Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 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, I cross'd the stream, my sword did draw, I hack'd him into pieces sma', For her sake that died for me. O Helen fair, beyond compare! O that I were where Helen lies! O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! I wish my grave were growing green, And I in Helen's arms lying, I wish I were where Helen lies! 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, Where the swift little boats with milk-white wings And the ship in full sail, with a fortunate gale, Where the nets are spread on the grass to dry, Down on the shore, on the stormy shore! Whose mad waves leap on the rocky steep Where the foam flies wide, and an angry blast 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. A bag for his oatmeal, And a long pair of crutches, A bag for his wheat, Another for his rye, And a little bottle by his side Seven years I begg'd For my old master Wilde, He taught me how to beg I begg'd for my master, In a hollow tree I live, and pay no rent, Of all the occupations A beggar's is the best, He can lay him down to rest. I fear no plots against me, 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 What care I how fair she be ? Shall my foolish heart be pined If she be not so to me What care I how kind she be ? Shall a woman's virtues move What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high And unless that mind I see Great, or good, or kind, or fair, GEORGE WITHER. S |