And a little from thee sent
Is enough, with true intent
To be steadfast, friend.
Say thou lovest me, while thou live
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive
While that life endures;
Nay, and after death, in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth,
As now when in my May of youth:
This my love assures.
Constant love is moderate ever,
And it will through life persever:
Give me that with true endeavor,-
I will it restore.
A suit of durance let it be,
For all weathers, — that for me,-
For the land or for the sea;
Lasting evermore.
Winter's cold or summer's heat,
Autumn's tempests on it beat;
It can never know defeat,
Never can rebel;
## p. 16349 (#49) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16349
Such the love that I would gain,
Such the love, I tell thee plain,
Thou must give, or woo in vain:
So to thee — farewell!
Author Unknown.
THE SHAN VAN VOCHT *
0"
H THE French are on the sea,
Says the shan van vocht;
The French are on the sea,
Says the shan van zocht:
Oh the French are in the bay,
They'll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the shan van vocht.
Chorus
Oh the French are in the bay,
They'll be here by break of day,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the shan zan zocht.
And their camp it shall be where ?
Says the shan van vocht;
Their camp it shall be where?
Says the shan r'an vocht:
On the Currach of Kildare,
The boys they will be there,
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the shan van zocht.
Chorus
To the Currach of Kildare
The boys they will repair,
And Lord Edward will be there,
Says the shan van zocht.
* An t-sean bean bochd, the poor old woman,” — another name for Ire-
land. The versions of this song are numberless; but that here given is
considered the best. The date of its composition is 1797, the period at which
the French fleet arrived in Bantry Bay.
## p. 16350 (#50) ###########################################
16350
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Then what will the yeomen do?
Says the shan van vocht;
What will the yeomen do?
Says the shan van vocht :
What should the yeomen do
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they'll be true
To the shan van vocht?
Chorus
What should the yeomen do
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they'll be true
To the shan van vocht?
And what color will they wear?
Says the shan van tocht;
What color will they wear ?
Says the shan van vocht :
What color should be seen
Where our fathers' homes have been,
But our own immortal Green ?
Says the shan van vocht.
Chorus
What color should be seen
Where our fathers' homes have been,
But our own immortal Green?
Says the shan van vocht.
And will Ireland then be free?
Says the shan van vocht;
Will Ireland then be free?
Says the shan tan vocht :
Yes! Ireland SHALL be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah for Liberty!
Says the shan van vocht.
Chorus
Yes! Ireland SHALL be free,
From the centre to the sea
Then hurrah for Liberty!
Says the shan van zocht.
Street Ballad, 1797.
## p. 16351 (#51) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16351
A DEATH-BED
H
ER suffering ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close;
And breathed the long, long night away
In statue-like repose.
But when the sun, in all his state,
Illumed the eastern skies,
She passed through Glory's morning gate,
And walked in Paradise!
JAMES ALDRICH.
ON A QUIET LIFE
SA
MALL fields are mine; a small and guiltless rent:
In both I prize the quiet of content.
My mind maintains its peace, from feverish dread
Secure, and fear of crimes that sloth has bred.
Others let toilsome camps or curule chairs
Invite, and joys which vain ambition shares.
May 1, my lot among the people thrown,
Live to myself, and call my time iny own!
AVIENUS.
Translation of Charles Abraham Elton.
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY
B
Y THE flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:
Under the one, the Blue;
Under the other, the Gray.
These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet;-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:
Under the laurel, the Blue;
Under the willow, the Gray.
## p. 16352 (#52) ###########################################
16352
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
From the silence of sorrowful hours
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike for the friend and the foe; –
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:
Under the roses, the Blue;
Under the lilies, the Gray.
So with an equal splendor
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:
'Broidered with gold, the Blue;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain; -
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:
Wet with the rain, the Blue;
Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:
Love and tears for the Blue;
Tears and love for the Gray.
FRANCIS MILES FINCH.
