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JAMES'S._

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.

The ladies of St. James's
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them,
With a "Stand by! Clear the way!"
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at _Ombre_,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May dew
Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's
They are so fine and fair,
You 'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is scarce so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's
They 're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays forever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,
It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James's,
With "Mercy!" and with "Lud!"
They season all their speeches
(They come of noble blood):
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words
Are sweet as, after rain-drops,
The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's,
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you--for seconds,
They frown on you--for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrovetide unto Shrovetide
Is always true--and mine.

My Phyllida, my Phyllida!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida--for Phyllida
Is all the world to me!

[Decoration]


_THE MILKMAID._

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.

Across the grass I see her pass;
She comes with tripping pace,--
A maid I know,--and March winds blow
Her hair across her face;--
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

The March winds blow. I watch her go:
Her eye is brown and clear;
Her cheek is brown and soft as down
(To those who see it near!)--
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

What has she not that they have got,--
The dames that walk in silk!
If she undo her 'kerchief blue,
Her neck is white as milk.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

Let those who will be proud and chill!
For me, from June to June,
My Dolly's words are sweet as curds,--
Her laugh is like a tune;--
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!
O tall Lent-lilies, flame!
There 'll be a bride at Easter-tide,
And Dolly is her name.

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

ALFRED DOMETT.

1811-1887.


_A GLEE FOR WINTER._

Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow,
Never merry, never mellow!
Well-a-day! in rain and snow
What will keep one's heart aglow?
Groups of kinsmen, old and young,
Oldest they old friends among!
Groups of friends, so old and true,
That they seem our kinsmen too!
These all merry all together,
Charm away chill Winter weather!

What will kill this dull old fellow?
Ale that 's bright, and wine that 's mellow!
Dear old songs for ever new;
Some true love, and laughter too;
Pleasant wit, and harmless fun,
And a dance when day is done!
Music--friends so true and tried--
Whispered love by warm fireside--
Mirth at all times all together--
Make sweet May of Winter weather!

[Decoration]


_A KISS._

SAPPHO TO PHAON.

I.

Sweet mouth! O let me take
One draught from that delicious cup!
The hot Sahara-thirst to slake
That burns me up!

II.

Sweet breath!--all flowers that are,
Within that darling frame must bloom;
My heart revives so at the rare
Divine perfume!

III.

--Nay, 't is a dear deceit,
A drunkard's cup that mouth of thine;
Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet,
That fragrance fine!

IV.

I drank--the drink betrayed me
Into a madder, fiercer fever;
The scent of those love-blossoms made me
More faint than ever!

V.

Yet though quick death it were
That rich heart-vintage I must drain,
And quaff that hidden garden's air,
Again--again!

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

LADY DUFFERIN.

1807-1867.


_SONG._[A]

April 30, 1833.

I.

When another's voice thou hearest,
With a sad and gentle tone,
Let its sound but waken, dearest,
Memory of _my_ love alone!
When in stranger lands thou meetest
Warm, true hearts, which welcome thee,
Let each friendly look thou greetest
Seem a message, Love, from _me_!

II.

When night's quiet sky is o'er thee,
When the pale stars dimly burn,
Dream that _one_ is watching for thee,
Who but lives for thy return!
Wheresoe'er thy steps are roving,
Night or day, by land or sea,
Think of her, whose life of loving
Is but one long thought of thee!

[Decoration]

[Footnote A: These lines were written to the author's husband,
then at sea, in 1833, and set to music by herself.]


_LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT._

I 'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat, side by side,
That bright May morning long ago
When first you were my bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green,
The lark sang loud and high,
The red was on your lip, Mary,
The love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
The corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
Your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'ning for the words
You never more may speak.

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

'T is but a step down yonder lane,
The little Church stands near--
The Church where we were wed, Mary,--
I see the spire from here;
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,--
My step might break your rest,--
Where you, my darling, lie asleep
With your baby on your breast.

I 'm very lonely now, Mary,--
The poor make no new friends;--
But, oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends.
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There 's nothing left to care for now
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When trust in God had left my soul,
And half my strength was gone.
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow.
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you can't hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break;
When the hunger pain was gnawing there
You hid it for my sake.
I bless you for the pleasant word
When your heart was sad and sore.
Oh! I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I 'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary--kind and true!
But I 'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I 'm going to.
They say there 's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I 'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair.

And when amid those grand old woods
I sit and shut my eyes,
My heart will travel back again
To where my Mary lies;
I 'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat, side by side,--
And the springing corn and bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

MICHAEL FIELD.


_WINDS TO-DAY ARE LARGE AND FREE._

Winds to-day are large and free,
Winds to-day are westerly;
From the land they seem to blow
Whence the sap begins to flow
And the dimpled light to spread,
From the country of the dead.

Ah, it is a wild, sweet land
Where the coming May is planned,
Where such influences throb
As our frosts can never rob
Of their triumph, when they bound
Through the tree and from the ground.

