Part 1

OLD SONGS

OLD SONGS

WITH DRAWINGS BY EDWIN A · ABBEY & ALFRED PARSONS

NEW YORK · HARPER & BROTHERS · PRINTERS & PUBLISHERS · FRANKLIN SQUARE · M DCCC LXXXIX

_COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY_

_HARPER & BROTHERS_.

_All Rights Reserved._

_PAGE_

_A Love Song_ _1_

“_Why canst Thou not, as Others do_” _15_

“_With Jockey to the Fair_” _19_

“_Sweet Nelly, my Heart’s Delight_” _27_

“_What hap had I to Marry a Shrow_” _33_

_The Leather Bottèl_ _37_

_Never Love Thee More_ _49_

“_Here’s to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen_” _53_

_Barbara Allen_ _57_

_Perigot and Cuddy’s Roundelay_ _67_

_Sally in Our Alley_ _73_

“_Early One Morning_” _85_

_Kitty of Coleraine_ _89_

_Old King Cole_ _97_

_Harvest Home_ _101_

_Down in Cupid’s Garden_ _107_

_Phillada Flouts Me_ _111_

_A LOVE SONG._

BY GEORGE WITHER.

I lov’d a lasse, a faire one, As faire as e’er was seene; She was, indeed, a rare one, Another Sheba queen;

But, foole, as then I was, I thought she lov’d me too; But, now, alasse! sh’as left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

Her haire, like gold, did glister; Each eye was like a starre; She did surpasse her sister, Which past all others farre:

She would me hony call: She’d, oh, she’d kisse me too! But, now, alasse! sh’as left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

In summer-time, to Medley My love and I would goe-- The boatmen there stood readie My love and I to rowe; For creame there would we call, For cakes, and for prunes too; But, now, alasse! sh’as left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

Many a merry meeting My love and I have had: She was my onely sweeting; She made my heart full glad: The teares stood in her eyes, Like to the morning-dew; But, now, alasse! sh’as left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

And as abroad we walked, As lovers’ fashion is, Oft, as we sweetly talked, The sun would steale a kisse; The winde upon her lips Likewise most sweetly blew; But, now, alasse! sh’as left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

Her cheekes were like the cherrie, Her skin as white as snow; When she was blyth and merrie, She angel-like did show; Her wast exceeding small, The fives did fit her shoo; But, now, alasse! sh’as left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

In summer-time or winter She had her heart’s desire; I stil did scorne to stint her From sugar, sacke, or fire: The world went round about; No cares we ever knew; But, now, alasse! sh’as left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

As we walked home together, At midnight, through the towne, To keepe away the weather, O’re her I’d cast my gowne; No colde my love should feele, Whate’er the heavens could doe; But, now, alasse! sh’as left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

Like doves we would be billing, And clip and kisse so fast, Yet she would be unwilling That I should kisse the last: They’re Judas kisses now, Since that they prov’d untrue; For, now, alasse! sh’as left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

To maidens’ vowes and swearing Henceforth no credit give; You may give them the hearing, But never them beleeve: They are as false as faire, Unconstant, fraile, untrue; For mine, alasse! hath left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

’Twas I that paid for all things, ’Twas others dranke the wine; I cannot now recall things, Live but a foole to pine: ’Twas I that beat the bush, The bird to others flew; For she, alasse! hath left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

If ever that Dame Nature, For this false lover’s sake, Another pleasing creature Like unto her would make, Let her remember this, To make the other true; For this, alasse! hath left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

No riches, now, can raise me, No want make me despaire, No miserie amaze me, Nor yet for want I care:

I have lost a world it selfe. My earthly heaven, adue! Since she, alasse! hath left me, _Falero, lero, loo_.

“_WHY CANST THOU NOT, AS OTHERS DO?_”

Why canst thou not, as others do, Look on me with unwounding eyes? And yet look sweet, but yet not so, Smile, but not in killing wise; Arm not thy graces to confound; Only look, but do not wound.

Why should mine eyes see more in you Than they can see in all the rest? For I can others’ beauties view, And not find my heart opprest. O be as others are to me, Or let me be more to thee.

