полная версия
Various
Old Ballads
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE
Woodman, spare that tree,
Touch not a single bough—
In youth it shelter'd me,
And I'll protect it now.
Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot.
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not.
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,
Say, wouldst thou hack it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke,
Cut not its earth-bound ties—
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now, towering to the skies.
Oft, when a careless child,
Beneath its shade I heard
The wood-notes sweet and wild,
Of many a forest bird.
By mother kiss'd me here,
My father press'd my hand,
I ask thee, with a tear,
Oh, let that old oak stand.
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close at thy bark, old friend—
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree, the storm still brave,
And, woodman, leave the spot—
While I've a hand to save
Thy axe shall harm it not.
General G.P. Morris.
THE TOKEN
The breeze was fresh, the ship in stays,
Each breaker hush'd, the shore a haze.
When Jack no more on duty call'd,
His true love's tokens overhaul'd;
The broken gold, the braided hair,
The tender motto, writ so fair,
Upon his 'bacco-box he views,
Nancy the poet, love the muse.
"If you loves I, as I loves you,
No pair so happy as we two."
The storm, that like a shapeless wreck,
Had strew'd with rigging all the deck,
That tars for sharks had giv'n a feast,
And left the ship a hulk—had ceas'd:
When Jack, as with his messmates dear,
He shared the grog their hearts to cheer,
Took from his 'bacco-box a quid,
And spell'd for comfort on the lid
"If you loves I, as I loves you,
No pair so happy as we two."
The voyage,—that had been long and hard,
But that had yielded full reward,
And brought each sailor to his friend
Happy and rich—was at an end:
When Jack, his toils and perils o'er,
Beheld his Nancy on the shore:
He then the 'bacco-box display'd,
And cried, and seized the yielding maid,
"If you loves I, as I loves you,
No pair so happy as we two."
C. Dibdin.
O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST
O wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee.
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a'.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
She bleak and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there,
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown,
Wad be my queen.
Burns.
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,
The woods or steepy mountains yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd o'er with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined 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.
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.
Christopher Marlowe.
LOVELY NAN
Sweet is the ship, that, under sail
Spreads her white bosom to the gale;
Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can;
Sweet to poise the lab'ring oar
That tugs us to our native shore,
When the boatswain pipes the barge to man;
Sweet sailing with a fav'ring breeze;
But oh! much sweeter than all these,
Is Jack's delight, his lovely Nan.
The needle faithful to the north,
To show of constancy the worth,
A curious lesson teaches man;
The needle time may rust, a squall capsize the binnacle and all,
Let seamanship do all it can;
My love in worth shall higher rise!
Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize,
My faith and truth to lovely Nan.
I love my duty, love my friend,
Love truth and merit to defend,
To moan their loss who hazard ran;
I love to take an honest part.
Love beauty with a spotless heart,
By manners love to show the man,
To sail through life by honour's breeze;
'Twas all along of loving these
First made me doat on lovely Nan.
C. Dibdin.
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,
Oh, whisper to my charming fair,
I'd die for her I love!
How happy will the shepherd be
Who calls this nymph his own!
Oh, may her choice be fix'd on me?
Mine's fix'd on her alone.
James Upton.
TELL ME NOT, SWEET
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you, too, shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.
Richard Lovelace.
SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES
She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met,
Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet;
Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone,
The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow.
A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore,
The expression of her features was more thoughtful than before,
And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain,
To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne'er might view again.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow.
And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there,
The widow's sombre cap conceal'd her once luxuriant hair;
She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near,
To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear!
I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now,
In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow.
Thomas Haynes Bayly.