English Songs and Ballads

Title: English Songs and Ballads

Compiler: T. W. H. Crosland

Release date: August 2, 2007 [eBook #22223]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22223

Credits: Produced by Lewis Jones

Produced by Lewis Jones

Crosland, T.W.H. [ed.] (1903) "English Songs and Ballads" (The World's Classics Series)

(Produced by Lewis Jones)

ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS

COMPILED BY T W. H. CROSLAND

LONDON GRANT RICHARDS 48 LEICESTER SQUARE 1903

Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE

First Impression April 1902 Second Impression April l903

NOTE

ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS' must not be regarded as 'a choice,' but simply as a bringing together of poetical pieces which are, presumably, well known to the average person,—that is to say, the compiler has endeavoured to illustrate the general taste rather than his own preference.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

(Transcriber's note: No author is cited for the first song in the collection, "My Swete Sweting." Page references in the "Index of First Lines" and in the "Index of Authors" have been expunged since they do not apply to this electronic version; please use electronic searches to locate poems.)

About the sweet bag of a bee A chieftain to the Highlands bound Ae fond kiss, and then we sever Agincourt, Agincourt Ah, my swete swetyng Alas! my love, you do me wrong Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd All ye woods, and trees, and bowers And did you not hear of a jolly young Waterman An old song made by an aged old pate A parrot from the Spanish main Arm, arm, arm, arm, the scouts are all come in A simple child As I came thro' Sandgate Ask me no more where Jove bestows Ask me no more, the moon may draw the sea A spirit haunts the year's last hours As thro' the land at eve we went A sweet disorder in the dress Attend all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise A weary lot is thine, fair maid A Well there is in the west country A wet sheet and a flowing sea

Beauty clear and fair Be it right or wrong, these men among Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Bird of the wilderness Blame not my Lute! for he must sound Blow, blow, thou winter wind Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear Break, break, break Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride But are ye sure the news is true

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain Come all ye jolly shepherds Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer Come follow, follow me Come into the garden, Maud Come live with me and be my love Come not, when I am dead Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving

Dear is my little native vale Doubt thou the stars are fire Drink to me only with thine eyes Duncan Gray came here to woo

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Fair daffodils, we weep to see Fair pledges of a fruitful tree Fair stood the wind for France Fear no more the heat o' the sun Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow For auld lang syne, my dear Four and twenty bonny boys From Oberon, in fairy land From the forests and highlands From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested Full fathom five thy father lies

Gather the rose-buds while ye may God Lyaeus, ever young God prosper long our noble King God save our gracious King Go fetch to me a pint o' wine Go, lovely Rose Good-morrow to the day so fair Good people all, of every sort Go where glory waits thee Green fields of England, wheresoe'er

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be Hang fear, cast away care Hark! now everything is still Hark, hark, the lark at Heaven's gate sings He is gone on the mountain Her arms across her breast she laid Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee Here's a health unto His Majesty Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen Hide me, O twilight air Home they brought her warrior dead Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake How should I your true love know

I arise from dreams of thee I cannot eat but little meat I come from haunts of coot and hern I come, I come! ye have called me long I knew an old wife lean and poor I lov'd a lass, a fair one I'm lonesome since I cross'd the hill I'm sitting on the stile, Mary In going to my naked bed In good King Charles's golden days In her ear he whispered gaily In the merry month of May In Wakefield there lives a jolly pinder I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he Is there for honest poverty I tell thee, Dick, where I have been It is an ancient Mariner It is the miller's daughter I travelled among unknown men It was a blind beggar had long lost his sight It was a friar of orders gray It was a lover and his lass It was a summer evening It was the frog in the well It was the time when lilies blow I've seen the smiling I wander'd by the brook-side

John Anderson, my jo, John John Gilpin was a citizen

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King King Death was a rare old fellow

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks Lawn as white as driven snow Lay a garland on my hearse Let me the canakin clink, clink Let the bells ring, and let the boys sing Lithe and listen, gentlemen Long the proud Spaniards had vaunted to conquer us Lord, thou hast given me a cell Love wakes and weeps

Maxwelltown braes are bonnie Men of England who inherit Mine be a cot beside the hill Move eastward, happy earth, and leave My banks they are furnished with bees My heart is sair, I darena tell My heart is wasted with my woe My mind to me a kingdom is O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut

Napoleon's banners at Boulogne No stir in the air, no stir in the sea Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are Now, now the mirth comes Now ponder well, you parents dear Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white Now the hungry lion roars

