206
A PIPERA piper in the streets to-daySet up, and tuned, and started to play,And away, away, away on the tideOf his music we started; on every sideDoors and windows were opened wide,And men left down their work and came,And women with petticoats coloured like flame.And little bare feet that were blue with cold,Went dancing back to the age of gold,And all the world went gay, went gay,For half an hour in the street to-day.Seumas O'Sullivan
A piper in the streets to-daySet up, and tuned, and started to play,And away, away, away on the tideOf his music we started; on every sideDoors and windows were opened wide,And men left down their work and came,And women with petticoats coloured like flame.And little bare feet that were blue with cold,Went dancing back to the age of gold,And all the world went gay, went gay,For half an hour in the street to-day.Seumas O'Sullivan
A piper in the streets to-daySet up, and tuned, and started to play,And away, away, away on the tideOf his music we started; on every sideDoors and windows were opened wide,And men left down their work and came,And women with petticoats coloured like flame.And little bare feet that were blue with cold,Went dancing back to the age of gold,And all the world went gay, went gay,For half an hour in the street to-day.Seumas O'Sullivan
A piper in the streets to-day
Set up, and tuned, and started to play,
And away, away, away on the tide
Of his music we started; on every side
Doors and windows were opened wide,
And men left down their work and came,
And women with petticoats coloured like flame.
And little bare feet that were blue with cold,
Went dancing back to the age of gold,
And all the world went gay, went gay,
For half an hour in the street to-day.
Seumas O'Sullivan
207
THE LITTLE DANCERSLonely, save for a few faint stars, the skyDreams; and lonely, below, the little streetInto its gloom retires, secluded and shy.Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat;And all is dark, save where come flooding raysFrom a tavern window: there, to the brisk measureOf an organ that down in an alley merrily plays,Two children, all alone and no one by,Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy mazeOf motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet,Dance sedately: face to face they gaze,Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.Laurence Binyon
Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the skyDreams; and lonely, below, the little streetInto its gloom retires, secluded and shy.Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat;And all is dark, save where come flooding raysFrom a tavern window: there, to the brisk measureOf an organ that down in an alley merrily plays,Two children, all alone and no one by,Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy mazeOf motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet,Dance sedately: face to face they gaze,Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.Laurence Binyon
Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the skyDreams; and lonely, below, the little streetInto its gloom retires, secluded and shy.Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat;And all is dark, save where come flooding raysFrom a tavern window: there, to the brisk measureOf an organ that down in an alley merrily plays,Two children, all alone and no one by,Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy mazeOf motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet,Dance sedately: face to face they gaze,Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.Laurence Binyon
Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky
Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street
Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy.
Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat;
And all is dark, save where come flooding rays
From a tavern window: there, to the brisk measure
Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays,
Two children, all alone and no one by,
Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy maze
Of motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet,
Dance sedately: face to face they gaze,
Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.
Laurence Binyon
208
TWO NUT TREESiI had a little nut tree,Nothing would it bear,But a silver nutmeg,And a golden pear.The King of Spain's daughterCame to visit me,And all was because ofMy little nut tree.I skipped over waterI danced over sea,And all the birds in the airCould not catch me.Thomas Anon
i
I had a little nut tree,Nothing would it bear,But a silver nutmeg,And a golden pear.The King of Spain's daughterCame to visit me,And all was because ofMy little nut tree.I skipped over waterI danced over sea,And all the birds in the airCould not catch me.Thomas Anon
I had a little nut tree,Nothing would it bear,But a silver nutmeg,And a golden pear.The King of Spain's daughterCame to visit me,And all was because ofMy little nut tree.I skipped over waterI danced over sea,And all the birds in the airCould not catch me.Thomas Anon
I had a little nut tree,
Nothing would it bear,
But a silver nutmeg,
And a golden pear.
The King of Spain's daughter
Came to visit me,
And all was because of
My little nut tree.
I skipped over water
I danced over sea,
And all the birds in the air
Could not catch me.
Thomas Anon
iiThe King of China's daughterSo beautiful to seeWith her face like yellow water, leftHer nutmeg tree.Her little rope for skippingShe kissed and gave it me—Made of painted notes of singing-birdsAmong the fields of tea.I skipped across the nutmeg grove,—I skipped across the sea;But neither sun nor moon, my dear,Has yet caught me.Edith Sitwell
ii
The King of China's daughterSo beautiful to seeWith her face like yellow water, leftHer nutmeg tree.Her little rope for skippingShe kissed and gave it me—Made of painted notes of singing-birdsAmong the fields of tea.I skipped across the nutmeg grove,—I skipped across the sea;But neither sun nor moon, my dear,Has yet caught me.Edith Sitwell
The King of China's daughterSo beautiful to seeWith her face like yellow water, leftHer nutmeg tree.Her little rope for skippingShe kissed and gave it me—Made of painted notes of singing-birdsAmong the fields of tea.I skipped across the nutmeg grove,—I skipped across the sea;But neither sun nor moon, my dear,Has yet caught me.Edith Sitwell
The King of China's daughter
So beautiful to see
With her face like yellow water, left
Her nutmeg tree.
Her little rope for skipping
She kissed and gave it me—
Made of painted notes of singing-birds
Among the fields of tea.
I skipped across the nutmeg grove,—
I skipped across the sea;
But neither sun nor moon, my dear,
Has yet caught me.
Edith Sitwell
209
WHEN THE GREEN WOODS LAUGHWhen the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;When the air does laugh with our merry wit,And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;When the meadows laugh with lively green,And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,When Mary and Susan and EmilyWith their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, Ha, He!"When the painted birds laugh in the shade,Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,Come live, and be merry, and join with me,To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, Ha, He!"William Blake
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;When the air does laugh with our merry wit,And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;When the meadows laugh with lively green,And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,When Mary and Susan and EmilyWith their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, Ha, He!"When the painted birds laugh in the shade,Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,Come live, and be merry, and join with me,To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, Ha, He!"William Blake
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;When the air does laugh with our merry wit,And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
When the meadows laugh with lively green,And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,When Mary and Susan and EmilyWith their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, Ha, He!"
When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, Ha, He!"
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,Come live, and be merry, and join with me,To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, Ha, He!"William Blake
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, Ha, He!"
William Blake
210
FA LA LAMy mistress frowns when she should play;I'll please her with aFa la la.Sometimes she chides, but I straightwayPresent her with aFa la la.You lovers that have loves astrayMay win them with aFa la la.Quick music's best, for still they sayNone pleaseth like yourFa la la.
My mistress frowns when she should play;I'll please her with aFa la la.Sometimes she chides, but I straightwayPresent her with aFa la la.You lovers that have loves astrayMay win them with aFa la la.Quick music's best, for still they sayNone pleaseth like yourFa la la.
My mistress frowns when she should play;I'll please her with aFa la la.Sometimes she chides, but I straightwayPresent her with aFa la la.
My mistress frowns when she should play;
I'll please her with aFa la la.
Sometimes she chides, but I straightway
Present her with aFa la la.
You lovers that have loves astrayMay win them with aFa la la.Quick music's best, for still they sayNone pleaseth like yourFa la la.
