114. SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.Where the remote Bermudas rideIn the ocean's bosom unespied,From a small boat that row'd alongThe listening woods received this song."What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery mazeWhere He the huge sea-monsters wracks,That lift the deep upon their backs,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:He gave us this eternal springWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by His handFrom Lebanon He stores the land;And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergris on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.O let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven's vault,Which then perhaps rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique bay!"—Thus sung they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.A. MARVELL.
115. AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Verse,Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employDead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce,And to our high-raised phantasy presentThat undisturbéd Song of pure concent,Ay sung before the sapphire-colour'd throneTo Him that sits thereon,With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;Where the bright Seraphim in burning rowTheir loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;And the Cherubic host in thousand quiresTouch their immortal harps of golden wires,With those just Spirits that wear victorious palmsHymns devout and holy psalmsSinging everlastingly:That we on earth, with undiscording voiceMay rightly answer that melodious noise;As once we did, till disproportion'd sinJarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh dinBroke the fair music that all creatures madeTo their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'dIn perfect diapason, whilst they stoodIn first obedience, and their state of good.O may we soon again renew that Song,And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere longTo His celestial consort us unite,To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!J. MILTON.
116. ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.'Twas at the royal feast for Persia wonBy Philip's warlike son—Aloft in awful stateThe godlike hero sateOn his imperial throne;His valiant peers were placed around;Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound(So should desert in arms be crown'd).The lovely Thais by his sideSate like a blooming eastern brideIn flower of youth and beauty's pride:—Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the braveNone but the braveNone but the brave deserves the fair.Timotheus placed on highAmid the tuneful quireWith flying fingers touch'd the lyre:The trembling notes ascend the skyAnd heavenly joys inspire.The song began from JoveWho left his blissful seats above—Such is the power of mighty love!A dragon's fiery form belied the god;Sublime on radiant spires he rodeWhen he to fair Olympia prest,And while he sought her snowy breast;Then round her slender waist he curl'd,And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.—The listening crowd admire the lofty sound!A present deity! they shout around:A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound!With ravish'd earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god;Affects to nodAnd seems to shake the spheres.The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung:Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:The jolly god in triumph comes!Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!Flush'd with a purple graceHe shows his honest face:Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!Bacchus, ever fair and young,Drinking joys did first ordain;Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:Rich the treasure,Sweet the pleasure,Sweet is pleasure after pain.Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;Fought all his battles o'er again,And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain!The master saw the madness rise,His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;And while he Heaven and Earth defiedChanged his hand and check'd his pride.He chose a mournful MuseSoft pity to infuse:He sung Darius great and good,By too severe a fateFallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,Fallen from his high estate,And weltering in his blood;Deserted, at his utmost need,By those his former bounty fed;On the bare earth exposed he liesWith not a friend to close his eyes.—With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,Revolving in his alter'd soulThe various turns of Chance below;And now and then a sigh he stole;And tears began to flow.The mighty master smiled to seeThat love was in the next degree;'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,For pity melts the mind to love.Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.War, he sung, is toil and trouble,Honour but an empty bubble,Never ending, still beginning;Fighting still, and still destroying;If the world be worth thy winning,Think, O think, it worth enjoying:Lovely Thais sits beside thee,Take the good the gods provide thee!—The many rend the skies with loud applause;So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.The prince, unable to conceal his pain,Gazed on the fairWho caused his care,And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:At length, with love and wine at once opprestThe vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.Now strike the golden lyre again:A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!Break his bands of sleep asunder,And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.Hark, hark! the horrid soundHas raised up his head:As awaked from the dead,And amazed he stares around.Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,See the Furies arise!See the snakes that they rearHow they hiss in their hair,And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!Behold a ghastly bandEach a torch in his hand!Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slainAnd unburied remainInglorious on the plain:Give the vengeance dueTo the valiant crew!Behold how they toss their torches on high,How they point to the Persian abodesAnd glittering temples of their hostile gods.—The princes applaud with a furious joy:And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;Thais led the way,To light him to his prey,And like another Helen, fired another Troy!—Thus, long ago,Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,While organs yet were mute,Timotheus, to his breathing fluteAnd sounding lyreCould swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.At last divine Cecilia came,Inventress of the vocal frame;The sweet enthusiast from her sacred storeEnlarged the former narrow bounds,And added length to solemn sounds,With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.—Let old Timotheus yield the prizeOr both divide the crown;He raised a mortal to the skies;She drew an angel down!J. DRYDEN.