“_WITH JOCKEY TO THE FAIR._”

Twas on the morn of sweet May-day, When nature painted all things gay-- Taught birds to sing and lambs to play And deck’d the meadows fair-- Young Jockey early in the morn Arose and tripped it o’er the lawn. His Sunday coat the youth put on; For Jenny had vowed away to run With Jockey to the fair.

The cheerful parish bells had rung. With eager steps he trudg’d along; Sweet flowing garlands round him hung, Which shepherds us’d to wear. He tapp’d the window. “Hush, my dear!” Jenny, impatient, cried, “Who’s there?” “’Tis I, my love, and no one near. Step gently down, you’ve naught to fear With Jockey to the fair.”

“My dad and mammy ’re fast asleep. My brother up and with the sheep. And will you still your promise keep, Which I have heard you swear? And will you ever constant prove?” “I will, by all the pow’rs above! And ne’er deceive my charming dove. Dispel those doubts, and haste, my love, With Jockey to the fair.”

“Behold the ring!” the shepherd cried. “Will Jenny be my charming bride? Let Cupid be our happy guide, And Hymen meet us there.” Then Jockey did his vows renew-- He would be constant, would be true. His word was pledged, away she flew, With cowslips sparkling with the dew, With Jockey to the fair.

Soon did they meet a joyful throng. Their gay companions, blithe and young, Each joins the dance, each joins the song To hail the happy pair. What two were e’er so fond as they? All bless the kind propitious day-- The smiling morn, the blooming May, When lovely Jenny ran away With Jockey to the fair.

“_SWEET NELLY, MY HEART’S DELIGHT._”

HE. Sweet Nelly, my heart’s delight, Be loving, and do not slight The proffer I make For modesty’s sake. I honor your beauty bright; For love I profess, I can do no less. Thou hast my favor won. And since I see Your modesty, I pray you agree, And fancy me, Though I’m but a farmer’s son.

SHE. No; I am a lady gay; It is very well known I may Have men of renown In country or town. So, Roger, without delay Court Bridget, or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue; Their loves will soon be won; But don’t you dare To speak me fair, As if I were At my last pray’r To marry a farmer’s son.

HE. My father has riches in store, Two hundred a year and more, Besides sheep and cows, Carts, harrows, and ploughs His age is above threescore, And when he does die, Then merrily I Shall have what he has won. Both land and kine, All shall be thine, If thou’lt incline, And will be mine, And marry a farmer’s son.

SHE. A fig for your cattle and corn! Your proffered love I scorn. ’Tis known very well My name it is Nell, And you’re but a bumpkin born.

HE. Well, since it is so, Away I will go, And I hope no harm is done. Farewell! adieu! I hope to woo As good as you, And win her too, Though I’m but a farmer’s son.

SHE. Be not in such haste, quoth she; Perhaps we may still agree, For, man, I protest I was but in jest; Come, prithee, sit down by me. For thou art the man That verily can Win me if e’er I’m won. Both straight and tall, Genteel withal, Therefore I shall Be at your call To marry a farmer’s son.

HE. Dear Nelly, believe me now, I solemnly swear and vow No lords in their lives Take pleasure in wives Like we that do drive the plough. Whatever we gain With labor or pain, We don’t after wantons run, As courtiers do. And I never knew A London beau That could outdo A country farmer’s son.

“_WHAT HAP HAD I TO MARRY A SHROW!_”

What hap had I to marry a shrow! For she hath given me many a blow, And how to please her, alack! I do not know.

From morn to even her tongue ne’er lies; Sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries; Yet I can scarce keep her talents from mine eyes.

If I go abroad and late come in, “Sir Knave,” saith she, “where have you been?” And do I well or ill, she claps me on the skin.

_THE LEATHER BOTTÈL._

’Twas God above that made all things, The heav’ns, the earth, and all therein, The ships that on the sea do swim To guard from foes that none come in; And let them all do what they can, ’Twas for one end--the use of man. So I wish in heav’n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottèl.

Now, what do you say to these cans of wood? Oh no, in faith they cannot be good; For if the bearer fall by the way, Why, on the ground your liquor doth lay; But had it been in a leather bottèl, Although he had fallen all had been well. _So I wish in heav’n_, etc.