Of all the girls that are so smart Of a' the airts the wind can blaw Of Nelson and the North Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray Oft in the stilly night Oh, call my brother back to me Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home Oh! the days are gone when Beauty bright Oh, the sweet contentment Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland laddie gone O Jenny's a' weet, poor body O listen, listen, ladies gay O mistress mine, where are you roaming O, my luve 's like a red red rose O Nanny, wilt thou go with me On either side the river lie On Linden when the sun was low, On that deep-retiring shore On the banks of Allan Water Orpheus with his lute made trees O sing unto my roundelay O swallow, swallow, flying south Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered Over hill, over dale O waly, waly up the bank O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms O whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad O world! O life! O time! O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West

Pack clouds, away, and welcome, day Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Piping down the valleys wild Proud Maisie in the wood

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair

Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae Rich and rare were the gems she wore Rose cheek'd Laura, come

Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled Shall I, wasting in despair She dwelt among untrodden ways She is a winsome wee thing She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps She stood breast high among the corn She walks in beauty like the night Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more Sing his praises, that doth keep Some asked me where the rubies grew Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules Some years of late, in eighty-eight So now is come our joyfullest part So, we'll go no more a-roving Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king Still to be neat, still to be drest Sweet and low, sweet and low Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind Tell me, where is fancy bred The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold The boy stood on the burning deck The breaking waves dashed high The bride cam' out o' the byre The deil cam' fiddlin' thro' the toun The feathered songster chanticleer The fountains mingle with the river The glories of our blood and state The harp that once through Tara's halls The King sits in Dunfermline town The laird o' Cockpen, he's proud an' he 's great The lawns were dry in Euston park The minstrel boy to the war is gone There be none of Beauty's daughters There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, There come seven gypsies on a day There is a garden in her face There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet There was a youth, a well beloved youth There was three kings into the East There were three ladies play'd at the ba' There were three sailors of Bristol city The splendour falls on castle walls The stars are with the voyager The stately homes of England The time I've lost in wooing They grew in beauty side by side Three fishers went sailing out into the west

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 'Tis the last rose of summer Toll for the brave Turn, gentle hermit of the dale 'Twas in the prime of summer time

Under the greenwood tree

Was this fair face the cause, quoth she Wha 'll buy my caller herrin' When all among the thundering drums When all is done and said When Britain first, at Heaven's command When cats run home, and light is come When daffodils begin to peer, When daisies pied and violets blue, When Hercules did use to spin When icicles hang by the wall When love with unconfined wings When o'er the hill the Eastern star When the British warrior queen When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye 's come hame When this old cap was new When we two parted Where gang ye, thou silly auld carle Where the bee sucks, there lurk I While larks with little wing Who is Sylvia? what is she Why does your brand so drop with blood Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Why so pale and wan, fond lover With fingers weary and worn

Ye gentlemen of England Ye little birds that sit and sing Ye mariners of England You are old, father William, the young man cried You spotted snakes with double tongue

INDEX OF AUTHORS

ANONYMOUS

BARNARD, LADY ANNE BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER BLAKE, WILLIAM BLOOMFIELD, ROBERT BRETON, NICHOLAS BROWNING, ROBERT BURNS, ROBERT BYRON, LORD

CAMPBELL, THOMAS CAMPION, THOMAS CAREW, THOMAS CAREY, HENRY CHALKHILL, JOHN CHATTERTON, THOMAS CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH COCKBURN, MRS COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR COWPER, WILLIAM CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN

DALRYMPLE, SIR DAVID DIBDIN, CHARLES DRAYTON, MICHAEL DUFFERIN, LADY

EDWARDES, RICHARD

FLETCHER, JOHN

GARRICK, DAVID GAY, JOHN GOLDSMITH, OLIVER

HAMILTON, WILLIAM HEMANS, FELICIA HERBERT, GEORGE HERRICK, ROBERT HEYWOOD, THOMAS HOGG, JAMES, HOLCROFT, THOMAS HOOD, THOMAS HOUGHTON, LORD

JONSON, BEN

KEATS, JOHN KINGSLEY, REV. CHARLES

LOVELACE, RICHARD

MACAULAY, LORD MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS MOORE, THOMAS

NAIRNE, LADY NASH, THOMAS

PARKER, MARTIN PERCY, THOMAS PROCTOR, B.W.

ROGERS, SAMUEL ROSS, ALEXANDER

SCOTT, SIR WALTER SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE SHENSTONE, WILLIAM SHIRLEY, JAMES SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP SOUTHEY, ROBERT STILL, JOHN SUCKLING, SIR JOHN

TENNYSON, LORD THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THOMPSON, JAMES

VAUX, LORD

WALLER, EDMUND WEBSTER, JOHN WITHER, GEORGE WOLFE, CHARLES WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM WYATT, SIR THOMAS

SONGS AND BALLADS

MY SWETE SWETING

AH, my swete swetyng! My lytyle prety swetyng, My swetyng will I love wherever I go; She is so proper and pure, Full stedfast, stabill and demure, There is none such, ye may be sure, As my swete swetyng.

