English Songs and Ballads | Page 7

in your company.
Greensleeves was all my joy!
Greensleeves was my delight!

Greensleeves was my heart of gold!
And who but my Lady
Greensleeves!
I bought thee petticoats of the best,
The cloth so fine as fine as might
be;
I gave thee jewels for thy chest,
And all this cost I spent on thee.

Greensleeves was all my joy!
Greensleeves was my delight!

Greensleeves was my heart of gold!
And who but my Lady
Greensleeves!
Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,
With gold embroidered
gorgeously;
Thy petticoat of sendal right:
And these I bought thee
gladly.
Greensleeves was all my joy!
Greensleeves was my delight!

Greensleeves was my heart of gold!
And who but my Lady
Greensleeves!
Greensleeves now farewell! adieu!
God I pray to prosper thee!
For I
am still thy lover true:
Come once again and love me!
Greensleeves
was all my joy!
Greensleeves was my delight!
Greensleeves was
my heart of gold!
And who but my Lady Greensleeves!
_SIR PHILIP SIDNEY_

MY TRUE LOVE
MY true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for
another given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There
never 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