Then what do you say to these glasses fine? Oh, they shall have no praise of mine, For if you chance to touch the brim, Down falls the liquor and all therein; But had it been in a leather bottèl, And the stoppel in, all had been well. _So I wish in heav’n_, etc.

Then what do you say to these black pots three? If a man and his wife should not agree, Why, they’ll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill; In a leather bottèl they may tug their fill, And pull away till their hearts do ake, And yet their liquor no harm can take. _So I wish in heav’n_, etc.

Then what do you say to these flagons fine? Oh, they shall have no praise of mine, For when a Lord is about to dine, And sends them to be filled with wine, The man with the flagon doth run away, Because it is silver most gallant and gay. _So I wish in heav’n_, etc.

A leather bottèl we know is good, Far better than glasses or cans of wood, For when a man’s at work in the field, Your glasses and pots no comfort will yield; But a good leather bottle standing by Will raise his spirits whenever he’s dry. _So I wish in heav’n_, etc.

At noon, the haymakers sit them down, To drink from their bottles of ale nut-brown; In summer, too, when the weather is warm, A good bottle full will do them no harm. Then the lads and the lasses begin to tottle, But what would they do without this bottle? _So I wish in heav’n_, etc.

There’s never a Lord, an Earl, or Knight, But in this bottle doth take delight; For when he’s hunting of the deer, He oft doth wish for a bottle of beer. Likewise the man that works in the wood, A bottle of beer will oft do him good. _So I wish in heav’n_, etc.

And when the bottle at last grows old, And will good liquor no longer hold, Out of the side you may take a clout, To mend your shoes when they’re worn out; Or take and hang it up on a pin, ’Twill serve to put hinges and odd things in. _So I wish in heav’n_, etc.

_NEVER LOVE THEE MORE._

My dear and only love, take heed How thou thyself expose By letting longing lovers feed Upon such looks as those. I’ll marble-wall thee round about, And build without a door; But if thy heart do once break out, I’ll never love thee more.

Let not their oaths, by volleys shot, Make any breach at all, Nor smoothness of their language plot A way to scale the wall; No balls of wildfire love consume The shrine which I adore; For if such smoke about it fume, I’ll never love thee more.

Then if by fraud or by consent To ruin thou shouldst come, I’ll sound no trouble as of wont, Nor march by beat of drum, But fold my arms, like ensigns, up, Thy falsehood to deplore, And after such a bitter cup I’ll never love thee more.

“_HERE’S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN._”

Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Now to the widow of fifty; Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass; I warrant she’ll prove An excuse for the glass.

Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the damsel with none, sir; Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And now to the nymph with but one, sir. _Let the toast_, etc.

Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow, Now to her that’s as brown as a berry; Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that’s merry. _Let the toast_, etc.

For let her be clumsy or let her be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e’en toast ’em together. _Let the toast_, etc.

_BARBARA ALLEN._

All in the merry Month of May, when green leaves they was springing, This young man on his Death-bed lay, for the love of _Barbara Allen_.

He sent his man unto her then, in the Town where she was dwelling: You must come to my Master dear, if your name be _Barbara Allen_.

For Death is printed in his face, and Sorrow’s in him dwelling, And you must come to my Master dear, if your name is _Barbara Allen_.

If Death be printed on his face, and Sorrow’s in him dwelling, Then little better shall he be for Bonny _Barbara Allen_.

So slowly, slowly she got up, and so slowly she came to him, And all she said when she came there, young Man, I think you are a dying.

He turn’d his face unto her then: if you be _Barbara Allen_, My dear, said he, come pitty me, as on my Death-bed I am lying.

If on your Death-bed you be lying, what is that to _Barbara Allen_? I cannot keep you from Death, so farewell, said _Barbara Allen_.

He turn’d his face unto the Wall, and Death came creeping to him: Then adieu, adieu, and adieu to all, and adieu to _Barbara Allen_.

And as she was walking on a day, she heard the Bell a Ringing, And it did seem to ring to her, unworthy _Barbara Allen_.

