The Library of Poetry and Song

If thou dost bid thy friend farewell,
But for one night though that farewell may be,
Press thou his hand in thine.
How canst thou tell how far from thee
Fate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-morrow comes ?
Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a street,
And days have grown to months, and months to lagging years,
Ere they have looked in loving eyes again.
Parting, at best, is underlaid
With tears and pain.
Therefore, lest sudden death should come between,
Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure firm
The hand of him who goeth forth;
Unseen, Fate goeth too.
Yes, find thou always time to say some earnest word
Between the idle talk,
Lest with thee henceforth,
Night and day, regret should walk,

COVENTRY PATMORE.

In weil or wae, whaireir he gae, Mine hart can neir depart him frae.

Balow, etc.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline ;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new ;
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For womens banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, etc.
Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve;
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forgeit man's cruelty.

Balow, etc.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
I wish all maids be warned by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They'll use us then they care not hew.

Balou, my babe, ly stil and sleeve!
It gricves sair to see thee weine,

ANONYMOUS.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILASI

My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break;
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,

I'm dyin' for your sake!
O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane,
O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,

When I am deid and gane !

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'c its will ; But let me rest upon your briest

To sab and greet my fill. Let me sit on your knee, Willie,

Let me shed by your hair, And look into the face, Willie,

I never sall see mair!

Martininas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle death, when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I'm weary.

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me.

When we came in by Glasgow town,

We were a comely sight to see ;
My love was clad in the black velvet,

And I mysell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been sae ill to win, I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,

And pinned it with a silver pin.

Oh, oh, if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysell were dead and gane,

And the green grass growin' over me !

ANONYMOUS

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.

A SCOTTISH SONG

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ;
If thoust be silent, Ise he glacl,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy!
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals and flattering cheire
To me that time did not appeire :
But now I see, most cruell hce,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, etc.

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile :
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balou, etc.

cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil :
Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde :

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my life, A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,

A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair.

“I loved, — and, blind with passionate love, I

fell. Love brought me down to death, and death to

Hell; For God is just, and death for sin is well. “I do not rage ngainst his high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ; But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

“Great Spirit! Let me see my love again And comfort him one hour, and I were fain To pay a thousand years of fire and pain."

Then said the pitying angel, “ Nay, repent That wild vow! Look, the dial-fiuger 's bent Down to the last hour of thy punishment!"

But still she wailed, “I pray thee, let me go ! | I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. 0, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!”

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, And upward, joyous, like a rising star, She rose and vanished in the ether far.

0, wae's me for the hour, Willie,

When we thegither met, 0, wae's me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set ! 0, wae's me for the loanin' green

Where we were wont to gae, And wae's mie for the destinie

That gart me luve thee sae !
0, dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa seek to blamo ;
But 0, it's hard to live, Willie,

And drce a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,

And hạilin' ower your chin :
Why weep ye sac for worthlessness,

For sorrow, and for sin ?
I'm weary o’this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I sce,
I canna live as I ha'e lived,

Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.
A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,

A sair stoun' through my heart ;
O, haud me up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet!

How fast my life-strings break! Fareweel' fareweel! through yon kirk-yard

Step lichtly for my sake! The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,

That lilts far ower our beid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie

Abune the clay.cauld deid ;
And this green turf we're sittin' on,

Wi' dew-(Iraps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee

As warld has seldom seen.
But 0, remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be;
And O, think on the leal, leal heart,

That ne'er luvit ane but thee !
And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools

That file my yellow hair,
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin

Ye riever sall kiss mair !

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing,
And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,
She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing.

She sobbed, “I found him by the summer sea
Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, -
She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"

She wept, “Now let my punishment begin !
I have been fond and foolish. Let me in
To expiate my sorrow and my sin."

The angel answered, “ Nay, sad soul, go higher !
To be deceived in your true heart's desire
Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"

JOHN HAY.

DEATH AND THE YOUTH. “Not yet, the flowers are in my path,

The sun is in the sky;
Not yet, my heart is full of lope,

I cannot bear to die.

“Not vet, I never knew till now

How precious life could be ; My heart is full of love, O Death!

I cannot come with thee!”

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

A WOMAN'S LOVE. A SENTINEL angel, sitting high in glory, Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory : “Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

INCONSTANCY OF WOMAN. There are three things a wise man will not trust : The wind, the sunshine of an April day, And woman's plighted faith.

Madoc.

SOUTHEY.

Who trusts himself to woman or to waves
Should never hazard what he fears to lose.
Governor of Cyprus.

OLDMIXON

Away, away - you 're all the same,
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng !
O, by my soul, I burn with shame,
To think I've been your slave so long !

T. MOORE

THE DISAPPOINTED' HEART. The cold — the changed - perchance the dead

anew, The mourned, the loved, the lost — too many!

yet how few! Childe Harold, Cant. iv.

BYRON

Do not drop in for an after-loss. Ah, do not, when my heart hath scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquered woe ; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow.

Sonnet XC.

SHAKESPEARE.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me. Childe Harold, Cant, iii.

BYRON.

At threescore winters' end I died,

A cheerless being, sole and sad ; The nuptial kuot I never tied,

And wish my father never had. From the Greek,

COW PER'S Trans.

Alas! the breast that inly bleeds
Hath naught to dread from outward blow :
Who falls from all he kuows of bliss
Cares little into what abyss.

The Graour.

BYRON

BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH.

RESIGNATION.

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace ;
There is no flock, however watched and tended, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
But one dead lamb is there!

Shall we behold her face.
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair !

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,
The air is full of farewells to the dying, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
And mournings for the dead ;

That cannot be at rest, –
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted !

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay ;
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
Not from the ground arise,

The grief that must have way.
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ;

BURIED TO-DAY.
Amid these earthly damps
What scem to us but sad, funereal tapers Buried to-day.
May be heaven's distant lamps.

When the soft green buds are bursting out,

And up on the south-wind comes a shout
There is no Death! What seems so is transition: of village boys and girls at play
This life of mortal breath

In the mild spring evening gray.
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

Taken away,

Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, She is not dead, — the child of our affection, From eyes that drew half their light from But gone unto that school

him, Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And put low, low underneath the clay, And Christ himself doth rule.

In his spring, on this spring day.

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The Library of Poetry and Song, Volume 1