You lovers that have loves astray
May win them with aFa la la.
Quick music's best, for still they say
None pleaseth like yourFa la la.
211
IT WAS A LOVERIt was a Lover, and his lasse,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,That ore the greene corne-field did passe,In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet Lovers love the spring.Between the acres of the Rie,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,These prettie Country folks would lie,In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet Lovers love the spring.This Carroll they began that houre,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,How that a life was but a Flower,In spring time, the only pretty ring time,When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet Lovers love the spring.And therefore take the present time,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;For love is crownèd with the primeIn spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet lovers love the spring.William Shakespeare
It was a Lover, and his lasse,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,That ore the greene corne-field did passe,In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet Lovers love the spring.Between the acres of the Rie,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,These prettie Country folks would lie,In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet Lovers love the spring.This Carroll they began that houre,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,How that a life was but a Flower,In spring time, the only pretty ring time,When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet Lovers love the spring.And therefore take the present time,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;For love is crownèd with the primeIn spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet lovers love the spring.William Shakespeare
It was a Lover, and his lasse,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,That ore the greene corne-field did passe,In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet Lovers love the spring.
It was a Lover, and his lasse,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That ore the greene corne-field did passe,
In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,
When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet Lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the Rie,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,These prettie Country folks would lie,In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet Lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the Rie,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These prettie Country folks would lie,
In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,
When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet Lovers love the spring.
This Carroll they began that houre,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,How that a life was but a Flower,In spring time, the only pretty ring time,When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet Lovers love the spring.
This Carroll they began that houre,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a Flower,
In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When Birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet Lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;For love is crownèd with the primeIn spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:Sweet lovers love the spring.William Shakespeare
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;
For love is crownèd with the prime
In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing,hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet lovers love the spring.
William Shakespeare
212
HEY, NONNY NO!Hey, nonny no!Men are fools that wish to die!Is't not fine to dance and singWhen the bells of death do ring?Is't not fine to swim in wine,And turn upon the toe,And singHey nonny no!When the winds blow and the seas flow?Hey, nonny no!
Hey, nonny no!Men are fools that wish to die!Is't not fine to dance and singWhen the bells of death do ring?Is't not fine to swim in wine,And turn upon the toe,And singHey nonny no!When the winds blow and the seas flow?Hey, nonny no!
Hey, nonny no!Men are fools that wish to die!Is't not fine to dance and singWhen the bells of death do ring?Is't not fine to swim in wine,And turn upon the toe,And singHey nonny no!
Hey, nonny no!
Men are fools that wish to die!
Is't not fine to dance and sing
When the bells of death do ring?
Is't not fine to swim in wine,
And turn upon the toe,
And singHey nonny no!
When the winds blow and the seas flow?Hey, nonny no!
When the winds blow and the seas flow?
Hey, nonny no!
213
TARANTELLADo you remember an Inn,Miranda?Do you remember an Inn?And the tedding and the spreadingOf the straw for a bedding,And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,And the wine that tasted of the tar?And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers(Under the dark of the vine verandah)?Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,Do you remember an Inn?And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteersWho hadn't got a penny,And who weren't paying any,And the hammer at the doors and the Din?And the Hip! Hop! Hap!Of the clapOf the hands to the twirl and the swirlOf the girl gone chancing,Glancing,Dancing,Backing and advancing,Snapping of the clapper to the spinOut and in—And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the guitar!Do you remember an Inn,Miranda?Do you remember an Inn?Never more;Miranda,Never more.Only the high peaks hoar:And Aragon a torrent at the door.No soundIn the walls of the Halls where fallsThe treadOf the feet of the dead to the ground.No sound:Only the boomOf the far Waterfall like Doom.Hilaire Belloc
Do you remember an Inn,Miranda?Do you remember an Inn?And the tedding and the spreadingOf the straw for a bedding,And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,And the wine that tasted of the tar?And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers(Under the dark of the vine verandah)?Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,Do you remember an Inn?And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteersWho hadn't got a penny,And who weren't paying any,And the hammer at the doors and the Din?And the Hip! Hop! Hap!Of the clapOf the hands to the twirl and the swirlOf the girl gone chancing,Glancing,Dancing,Backing and advancing,Snapping of the clapper to the spinOut and in—And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the guitar!Do you remember an Inn,Miranda?Do you remember an Inn?Never more;Miranda,Never more.Only the high peaks hoar:And Aragon a torrent at the door.No soundIn the walls of the Halls where fallsThe treadOf the feet of the dead to the ground.No sound:Only the boomOf the far Waterfall like Doom.Hilaire Belloc
Do you remember an Inn,Miranda?Do you remember an Inn?And the tedding and the spreadingOf the straw for a bedding,And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,And the wine that tasted of the tar?And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers(Under the dark of the vine verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of the tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the dark of the vine verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,Do you remember an Inn?And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteersWho hadn't got a penny,And who weren't paying any,And the hammer at the doors and the Din?And the Hip! Hop! Hap!Of the clapOf the hands to the twirl and the swirlOf the girl gone chancing,Glancing,Dancing,Backing and advancing,Snapping of the clapper to the spinOut and in—And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the guitar!Do you remember an Inn,Miranda?Do you remember an Inn?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in—
And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;Miranda,Never more.Only the high peaks hoar:And Aragon a torrent at the door.No soundIn the walls of the Halls where fallsThe treadOf the feet of the dead to the ground.No sound:Only the boomOf the far Waterfall like Doom.Hilaire Belloc
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground.
No sound:
Only the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.
Hilaire Belloc
214
"I LOVED A LASS"I loved a lass, a fair one,As fair as e'er was seen;She was indeed a rare one,Another Sheba Queen:But, fool as then I was,I thought she loved me too:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!...And as abroad we walkèdAs lovers' fashion is,Oft as we sweetly talkèdThe sun would steal a kiss.The wind upon her lipsLikewise most sweetly blew;But now, alas! she has left meFalero, lero, loo!Many a merry meetingMy love and I have had;She was my only sweeting,She made my heart full glad;The tears stood in her eyesLike to the morning dew:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!Her cheeks were like the cherry,Her skin was white as snow;When she was blithe and merryShe angel-like did show;Her waist exceeding small,The fives did fit her shoe:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!In summer time or winterShe had her heart's desire;I still did scorn to stint herFrom sugar, sack, or fire;The world went round about,No cares we ever knew:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!...No riches now can raise me,No want make me despair;No misery amaze me,Nor yet for want I care.I have lost a world itself,My earthly heaven, adieu,Since she, alas! hath left me,Falero, lero, loo....George Wither
I loved a lass, a fair one,As fair as e'er was seen;She was indeed a rare one,Another Sheba Queen:But, fool as then I was,I thought she loved me too:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!...And as abroad we walkèdAs lovers' fashion is,Oft as we sweetly talkèdThe sun would steal a kiss.The wind upon her lipsLikewise most sweetly blew;But now, alas! she has left meFalero, lero, loo!Many a merry meetingMy love and I have had;She was my only sweeting,She made my heart full glad;The tears stood in her eyesLike to the morning dew:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!Her cheeks were like the cherry,Her skin was white as snow;When she was blithe and merryShe angel-like did show;Her waist exceeding small,The fives did fit her shoe:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!In summer time or winterShe had her heart's desire;I still did scorn to stint herFrom sugar, sack, or fire;The world went round about,No cares we ever knew:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!...No riches now can raise me,No want make me despair;No misery amaze me,Nor yet for want I care.I have lost a world itself,My earthly heaven, adieu,Since she, alas! hath left me,Falero, lero, loo....George Wither
I loved a lass, a fair one,As fair as e'er was seen;She was indeed a rare one,Another Sheba Queen:But, fool as then I was,I thought she loved me too:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!...
