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OLD SONGS

OLD SONGS

WITH DRAWINGS BY
EDWIN A · ABBEY
& ALFRED PARSONS

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COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY

HARPER & BROTHERS.

All Rights Reserved.
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A LOVE SONG.

BY GEORGE WITHER.

lov’d a lasse, a faire one,
As faire as e’er was seene;
She was, indeed, a rare one,
Another Sheba queen;{4}

But, foole, as then I was,
I thought she lov’d me too;
But, now, alasse! sh’as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Her haire, like gold, did glister;
Each eye was like a starre;
She did surpasse her sister,
Which past all others farre:

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“WHY CANST THOU NOT, AS OTHERS DO?”

HY canst thou not, as others do,
Look on me with unwounding eyes?
And yet look sweet, but yet not so,
Smile, but not in killing wise;
Arm not thy graces to confound;
Only look, but do not wound.

Why should mine eyes see more in you
Than they can see in all the rest?
For I can others’ beauties view,
And not find my heart opprest.
O be as others are to me,
Or let me be more to thee.
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“WITH JOCKEY TO THE FAIR.”

WAS on the morn of sweet May-day,
When nature painted all things gay—
Taught birds to sing and lambs to play
And deck’d the meadows fair—
Young Jockey early in the morn
Arose and tripped it o’er the lawn.
His Sunday coat the youth put on;
For Jenny had vowed away to run
With Jockey to the fair.

The cheerful parish bells had rung.
With eager steps he trudg’d along;
Sweet flowing garlands round him hung,
Which shepherds us’d to wear.
He tapp’d the window. “Hush, my dear!”
Jenny, impatient, cried, “Who’s there?”
“’Tis I, my love, and no one near.
Step gently down, you’ve naught to fear
With Jockey to the fair.”
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“SWEET NELLY, MY HEART’S DELIGHT.”

He. WEET Nelly, my heart’s delight,
Be loving, and do not slight
The proffer I make
For modesty’s sake.
I honor your beauty bright;
For love I profess,
I can do no less.
Thou hast my favor won.
And since I see
Your modesty,
I pray you agree,
And fancy me,
Though I’m but a farmer’s son.{30}

She. No; I am a lady gay;
It is very well known I may
Have men of renown
In country or town.
So, Roger, without delay
Court Bridget, or Sue,
Kate, Nancy, or Prue;
Their loves will soon be won;
But don’t you dare
To speak me fair,
As if I were
At my last pray’r
To marry a farmer’s son.

He. My father has riches in store,
Two hundred a year and more,
Besides sheep and cows,
Carts, harrows, and ploughs
His age is above threescore,
And when he does die,
Then merrily I
Shall have what he has won.
Both land and kine,
All shall be thine,
If thou’lt incline,
And will be mine,
And marry a farmer’s son.

She. A fig for your cattle and corn!
Your proffered love I scorn.
’Tis known very well
My name it is Nell,
And you’re but a bumpkin born.
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“WHAT HAP HAD I TO MARRY A SHROW!”

HAT hap had I to marry a shrow!
For she hath given me many a blow,
And how to please her, alack! I do not know.

From morn to even her tongue ne’er lies;
Sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries;
Yet I can scarce keep her talents from mine eyes.

If I go abroad and late come in,
“Sir Knave,” saith she, “where have you been?”
And do I well or ill, she claps me on the skin.
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THE LEATHER BOTTÈL.

WAS God above that made all things,
The heav’ns, the earth, and all therein,
The ships that on the sea do swim
To guard from foes that none come in;
And let them all do what they can,
’Twas for one end—the use of man.
So I wish in heav’n his soul may dwell
That first found out the leather bottèl.

Now, what do you say to these cans of wood?
Oh no, in faith they cannot be good;
For if the bearer fall by the way,
Why, on the ground your liquor doth lay;
But had it been in a leather bottèl,
Although he had fallen all had been well.
So I wish in heav’n, etc.
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NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.

Y dear and only love, take heed
How thou thyself expose
By letting longing lovers feed
Upon such looks as those.
I’ll marble-wall thee round about,
And build without a door;
But if thy heart do once break out,
I’ll never love thee more.

Let not their oaths, by volleys shot,
Make any breach at all,
Nor smoothness of their language plot
A way to scale the wall;
No balls of wildfire love consume
The shrine which I adore;
For if such smoke about it fume,
I’ll never love thee more.
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“HERE’S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN.”

ERE’S to the maiden of bashful fifteen,
Now to the widow of fifty;
Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.
Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass;
I warrant she’ll prove
An excuse for the glass.

Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the damsel with none, sir;
Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And now to the nymph with but one, sir.
Let the toast, etc.

Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow,
Now to her that’s as brown as a berry;
Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that’s merry.
Let the toast, etc.
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BARBARA ALLEN.

LL in the merry Month of May,
when green leaves they was springing,
This young man on his Death-bed lay,
for the love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his man unto her then,
in the Town where she was dwelling:
You must come to my Master dear,
if your name be Barbara Allen.

For Death is printed in his face,
and Sorrow’s in him dwelling,
And you must come to my Master dear,
if your name is Barbara Allen.{60}

If Death be printed on his face,
and Sorrow’s in him dwelling,
Then little better shall he be
for Bonny Barbara Allen.

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PERIGOT AND CUDDY’S ROUNDELAY.

BY EDM. SPENSER.

T fell upon a holy-eve
(Heigho, holy-day!),
When holy fathers wont to shrive
(Now ’ginneth this roundelay),
Sitting upon a hill so high
(Heigho, the high hill!)
The while my flock did feed thereby,
The while the shepherd’s self did spill.

I saw the bouncing Bellibone
(Heigho, bonny-bell!)
Tripping over the dale alone—
She can trip it very well—
Well decked in a frock of gray
(Heigho, gray is great!)
And in a kirtle of green say—
The green is for maidens meet.

A chaplet on her head she wore
(Heigho, the chaplet!);
Of sweet violets therein was store—
She’s sweeter than the violet.
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SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

F all the girls that are so smart
There’s none like pretty Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
And through the streets does cry ’em;
Her mother she sells laces long
To such as please to buy ’em;
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“EARLY ONE MORNING.”

ARLY one morning, just as the sun was rising,
I heard a maid sing in the valley below:
“Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, never leave me!
How could you use a poor maiden so?

“Oh, gay is the garland and fresh are the roses
I’ve culled from the garden to bind up my brow.
Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, do not leave me!
How could you use a poor maiden so?

“Remember the vows you made to your Mary;
Remember the bow’r where you vowed to be true.
Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, do not leave me!
How could you use a poor maiden so?”

Thus sang the poor maiden, her sorrows bewailing;
Thus sang the poor maid in the valley below:
“Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, never leave me!
How could you use a poor maiden so?”
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KITTY OF COLERAINE.

S beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping
With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,
When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,
And all the sweet buttermilk water’d the plain.

Oh, what shall I do now? ’Twas looking at you, now.
Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er meet again.
’Twas the pride of my dairy. Oh, Barney M’Leary,
You’re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!
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OLD KING COLE.

LD King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
And he call’d for his pipe,
And he call’d for his bowl,
And he call’d for his fiddlers three.
Then twedle, twedle, twedle, twedle, twedle went the fiddlers;
Twedle, twedle, twedle, twedle, twedle, twedle twee.
There’s none so rare as can compare
To King Cole and his fiddlers three.
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HARVEST-HOME.

OME, Roger and Nell;
Come, Simkin and Bell;
Each lad with his lass hither come,
With singing and dancing,
In pleasure advancing
To celebrate harvest-home.
’Tis Ceres bids play
And keep holiday
To celebrate harvest-home.

Our labor is o’er, and our barns in full store
Now swell with rich gifts of the land.
Let each man then take, for the prong and the rake,
His can and his lass in his hand.
’Tis Ceres bids play
And keep holiday
To celebrate harvest-home.

No courtiers can be so happy as we
In innocent pastime and mirth,
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“’TWAS DOWN IN CUPID’S GARDEN.”

WAS down in Cupid’s garden
For pleasure I did go,
To see the fairest flowers
That in that garden grow.
The first it was the jessamine,
The lily, pink, and rose,
And surely they’re the fairest flow’rs
That in that garden grows!

I’d not walked in that garden
The part of half an hour,
When there I saw two pretty maids
Sitting under a shady bower.
The first was lovely Nancy,
So beautiful and fair;
The other was a virgin
Who did the laurel wear.

I boldly stepped up to her,
And unto her did say,
Are you engaged to any young man?
Do tell to me, I pray!
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PHILLADA.

H, what a pain is love!
How shall I bear it?
She will unconstant prove;
I greatly fear it.{114}
She so torments my mind
That my strength faileth,
And wavers with the wind
As a ship saileth.
Please her the best I may,
She loves still to gainsay:
Alack and well-a-day!
Phillada flouts me.

All the fair yesterday
She did pass by me;
She looked another way
And would not spy me.
I woo’d her for to dine,
But could not get her;
Will had her to the wine—
He might intreat her.
With Daniel she did dance;
On me she looked askance:
Oh, thrice unhappy chance!
Phillada flouts me.
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