It is more difficult to characterise the English Poetry of the eighteenth century than that of any other. For it was an age not only of spontaneous transition, but of bold experiment: it includes not only such divergences of thought as distinguished the "Rape of the Lock" from the "Parish Register," but such vast contemporaneous differences as lie between Pope and Collins, Burns and Cowper. Yet we may clearly trace three leading moods or tendencies:—the aspects of courtly or educated life represented by Pope and carried to exhaustion by his followers; the poetry of Nature and of Man, viewed through a cultivated, and at the same time an impassioned frame of mind by Collins and Gray:—lastly, the study of vivid and simple narrative, including natural description, begun by Gay and Thomson, pursued by Burns and others in the north, and established in England by Goldsmith, Percy, Crabbe, and Cowper. Great varieties in style accompanied these diversities in aim: poets could not always distinguish the manner suitable for subjects so far apart; and the union of the language of courtly and of common life, exhibited most conspicuously by Burns, has given a tone to the poetry of that century which is better explained by reference to its historical origin than by naming it, in the common criticism of our day, artificial. There is again, a nobleness of thought, a courageous aim at high and, in a strict sense manly, excellence in many of the writers:—nor can that period be justly termed tame and wanting in originality, which produced poems such as Pope's Satires, Gray's Odes and Elegy, the ballads of Gay and Carey, the songs of Burns and Cowper. In truth Poetry at this as at all times was a more or less unconscious mirror of the genius of the age; and the brave and admirable spirit of Enquiry which made the eighteenth century the turning-time in European civilisation is reflected faithfully in its verse. An intelligent reader will find the influence of Newton as markedly in the poems of Pope, as of Elizabeth in the plays of Shakespeare. On this great subject, however, these indications must here be sufficient.
117. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE.Now the golden Morn aloftWaves her dew-bespangled wing,With vermeil cheek and whisper softShe woos the tardy Spring:Till April starts, and calls aroundThe sleeping fragrance from the ground,And lightly o'er the living sceneScatters his freshest, tenderest green.New-born flocks, in rustic dance,Frisking ply their feeble feet;Forgetful of their wintry tranceThe birds his presence greet:But chief, the sky-lark warbles highHis trembling thrilling ecstasy;And lessening from the dazzled sight,Melts into air and liquid light.Yesterday the sullen yearSaw the snowy whirlwind fly;Mute was the music of the air,The herd stood drooping by:Their raptures now that wildly flowNo yesterday nor morrow know;'Tis Man alone that joy descriesWith forward and reverted eyes.Smiles on past Misfortune's browSoft Reflection's hand can trace,And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throwA melancholy grace;While Hope prolongs our happier hour,Or deepest shades, that dimly lourAnd blacken round our weary way,Gilds with a gleam of distant day.Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,See a kindred Grief pursue;Behind the steps that Misery treadsApproaching Comfort view:The hues of bliss more brightly glowChastised by sabler tints of woe,And blended form, with artful strife,The strength and harmony of life.See the wretch that long has tostOn the thorny bed of pain,At length repair his vigour lostAnd breathe and walk again:The meanest floweret of the vale,The simplest note that swells the gale,The common sun, the air, the skies,To him are opening Paradise.T. GRAY.
118. SOLITUDE.Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native airIn his own ground.Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,Whose flocks supply him with attire;Whose trees in summer yield him shadeIn winter, fire.Blest, who can unconcern'dly findHours, days, and years, slide soft awayIn health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day,Sound sleep by night; study and easeTogether mix'd; sweet recreation,And innocence, which most does pleaseWith meditation.Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;Thus unlamented let me die;Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.A. POPE.
119. THE BLIND BOY.O say what is that thing call'd Light,Which I must ne'er enjoy;What are the blessings of the sight,O tell your poor blind boy!You talk of wondrous things you see,You say the sun shines bright;I feel him warm, but how can heOr make it day or night?My day or night myself I makeWhene'er I sleep or play;And could I ever keep awakeWith me 'twere always day.With heavy sighs I often hearYou mourn my hapless woe;But sure with patience I can bearA loss I ne'er can know.Then let not what I cannot haveMy cheer of mind destroy:Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,Although a poor blind boy.C. CIBBER.
120. ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.'Twas on a lofty vase's sideWhere China's gayest art had dyedThe azure flowers that blow,Demurest of the tabby kindThe pensive Selima, reclined,Gazed on the lake below.Her conscious tail her joy declared:The fair round face, the snowy beard,The velvet of her paws,Her coat that with the tortoise vies,Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes—She saw, and purr'd applause.Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tideTwo angel forms were seen to glide,The Genii of the stream:Their scaly armour's Tyrian hueThrough richest purple, to the viewBetray'd a golden gleam.The hapless Nymph with wonder saw;A whisker first, and then a clawWith many an ardent wishShe stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize—What female heart can gold despise?What cat's averse to fish?Presumptuous maid! with looks intentAgain she stretch'd, again she bent,Nor knew the gulf between—Malignant Fate sat by and smiled—The slippery verge her feet beguiled;She tumbled headlong in!Eight times emerging from the flood,She mew'd to every watery GodSome speedy aid to send:—No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard—A favourite has no friend!From hence, ye Beauties! undeceivedKnow one false step is ne'er retrieved,And be with caution bold:Not all that tempts your wandering eyesAnd heedless hearts, is lawful prize,Nor all that glisters, gold!T. GRAY.
121. TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.Timely blossom, Infant fair,Fondling of a happy pair,Every morn and every nightTheir solicitous delight,Sleeping, waking, still at ease,Pleasing, without skill to pleaseLittle gossip, blithe and hale,Tattling many a broken tale,Singing many a tuneless song.Lavish of a heedless tongue;Simple maiden, void of art,Babbling out the very heart,Yet abandon'd to thy will,Yet imagining no ill,Yet too innocent to blush,Like the linnet in the bushTo the mother-linnet's noteModuling her slender throat;Chirping forth thy petty joys,Wanton in the change of toys,Like the linnet green, in MayFlitting to each bloomy spray;Wearied then and glad of rest,Like the linnet in the nest:—This thy present happy lotThis, in time will be forgot:Other pleasures, other cares,Ever-busy Time prepares;And thou shalt in thy daughter see,This picture, once, resembled thee.A. PHILIPS.
122. RULE BRITANNIA.When Britain first at Heaven's commandArose from out the azure main,This was the charter of her land,And guardian angels sung the strain:Rule Brittania! Brittania rules the waves!Britons never shall be slaves.The nations not so blest as theeMust in their turn to tyrants fall,Whilst thou shalt flourish great and freeThe dread and envy of them all.Still more majestic shalt thou rise,More dreadful from each foreign stroke;As the loud blast that tears the skiesServes but to root thy native oak.Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;All their attempts to bend thee downWill but arouse thy generous flame,And work their woe and thy renown.To thee belongs the rural reign;Thy cities shall with commerce shine;All thine shall be the subject main,And every shore it circles thine!The Muses, still with Freedom found,Shall to thy happy coast repair;Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd,And manly hearts to guard the fair:—Rule Britannia! Brittania rules the waves!Britons never shall be slaves!J. THOMSON.
123. THE BARD.Pindaric Ode."Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!Confusion on thy banners wait!Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wingThey mock the air with idle state.Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mailNor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall availTo save thy secret soul from nightly fears,From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"—Such were the sounds that o'er the crested prideOf the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy sideHe wound with toilsome march his long array:—Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd quivering lance.On a rock, whose haughty browFrowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,Robed in the sable garb of woeWith haggard eyes the Poet stood;(Loose his beard and hoary hairStream'd like a meteor to the troubled air)And with a master's hand and prophet's fireStruck the deep sorrows of his lyre:"Hark, how each giant oak and desert-caveSighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave,Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay."Cold is Cadwallo's tongueThat hush'd the stormy main;Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:Mountains, ye mourn in vainModred, whose magic songMade huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.On dreary Arvon's shore they lieSmear'd with gore and ghastly pale:Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,Ye died amidst your dying country's cries—No more I weep; They do not sleep;On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,I see them sit; They linger yet,Avengers of their native land:With me in dreadful harmony they join,And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line."Weave the warp and weave the woofThe winding-sheet of Edward's race:Give ample room and verge enoughThe characters of hell to trace.Mark the year and mark the nightWhen Severn shall re-echo with affrightThe shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,Shrieks of an agonising king!She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangsThat tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangsThe scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait!Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind."Mighty Victor, mighty lord,Low on his funeral couch he lies!No pitying heart, no eye, affordA tear to grace his obsequies.Is the sable warrior fled?Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?—Gone to salute the rising morn.Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,While proudly riding o'er the azure realmIn gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes:Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey."Fill high the sparkling bowl,The rich repast prepare;Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast.Close by the regal chairFell Thirst and Famine scowlA baleful smile upon their baffled guest.Heard ye the din of battle bray,Lance to lance, and horse to horse?Long years of havock urge their destined course,And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.Ye Towers of Julius! London's lasting shame,With many a foul and midnight murder fed,Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,And spare the meek usurper's holy head!Above, below, the rose of snow,Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:The bristled boar in infant goreWallows beneath the thorny shade.Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom,Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom."Edward, lo! to sudden fate(Weave we the woof; the thread is spun;)Half of thy heart we consecrate.(The web is wove; the work is done;)Stay, O stay! nor thus forlornLeave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:In yon bright track that fires the western skiesThey melt, they vanish from my eyes.But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's heightDescending slow, their glittering skirts unroll?Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:—All hail, ye genuine Kings! Britannia's issue, hail!"Girt with many a baron bold,Sublime their starry fronts they rear;And gorgeous dames, and statesmen oldIn bearded majesty, appear.In the midst a form divine!Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line:Her lion-port, her awe-commanding faceAttemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.What strings symphonious tremble in the air,What strains of vocal transport round her play?Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings."The verse adorn again,Fierce War and faithful Love,And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.In buskin'd measures movePale Grief, and pleasing Pain,With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.A voice as of the cherub-choirGales from blooming Eden bear,And distant warblings lessen on my earThat lost in long futurity expire.Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloudRaised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?To-morrow he repairs the golden floodAnd warms the nations with redoubled ray.Enough for me: with joy I seeThe different doom our fates assign:Be thine Despair and sceptred Care;To triumph and to die are mine."He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's heightDeep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.T. GRAY.
124. ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI.How sleep the brave, who sink to restBy all their Country's wishes blest!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.By fairy hands their knell is rung,By forms unseen their dirge is sung:There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their clay,And Freedom shall awhile repairTo dwell a weeping hermit, there!W. COLLINS.
125. LAMENT FOR CULLODEN.The lovely lass o' Inverness,Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!And aye the saut tear blink's her ee:Drumossie moor—Drumossie day—A waefu' day it was to me!For there I lost my father dear,My father dear, and brethren three.Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,Their graves are growing green to see:And by them lies the dearest ladThat ever blest a woman's ee!Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,A bluidy man I trow thou be;For mony a heart thou hast made sairThat ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.R. BURNS.
126. LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,Bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray;At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie—The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.Dool and wae for the order, sent out lads to the border!The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;Women and bairns are heartless and wae;Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.J. ELLIOTT.
127. THE BRAES OF YARROW.Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,When first on them I met my lover;Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,When now thy waves his body cover!For ever now, O Yarrow stream!Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;For never on thy banks shall IBehold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!He promised me a milk-white steedTo bear me to his father's bowers;He promised me a little pageTo squire me to his father's towers;He promised me a wedding-ring,—The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;—Now he is wedded to his grave,Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!Sweet were his words when last we met;My passion I as freely told him;Clasp'd in his arms, I little thoughtThat I should never more behold him!Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.His mother from the window look'dWith all the longing of a mother;His little sister weeping walk'dThe green-wood path to meet her brother;They sought him east, they sought him west,They sought him all the forest thorough;They only saw the cloud of night,They only heard the roar of Yarrow.No longer from thy window look—Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!No longer walk, thou lovely maid;Alas, thou hast no more a brother!No longer seek him east or westAnd search no more the forest thorough;For, wandering in the night so dark,He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.The tear shall never leave my cheek,No other youth shall be my marrow—I'll seek thy body in the stream,And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.—The tear did never leave her cheek,No other youth became her marrow;She found his body in the stream,And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.J. LOGAN.
128. WILLIE DROWNED IN YARROW.Down in yon garden sweet and gayWhere bonnie grows the lily,I heard a fair maid sighing say"My wish be wi' sweet Willie!"Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,And Willie's wondrous bonny;And Willie hecht to marry meGin e'er he married ony."O gentle wind, that bloweth south,From where my Love repaireth,Convey a kiss frae his dear mouthAnd tell me how he fareth!"O tell sweet Willie to come doonAnd hear the mavis singing,And see the birds on ilka bushAnd leaves around them hinging."The lav'rock there, wi' her white breastAnd gentle throat sae narrow;There's sport eneuch for gentlemenOn Leader haughs and Yarrow."O Leader haughs are wide and braidAnd Yarrow haughs are bonny;There Willie hecht to marry meIf e'er he married ony."But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,And does not hear me weeping;Draws many a tear frae true love's e'eWhen other maids are sleeping."Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,The night I'll mak' it narrow,For a' the live-lang winter nightI lie twined o' my marrow."O came ye by yon water-side?Pou'd you the rose or lily?Or came you by yon meadow green,Or saw you my sweet Willie?"She sought him up, she sought him down,She sought him braid and narrow;Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,She found him drown'd in Yarrow!ANON.