## p. 16353 (#53) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16353
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
THE ATONEMENT OF MR. PUNCH
Yºu
ou lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier:
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complaisant British sneer,
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,
His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,
His lack of all we prize as debonair,
Of power or will to shine, or art to please;
You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step as though the way were plain;
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,
Of chief's perplexity or people's pain,-
Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you? –
Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer,
To lame my pencil and confute my pen;
To make me own this hind of princes peer,
This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.
My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,
Noting how to occasion's height he rose;
How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true;
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;
How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;
How in good fortune and in ill the same:
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,
Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.
He went about his work,—such work as few
Ever had laid on head and heart and hand,-
As one who knows, where there's a task to do,
Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;
Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,
That God makes instruments to work his will,
If but that will we can arrive to know,
Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.
XXVIII-1023
## p. 16354 (#54) ###########################################
16354
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
So he went forth to battle, on the side
That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,
As in his pleasant boyhood he had plied
His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights:
The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,
The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe,
The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil,
The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,
The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,-
Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train;
Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear,
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.
So he grew up, a destined work to do,
And lived to do it: four long-suffering years'
Ill fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through;
And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,
The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,
And took both with the same unwavering mood, -
Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,
And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,
A felon hand, between the goal and him,
Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest,
And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest.
The words of mercy were upon his lips,
Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men.
The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame.
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat free!
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came!
A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
If more of horror or disgrace they bore!
But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out,
Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven,
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven.
TOM TAYLOR.
## p. 16355 (#55) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16355
A MIRROR
art a stately
TO'Rising majestic" o'er each earthly thing
,
And I a lake that round thy feet do cling,
Kissing thy garment's hem, unknown, unseen.
I tremble when the tempests darkly screen
Thy face from mine. I smile when sunbeams Aling
Their bright arms round thee. When the blue heavens lean
Upon thy breast, I thrill with bliss, O King!
Thou canst not stoop, — we are too far apart;
I may not climb to reach thy mighty heart:
Low at thy feet I am content to be.
But wouldst thou know how great indeed thou art,
Bend thy proud head, my mountain love, and see
How all thy glories shine again in me!
SUSAN MARR SPALDING,
THE DAY AFTER THE BETROTHAL
"W"
"HAT troubleth thee, Sweetheart?
For thine eyes are filled with tears. "
I have dwelt in Arcadia, Love,
So many, many years!
“Is Arcadia fair, Sweetheart ?
When I called, wert thou loth to go? ” –
Nay, ask me not that, I pray,
For truly I do not know.
«Is Arcadia dear, Sweetheart,
That thine eyes are so heavy and wet? ” -
Dear ? O Love, how dear
I may not tell thee yet!
“Wouldst fain go back, Sweetheart ?
It's only a step to take. ” -
No, no! not back! but hold me close,
For my heart is like to break.
Not for Arcadia lost-
Ah, Love, have I not thee?
But oh, the scent of those wind-swept hills
And the salt breath of that sea!
EVA L. OGDEN LAMBERT.
## p. 16356 (#56) ###########################################
16356
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
TWICKENHAM FERRY
A"
HOY! and Oho! and it's who's for the ferry ? »
(The brier's in bud and the sun going down ;)
"And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye so steady,
And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town. ”
The ferryman's slim and the ferryman's young,
With just a soft tang in the turn of his tongue;
And he's fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry,
And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town.
«Ahoy! and Oho! and it's I'm for the ferry;"
(The brier's in bud and the sun going down;)
“And it's late as it is, and I haven't a penny:
Oh, how can I get me to Twickenham Town ? »
She'd a rose in her bonnet, and oh! she looked sweet
As the little pink flower that grows in the wheat,
With her cheeks like a rose and her lips like a cherry –
“And sure, but you're welcome to Twickenham Town. ”
“Ahoy! and Oho! » You're too late for the ferry;
(The brier's in bud and the sun has gone down;)
And he's not rowing quick and he's not rowing steady,-
It seems quite a journey to Twickenham Town.
“Ahoy! and Oho! » you may call as you will:
The young moon. is rising o'er Petersham Hill;
And with Love like a rose in the stern of the wherry,
There's danger in crossing to Twickenham Town.
