No More Learning

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.
When I came to thee a-wooing, my sweet, my gentle May,
I was as is the nightingale upon the hawthorn spray:
When he would sleep, the thorns they keep a-pricking in his breast;
That he flies up perforce and sings upon the tree's tall crest.
I am as is the nightingale, or as a soul must be
That in the purgatory fires lies, longing to be free;
Waiting the blessed time when I unto your house shall come,
All with the marriage-messenger bearing his branch of broom.
Ah me! my stars are froward; 'gainst nature is my state:
Since in this world I came I've dreed a dark and dismal fate;
I have nor living kin nor friends, mother nor father dear,-
There is no Christian on earth to wish me happy here.
There lives no one hath had to bear so much of grief and shame
For your sweet sake as I have, since in this world I came;
And therefore on my bended knees, in God's dear name I sue,
Have pity on your own poor clerk, that loveth only you!
Mediætal Breton.
Translation of Tom Taylor.


## p. 16368 (#68) ###########################################

16368
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
CUPID'S CURSE
CENONE
FR
AIR and fair and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be,-
The fairest shepherd on our green,
A love for any ladie!
PARIS
Fair and fair and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be,-
Thy love is fair for thee alone,
And for no other ladie!
CENONE
My love is fair, my love is gay,
As fresh as been the flowers in May;
And of my love my roundelay,
My merry merry merry roundelay,
Concludes with Cupid's Curse —
They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for worse!
Both sing
They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for worse!
ENONE
Fair and fair and twice so fair,
As fair as any inay be, -
The fairest shepherd on our green,
A love for any ladie!
PARIS
Fair and fair and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be, -
Thy love is fair for thee alone,
And for no other ladie!
ENONE
My love can pipe, my love can sing,
My love can many a pretty thing,
And of his lovely praises ring
My merry merry roundelays:
Amen to Cupid's Curse!


## p. 16369 (#69) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16369
They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for worse!
PARIS
They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for worse!
GEORGE PEELE.
THE AVARICIOUS SHEPHERDESS
(L'AVARICIEUSE)
Pa
HILLIS, somewhat hard by nature,
Would not an advantage miss:
She asked Damon - greedy creature! -
Thirty sheep for one small kiss.
Lovely Phillis, on the morrow,
Cannot her advantage keep:
She gives Damon, to her sorrow,
Thirty kisses for one sheep.
On the morrow grown more tender,
Phillis, ah! has come to this:
Thirty sheep she will surrender
For a single loving kiss.
Now another day is over,
Damon sheep and dog might get
For the kiss which he - the rover!
Gave for nothing to Lizette.
CHARLES RIVIÈRE DUFRESNY.
AN UNMARKED FESTIVAL
T"
HERE's a feast undated yet:
Both our true lives hold it fast,-
The first day we ever met.
What a great day came and passed ! -
Unknown then, but known at last.
And we met: You knew not me,
Mistress of your joys and fears;
XXVIII-1024


## p. 16370 (#70) ###########################################

16370
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Held my hand that held the key
Of the treasure of your years,
Of the fountain of your tears.
For you knew not it was •I,
And I knew not it was you.
We have learnt, as days went by:
But a flower struck root and grew
Underground, and no one knew.
Day of days! Unmarked it rose,
In whose hours we were to meet;
And forgotten passed. Who knows,
Was earth cold or sunny, Sweet,
At the coming of your feet ?
One mere day, we thought; the measure
Of such days the year fulfills.
Now, how dearly would we treasure
Something from its fields, its rills
And its memorable hills; –
But one leaf of oak or lime,
Or one blossom from its bowers,
No one gathered at the time.
Oh, to keep that day of ours
By one relic of its flowers!
ALICE MEYNELL.
A SONG OF LIFE
D"
i I seek life ? Not so: its weight was laid upon me;
And yet of my burden sore I may not set myself free.
Two love, and lo, at love's call, a hapless soul must wake:
Like a slave it is called to the world, to bear life, for their love's
sake.
Did I seek love ? Not so: love led me along by the hand.
Love beguiled me with songs and caresses, while I took no note of
the land.
And lo, I stood in a quicksand, but Love had wings, and he fled:
Ah fool, for a mortal to venture where only a god may tread!
AVNE REEVE ALDRICH.