I loved a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen:
But, fool as then I was,
I thought she loved me too:
But now, alas! she has left me,
Falero, lero, loo!...
And as abroad we walkèdAs lovers' fashion is,Oft as we sweetly talkèdThe sun would steal a kiss.The wind upon her lipsLikewise most sweetly blew;But now, alas! she has left meFalero, lero, loo!
And as abroad we walkèd
As lovers' fashion is,
Oft as we sweetly talkèd
The sun would steal a kiss.
The wind upon her lips
Likewise most sweetly blew;
But now, alas! she has left me
Falero, lero, loo!
Many a merry meetingMy love and I have had;She was my only sweeting,She made my heart full glad;The tears stood in her eyesLike to the morning dew:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!
Many a merry meeting
My love and I have had;
She was my only sweeting,
She made my heart full glad;
The tears stood in her eyes
Like to the morning dew:
But now, alas! she has left me,
Falero, lero, loo!
Her cheeks were like the cherry,Her skin was white as snow;When she was blithe and merryShe angel-like did show;Her waist exceeding small,The fives did fit her shoe:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!
Her cheeks were like the cherry,
Her skin was white as snow;
When she was blithe and merry
She angel-like did show;
Her waist exceeding small,
The fives did fit her shoe:
But now, alas! she has left me,
Falero, lero, loo!
In summer time or winterShe had her heart's desire;I still did scorn to stint herFrom sugar, sack, or fire;The world went round about,No cares we ever knew:But now, alas! she has left me,Falero, lero, loo!...
In summer time or winter
She had her heart's desire;
I still did scorn to stint her
From sugar, sack, or fire;
The world went round about,
No cares we ever knew:
But now, alas! she has left me,
Falero, lero, loo!...
No riches now can raise me,No want make me despair;No misery amaze me,Nor yet for want I care.I have lost a world itself,My earthly heaven, adieu,Since she, alas! hath left me,Falero, lero, loo....George Wither
No riches now can raise me,
No want make me despair;
No misery amaze me,
Nor yet for want I care.
I have lost a world itself,
My earthly heaven, adieu,
Since she, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo....
George Wither
215
GREEN GRASSA dis, a dis, a green grass,A dis, a dis, a dis;Come all you pretty fair maidsAnd dance along with us.For we are going roving,A roving in this land;We take this pretty fair maid,We take her by the hand.She shall get a duke, my dear,As duck do get a drake;And she shall have a young prince,For her own fair sake.And if this young prince chance to die,She shall get another;The bells will ring, and the birds will sing,And we clap hands together.
A dis, a dis, a green grass,A dis, a dis, a dis;Come all you pretty fair maidsAnd dance along with us.For we are going roving,A roving in this land;We take this pretty fair maid,We take her by the hand.She shall get a duke, my dear,As duck do get a drake;And she shall have a young prince,For her own fair sake.And if this young prince chance to die,She shall get another;The bells will ring, and the birds will sing,And we clap hands together.
A dis, a dis, a green grass,A dis, a dis, a dis;Come all you pretty fair maidsAnd dance along with us.
A dis, a dis, a green grass,
A dis, a dis, a dis;
Come all you pretty fair maids
And dance along with us.
For we are going roving,A roving in this land;We take this pretty fair maid,We take her by the hand.
For we are going roving,
A roving in this land;
We take this pretty fair maid,
We take her by the hand.
She shall get a duke, my dear,As duck do get a drake;And she shall have a young prince,For her own fair sake.
She shall get a duke, my dear,
As duck do get a drake;
And she shall have a young prince,
For her own fair sake.
And if this young prince chance to die,She shall get another;The bells will ring, and the birds will sing,And we clap hands together.
And if this young prince chance to die,
She shall get another;
The bells will ring, and the birds will sing,
And we clap hands together.
216
THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHERWhen I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire,Full well I served my master for more than seven year,Till I took up to poaching—as you shall quickly hear:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!As mé and my cómrade were setting of a snare,Twas then we spied the gamekeeper, for him we did not care,For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er anywhere:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!As me and my comrade were setting four or five,And taking on 'em up again we caught a hare alive,We took the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!I threw him on my shoulder, and then we trudged home,We took him to a neighbour's house and sold him for a crownWe sold him for a crown, my boys, but I did not tell you where:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire,Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare,Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:[96]Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!
When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire,Full well I served my master for more than seven year,Till I took up to poaching—as you shall quickly hear:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!As mé and my cómrade were setting of a snare,Twas then we spied the gamekeeper, for him we did not care,For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er anywhere:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!As me and my comrade were setting four or five,And taking on 'em up again we caught a hare alive,We took the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!I threw him on my shoulder, and then we trudged home,We took him to a neighbour's house and sold him for a crownWe sold him for a crown, my boys, but I did not tell you where:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire,Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare,Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:[96]Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!
When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire,Full well I served my master for more than seven year,Till I took up to poaching—as you shall quickly hear:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!
When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire,
Full well I served my master for more than seven year,
Till I took up to poaching—as you shall quickly hear:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!
As mé and my cómrade were setting of a snare,Twas then we spied the gamekeeper, for him we did not care,For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er anywhere:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!
As mé and my cómrade were setting of a snare,
Twas then we spied the gamekeeper, for him we did not care,
For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er anywhere:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!
As me and my comrade were setting four or five,And taking on 'em up again we caught a hare alive,We took the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!
As me and my comrade were setting four or five,
And taking on 'em up again we caught a hare alive,
We took the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!
I threw him on my shoulder, and then we trudged home,We took him to a neighbour's house and sold him for a crownWe sold him for a crown, my boys, but I did not tell you where:Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!
I threw him on my shoulder, and then we trudged home,
We took him to a neighbour's house and sold him for a crown
We sold him for a crown, my boys, but I did not tell you where:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!
Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire,Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare,Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:[96]Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining nightIn the season of the year!
Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire,
Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare,
Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:[96]
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!