THÉOPHILE MARZIALS.
DOLLIE
S"
HE sports a witching gown,
With a ruffle up and down
On the skirt;
She is gentle, she is shy,
But there's mischief in her eye, -
She's a flirt!
She displays a tiny glove,
And a dainty little love
Of a shoe;
And she wears her hat a-tilt
Over bangs that never wilt
In the dew.
## p. 16357 (#57) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16357
'Tis rumored chocolate creams
Are the fabrics of her dreams-
But enough!
I know beyond a doubt
That she carries them about
In her muff.
With her dimples and her curls
She exasperates the girls
Past belief:
They hint that she's a cat,
And delightful things like that,
In their grief.
It is shocking, I declare !
But what does Dollie care
When the beaux
Come Aocking to her feet
Like the bees around a sweet
Little rose!
SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
DOROTHY
T"
WHEY tell me 'tis foolish to prate of love
In the sweet and olden way:
They say I should sing of loftier things,
For Love has had his day.
But when Dorothy comes
I cannot choose, –
I must follow her
Though the world I lose;
My very soul
Pours forth in song
When dainty Dorothy
Trips along
It is all very well to say to me
That Browning's noble strain
Rises and swells with the tide of thought
Or throbs with the pulse of pain;
But if Dorothy once
Had crossed his path,
## p. 16358 (#58) ###########################################
16358
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Her radiance such
A witchery hath
That across the world
Would not seem long
To follow Dorothy
With his song.
CHARLES HENRY PHELPS.
RENOUNCEMENT
MUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the thought that lurks in all delight -
The thought of thee - and in the blue heaven's height,
And in the sweetest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight:
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,--
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.
ALICE MEYNELL.
THE WITCH IN THE GLASS
"M
Y MOTHER says I must not pass
Too near that glass:
She is afraid that I will see
A little witch that looks like me,
With red, red mouth to whisper low
The very thing I should not know! »
"Alack for all your mother's care!
A bird of the air,
A wistful wind, or (I suppose,
Sent by some hapless boy) a rose,
With breath too sweet, will whisper low
The very thing you should not know! )
SARAH M. B. PIATT.
## p. 16359 (#59) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16354
IF I COULD ONLY WRITE
AP
ND will you write a letter for me, padre ? » —
“Yes, child — no need to tell me the address! »
“Do you know whom it's for because on that dark
evening
You saw us walking ? ” . « Yes. "
»
«Pardon! forgive! » — «Oh no, I don't reproach you!
The night, the chance — they tempted you, I know.
Pass me the pen and paper - I will begin, then — »
My own Antonio!
« (My own'? ) "Why, yes, I have it written;
But if you like, I'll — » – «Oh no, no, go on! ”
How sad I am — "Is that it ? ” – “Yes, of course, sir ! »
How sad I am alone!
Now that I'm writing you, I feel so troubled ! –
“How do you know so well ? ” —
“The secrets of a young girl's heart, my daughter,
The old can always tell. ”
What is this world alone ? A vale of tears, love!
With you – - a happy land!
Be sure you write it plainly, won't you, padre ?
So that he'll understand. ”
The kiss I gave you on the eve of marching –
“Why, how did you find out ? ” –
“Oh, when young people come and go together,
Always-nay, do not pout! ”
>
And if your love can't bring you back here quickly,
'Twill make me suffer-1-
«Suffer! and nothing more? No, no, dear padre,
Tell him 'twill make me die ! »
“Die! child, do you know that offends our Father ? ”
“But still, padre, write die! ”
(I will not write (die. ) » — «What a man of iron!
If I could only try!
« Oh no, it is no use, you dear good padre:
'Twill never perfect be
If in these signs you cannot lay before him
The very heart of me.
## p. 16360 (#60) ###########################################
16360
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
“ Write him, I pray you, that my soul without him
Would gladly mourn and die,
But that this lonely heartache does not kill me
Because I've learned to cry.