## p. 16371 (#71) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16371
DISAPPOINTMENT
THE
HE bard has sung, God never formed a soul
Without its own peculiar mate, to meet
Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole
Bright plan of bliss most heavenly, most complete.
But thousand evil things there are that hate
To look on happiness: these hurt, impede,
And leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate,
Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and pant and bleed.
And as the dove to far Palmyra flying
From where her native founts of Antioch beam,
Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing,
Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream,-
So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring,
Love's pure congenial spring unfound, unquaffed,
Suffers — recoils — then, thirsty and despairing
Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught!
MARIA GOWEn Brooks (“Maria del Occidente”).
FATE
TVO
wo shall be born the whole wide world apart,
And speak in different tongues, and have no thought
Each of the other's being, and no heed:
And these o'er unknown seas, to unknown lands,
Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death;
And all unconsciously shape every act
And bend each wandering step to this one end, - .
That one day out of darkness they shall meet
And read life's meaning in each other's eyes.
And two shall walk some narrow way of life,
So nearly side by side that should one turn
Ever so little space to left or right,
They needs must stand acknowledged face to face;
And yet with wistful eyes that never meet,
With groping hands that never clasp, and lips
Calling in vain to ears that never hear,
They seek each other all their weary days,
And die unsatisfied. –And this is Fate.
SUSAN MARR SPALDING.


## p. 16372 (#72) ###########################################

16372
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT
I
'M SITTIN' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride:
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary:
The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again :
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep listenin' for the words
You nevermore will speak.
'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.
But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest, –
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends;
But, oh, they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,-
My blessin' and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow,-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.


## p. 16373 (#73) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16373
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,–
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake;
I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore;—
Oh, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!
I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary — kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm goin' to;
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there,
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!
And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,
And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.
LADY DUFFERIN
THE REVEL
(TIME OF THE FAMINE AND PLAGUE IN INDIA)
W*
E MEET 'neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls around are bare;
As they shout back our peals of laughter,
It seems that the dead are there.
Then stand to your glasses, steady!
We drink in our comrades' eyes :
One cup to the dead already -.
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Not here are the goblets glowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet;
'Tis cold as our hearts are growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.


## p. 16374 (#74) ###########################################

16374
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
But stand to your glasses, steady!
And soon shall our pulses rise:
A cup to the dead already –
Hurrah for the next that dies!
There's many a hand that's shaking,
And many a cheek that's sunk;
But soon, though our hearts are breaking,
They'll burn with the wine we've drunk.
Then stand to your glasses, steady!
'Tis here the revival lies:
Quaff a cup to the dead already –
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Time was when we laughed at others;
We thought we were wiser then:
Ha! ha! let them think of their mothers,
Who hope to see them again.
No! stand to your glasses, steady!
The thoughtless is here, the wise:
One cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,
Not a tear for the friends that sink;
We'll fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles,
As mute as the wine we drink.
Come, stand to your glasses, steady!
'Tis this that the respite buys:
A cup to the dead already –
Hurrah for the next that dies!
There's a mist on the glass congealing,
'Tis the hurricane's sultry breath;
And thus does the warmth of feeling
Turn ice in the grasp of Death.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
For a moment the vapor flies:
Quaff a cup to the dead already –
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Who dreads to the dust returning ?
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul can sting no more ?


## p. 16375 (#75) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16375
No! stand to your glasses, steady!
The world is a world of lies:
A cup to the dead already -
And hurrah for the next that dies!
Cut off from the land that bore us,
Betrayed by the land we find,
When the brightest have gone before us,
And the dullest are most behind, -
Stand, stand to your glasses, steady!
'Tis all we have left to prize:
One cup to the dead already –
Hurrah for the next that dies!
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING.
THE OLD CHURCH-YARD OF BONCHURCH
Th*
He church-yard leans to the sea with its dead-
It leans to the sea with its dead so long.
Do they hear, I wonder, the first bird's song,
When the winter's anger is all but fled, -
The high, sweet voice of the west wind,
The fall of the warm, soft rain,
When the second month of the year
Puts heart in the earth again ?
Do they hear, through the glad April weather,
The green grasses waving above them ?
Do they think there are none left to love them,
They have lain for so long there together?
Do they hear the note of the cuckoo,
The cry of gulls on the wing,
The laughter of winds and waters,
The feet of the dancing Spring ?
Do they feel the old land slipping seaward,
The old land, with its hills and its graves,
As they gradually slide to the waves
With the wind blowing on them from leeward ?
Do they know of the change that awaits them,
The sepulchre vast and strange ?
Do they long for days to go over,
And bring that miraculous change?
PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.


## p. 16376 (#76) ###########################################

16376
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
HIS FOOTSTEPS
TH?
He wilderness a secret keeps
Upon whose guess I go:
Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard;
And yet I know, I know,
Some day the viewless latch will lift,
The door of air swing wide
To one lost chamber of the wood
Where those shy mysteries hide, -
One yet unfound, exceeding depth,
From which the wood-thrush sings,
Still luring me to darker shades,
In - in— to colder springs.