217
THE MEN OF GOTHAMSeamen three! What men be ye?Gotham's three wise men we be.Whither in your bowl so free?To rake the moon from out the sea.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine—And your ballast is old wine.Who art thóu, so fast adrift?I am he they call Old Care.Here on board we will thee lift.No: I may not enter there.Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,In a bowl Care may not be—In a bowl Care may not be.Fear ye not the waves that roll?No; in charmèd bowl we swim.What the charm that floats the bowl?Water may not pass the brim.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine—And your ballast is old wine.Thomas Love Peacock
Seamen three! What men be ye?Gotham's three wise men we be.Whither in your bowl so free?To rake the moon from out the sea.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine—And your ballast is old wine.Who art thóu, so fast adrift?I am he they call Old Care.Here on board we will thee lift.No: I may not enter there.Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,In a bowl Care may not be—In a bowl Care may not be.Fear ye not the waves that roll?No; in charmèd bowl we swim.What the charm that floats the bowl?Water may not pass the brim.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine—And your ballast is old wine.Thomas Love Peacock
Seamen three! What men be ye?Gotham's three wise men we be.Whither in your bowl so free?To rake the moon from out the sea.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine—And your ballast is old wine.
Seamen three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine—
And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thóu, so fast adrift?I am he they call Old Care.Here on board we will thee lift.No: I may not enter there.Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,In a bowl Care may not be—In a bowl Care may not be.
Who art thóu, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be—
In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?No; in charmèd bowl we swim.What the charm that floats the bowl?Water may not pass the brim.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine—And your ballast is old wine.Thomas Love Peacock
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No; in charmèd bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine—
And your ballast is old wine.
Thomas Love Peacock
218
EARLY MORNING MEADOW SONGNow some may drink old vintage wineTo ladies gowned with rustling silk,But we will drink to dairymaids,And drink to them in rum and milk—O, it's up in the morning early,When the dew is on the grass,And St. John's bell rings for matins,And St. Mary's rings for mass!The merry skylarks soar and sing,And seem to Heaven very near—Who knows what blessed inns they see,What holy drinking songs they hear?O, it's up in the morning early,When the dew is on the grass,And St. John's bell rings for matins,And St. Mary's rings for mass!The mushrooms may be priceless pearlsA queen has lost beside the stream;But rum is melted rubies whenIt turns the milk to golden cream!O, it's up in the morning early,When the dew is on the grass,And St. John's bell rings for matins,And St. Mary's rings for mass!Charles Dalmon
Now some may drink old vintage wineTo ladies gowned with rustling silk,But we will drink to dairymaids,And drink to them in rum and milk—O, it's up in the morning early,When the dew is on the grass,And St. John's bell rings for matins,And St. Mary's rings for mass!The merry skylarks soar and sing,And seem to Heaven very near—Who knows what blessed inns they see,What holy drinking songs they hear?O, it's up in the morning early,When the dew is on the grass,And St. John's bell rings for matins,And St. Mary's rings for mass!The mushrooms may be priceless pearlsA queen has lost beside the stream;But rum is melted rubies whenIt turns the milk to golden cream!O, it's up in the morning early,When the dew is on the grass,And St. John's bell rings for matins,And St. Mary's rings for mass!Charles Dalmon
Now some may drink old vintage wineTo ladies gowned with rustling silk,But we will drink to dairymaids,And drink to them in rum and milk—O, it's up in the morning early,When the dew is on the grass,And St. John's bell rings for matins,And St. Mary's rings for mass!
Now some may drink old vintage wine
To ladies gowned with rustling silk,
But we will drink to dairymaids,
And drink to them in rum and milk—
O, it's up in the morning early,
When the dew is on the grass,
And St. John's bell rings for matins,
And St. Mary's rings for mass!
The merry skylarks soar and sing,And seem to Heaven very near—Who knows what blessed inns they see,What holy drinking songs they hear?O, it's up in the morning early,When the dew is on the grass,And St. John's bell rings for matins,And St. Mary's rings for mass!
The merry skylarks soar and sing,
And seem to Heaven very near—
Who knows what blessed inns they see,
What holy drinking songs they hear?
O, it's up in the morning early,
When the dew is on the grass,
And St. John's bell rings for matins,
And St. Mary's rings for mass!
The mushrooms may be priceless pearlsA queen has lost beside the stream;But rum is melted rubies whenIt turns the milk to golden cream!O, it's up in the morning early,When the dew is on the grass,And St. John's bell rings for matins,And St. Mary's rings for mass!Charles Dalmon
The mushrooms may be priceless pearls
A queen has lost beside the stream;
But rum is melted rubies when
It turns the milk to golden cream!
O, it's up in the morning early,
When the dew is on the grass,
And St. John's bell rings for matins,
And St. Mary's rings for mass!
Charles Dalmon
219
DABBLING IN THE DEWOh, where are you going to, my pretty little dear,With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair?I'm going a-milking, kind sir, she answered me:And it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!Suppose I were to clothe you, my pretty little dear,In a green silken gown and the amethyst rare?O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!Suppose I were to carry you, my pretty little dear,In a chariot with horses, a grey gallant pair?O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!Suppose I were to feast you, my pretty little dear,With dainties on silver, the whole of the year?O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!O but London's a city, my pretty little dear,And all men are gallant and brave that are there—O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!O fine clothes and dainties and carriages so rareBring grey to the cheeks and silver to the hair;What's a ring on the finger if rings are round the eye?But it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Oh, where are you going to, my pretty little dear,With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair?I'm going a-milking, kind sir, she answered me:And it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!Suppose I were to clothe you, my pretty little dear,In a green silken gown and the amethyst rare?O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!Suppose I were to carry you, my pretty little dear,In a chariot with horses, a grey gallant pair?O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!Suppose I were to feast you, my pretty little dear,With dainties on silver, the whole of the year?O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!O but London's a city, my pretty little dear,And all men are gallant and brave that are there—O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!O fine clothes and dainties and carriages so rareBring grey to the cheeks and silver to the hair;What's a ring on the finger if rings are round the eye?But it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Oh, where are you going to, my pretty little dear,With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair?I'm going a-milking, kind sir, she answered me:And it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Oh, where are you going to, my pretty little dear,
With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair?
I'm going a-milking, kind sir, she answered me:
And it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to clothe you, my pretty little dear,In a green silken gown and the amethyst rare?O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to clothe you, my pretty little dear,
In a green silken gown and the amethyst rare?
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to carry you, my pretty little dear,In a chariot with horses, a grey gallant pair?O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to carry you, my pretty little dear,
In a chariot with horses, a grey gallant pair?
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to feast you, my pretty little dear,With dainties on silver, the whole of the year?O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to feast you, my pretty little dear,
With dainties on silver, the whole of the year?
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
O but London's a city, my pretty little dear,And all men are gallant and brave that are there—O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
O but London's a city, my pretty little dear,
And all men are gallant and brave that are there—
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
O fine clothes and dainties and carriages so rareBring grey to the cheeks and silver to the hair;What's a ring on the finger if rings are round the eye?But it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
O fine clothes and dainties and carriages so rare
Bring grey to the cheeks and silver to the hair;
What's a ring on the finger if rings are round the eye?
