First figure out the doubtful way At which awhile the youth should stay Where she and Virtue did contend Which should have Hercules to friend. Then as all actions of mankind Admire the wisdom of your feet: SONG II. O more and more, this was so well That, if those silent arts were lost, Begin, begin; for look, the pair Just to the tune you move your limbs, SONG III. wrong. Go choose among them, with a mind Grace, laughter, and discourse And yet the beauty not go less: Will you that I give the law SONG. BEN JONSON. SHAKE off your heavy trance, To play to, for the moon to lead, O blessed youth! for Jove doth pause, For this device: Each song a sacrifice. MARY DONNELLY. On! lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted in a shower, Can ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up; Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sang a song, that took my heart away. When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet: The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung; Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower of womankind If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. Oh might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! Oh might we live together in a cottage mean and small; With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! Oh! lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress. It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! ALLINGHAM. SONG. SPRING all the graces of the age, Add all the softnesses of Courts, The looks, the laughters, and the sports: And mingle all their sweets and salts That none may say the triumph halts. BEN JONSON: Neptune's Triumph. SONG TO CERES. THOU that art our Queen again. And may in the sun be seen again, Come, Ceres, come, For the War's gone home, And the fields are quiet and green again. SONGS. And Dancing too, that's lither Than willow or birch, drop hither, And carry our smooth eyes with her. ARABY'S DAUGHTER. FAREWELL - farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the No pearl ever lay under Oman's More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to How light was thy heart till love's Like the wind of the South o'er a And hushed all its music, and But long upon Araby's green sunny Shall maids and their lovers re- Of her who lies sleeping among the With nought but the sea-star to And still when the merry date-season And calls to the palm-groves the The happiest there, from their pas- At sunset, still weep when thy The young village maid, when with Her dark flowing hair, for some Will think of thy fate, till, neglect- She mournfully turns from her Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero! Though tyrants watch over her Close, close by the side of that hero Embalmed in the innermost shrine Around thee shall glisten the love- That ever the sorrowing sea-bird With many a shell, in whose hollow We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at We'll seek where the sands of the And gather their gold to strew over farewell until Pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and They'll weep for the chieftain who MOORE. FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past. Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. But, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past. Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast. The rapids are near and the daylight's past. MOORE. A ROMAIC BALLAD. THOU that hast a daughter With snow upon his head; Oh, give her to an old man, Though little joy it be, Before the best young sailor That sails upon the sea! How luckless is the sailor No sweetheart standing by. Only the captain speaks to him,Stand up, stand up, young man, And steer the ship to haven, As none beside thee can. Thou says't to me, "Stand, stand up;" I say to thee, take hold. My hands and feet are cold. With handkerchiefs be bound: There, take my love's gold handkerchief, And tie it tightly round. Now bring the chart, the doleful chart; See, where these mountains meet The clouds are thick around their head, The mists around their feet: The little anchor on the right, And now to thee, O captain, Most earnestly I pray, That they may never bury me In church or cloister gray;But on the windy sea-beach, At the ending of the land, All on the surfy sea-beach, Deep down into the sand. For there will come the sailors, Their voices I shall hear, And at casting of the anchor The yo-ho loud and clear; |