129. LOSS OF THEROYAL GEORGE.Toll for the Brave!The brave that are no more!All sunk beneath the waveFast by their native shore!Eight hundred of the braveWhose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heelAnd laid her on her side.A land-breeze shook the shroudsAnd she was overset;Down went theRoyal George,With all her crew complete.Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone:His last sea-fight is fought,His work of glory done.It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock;She sprang no fatal leak,She ran upon no rock.His sword was in its sheath,His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfeld went downWith twice four hundred men.Weigh the vessel upOnce dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float againFull charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main:But Kempenfeld is gone,His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.W. COWPER.
130. BLACK-EYED SUSAN.All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,The streamers waving in the wind,When black-eyed Susan came aboard;"O! where shall I my true-love find?Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me trueIf my sweet William sails among the crew."William, who high upon the yardRock'd with the billow to and fro,Soon as her well-known voice he heardHe sigh'd, and cast his eyes below;The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.So the sweet lark, high poised in air,Shuts close his pinions to his breastIf chance his mate's shrill call he hear,And drops at once into her nest:—The noblest captain in the British fleetMight envy William's lip those kisses sweet"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,My vows shall ever true remainLet me kiss off that falling tear;We only part to meet again.Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall beThe faithful compass that still points to thee."Believe not what the landmen sayWho tempt with doubts thy constant mind:They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,In every port a mistress find:Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go."If to fair India's coast we sail,Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,Thy skin is ivory so white.Thus every beauteous object that I viewWakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue."Though battle call me from thy armsLet not my pretty Susan mourn;Though cannons roar, yet safe from harmsWilliam shall to his Dear return.Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."The boatswain gave the dreadful word,The sails their swelling bosom spread;No longer must she stay aboard;They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;"Adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand.J. GAY.
131. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.Of all the girls that are so smartThere's none like pretty Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.There is no lady in the landIs 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 longTo such as please to buy 'em;But sure such folks could ne'er begetSo sweet a girl as Sally!She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.When she is by, I leave my work,I love her so sincerely;My master comes like any Turk,And bangs me most severely—But let him bang his bellyful,I'll bear it all for Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.Of all the days that's in the weekI dearly love but one day—And that's the day that comes betwixtA Saturday and Monday;For then I'm drest all in my bestTo walk abroad with Sally:She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.My master carries me to church,And often am I blamedBecause I leave him in the lurchAs soon as text is named;I leave the church in sermon-timeAnd slink away to Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.When Christmas comes about again,O then I shall have money;I'll hoard it up, and box it all,I'll give it to my honey:I would it were ten thousand pound,I'd give it all to Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.My master and the neighbours allMake game of me and Sally,And, but for her, I'd better beA slave and row a galley;But when my seven long years are outO then I'll marry Sally,—O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,But not in our alley!H. CAREY.
132. A FAREWELL.Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,And fill it in a silver tassie;That I may drink before I goA service to my bonnie lassie:The boat rocks at the pier of Leith,Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,The ship rides by the Berwick-law,And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.The trumpets sound, the banners fly,The glittering spears are rankéd ready;The shouts o' war are heard afar,The battle closes thick and bloody;But it's not the roar o' sea or shoreWad make me langer wish to tarry;Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar—It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.R. BURNS.
133.If doughty deeds my lady pleaseRight soon I'll mount my steed;And strong his arm, and fast his seatThat bears frae me the meed.I'll wear thy colours in my capThy picture in my heart;And he that bends not to thine eyeShall rue it to his smart!Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;O tell me how to woo thee!For thy dear sake, nae care I'll takeTho' ne'er another trow me.If gay attire delight thine eyeI'll dight me in array;I'll tend thy chamber door all night,And squire thee all the day.If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,These sounds I'll strive to catch;Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,That voice that nane can match.But if fond love thy heart can gain,I never broke a vow;Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,I never loved but you.For you alone I ride the ring,For you I wear the blue;For you alone I strive to sing,O tell me how to woo!Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;O tell me how to woo thee!For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,Tho' ne'er another trow me.GRAHAM OF GARTMORE.