In all this world, as thynketh me, Is none so pleasant to my eye, That I am glad soe ofte to see, As my swete swetyng.

When I behold my swetyng swete, Her face, her hands, her minion fete, They seme to me there is none so swete, As my swete swetyng.

Above all other prayse must I, And love my pretty pygsnye, For none I fynd so womanly As my swete swetyng.

LORD VAUX

THINKING

WHEN all is done and said, In the end thus shall you find, He most of all doth bathe in bliss That hath a quiet mind: And, clear from worldly cares, To deem can be content The sweetest time in all his life In thinking to be spent.

The body subject is To fickle Fortune's power, And to a million of mishaps Is casual every hour: And Death in time doth change It to a clod of clay; Whenas the mind, which is divine, Runs never to decay.

Companion none is like Unto the mind alone; For many have been harmed by speech Through thinking, few, or none. Fear oftentimes restraineth words, But makes not thought to cease; And he speaks best that hath the skill When for to hold his peace.

Our wealth leaves us at death; Our kinsmen at the grave; But virtues of the mind unto The heavens with us we have. Wherefore, for virtue's sake, I can be well content, The sweetest time of all my life To deem in thinking spent.

RICHARD EDWARDES

THE FALLING OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS

IN going to my naked bed as one that would have slept, I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept; She sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, That would not cease, but cried still, in sucking at her breast. She was full weary of her watch, and grieved with her child; She rocked it and rated it, till that on her it smiled: Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write, In register for to remain, of such a worthy wight; As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat, Much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat. And proved plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life, Could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife: Then kissed she her little babe, and sware by God above, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright, Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might; When manhood shall be matched so that fear can take no place, Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace, And leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout, That might before have lived in peace their time and nature out: Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt, That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt; Since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed, And force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed; So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun, And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some: Thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

I marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout, To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about; Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can smoothly smile, And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile; Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout, Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out: Thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

SIR THOMAS WYATT

THE LOVER'S LUTE

BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound Of this or that as liketh me; For lack of wit the Lute is bound To give such tunes as pleaseth me; Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch my change, Blame not my Lute!

My Lute, alas! doth not offend, Though that perforce he must agree To sound such tunes as I intend To sing to them that heareth me; Then though my songs be somewhat plain, And toucheth some that use to feign, Blame not my Lute!

My Lute and strings may not deny, But as I strike they must obey; Break not them so wrongfully, But wreak thyself some other way; And though the songs which I indite Do quit thy change with rightful spite, Blame not my Lute!

Spite asketh spite, and changing change, And falsed faith must needs be known; The faults so great, the case so strange; Of right it must abroad be blown: Then since that by thine own desert My songs do tell how true thou art, Blame not my Lute!

Blame but thyself that hast misdone, And well deserved to have blame; Change thou thy way, so evil begone, And then my Lute shall sound that same; But if till then my fingers play, By thy desert their wonted way, Blame not my Lute!

Farewell! unknown; for though thou break My strings in spite with great disdain, Yet have I found out for thy sake, Strings for to string my Lute again: And if perchance this silly rhyme Do make thee blush at any time, Blame not my Lute!

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

COME live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.

JOHN STILL

JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD

I CANNOT eat but little meat, My stomach is not good; But sure I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a-cold; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire; A little bread shall do me stead, Much bread I not desire, No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold; I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd Of jolly good ale and old.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she till ye may see The tears run down her cheek. Then doth she trowl to me the bowl Even as a maltworm should, And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old.'

Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to; And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, Or have them lustily troll'd, God save the lives of them and their wives Whether they be young or old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old.

NICHOLAS BRETON

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON

IN the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing Forth I went forsooth a-maying.

When anon by a wood side, Where, as May was in his pride, I espied, all alone, Phillida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, God wot! He would love, and she would not, She said, never man was true: He says none was false to you;

He said he had lov'd her long; She says love should have no wrong, Corydon would kiss her then; She says, maids must kiss no men,

Till they do for good and all, When she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth, Never lov'd a truer youth.

Then with many a pretty oath, Yea and nay, faith and troth, Such as silly shepherds use, When they will not love abuse;

Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded; And Phillida with garlands gay Was made the lady of May.

THOMAS NASH

SPRING