But it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
220
BONNY LASSIE O!O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O!To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there,With the dark dishevelled hair,Bonny lassie O!The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O!Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to seeThe shed I've made for thee,Bonny lassie O!'Tis agen the running brook, bonny lassie O!In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky,And a bush to keep us dry,Bonny lassie O!There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O!There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold,And the arum leaves unrolled,Bonny lassie O!O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O!With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skinBlushing, thy praise to win,Bonny lassie O!I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O!When the bee sips in the bean, and grey willow branches lean,And the moonbeam looks between,Bonny lassie O!John Clare
O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O!To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there,With the dark dishevelled hair,Bonny lassie O!The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O!Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to seeThe shed I've made for thee,Bonny lassie O!'Tis agen the running brook, bonny lassie O!In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky,And a bush to keep us dry,Bonny lassie O!There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O!There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold,And the arum leaves unrolled,Bonny lassie O!O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O!With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skinBlushing, thy praise to win,Bonny lassie O!I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O!When the bee sips in the bean, and grey willow branches lean,And the moonbeam looks between,Bonny lassie O!John Clare
O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O!To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there,With the dark dishevelled hair,Bonny lassie O!
O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O!
To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there,
With the dark dishevelled hair,
Bonny lassie O!
The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O!Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to seeThe shed I've made for thee,Bonny lassie O!
The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O!
Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to see
The shed I've made for thee,
Bonny lassie O!
'Tis agen the running brook, bonny lassie O!In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky,And a bush to keep us dry,Bonny lassie O!
'Tis agen the running brook, bonny lassie O!
In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky,
And a bush to keep us dry,
Bonny lassie O!
There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O!There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold,And the arum leaves unrolled,Bonny lassie O!
There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O!
There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold,
And the arum leaves unrolled,
Bonny lassie O!
O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O!With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skinBlushing, thy praise to win,Bonny lassie O!
O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O!
With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skin
Blushing, thy praise to win,
Bonny lassie O!
I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O!When the bee sips in the bean, and grey willow branches lean,And the moonbeam looks between,Bonny lassie O!John Clare
I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O!
When the bee sips in the bean, and grey willow branches lean,
And the moonbeam looks between,
Bonny lassie O!
John Clare
221
THE MAD MAID'S SONGGood-morrow to the Day so fair,Good-morning, Sir, to you:Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,Bedabbled with the dew.Good-morning to this Prim-rose too,Good-morrow to each maid,That will with flowers the Tomb bestrewWherein my Love is laid.Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,Alack and welladay!For pitty, Sir, find out that BeeWhich bore my Love away.Ile seek him in your Bonnet brave,Ile seek him in your eyes;Nay, now, I think they've made his graveI' the bed of strawburies.Ile seek him there; I know, ere this,The cold, cold Earth doth shake him;But I will go, or send a kissBy you, Sir, to awake him.Pray hurt him not, though he be dead,He knowes well who do love him,And who with green-turfes reare his head,And who do rudely move him.He's soft and tender (Pray take heed);With bands of Cowslips bind him,And bring him home—but 't is decreedThat I shall never find him.Robert Herrick
Good-morrow to the Day so fair,Good-morning, Sir, to you:Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,Bedabbled with the dew.Good-morning to this Prim-rose too,Good-morrow to each maid,That will with flowers the Tomb bestrewWherein my Love is laid.Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,Alack and welladay!For pitty, Sir, find out that BeeWhich bore my Love away.Ile seek him in your Bonnet brave,Ile seek him in your eyes;Nay, now, I think they've made his graveI' the bed of strawburies.Ile seek him there; I know, ere this,The cold, cold Earth doth shake him;But I will go, or send a kissBy you, Sir, to awake him.Pray hurt him not, though he be dead,He knowes well who do love him,And who with green-turfes reare his head,And who do rudely move him.He's soft and tender (Pray take heed);With bands of Cowslips bind him,And bring him home—but 't is decreedThat I shall never find him.Robert Herrick
Good-morrow to the Day so fair,Good-morning, Sir, to you:Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morrow to the Day so fair,
Good-morning, Sir, to you:
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morning to this Prim-rose too,Good-morrow to each maid,That will with flowers the Tomb bestrewWherein my Love is laid.
Good-morning to this Prim-rose too,
Good-morrow to each maid,
That will with flowers the Tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,Alack and welladay!For pitty, Sir, find out that BeeWhich bore my Love away.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and welladay!
For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee
Which bore my Love away.
Ile seek him in your Bonnet brave,Ile seek him in your eyes;Nay, now, I think they've made his graveI' the bed of strawburies.
Ile seek him in your Bonnet brave,
Ile seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now, I think they've made his grave
I' the bed of strawburies.
Ile seek him there; I know, ere this,The cold, cold Earth doth shake him;But I will go, or send a kissBy you, Sir, to awake him.
Ile seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold Earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, Sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not, though he be dead,He knowes well who do love him,And who with green-turfes reare his head,And who do rudely move him.
Pray hurt him not, though he be dead,
He knowes well who do love him,
And who with green-turfes reare his head,
And who do rudely move him.
He's soft and tender (Pray take heed);With bands of Cowslips bind him,And bring him home—but 't is decreedThat I shall never find him.Robert Herrick
He's soft and tender (Pray take heed);
With bands of Cowslips bind him,
And bring him home—but 't is decreed
That I shall never find him.
Robert Herrick
222
TELL ME WHERE IS FANCIE BREDTell me where is Fancie bred,Or in the heart or in the head?How begot, how nourishèd?Replie, replie!It is engendered in the eyes,With gazing fed; and Fancie diesIn the cradle where it lies.Let us all ring Fancie's knell:Ile begin it:Ding, dong, bell.All.Ding, dong, bell.William Shakespeare
Tell me where is Fancie bred,Or in the heart or in the head?How begot, how nourishèd?Replie, replie!It is engendered in the eyes,With gazing fed; and Fancie diesIn the cradle where it lies.Let us all ring Fancie's knell:Ile begin it:Ding, dong, bell.All.Ding, dong, bell.William Shakespeare
Tell me where is Fancie bred,Or in the heart or in the head?How begot, how nourishèd?Replie, replie!It is engendered in the eyes,With gazing fed; and Fancie diesIn the cradle where it lies.Let us all ring Fancie's knell:Ile begin it:Ding, dong, bell.All.Ding, dong, bell.William Shakespeare
Tell me where is Fancie bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourishèd?
Replie, replie!
It is engendered in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and Fancie dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring Fancie's knell:
Ile begin it:
Ding, dong, bell.
All.Ding, dong, bell.
William Shakespeare
223
MUSICMusic, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.Percy Bysshe Shelley
Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.Percy Bysshe Shelley
Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.Percy Bysshe Shelley
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
224
THE BELLS OF SHANDONWith deep affection and recollectionI often think of the Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood,Fling around my cradle their magic spells.On this I ponder where'er I wander,And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;With thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine,While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate;But all their music spoke naught to thine;For memory, dwelling on each proud swellingOf thy belfry, knelling its bold notes free,Made the bells of ShandonSound more grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.I've heard bells tolling old "Adrian's Mole" in,Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,And cymbals glorious, swinging uproariousIn the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame;But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of PeterFlings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly.O! the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.There's a bell in Moscow; while on Tower and Kiosk, O!In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,And loud in air, calls men to prayer,From the tapering summit of tall minarets.Such empty phantom I freely grant them;But there is an anthem more dear to me,—'Tis the bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.Francis Mahony (Father Prout)
With deep affection and recollectionI often think of the Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood,Fling around my cradle their magic spells.On this I ponder where'er I wander,And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;With thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine,While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate;But all their music spoke naught to thine;For memory, dwelling on each proud swellingOf thy belfry, knelling its bold notes free,Made the bells of ShandonSound more grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.I've heard bells tolling old "Adrian's Mole" in,Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,And cymbals glorious, swinging uproariousIn the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame;But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of PeterFlings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly.O! the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.There's a bell in Moscow; while on Tower and Kiosk, O!In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,And loud in air, calls men to prayer,From the tapering summit of tall minarets.Such empty phantom I freely grant them;But there is an anthem more dear to me,—'Tis the bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.Francis Mahony (Father Prout)
With deep affection and recollectionI often think of the Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood,Fling around my cradle their magic spells.On this I ponder where'er I wander,And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;With thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.
