English Songs and Ballads | Page 7

was a better bargain driven:?My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one,?My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:?He loves my heart, for once it was his own,?I cherish his because in me it bides:?My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
_JOHN WEBSTER_
DIRGE
CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,?Since o'er shady groves they hover,?And with leaves and flowers do cover?The friendless bodies of unburied men.?Call unto his funeral dole?The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,?To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,?And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;?But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,?For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
THE SHROUDING
HARK! now everything is still,?The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,?Call upon our dame aloud,?And bid her quickly don her shroud!
Much you had of land and rent;?Your length in clay's now competent:?A long war disturb'd your mind;?Here your perfect peace is sign'd.
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping??Sin their conception, their birth weeping,?Their life a general mist of error,?Their death a hideous storm of terror.?Strew your hair with powders sweet,?Don clean linen, bathe your feet,?And--the foul fiend more to check--?A crucifix let bless your neck;?'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;?End your groan and come away.
_THOMAS DEKKER_
CONTENT
ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers??O sweet content!?Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd??O punishment!?Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd?To add to golden numbers, golden numbers??O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!?Work apace, apace, apace, apace;?Honest labour bears a lovely face;?Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring??O sweet content!?Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears??O punishment!?Then he that patiently want's burden bears?No burden bears, but is a king, a king!?O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!?Work apace, apace, apace, apace;?Honest labour bears a lovely face;?Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
TROLL THE BOWL
COLD's the wind, and wet's the rain,?Saint Hugh be our good speed!?Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,?Nor helps good hearts in need.
Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,?And here, kind mate, to thee!?Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,?And down it merrily.
Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,?Hey derry derry down-a-down.?Ho! well done, to let me come,?Ring compass, gentle joy!
Troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl,?And here, kind mate, to thee!?Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,?And down it merrily.
Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,?Saint Hugh be our good speed!?Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,?Nor helps good hearts in need.
_ANONYMOUS_
SIR PATRICK SPENS
THE king sits in Dunfermline toun,?Drinking the blude-red wine;?Oh whare will I get a gude sailor,?To sail this ship o' mine?'
Then up and spake an eldern knight?Sat at the king's right knee;?'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor?That ever sail'd the sea.'
The king has written a braid letter,?And seal'd it wi' his hand,?And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens?Was walking on the strand.
'To Noroway, to Noroway,?To Noroway o'er the faem;?The king's daughter to Noroway,?'Tis thou maun tak' her hame.'
The first line that Sir Patrick read,?A loud laugh laughed he;?The neist line that Sir Patrick read,?The tear blinded his ee.
'O wha is this has done this deed,?And tauld the king o' me,?To send us out at this time o' the year,?To sail upon the sea?'
'Be't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet,?Our ship maun sail the faem;?The king's daughter to Noroway,?'Tis we maun tak' her hame.'
They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn,?Wi' a' the speed they may;?And they hae landed in Noroway?Upon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week,?In Noroway but twae,?When that the lords o' Noroway?Began aloud to say--
'Ye Scotisman spend a' our king's gowd,?And a' our queenis fee.'?'Ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud,?Sae loud 's I hear ye lee!'
'For I brought as much o' the white monie?As gane my men and me,?And a half-fou o' the gude red gowd,?Out owre the sea with me.
'Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a',?Our gude ship sails the morn.'?'O say na sae, my master dear,?I fear a deadlie storm.
'I saw the new moon late yestreen,?Wi' the auld moon in her arm;?And if we gang to sea, master,?I fear we'll come to harm!'
They hadna sail'd a league, a league,?A league but barely three,?When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud?And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the tap-masts lap,?It was sic a deadlie storm;?And the waves cam' owre the broken ship,?Till a' her sides were torn.
'O whare will I get a gude sailor?Will tak' the helm in hand,?Till I get up to the tall tap-mast,?To see if I can spy land.'
'O here am I, a sailor gude,?To tak' the helm in hand,?Till ye get up to the tall tap-mast,?But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land.'
He hadna