and placed her, in all their songs of glee and gladness, invariably below the bottle. She was held out in terrorem to all happiness and joy, and to fly from her was the burden of every song." He, on the contrary, wrote "to discipline anew the social bands of convivial life, to blend the sympathies of fellow hearts, and wreathe a sweeter and gayer garland for the brow of festivity from the divine plants of concord, gratitude, friendship, and love." His genius, however, was not equal to his good intentions; and, of the many hundred songs which he wrote, not one is worth remembering, except as a slight improvement upon the verses of Pope's "Lady of Quality,"—that mythological person who is supposed to have been the parent of all the love-songs of the eighteenth century. The return to the simplicity of nature, as the only source of poetic beauty, which signalised the revival of English literature at the commencement of the present century, had, of course, an effect upon the public taste as regarded songs; and a song-writer appeared whose fame eclipsed that of all other competitors,— Thomas Moore, whose Irish Melodies-Irish by their music, and by their nationality of sentiment-may be claimed for England as well as for the country of his birth;-and the example of heart united with intellect, of vigour combined with elegance, and of philosophy with fancy, which he set to his contemporary writers of verse, will long exercise a genial influence upon the literature of song. While English songs that are written to be read have gradually attained the highest beauty, English songs intended to be sung have not reached the same perfection. In this respect the fault lies with the musical composers, who seem to love the "Lady of Quality" and her smooth "nonsense verses" far better than they love poetry, and to fail in adapting to music the higher flights of fancy or imagination, and the tenderer bursts of natural feeling. Without their aid, the song-writer cannot win his way to the popular heart; and poets, disgusted with musicians, will neglect this fascinating branch of the poetic art, and direct the energies of their minds to more elaborate composition. M MY SWEET SWEETING. From a MS. temp. Henry VIII.* My sweeting will I love wherever I go; Full steadfast, stable, and demure, There is none such, you may be sure, In all this world as thinketh me, *This is a small oblong paper volume, known to be of this early date by the badges on the binding, and the names on the fly-leaf. It passed through the hands of Thomas Mulliner, Thomas Heywood, and Churchyard the poet. It was in the library of Sir John Hawkins, the musical historian, and afterwards in that of J. S. Smith, the author of "Musica Antiqua," and is now in the possession of Dr. Rimbault. When I behold my sweeting sweet, Above all other praise must I * A term of endearment, used by Chaucer, Skelton, &c., probably the origin of the modern word "pickaninny." It is spelt piggesnie in Tyrwhitt's edition of Chaucer. The poet, describing the carpenter's wife in the Miller's Tale, says, "She was a primesolea piggesnie:" primesole signifies a primrose. "The Romans," says Tyrwhitt, "used aculus as a term of endearment; and perhaps piggesnie, in vulgar language, only means ocellus, the eyes of that animal being remarkably small."-Note on Chaucer's Cant. Tales, v. 3268. Todd (Johnson's Dict. in v. Pigsney) has shown that the word was occasionally written pigs eie. The derivation. however, seems more likely to be from the old Saxon word piga, a girl. But thus have I long, Alas! will not she Though she me bind, Do what she can ; For I will her pray, For her own man. THE SORROWS OF TRUE LOVERS' PARTING. THERE was never nothing more me pain'd, As when my sweetheart her complain'd Alas, the while! With piteous look, she said, and sigh'd, To love and set my wealth so light Was I not well void of all pain, And now with sorrows I must complain, Alas, the while! My restful nights and joyful days, Be take from me; all thing decays, Alas, the while!" She wept and wrung her hands withal, She turn'd her face, and let them fall, Her pains tormented me so sore, But curs'd my fortune more and more, In the ordinary version this line is printed "but life and liberty." As, however, the line is thus two syllables shorter than the corresponding lines of the other stanzas, the word "dearest" is suggested as the proper word to supply the omission. |