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BOTH.

Together still we'll sport and play,

And live in pleasure where no sin is ; The priest shall tie the knot to-day,

And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's.

HE.

By cooling streams our flocks we'll feed,

And leave deceit to knaves and ninnies, Or fondly stray where Love shall lead,

And every joy be mine and Jenny's.

SHE.

Let guilt the faithless bosom fright,

The constant heart is always bonny; Content, and peace, and sweet delight,

And love, shall live with me and Johnny.

BOTH.

Together still we'll sport and play,

And live in pleasure where no sin is ; The priest shall tie the knot to-day,

And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's.

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 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.

There is some doubt as to the authorship of this song. It is generally ascribed to a Mr. Upton, who wrote many songs for the convivial entertainments at Vauxhall Gardens towards the close of the last century. In the recently published memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert, we learn, from Lord Stourton, that her beauty was celebrated in a popular song, in which allusion was thus made to the addresses of the heir apparent:

“I'd crowns resign to call her mine,

Sweet lass of Richmond Hill." A letter published in the Times newspaper, and dated from the Garrick Club, March 30th, 1856, and signed “The Grandson of the Lass of Richmond Hill,” says :-“Lord Stourton is wrong. This popular song was written by Mr. Leonard M‘Nally (born Sept. 27, 1752), a man of some repute in his day as a barrister as well as an author. The “ Lass of Richmond Hill” was written in honour of Miss Ianson, the daughter of Mr. William Ianson, of Richmond Hill, Seybourne, Yorkshire, a lady to whom he was married at St. George's, Hanover Square, on the 16th of January, 1787. In addition to the “Lass of Richmond Hill," Leonard M‘Nally wrote various ballads and romances of great merit, which, I believe, it is the intention of his daughter by his second marriage, with Miss Edgeworth (the youngest daughter of Dr. Edgeworth), to publish with his biography. The music of this song, composed by Mr. Hook, father of the late Theodore Hook, was long popularly ascribed to the Prince of Wales. It was a great favourite with George III."

THE FARMER'S SON.

From the “Myrtle and the Vine, or Complete Vocal Library,” 1800.

Good people, give attention, while I do sing in praise
Of the happy situation we were in in former days;
When my father kept a farm, and my mother milk'd her cow,
How happily we lived then to what we do now!

When

my mother she was knitting, my sister she would spin, And by their good industry they kept us neat and clean; I rose up in the morning, with my father went to plough,How happily we lived then to what we do now! My brother gave

assistance in tending of the sheep; When tired with our labour, how contented we could sleep! Then early in the morning we again set out to plough,How happily we lived then to what we do now!

Then to market with the fleece, when the little herd were shorn,
And our neighbours we supplied with a quantity of corn;
For half-a-crown a bushel we would sell it then, I vow,-
How happily we lived then to what we do now!

I never knew at that time, go search the country round,
That butter ever sold for more than four-pence per pound,
And a quart of new milk for a penny

from the cow, How happily we lived then to what we do now!

How merry would the farmers then sing along the road,
When wheat was sold at market for five pounds a load!
They'd drop into an alehouse, and drink“Godspeed the plough,”-
How happily we lived then to what we do now!

A blessing to the squire, for he gave us great content,
And well he entertain'd us when my father paid his rent;
With flagons of good ale he'd drink“Farmer speed the plough,”
How happily we lived then to what we do now!

At length the squire died, sir, oh, bless his ancient pate !
Another fill’d with pride came as heir to the estate;
He took

my
father's farm

away,

and others too, I vow, Which brought us to the wretched state that we are in now.

May Providence befriend us, and raise some honest heart
The

poor for to disburden, who long have felt the smart;
To take the larger farms and divide them into ten,
That we may live as happy now as we did then.

A much older song, but in nowise resembling this, appears with the same title in

Chappell's “Collection of Ancient English Melodies,”

[graphic][merged small][merged small]

Good neighbours, since you've knock'd me down,
I'll sing you a song

of
songs

the

crown, For it shall be to the fair renown

Of a race that yields to no man. When order first on earth began, Each king was then a husbandman;

He honour'd the plough

And the barley-mow, Maintain'd his court from off his farm, And kept all round him tight and warm,

Like a right-down Suffolk yeoman.

The plough was then a nation's boast,
And the pride of those who rul'd the roast,
And so felt one well worth a host-

A brave and a noble Roman.
Some here

may

call to mind his name,
But the thing is true, and it's all the same;

In war and debate
He say'd the state,

He made the haughty foe to bow;
And when all was done went back to plough,

Like a home-bred Suffolk yeoman.

Said Horace, “ I'm grown sick of court,
And Cæsar's crack champagne and port;
To sing and pun for great folks’ sport,

Is the life of a raree showman ;
I long, 'mid all the fun of Rome,
To see how

my farm

goes on at home.' Now his parts were renown'd

The world around; But he stuck to his turnips, wheat, and hops ; And yet trust me if he grew

such

crops As a thriving Suffolk yeoman.

Good freeholders and stout were they,
Who form’d our warlike realm's array,
When Europe trembled many a day

At the name of an English bowman;
The arm that drew the gallant bow
Could pitch on the rick and barley-mow;

They lov'd the tough yew,

And the spot where it grew, For that was near our good old church; “And we'll never leave her in the lurch,"

Says my loyal Suffolk yeoman.

When George the Third adorn’d our throne,
His manly ways were just our own,
Then Britons stood in arms alone,

And defied each foreign foeman.
The good old King, he fear'd his God,
But he fear'd no man on earth who trod;

He lov'd his farm,

And he found a charm In every useful sterling art, And he wore the home-spun coat and heart

Of a manly Suffolk yeoman.

Since then the brave, the wise, and great
Have been plain folks of our estate;
We claim a pride of ancient date,

A pride that will injure no man;

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