“And that my lips, the roses of my love's breath,
Will never ope again;
That they forget the very art of smiling,
By dint of so much pain.
“And that my eyes he always thought so lovely,—
No longer clear and bright,
Since there is no dear face to mirror in them,-
Forever shun the light.
“And that of all the torments ever suffered,
Parting's most hard to bear;
That like a dream the echo of his voice is ringing
Forever in my ear.
“But since it is for his dear sake I suffer,
My heavy heart grows light;-
Goodness! how many things I'd like to tell him
If I could only write!
« But, padre) — “Bravo, Amor! I'll copy and conclude there.
Our learning should be meek.
'Tis clear that one needs for this style of writing
Small Latin and less Greek. ”
CAMPOAMOR (Spanish).
Translation of Ellen Watson.
LOVE AND YOUTH
T"
Wo wingèd genii in the air
I greeted as they passed me by:
The one a bow and quiver bare,
The other shouted joyously.
Both I besought to stay their speed,
But never Love nor Youth had heed
Of my wild cry.
As swift and careless as the wind,
Youth fled, nor ever once looked back;
## p. 16361 (#61) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16361
A moment Love was left behind,
But followed soon his fellow's track.
Yet, loitering at my heart, he bent
His bow, then smiled with changed intent:
The string was slack.
WILLIAM JAMES LINTON.
HOW TO LOVE
LO"
ove me, but let me never know
That I the limit of your love may touch;
Always beyond my reach, below, above,
I want to feel that I may find your love.
Love me, but — not too much.
Paint it in quiet, tender tints:
The fragrant flowers of spring wear such,
And summer lies beyond them. In a blaze
Of brilliant hues the fall flowers end their days.
Love me, but not too much.
Let it be like the soft blue sky,
That folds the earth around with gentle touch:
Not like the crimson clouds at set of sun,
For darkness follows them, and day is done.
Love me, but — not too much.
Like the new moon I want your love:
My life will brighten 'neath its pure white touch.
The full moon gives great foods of silver light,
And then - it fades from out the starry night.
Love me, but — not too much.
-
But like the ivy, let love grow
Steadily, slowly, reaching wide and high,
Till it embraces all in its strong grasp,
And holds with true, unfading, living clasp.
So love me till I die!
Bessie CHANDLER PARKER.
## p. 16362 (#62) ###########################################
16362
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
IN THE DARK, IN THE DEW
I
N THE dark, in the dew,
I am smiling back to you;
But you cannot see the smile,
And you're thinking all the while
How I turn my face from you
In the dark, in the dew.
In the dark, in the dew,
All my love goes out to you,
Flutters like a bird in pain,
Dies and comes to life again;
While you whisper, «Sweetest, hark:
Some one's sighing in the dark,
In the dark, in the dew ! »
In the dark, in the dew,
All my heart cries out to you,
As I cast it at your feet,
Sweet indeed, but not too sweet;
Wondering will you hear it beat,
Beat for you, and bleed for you,
In the dark, in the dew!
MARY NEWMARCH PRESCOTT.
BIRD SONG FROM (ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE)
HAT bird so sings, yet does so wail ?
Oh, 'tis the ravished nightingale;
“Jug, jug — jug, jug — teren,” she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
W**
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings,-
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark! with what a pretty throat
Poor Robin Redbreast tunes his note!
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing
«Cuckoo,” to welcome in the spring.
John Lyly.
## p. 16363 (#63) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16363
SONG TO GABRIELLE
M
ORNING bright,
Rise to sight, -
Glad am I thy face to see:
One I love,
All above,
Has a ruddy cheek like thee.
Fainter far
Roses are,
Though with morning dew-drops bright;
Ne'er was fur
Soft like her,
Milk itself is not so white.
When she sings,
Soon she brings
Listeners out from every cot;
Pensive swains
Hush their strains, -
All their sorrows are forgot.
She is fair
Past compare ;
One small hand her waist can span.
Eyes of light -
Stars, though bright,
Match those eyes you never can.