With deep affection and recollection
I often think of the Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood,
Fling around my cradle their magic spells.
On this I ponder where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine,While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate;But all their music spoke naught to thine;For memory, dwelling on each proud swellingOf thy belfry, knelling its bold notes free,Made the bells of ShandonSound more grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine,
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music spoke naught to thine;
For memory, dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound more grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I've heard bells tolling old "Adrian's Mole" in,Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,And cymbals glorious, swinging uproariousIn the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame;But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of PeterFlings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly.O! the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I've heard bells tolling old "Adrian's Mole" in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame;
But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly.
O! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
There's a bell in Moscow; while on Tower and Kiosk, O!In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,And loud in air, calls men to prayer,From the tapering summit of tall minarets.Such empty phantom I freely grant them;But there is an anthem more dear to me,—'Tis the bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.Francis Mahony (Father Prout)
There's a bell in Moscow; while on Tower and Kiosk, O!
In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,
And loud in air, calls men to prayer,
From the tapering summit of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom I freely grant them;
But there is an anthem more dear to me,—
'Tis the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
Francis Mahony (Father Prout)
225
UPON A RING OF BELLSBells have wide mouths and tongues, but are too weak,Have they not help, to sing, or talk or speak.But if you move them they will mak't appear,By speaking they'll make all the Town to hear.When Ringers handle them with Art and Skill,They then the ears of their Observers fill,With such brave Notes, they ting and tang so wellAs to out strip all with their ding, dong, Bell.ComparisonThese Bells are like the Powers of my Soul;Their Clappers to the Passions of my mind;The Ropes by which my Bells are made to tole,Are Promises (I by experience find.)My body is the Staple where they hang,My graces they which do ring ev'ry Bell:Nor is there any thing gives such a tang,When by these Ropes these Ringers ring them well.Let not my Bells these Ringers want, nor Ropes;Yea let them have room for to swing and sway:To toss themselves deny them not their Scopes.Lord! in my Steeple give them room to play.If they do tole, ring out, or chime all in,They drown the tempting tinckling Voice of Vice:Lord! when my Bells have gone, my Soul has binAs 'twere a tumbling in this Paradice!Or if these Ringers do the Changes ring,Upon my Bells, they do such Musick make,My Soul then (Lord) cannot but bounce and sing,So greatly her they with their Musick take.But Boys (my Lusts) into my Belfry go,And pull these Ropes, but do no Musick makeThey rather turn my Bells by what they do,Or by disorder make my Steeple shake.Then, Lord! I pray thee keep my Belfry Key,Let none but Graces meddle with these Ropes:And when these naughty Boys come, say them Nay.From such Ringers of Musick there's no hopes.O Lord! If thy poor Child might have his will,And might his meaning freely to thee tell;He never of this Musick has his fill,There's nothing to him like thy ding, dong, Bell.John Bunyan
Bells have wide mouths and tongues, but are too weak,Have they not help, to sing, or talk or speak.But if you move them they will mak't appear,By speaking they'll make all the Town to hear.When Ringers handle them with Art and Skill,They then the ears of their Observers fill,With such brave Notes, they ting and tang so wellAs to out strip all with their ding, dong, Bell.ComparisonThese Bells are like the Powers of my Soul;Their Clappers to the Passions of my mind;The Ropes by which my Bells are made to tole,Are Promises (I by experience find.)My body is the Staple where they hang,My graces they which do ring ev'ry Bell:Nor is there any thing gives such a tang,When by these Ropes these Ringers ring them well.Let not my Bells these Ringers want, nor Ropes;Yea let them have room for to swing and sway:To toss themselves deny them not their Scopes.Lord! in my Steeple give them room to play.If they do tole, ring out, or chime all in,They drown the tempting tinckling Voice of Vice:Lord! when my Bells have gone, my Soul has binAs 'twere a tumbling in this Paradice!Or if these Ringers do the Changes ring,Upon my Bells, they do such Musick make,My Soul then (Lord) cannot but bounce and sing,So greatly her they with their Musick take.But Boys (my Lusts) into my Belfry go,And pull these Ropes, but do no Musick makeThey rather turn my Bells by what they do,Or by disorder make my Steeple shake.Then, Lord! I pray thee keep my Belfry Key,Let none but Graces meddle with these Ropes:And when these naughty Boys come, say them Nay.From such Ringers of Musick there's no hopes.O Lord! If thy poor Child might have his will,And might his meaning freely to thee tell;He never of this Musick has his fill,There's nothing to him like thy ding, dong, Bell.John Bunyan
Bells have wide mouths and tongues, but are too weak,Have they not help, to sing, or talk or speak.But if you move them they will mak't appear,By speaking they'll make all the Town to hear.When Ringers handle them with Art and Skill,They then the ears of their Observers fill,With such brave Notes, they ting and tang so wellAs to out strip all with their ding, dong, Bell.
Bells have wide mouths and tongues, but are too weak,
Have they not help, to sing, or talk or speak.
But if you move them they will mak't appear,
By speaking they'll make all the Town to hear.
When Ringers handle them with Art and Skill,
They then the ears of their Observers fill,
With such brave Notes, they ting and tang so well
As to out strip all with their ding, dong, Bell.
Comparison
These Bells are like the Powers of my Soul;Their Clappers to the Passions of my mind;The Ropes by which my Bells are made to tole,Are Promises (I by experience find.)My body is the Staple where they hang,My graces they which do ring ev'ry Bell:Nor is there any thing gives such a tang,When by these Ropes these Ringers ring them well.Let not my Bells these Ringers want, nor Ropes;Yea let them have room for to swing and sway:To toss themselves deny them not their Scopes.Lord! in my Steeple give them room to play.If they do tole, ring out, or chime all in,They drown the tempting tinckling Voice of Vice:Lord! when my Bells have gone, my Soul has binAs 'twere a tumbling in this Paradice!Or if these Ringers do the Changes ring,Upon my Bells, they do such Musick make,My Soul then (Lord) cannot but bounce and sing,So greatly her they with their Musick take.But Boys (my Lusts) into my Belfry go,And pull these Ropes, but do no Musick makeThey rather turn my Bells by what they do,Or by disorder make my Steeple shake.Then, Lord! I pray thee keep my Belfry Key,Let none but Graces meddle with these Ropes:And when these naughty Boys come, say them Nay.From such Ringers of Musick there's no hopes.O Lord! If thy poor Child might have his will,And might his meaning freely to thee tell;He never of this Musick has his fill,There's nothing to him like thy ding, dong, Bell.John Bunyan
These Bells are like the Powers of my Soul;
Their Clappers to the Passions of my mind;
The Ropes by which my Bells are made to tole,
Are Promises (I by experience find.)