She turn’d herself round about, and she spy’d the Corps a coming: Lay down, Lay down the Corps of Clay, that I may look upon him.

And all the while she looked on, so loudly she was laughing; While all her Friends cry’d amain, unworthy _Barbara Allen_.

When he was dead & laid in Grave, then Death came creeping to she. O Mother! Mother! make my Bed, for his Death hath quite undone me.

A hard hearted Creature that I was, to slight one that loved me so dearly; I wish I had been more kinder to him, the time of his Life, when he was near me.

So this Maid she then did dye, and desired to be buried by him, And repented herself before she dy’d that ever she did deny him.

_PERIGOT AND CUDDY’S ROUNDELAY._

BY EDM. SPENSER.

It fell upon a holy-eve (Heigho, holy-day!), When holy fathers wont to shrive (Now ’ginneth this roundelay), Sitting upon a hill so high (Heigho, the high hill!) The while my flock did feed thereby, The while the shepherd’s self did spill.

I saw the bouncing Bellibone (Heigho, bonny-bell!) Tripping over the dale alone-- She can trip it very well-- Well decked in a frock of gray (Heigho, gray is great!) And in a kirtle of green say-- The green is for maidens meet.

A chaplet on her head she wore (Heigho, the chaplet!); Of sweet violets therein was store-- She’s sweeter than the violet.

My sheep did leave their wonted food (Heigho, silly sheep!) And gazed on her as they were wood-- Wood as he that did them keep.

As the bonny lass passed by (Heigho, bonny lass!) She rolled at me with glancing eye As clear as the crystal glass. All as the sunny beam so bright (Heigho, the sunbeam!) Glanceth from Phœbus’ face forth-right, So love into my heart did stream.

Or as the thunder cleaves the clouds (Heigho, the thunder!) Wherein the lightsome leaven shrouds, So cleaves my soul asunder; Or as dame Cynthia’s silver ray (Heigho, the moonlight!) Upon the glistening wave doth play, Such play is a piteous plight.

The glance into my heart did glide (Heigho, the glide!), Therewith my soul was sharply gride. Such wounds some waxen wide; Hasting to wrench the arrow out (Heigho, Perigot!), I left the head in my heart-root: It was a desperate shot.

Then it rankleth aye more and more (Heigho, the arrow!), Nor can I find salve for my sore-- Love is a cureless sorrow. And though my bale with death I bought (Heigho, heavy cheer!) Yet should this lass not from my thought, So you may buy gold too dear.

But whether in painful love I pine (Heigho, pinching pain!) Or thrive in wealth, she shall be mine. But if thou can her obtain, And if for graceless grief I die (Heigho, graceless grief!), Witness she slew me with her eye, Let thy folly be the preef (_sic_).

And you that saw it, simple sheep (Heigho, the fair flock!), For prief thereof my death shall weep And moan with many a mock. So learn’d I love on a holy-eve (Heigho, holy-day!) That ever since my heart did grieve. Now endeth our roundelay.

_SALLY IN OUR ALLEY._

Of all the girls that are so smart There’s none like pretty Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry ’em; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy ’em;

But sure such folks could ne’er beget So sweet a girl as Sally! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely;

But let him bang his bellyful, I’ll bear it all for Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that’s in the week I dearly love but one day, And that’s the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I’m drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, Oh, then I shall have money; I’ll hoard it up, and box it all, I’ll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I’d give it all to Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbors all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I’d better be A slave and row a galley;

But when my seven long years are out, Oh, then I’ll marry Sally! And then how happily we’ll live, But _not_ in our alley.

“_EARLY ONE MORNING._”

Early one morning, just as the sun was rising, I heard a maid sing in the valley below: “Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, never leave me! How could you use a poor maiden so?

“Oh, gay is the garland and fresh are the roses I’ve culled from the garden to bind up my brow. Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, do not leave me! How could you use a poor maiden so?

“Remember the vows you made to your Mary; Remember the bow’r where you vowed to be true. Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, do not leave me! How could you use a poor maiden so?”

Thus sang the poor maiden, her sorrows bewailing; Thus sang the poor maid in the valley below: “Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, never leave me! How could you use a poor maiden so?”