Great within me is my soul,
Great to journey to its goal,
To the country of the dead;
For the cornel-tips are red,
And a passion rich in strife
Drives me toward the home of life.

Oh, to keep the spring with them
Who have flushed the cornel-stem,
Who imagine at its source
All the year's delicious course,
Then express by wind and light
Something of their rapture's height!

[Decoration]


_LET US WREATHE THE MIGHTY CUP._

Let us wreathe the mighty cup,
Then with song we 'll lift it up,
And, before we drain the glow
Of the juice that foams below
Flowers and cool leaves round the brim,
Let us swell the praise of him
Who is tyrant of the heart,
Cupid with his flaming dart!

Pride before his face is bowed,
Strength and heedless beauty cowed;
Underneath his fatal wings
Bend discrowned the heads of kings;
Maidens blanch beneath his eye
And its laughing mastery;
Through each land his arrows sound,
By his fetters all are bound.


_WHERE WINDS ABOUND._

Where winds abound,
And fields are hilly,
Shy daffadilly
Looks down on the ground.

Rose cones of larch
Are just beginning;
Though oaks are spinning
No oak-leaves in March.

Spring 's at the core,
The boughs are sappy:
Good to be happy
So long, long before!

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

NORMAN GALE.

1862.


_A SONG._

First the fine, faint, dreamy motion
Of the tender blood
Circling in the veins of children--
This is Life, the bud.

Next the fresh, advancing beauty
Growing from the gloom,
Waking eyes and fuller bosom--
This is Life, the bloom.

Then the pain that follows after,
Grievous to be borne,
Pricking, steeped in subtle poison--
This is Love, the thorn.


_SONG._

Wait but a little while--
The bird will bring
A heart in tune for melodies
Unto the spring,
Till he who 's in the cedar there
Is moved to trill a song so rare,
And pipe her fair.

Wait but a little while--
The bud will break;
The inner rose will ope and glow
For summer's sake;
Fond bees will lodge within her breast
Till she herself is plucked and prest
Where I would rest.

Wait but a little while--
The maid will grow
Gracious with lips and hands to thee,
With breast of snow.
To-day Love 's mute, but time hath sown
A soul in her to match thine own,
Though yet ungrown.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

EDMUND GOSSE.

1849.


_SONG FOR THE LUTE._

I bring a garland for your head
Of blossoms fresh and fair;
My own hands wound their white and red
To ring about your hair:
Here is a lily, here a rose,
A warm narcissus that scarce blows,
And fairer blossoms no man knows.

So crowned and chapleted with flowers,
I pray you be not proud;
For after brief and summer hours
Comes autumn with a shroud;--
Though fragrant as a flower you lie,
You and your garland, bye and bye,
Will fade and wither up and die.




[Decoration]

THOMAS HOOD.

1798-1845.


_BALLAD._

I.

It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses,--
We plucked them as we passed;

II.

That churlish season never frowned
On early lovers yet:--
Oh, no--the world was newly crowned
With flowers when first we met!

III.

'T was twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses,--
We plucked them as we passed.--

[Decoration]


_SONG._

O Lady, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestrie:
There 's living roses on the bush,
And blossoms on the tree;
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;
Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.

'T is like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume;
There 's crimson buds, and white and blue--
The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.

There 's fairy tulips in the east,
The garden of the sun;
The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run:
While Morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers;
Then, Lady, leave the silken thread
Thou twinest into flowers!

[Decoration]


_I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER._

I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi'lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,--
The tree is living yet!

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 't is little joy
To know I 'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy.


_BALLAD._

She 's up and gone, the graceless Girl!
And robbed my failing years;
My blood before was thin and cold
But now 't is turned to tears;--
My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand,
She might have stayed a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill,
'T is nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings,
Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste
That widened when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine;
Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine;
But now she 'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will!

[Decoration]


_SONG._

I.

The stars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail;
The moon is constant to her time;
The sun will never fail;
But follow, follow round the world,
The green earth and the sea;
So love is with the lover's heart,
Wherever he may be.

II.

Wherever he may be, the stars
Must daily lose their light;
The moon will veil her in the shade;
The sun will set at night.
The sun may set, but constant love
Will shine when he 's away;
So that dull night is never night,
And day is brighter day.




[Decoration]

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON).

1809-1885.


_THE BROOKSIDE._

I wandered by the brook-side,
I wandered by the mill,--
I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beside the elm-tree,
I watched the long, long, shade,
And as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,
I listened for a word,--
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,--no, he came not,--
The night came on alone,--
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne;
The evening air passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred,--
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind,--
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer--nearer,--
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.


[Illustration: Full-page Plate]


_THE VENETIAN SERENADE._

When along the light ripple the far serenade
Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid,
She may open the window that looks on the stream,--
She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;
Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,
"I am coming--Stalý[B]--but you know not for whom!
Stalý--not for whom!"

Now the tones become clearer,--you hear more and more
How the water divided returns on the oar,--
Does the prow of the Gondola strike on the stair?
Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?
Oh!



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