Hebe blest
Once the best
Food of gods before her placed :
When I sip
Her red lip,
I can still the nectar taste.
KING HENRY IV. OF FRANCE.
NELLY OF THE TOP-KNOTS
D'
EAR God! were I fisher and
Back in Binédar,
And Nelly a fish who
Would swim in the bay there,
## p. 16364 (#64) ###########################################
16364
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
I would privately set there
My net there to catch her:
In Erin no maiden
Is able to match her.
And Nelly, dear God!
Why! you should not thus flee me:
I long to be near thee
And hear thee and see thee;
My hand on the Bible,
And I swearing and kneeling,
And giving thee part
Of the heart you are stealing.
I've a fair yellow casket
And it fastened with crystal,
And the lock opens not
To the shot of a pistol.
To Jesus I pray,
And to Columbkill's Master,
That Mary may guide thee
Aside from disaster.
We may be, O maiden
Whom none may disparage,
Some morning a-hearing
The sweet mass of marriage;
But if fate be against us,
To rend us and push us,
I shall inourn as the blackbird
At eve in the bushes.
O God! were she with me
Where the gull Aits and tern,
Or in Paris the smiling, .
Or an isle in Loch Erne,
I would coax her so well,
I would tell her my story,
And talk till I won her,-
My sunshine of glory!
DOUGLAS HYDE.
## p. 16365 (#65) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16365
THE SEA-FOWLER
T
He baron hath the landward park, the fisher hath the sea;
But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl belong alone to me.
The baron hunts the running deer, the fisher nets the brine;
But every bird that builds a nest on ocean-cliffs is mine.
Come on then, Jock and Alick, let's to the sea-rocks bold:
I was trained to take the sea-fowl ere I was five years old.
The wild sea roars, and lashes the granite crags below,
And round the misty islets the loud strong tempests blow.
And let them blow! Roar wind and wave, they shall not me
dismay:
I've faced the eagle in her nest and snatched her young away.
The eagle shall not build her nest, proud bird although she be,
Nor yet the strong-winged cormorant, without the leave of me.
The eider-duck has laid her eggs, the tern doth hatch her young,
And the merry gull screams o'er her brood; but all to me belong.
Away, then, in the daylight, and back again ere eve:
The eagle could not rear her young unless I gave her leave.
The baron hath the landward park, the fisher hath the sea;
But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl belong alone to me.
MARY HOWITT.
PACK, CLOUDS, AWAY
Pack.
ACK, 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 redbreast;
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
## p. 16366 (#66) ###########################################
16366
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.
THOMAS HEYWOOD.
ANNIE LAURIE
M
AXWELTON braes are bonnie
Where early fa's the dew,
And it's there that Annie Laurie
Gie'd me her promise true; –
Gie'd me her promise true,
Which ne'er forgot will be:
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.
Her brow is like the snaw-drift;
Her throat is like the swan;
Her face it is the fairest
That e'er the sun shone on;—
That e'er the sun shone on
And dark-blue is her ee:
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.
Like dew on the gowan lying
Is the fa' o' her fairy feet;
Like the winds in summer sighing,
Her voice is low and sweet; —
Her voice is low and sweet,
And she's a' the world to me:
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.
WILLIAM DOUGLAS of Kirkcudbright.
## p. 16367 (#67) ###########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16367
THE POOR CLERK
(AR C'HLOAREK PAOUR)
M
Y WOODEN shoes I've lost them, my naked feet I've torn,
A-following my sweeting through field and brake of thorn:
The rain may beat, and fall the sleet, and ice chill to the
bone,
But they're no stay to hold away the lover from his own.
My sweeting is no older than that love her so,—
She's scarce seventeen; her face is fair, her cheeks like roses glow.
In her eyes there is a fire; sweetest speech her lips doth part:
Her love it is a prison where I've locked up my heart.
Oh, to what shall I liken her, that a wrong it shall not be?
To the pretty little white rose, that is called Rose-Marie ?
The pearl of girls; the lily when among the flowers it grows, –
The lily newly opened, among flowers about to close.
