Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

O think na ye my heart was sair

When my love dropt, and spak' nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care,

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

And I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I cross'd the stream, my sword did draw,
I hack'd him into pieces sma',

I hack'd him into pieces sma',

For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll mak' a garland o' your hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I dee!

O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
Were I with thee I would be blest,
Where thou liest low and tak'st thy rest,
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn o'er my e'en,

And I in Helen's arms lying,
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
For her sake that died for me.

SCOTT's" Border Minstrelsy."

DOWN ON THE SHORE.

OWN on the shore, on the sunny shore!

D Where the salt smell cheers the land;

Where the tide moves bright under boundless light,
And the surge on the glittering strand;
Where the children wade in the shallow pools,
Or run from the froth in play;

Where the swift little boats with milk-white wings
Are crossing the sapphire bay,

And the ship in full sail, with a fortunate gale,
Holds proudly on her way.

Where the nets are spread on the grass to dry,
And asleep, hard by, the fishermen lie,
Under the tent of the warm blue sky,
With the hushing wave on its golden floor
To sing their lullaby.

Down on the shore, on the stormy shore!
Beset by a growling sea,

Whose mad waves leap on the rocky steep
Like wolves up a traveller's tree.

Where the foam flies wide, and an angry blast
Blows the curlew off, with a screech;

Where the brown sea-wrack, torn up by the roots,

Is flung out of fishes' reach;

Where the tall ship rolls on the hidden shoals,

And scatters her planks on the beach. Where slate and straw through the village spin, And a cottage fronts the fiercest din With a sailor's wife sitting sad within, Hearkening the wind and water's roar, Till at last her tears begin.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

THE JOVIAL BEGGAR.

66

[PLAYFORD'S CHOICE AIRES.

1660.]

HERE was a jovial Beggar,

T He had a wooden leg,

Lame from his cradle,

And forced for to beg.
And a-begging we will go,
Will go, will go,

And a-begging we will go.

A bag for his oatmeal,
Another for his salt,

And a long pair of crutches,
To show that he can halt.

A bag for his wheat,

Another for his rye,

And a little bottle by his side
To drink when he's a-dry.

Seven years I begg'd

For my old master Wilde,

He taught me how to beg
When I was but a child.

I begg'd for my master,
And got him store of pelf,
But Heaven now be praisèd,
I'm begging for myself.

In a hollow tree

I live, and pay no rent,
Providence provides for me,
And I am well content.

Of all the occupations

A beggar's is the best,
For whenever he's a-weary

He can lay him down to rest.

I fear no plots against me,
I live in open cell ;

Then who would be a king, lads,

When the Beggar lives so well?

And a-begging we will go,

Will go, will go,

And a-begging we will go.

[LOVE FOR NO LESS THAN LOVE]

HALL I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she be not so to me

What care I how fair she be ?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me

What care I how kind she be ?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deserving known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best,
If she be not such to me

What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what, with them, they would do
That without them dare to woo;

And unless that mind I see
What care I how great she be.

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair:
If she love me, this believe-
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me
What care I for whom she be?

GEORGE WITHER.

S