My body is the Staple where they hang,
My graces they which do ring ev'ry Bell:
Nor is there any thing gives such a tang,
When by these Ropes these Ringers ring them well.
Let not my Bells these Ringers want, nor Ropes;
Yea let them have room for to swing and sway:
To toss themselves deny them not their Scopes.
Lord! in my Steeple give them room to play.
If they do tole, ring out, or chime all in,
They drown the tempting tinckling Voice of Vice:
Lord! when my Bells have gone, my Soul has bin
As 'twere a tumbling in this Paradice!
Or if these Ringers do the Changes ring,
Upon my Bells, they do such Musick make,
My Soul then (Lord) cannot but bounce and sing,
So greatly her they with their Musick take.
But Boys (my Lusts) into my Belfry go,
And pull these Ropes, but do no Musick make
They rather turn my Bells by what they do,
Or by disorder make my Steeple shake.
Then, Lord! I pray thee keep my Belfry Key,
Let none but Graces meddle with these Ropes:
And when these naughty Boys come, say them Nay.
From such Ringers of Musick there's no hopes.
O Lord! If thy poor Child might have his will,
And might his meaning freely to thee tell;
He never of this Musick has his fill,
There's nothing to him like thy ding, dong, Bell.
John Bunyan
226
THE BELFRYDark is the stair, and humid the old wallsWherein it winds, on worn stones, up the tower.Only by loophole chinks at intervalsPierces the late glow of this August hour.Two truant children climb the stairway dark,With joined hands, half in glee and half in fear,The boy mounts brisk, the girl hangs back to harkIf the gruff sexton their light footsteps hear.Dazzled at last they gain the belfry-room.Barred rays through shutters hover across the floorDancing in dust; so fresh they come from gloomThat breathless they pause wondering at the door.How hushed it is! what smell of timbers oldFrom cobwebbed beams! The warm light here and thereEdging a darkness, sleeps in pools of gold,Or weaves fantastic shadows through the air.How motionless the huge bell! Straight and stiff,Ropes through the floor rise to the rafters dim.The shadowy round of metal hangs, as ifNo force could ever lift its gleamy rim.A child's awe, a child's wonder, who shall traceWhat dumb thoughts on its waxen softness writeIn such a spell-brimmed, time-forgotten place,Bright in that strangeness of approaching night?As these two gaze, their fingers tighter press;For suddenly the slow bell upward heavesIts vast mouth, the cords quiver at the stress,And ere the heart prepare, the ear receivesFull on its delicate sense the plangent strokeOf violent, iron, reverberating sound.As if the tower in all its stones awoke,Deep echoes tremble, again in clangour drowned,That starts without a whir of frighted wingsAnd holds these young hearts shaken, hushed, and thrilled,Like frail reeds in a rushing stream, like stringsOf music, or like trees with tempest filled,And rolls in wide waves out o'er the lone land,Tone following tone toward the far-setting sun,Till where in fields long shadowed reapers standBowed heads look up, and lo, the day is done....Laurence Binyon
Dark is the stair, and humid the old wallsWherein it winds, on worn stones, up the tower.Only by loophole chinks at intervalsPierces the late glow of this August hour.Two truant children climb the stairway dark,With joined hands, half in glee and half in fear,The boy mounts brisk, the girl hangs back to harkIf the gruff sexton their light footsteps hear.Dazzled at last they gain the belfry-room.Barred rays through shutters hover across the floorDancing in dust; so fresh they come from gloomThat breathless they pause wondering at the door.How hushed it is! what smell of timbers oldFrom cobwebbed beams! The warm light here and thereEdging a darkness, sleeps in pools of gold,Or weaves fantastic shadows through the air.How motionless the huge bell! Straight and stiff,Ropes through the floor rise to the rafters dim.The shadowy round of metal hangs, as ifNo force could ever lift its gleamy rim.A child's awe, a child's wonder, who shall traceWhat dumb thoughts on its waxen softness writeIn such a spell-brimmed, time-forgotten place,Bright in that strangeness of approaching night?As these two gaze, their fingers tighter press;For suddenly the slow bell upward heavesIts vast mouth, the cords quiver at the stress,And ere the heart prepare, the ear receivesFull on its delicate sense the plangent strokeOf violent, iron, reverberating sound.As if the tower in all its stones awoke,Deep echoes tremble, again in clangour drowned,That starts without a whir of frighted wingsAnd holds these young hearts shaken, hushed, and thrilled,Like frail reeds in a rushing stream, like stringsOf music, or like trees with tempest filled,And rolls in wide waves out o'er the lone land,Tone following tone toward the far-setting sun,Till where in fields long shadowed reapers standBowed heads look up, and lo, the day is done....Laurence Binyon
Dark is the stair, and humid the old wallsWherein it winds, on worn stones, up the tower.Only by loophole chinks at intervalsPierces the late glow of this August hour.
Dark is the stair, and humid the old walls
Wherein it winds, on worn stones, up the tower.
Only by loophole chinks at intervals
Pierces the late glow of this August hour.
Two truant children climb the stairway dark,With joined hands, half in glee and half in fear,The boy mounts brisk, the girl hangs back to harkIf the gruff sexton their light footsteps hear.
Two truant children climb the stairway dark,
With joined hands, half in glee and half in fear,
The boy mounts brisk, the girl hangs back to hark
If the gruff sexton their light footsteps hear.
Dazzled at last they gain the belfry-room.Barred rays through shutters hover across the floorDancing in dust; so fresh they come from gloomThat breathless they pause wondering at the door.
Dazzled at last they gain the belfry-room.
Barred rays through shutters hover across the floor
Dancing in dust; so fresh they come from gloom
That breathless they pause wondering at the door.
How hushed it is! what smell of timbers oldFrom cobwebbed beams! The warm light here and thereEdging a darkness, sleeps in pools of gold,Or weaves fantastic shadows through the air.
How hushed it is! what smell of timbers old
From cobwebbed beams! The warm light here and there
Edging a darkness, sleeps in pools of gold,
Or weaves fantastic shadows through the air.
How motionless the huge bell! Straight and stiff,Ropes through the floor rise to the rafters dim.The shadowy round of metal hangs, as ifNo force could ever lift its gleamy rim.
How motionless the huge bell! Straight and stiff,
Ropes through the floor rise to the rafters dim.
The shadowy round of metal hangs, as if
No force could ever lift its gleamy rim.
A child's awe, a child's wonder, who shall traceWhat dumb thoughts on its waxen softness writeIn such a spell-brimmed, time-forgotten place,Bright in that strangeness of approaching night?
