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THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.

ON Richmond Hill there lives a lass More bright than May-day morn, Whose charms all other maids surpass, A rose without a thorn.

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,

Has won my right good-will; I'd crowns resign to call her mine, Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.

Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air,
And wanton through the grove,
O, whisper to my charming fair,
I die for her I love.

How happy will the shepherd be

Who calls this nymph his own! O, may her choice be fixed on me! Mine's fixed on her alone.

UPTON.

By dae ar night, the best ov all, To zee my Fanny's smilén fiace;

An' dere the stiately trees da grow, A-rockén as the win' da blow, While she da sweetly sleep below, In the stillness o' the night. An' dere at evemen I da goo,

A-hoppén auver ghiates an' bars, By twinklen light o' winter stars, When snow da clumper to my shoe; An' zometimes we da slyly catch A chat, an hour upon the stratch, An' piart wi' whispers at the hatch, In the stillness o' the night.

An' zometimes she da goo to zome

Young nâighbours' housen down the pliace,
An' I da get a clue to triace
Her out, an' goo to zee her huome

An' I da wish a vield a mile,
As she da sweetly chat an' smile
Along the drove, or at the stile,
In the stillness o' the night.

WILLIAM BARNES.

MARY MORISON.

O MARY, at thy window be!

It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see

That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;

A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

ROBERT BURNS.

IN THE STILLNESS O' THE NIGHT.

DORSET DIALECT.

Ov all the housen o' the pliace

Ther 's Qone wher I da like to call,

O MISTRESS MINE.

O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 't is not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

SHAKESPEARE

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.

WHEN first I saw sweet Peggy,
'T was on a market day :

A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay ;

But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring,
No flower was there that could compare
With the blooming girl I sing.
As she sat in the low-backed car,
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll,

But just rubbed his owld poll,
And looked after the low-backed car.

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O, I'd rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
And a lady for my bride;
For the lady would sit forninst me,
On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me,

With my arm around her waist,
While we drove in the low-backed car,
To be married by Father Mahar;
O, my heart would beat high
At her glance and her sigh,
Though it beat in a low-backed car!

SAMUEL LOVER.

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;
For she 's 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
The 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,
O, then I shall have money!
I'll hoard it up, and, box and all,

I'll give it to my honey;

O, would it were ten thousand pound!

I'd give it all to Sally;

For she's the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

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Be what it may the time of day, the place be|O, might we live together in lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall;

where it will,

Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

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so fine,

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It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered O, LUVE will venture in where it daurna weel be

in a twine.

seen, O, luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been!

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded But I will down yon river rove amang the woods

all before;

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sae green:

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year,
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear,
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms
without a peer :

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phœbus peeps in view,

For it's like a balmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou'; The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air :
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day;
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna

take away:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star is near,

And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to your beauty bright,

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

wear:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

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Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear,
Gathered all for thee?

They are not flowers of Pride,
For they graced the dingle-side ;
Yet they grew in Heaven's smile,
My gentle Mary Lee!

Can they fear thy frowns the while
Though offered by me?

Here's the lily of the vale,

That perfumed the morning gale,
My fairy Mary Lee!

All so spotless and so pale,
Like thine own purity.
And might I make it known,
"T is an emblem of my own
Love,

if I dare so name

My esteem for thee.

Surely flowers can bear no blame,
My bonny Mary Lee.

Here's the violet's modest blue,

That 'neath hawthorns hides from view,

My gentle Mary Lee,
Would show whose heart is true,

While it thinks of thee.
While they choose each lowly spot,
The sun disdains them not;
I'm as lowly too, indeed,

My charming Mary Lee;

So I've brought the flowers to plead,
And win a smile from thee.

Here's a wild rose just in bud;
Spring's beauty in its hood,

My bonny Mary Lee!
"T is the first in all the wood

I could find for thee.
Though a blush is scarcely seen,
Yet it hides its worth within,
Like my love; for I've no power,
My angel Mary Lee,

To speak unless the flower

Can make excuse for me.

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LOVE IS A SICKNESS.

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,.

All remedies refusing;

A plant that most with cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies ;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,

A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind,
Not well, nor full, nor fasting.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies ;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!

LOVE.

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For kings bethink them what the state require, Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire: Ah then, ah then,

If country love such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat
His cream and curd as doth the king his meat,
And blither too;

For kings have often fears when they sup,
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound
As doth the king upon his beds of down,
More sounder too;

For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe
As doth the king at every tide or syth,
And blither too;

For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,
When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?

ROBERT GREENE.

TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE.

WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Awed by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear
No other voice than hers can hear;
No other wit but hers approve ;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

If she some other swain commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleased before,
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove ;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON.

ECHOES.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To Music at night
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away o'er lawns and lakes
Goes answering light!

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