English Songs and Ballads

The Project Gutenberg EBook of English Songs and Ballads, by Various

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Title: English Songs and Ballads

Author: Various

Release Date: November 7, 2012 [EBook #41298]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS ***

Produced by Brian Foley, Jane Robins and the Online

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ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS

COMPILED BY

T.W.H. CROSLAND

LONDON

GRANT RICHARDS

48 LEICESTER SQUARE

1902

Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, (late) Printers to Her Majesty

NOTE

'English Songs and Ballads' must not be regarded as 'a choice,' but simply as a bringing together of poetical pieces which are, presumably, well known to the average person,—that is to say, the compiler has endeavoured to illustrate the general taste rather than his own preference.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

INDEX OF AUTHORS

SONGS AND BALLADS

MY SWETE SWETYNG

Ah, my swete swetyng!

My lytyle prety swetyng,

My swetyng will I love wherever I go;

She is so proper and pure,

Full stedfast, stabill and demure,

There is none such, ye may be sure,

As my swete swetyng.

In all this world, as thynketh me,

Is none so pleasant to my eye,

That I am glad soe ofte to see,

As my swete swetyng.

When I behold my swetyng swete,

Her face, her hands, her minion fete,

They seme to me there is none so swete,

As my swete swetyng.

Above all other prayse must I,

And love my pretty pygsnye,

For none I fynd so womanly

As my swete swetyng.

THINKING

LORD VAUX

When all is done and said,

In the end thus shall you find,

He most of all doth bathe in bliss

That hath a quiet mind:

And, clear from worldly cares,

To deem can be content

The sweetest time in all his life

In thinking to be spent.

The body subject is

To fickle Fortune's power,

And to a million of mishaps

Is casual every hour:

And Death in time doth change

It to a clod of clay;

Whenas the mind, which is divine,

Runs never to decay.

Companion none is like

Unto the mind alone;

For many have been harmed by speech;

Through thinking, few, or none.

Fear oftentimes restraineth words,

But makes not thought to cease;

And he speaks best that hath the skill

When for to hold his peace.

Our wealth leaves us at death;

Our kinsmen at the grave;

But virtues of the mind unto

The heavens with us we have.

Wherefore, for virtue's sake,

I can be well content,

The sweetest time of all my life

To deem in thinking spent.

THE FALLING OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS

RICHARD EDWARDES

In going to my naked bed as one that would have slept,

I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept;

She sighèd sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest,

That would not cease, but crièd still, in sucking at her breast.

She was full weary of her watch, and grievèd with her child;

She rockèd it and rated it, till that on her it smiled:

Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write,

In register for to remain, of such a worthy wight;

As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat,

Much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat.

And provèd plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life,

Could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife:

Then kissèd she her little babe, and sware by God above,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright,

Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might;

When manhood shall be matchèd so that fear can take no place,

Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace,

And leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout,

That might before have lived in peace their time and nature out:

Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt,

That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt;

Since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed,

And force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed;

So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun,

And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some:

Thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

I marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout,

To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about;

Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can

smoothly smile,

And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile;

Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout,

Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out:

Thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

THE LOVER'S LUTE

SIR THOMAS WYATT

Blame not my Lute! for he must sound

Of this or that as liketh me;

For lack of wit the Lute is bound

To give such tunes as pleaseth me;

Though my songs be somewhat strange,

And speak such words as touch my change,

Blame not my Lute!

My Lute, alas! doth not offend,

Though that perforce he must agree

To sound such tunes as I intend

To sing to them that heareth me;

Then though my songs be somewhat plain,

And toucheth some that use to feign,

Blame not my Lute!

My Lute and strings may not deny,

But as I strike they must obey;

Break not them so wrongfully,

But wreak thyself some other way;

And though the songs which I indite

Do quit thy change with rightful spite,

Blame not my Lute!

Spite asketh spite, and changing change,

And falsed faith must needs be known;

The faults so great, the case so strange;

Of right it must abroad be blown:

Then since that by thine own desert

My songs do tell how true thou art,

Blame not my Lute!

Blame but thyself that hast misdone,

And well deserved to have blame;

Change thou thy way, so evil begone,

And then my Lute shall sound that same;

But if till then my fingers play,

By thy desert their wonted way,

Blame not my Lute!

Farewell! unknown; for though thou break

My strings in spite with great disdain,

Yet have I found out for thy sake,

Strings for to string my Lute again:

And if perchance this silly rhyme

Do make thee blush at any time,

Blame not my Lute!

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

CHRISTOPER MARLOWE

Come live with me and be my Love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dale and field,

And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks

And see the shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow rivers, to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,

Which from our pretty lambs we pull,

Fair linèd slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds

With coral clasps and amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat

As precious as the gods do eat,

Shall on an ivory table be

Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my Love.

JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD

JOHN STILL

I cannot eat but little meat,

My stomach is not good;

But sure I think that I can drink

With him that wears a hood.

Though I go bare, take ye no care,

I nothing am a-cold;

I stuff my skin so full within

Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,

Whether it be new