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And for our sweet refreshments

The earth affords us bowers :
Then care away, and wend along with me.

The cuckoo and the nightingale

Full merrily do sing, High trolollie, lollie, lol ; high trolollie, lee;

And with their pleasant roundelays

Bid welcome to the spring :
Then care away, and wend along with me.

This is not half the happiness

The countryman enjoys, High trolollie, lollie, lol; high troiollie, lee;

Though others think they have as much,

Yet he that says so lies:
Then care away, and wend along with me.

AMINTOR'S WELL-A-DAY.

Dr. R. HUGHES, From Lawes's Third Book of Ayres, 1653.

CHLORIS, now thou art fled away,
Amintor's sheep are gone astray,
And all the joy he took to see
His pretty lambs run after thee
Is gone, is gone, and he alway
Sings nothing now but-Well-a-day!
His oaten pipe, that in thy praise
Was wont to sing such roundelays,
Is thrown away, and not a swain
Dares pipe or sing within his plain :
"Tis death for any now to say
One word to him but-Well-a-day!

The maypole, where thy little feet
So roundly did in measures meet,
Is broken down, and no content
Comes near Amintor since you went.
All that I ever heard him say,
Was Chloris, Chloris-Well-a-day!

Upon these banks you used to thread
He ever since hath laid his head,
And whisper'd there such pining woe,
As not a blade of

grass
will

grow. O Chloris ! Chloris! come away, And hear Amintor's— Well-a-day!

COLIN'S COMPLAINT.

NICHOLAS Rowe, born 1673, died 1718.

DESPAIRING beside a clear stream

A shepherd forsaken was laid ;
And while a false nymph was his theme,

A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain

To his sighs with a sigh did reply, And the brook, in return to his pain,

Ran mournfully murmuring by.

Alas! silly swain that I was,

Thus sadly complaining, he cried, When first I beheld that fair face,

'Twere better by far I had died. She talk’d, and I bless'd her dear tongue;

When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great; I listen'd, and cried, when she sung,

Was nightingale ever so sweet?

Ilow foolish was I to believe

She could doat on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve

To forsake the fine folk of the town : To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant would prove, Or go clad, like our maidens, in grey,

Or live in a cottage on love!

What though I have skill to complain,

Though the Muses my temples have crown'd; What though, when they hear my soft strain,

The virgins sit weeping around?

Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain;

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;
Thy false one inclines to a swain

Whose music is sweeter than thine.

All you, my companions so dear,

Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid.
Though through the wide world I should range,

'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly;
'Twas hers to be false and to change,-

'Tis mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain,

In her breast any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,

And see me laid low in the ground:
The last humble boon that I crave,

Is to shade me with cypress and yew;
And when she looks down on my grave,

Let her own that her shepherd was true.

Then to her new love let her go,

And deck her in golden array ;
Be finest at every fine show,

And frolic it all the long day:
While Colin, forgotten and gone,

No more shall be talk'd of or seen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon

His ghost shall glide over the green.

This song is usually sung to the ancient melody enti'led “Grim King of the Ghosts.” The author is supposed to have alluded in this pastoral to his own disappointment in gaining the affections of the Countess Dowager of Warwick, afterwards married to Joseph Addison.

AS I WALKED FORTH ONE SUMMER'S DAY.

From PLAYFORD'S “ Airs and Dialogues," 1676,

As I walk'd forth one summer's day
To view the meadows green and gay,
A cool retreating bower I spied,
That flourish'd near the river's side,

Where oft in tears a maid would cry,
“ Did ever maiden love as I?"

Then o'er the grassy fields she'd walk,
And nipping flowers low by the stalk,
Such flowers as in the meadow grew,-
The deadman's thumb and harebell blue;

And as she pull’d them, still cried she,
Alas, none ever lov'd like me!"

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Such flowers as gave the sweetest scent
She bound about with knotty bent;
And as she bound them up in bands,
She sigh’d, and wept, and wrung her hands;

Alas, alas !” still sobbed she,
Alas, none ever lov'd like me !"

When she had filled her apron full
Of all the flowers that she could cull,
The tender leaves serv'd for a bed,
The scented flowers to rest her head;

Then down she laid, nor sigh'd nor spake,-
With love her gentle heart did break.

THE SUN WAS SUNK BENEATH THE HILL.

Anonymous, but often attributed to John Gay,

The sun was sunk beneath the hill,

The western clouds were lin’d with gold,
The sky was clear, the winds were still,

The flocks were pent within the fold;
When from the silence of the grove,
Poor Damon thus despair'd of love.

Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose

From the bare rock or oozy beach,
Who from each barren weed that grows

Expects the grape or blushing peach,
With equal faith may hope to find
The truth of love in womankind.

I have no herds, no fleecy care,

No fields that wave with golden grain, No pastures green or gardens fair,

A woman's venal heart to gain; Then all in vain my sighs must prove, For I, alas ! have nought but love.

How wretched is the faithful youth,

Since women's hearts are bought and sold !
They ask no vows of sacred truth ;

Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold.
Gold can the frowns of scorn remove,
But I, alas! have nought but love.

To buy the gems of India's coast,

What wealth, what treasure can suffice ?
Yet India's shore shall never boast

The living lustre in thine eyes ;
For these the world too cheap would prove;
But I, alas! have nought but love.

Then, Sylvia, since nor gems nor ore

Can with thy brighter self compare,
Consider that I offer more

Than glittering gems—a soul sincere :
Let riches meaner beauties move;
Who pays thy worth, must pay in love.

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