A child's awe, a child's wonder, who shall trace
What dumb thoughts on its waxen softness write
In such a spell-brimmed, time-forgotten place,
Bright in that strangeness of approaching night?
As these two gaze, their fingers tighter press;For suddenly the slow bell upward heavesIts vast mouth, the cords quiver at the stress,And ere the heart prepare, the ear receives
As these two gaze, their fingers tighter press;
For suddenly the slow bell upward heaves
Its vast mouth, the cords quiver at the stress,
And ere the heart prepare, the ear receives
Full on its delicate sense the plangent strokeOf violent, iron, reverberating sound.As if the tower in all its stones awoke,Deep echoes tremble, again in clangour drowned,
Full on its delicate sense the plangent stroke
Of violent, iron, reverberating sound.
As if the tower in all its stones awoke,
Deep echoes tremble, again in clangour drowned,
That starts without a whir of frighted wingsAnd holds these young hearts shaken, hushed, and thrilled,Like frail reeds in a rushing stream, like stringsOf music, or like trees with tempest filled,
That starts without a whir of frighted wings
And holds these young hearts shaken, hushed, and thrilled,
Like frail reeds in a rushing stream, like strings
Of music, or like trees with tempest filled,
And rolls in wide waves out o'er the lone land,Tone following tone toward the far-setting sun,Till where in fields long shadowed reapers standBowed heads look up, and lo, the day is done....Laurence Binyon
And rolls in wide waves out o'er the lone land,
Tone following tone toward the far-setting sun,
Till where in fields long shadowed reapers stand
Bowed heads look up, and lo, the day is done....
Laurence Binyon
227
IL PENSEROSO... Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,Most musicall, most melancholy!Thee chauntress of the Woods amongI woo to hear thy eeven-song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering moonRiding near her highest noon,Like one that had been led astrayThrough the Heaven's wide pathles way,And oft, as if her head she bowed,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft on a Plat of rising ground,I hear the far-offCurfeusoundOver some wide-watered shoar,Swinging slow with sullen roar:Or if the Ayr will not permit,Som still removèd place will fit,Where glowing Embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the Cricket on the hearth,Or the Belman's drousie charmTo bless the dores from nightly harm....John Milton
... Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,Most musicall, most melancholy!Thee chauntress of the Woods amongI woo to hear thy eeven-song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering moonRiding near her highest noon,Like one that had been led astrayThrough the Heaven's wide pathles way,And oft, as if her head she bowed,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft on a Plat of rising ground,I hear the far-offCurfeusoundOver some wide-watered shoar,Swinging slow with sullen roar:Or if the Ayr will not permit,Som still removèd place will fit,Where glowing Embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the Cricket on the hearth,Or the Belman's drousie charmTo bless the dores from nightly harm....John Milton
... Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,Most musicall, most melancholy!Thee chauntress of the Woods amongI woo to hear thy eeven-song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering moonRiding near her highest noon,Like one that had been led astrayThrough the Heaven's wide pathles way,And oft, as if her head she bowed,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
... Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musicall, most melancholy!
Thee chauntress of the Woods among
I woo to hear thy eeven-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the Heaven's wide pathles way,
And oft, as if her head she bowed,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a Plat of rising ground,I hear the far-offCurfeusoundOver some wide-watered shoar,Swinging slow with sullen roar:Or if the Ayr will not permit,Som still removèd place will fit,Where glowing Embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the Cricket on the hearth,Or the Belman's drousie charmTo bless the dores from nightly harm....John Milton
Oft on a Plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-offCurfeusound
Over some wide-watered shoar,
Swinging slow with sullen roar:
Or if the Ayr will not permit,
Som still removèd place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belman's drousie charm
To bless the dores from nightly harm....
John Milton
228
CHIMESBrief, on a flying night,From the shaken tower,A flock of bells take flight,And go with the hour.Like birds from the cote to the gales,Abrupt—O hark!A fleet of bells set sails,And go to the dark.Sudden the cold airs swing,Alone, aloud,A verse of bells takes wingAnd flies with the cloud.Alice Meynell
Brief, on a flying night,From the shaken tower,A flock of bells take flight,And go with the hour.Like birds from the cote to the gales,Abrupt—O hark!A fleet of bells set sails,And go to the dark.Sudden the cold airs swing,Alone, aloud,A verse of bells takes wingAnd flies with the cloud.Alice Meynell
Brief, on a flying night,From the shaken tower,A flock of bells take flight,And go with the hour.
Brief, on a flying night,
From the shaken tower,
A flock of bells take flight,
And go with the hour.
Like birds from the cote to the gales,Abrupt—O hark!A fleet of bells set sails,And go to the dark.
Like birds from the cote to the gales,
Abrupt—O hark!
A fleet of bells set sails,
And go to the dark.
Sudden the cold airs swing,Alone, aloud,A verse of bells takes wingAnd flies with the cloud.Alice Meynell
Sudden the cold airs swing,
Alone, aloud,
A verse of bells takes wing
And flies with the cloud.
Alice Meynell
229
CITIES DROWNEDCities drowned in olden timeKeep, they say, a magic chimeRolling up from far belowWhen the moon-led waters flow.So within me, ocean deep,Lies a sunken world asleep.Lest its bells forget to ring,Memory! set the tide a-swing!Henry Newbolt
Cities drowned in olden timeKeep, they say, a magic chimeRolling up from far belowWhen the moon-led waters flow.So within me, ocean deep,Lies a sunken world asleep.Lest its bells forget to ring,Memory! set the tide a-swing!Henry Newbolt
Cities drowned in olden timeKeep, they say, a magic chimeRolling up from far belowWhen the moon-led waters flow.
Cities drowned in olden time
Keep, they say, a magic chime
Rolling up from far below
When the moon-led waters flow.
So within me, ocean deep,Lies a sunken world asleep.Lest its bells forget to ring,Memory! set the tide a-swing!Henry Newbolt
So within me, ocean deep,
Lies a sunken world asleep.
Lest its bells forget to ring,
Memory! set the tide a-swing!
Henry Newbolt
230
THE BELL-MANFrom noise of Scare-fires rest ye free,From Murders—Benedicite.From all mischances, that may frightYour pleasing slumbers in the night:Mercie secure ye all, and keepThe Goblin from ye, while ye sleep.Past one aclock, and almost two,My Masters all,Good day to you!Robert Herrick
From noise of Scare-fires rest ye free,From Murders—Benedicite.From all mischances, that may frightYour pleasing slumbers in the night:Mercie secure ye all, and keepThe Goblin from ye, while ye sleep.Past one aclock, and almost two,My Masters all,Good day to you!Robert Herrick
From noise of Scare-fires rest ye free,From Murders—Benedicite.From all mischances, that may frightYour pleasing slumbers in the night:Mercie secure ye all, and keepThe Goblin from ye, while ye sleep.Past one aclock, and almost two,My Masters all,Good day to you!Robert Herrick
From noise of Scare-fires rest ye free,
From Murders—Benedicite.
From all mischances, that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night:
Mercie secure ye all, and keep
The Goblin from ye, while ye sleep.
Past one aclock, and almost two,
My Masters all,Good day to you!
Robert Herrick