THE MAD LOVER.

ALEXANDER BROME, born 1620, died 1666.

I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink-
This many and many year;

And those three are plagues enough, one would think,
For one poor mortal to bear.

'Twas drink made me fall into love,

And love made me run into debt;

And though I have struggled, and struggled and strove, I cannot get out of them yet.

There's nothing but money can cure me,

And rid me of all my pain;

"Twill pay all my debts,

And remove all my lets;

And my mistress that cannot endure me,
Will love me, and love me again :
Then I'll fall to loving and drinking again.

THE MAD SHEPHERDESS.

My lodging is on the cold ground,
And very hard is my fare;
But that which troubles me most is
The unkindness of my dear;

Yet still I cry, O turn love,

And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man that I long for,
And alack! what remedy!

I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then,
And I'll marry thee with a rush ring,

My frozen hopes shall thaw then,

And merrily we will sing;

O turn to me my dear love,

And I prithee, love, turn to me,

For thou art the man who alone canst

Procure my liberty.

But if thou wilt harden thy heart still,
And be deaf to my pitiful moan!
Then I must endure the smart still,
And lie in my straw all alone;

Yet still I cry, O turn love,

And I prithee, love, turn to me,

For thou art the man that alone art

The cause of my misery.

This song, of which the air is claimed both by the Scotch and the Irish, and which has been rendered familiar to modern ears, by the beautiful version in Moore's Irish Melodies -"Believe me if all those endearing young charms"-was introduced into Davenant's Comedy of "The Rivals," 1668; but is probably still older. The phrase to "marry with a rush ring," is introduced in the ancient ballad of "The Winchester Wedding:”—

"And Tommy was loving to Kitty,

And wedded her with a rush ring."

eaning a marriage without the rites of religion, and to be dissolved at the will of the parties as easily as a rush ring may be broken.

TOM A BEDLAM, OR MAD TOM.

WILLIAM BASSE; from "The English Dancing Master," 1651.

'FORTH from my dark and dismal cell,

Or from the dark abyss of hell,

Mad Tom is come, to view the world again,
To see if he can cure his distemper'd brain.
Fears and cares oppress my soul!
Hark! how the angry furies howl;
Pluto laughs, and Proserpine is glad,
To see poor angry Tom of Bedlam bad.

Thro' the world I wander night and day,
To find my straggling senses;
In angry mood I meet old Time,

With his pentateuch of tenses.

When me he spies, away he flies,

For time will stay for no man:
In vain with cries I rend the skies,
For pity is not common.

Cold and comfortless I lie,

Help! help! or else I die.

Hark! I hear Apollo's team,

The carman 'gins to whistle,
Chaste Dian' bends her bow.

And the boar begins to bristle.

Come, Vulcan, with tools and with tackle,
And knock off my troublesome shackle;
Bid Charles make ready his wain,

To bring me my senses again.

Last night I heard the dog-star bark;
Mars met Venus in the dark;
Limping Vulcan beat an iron bar,
And furiously made at the god of war.

Mars, with his weapon, laid about;
Limping Vulcan had got the gout;

His broad horns did so hang in his light,
That he could not see to aim his blows aright.

Mercury, the nimble post of heaven,
Stood still to see the quarrel;
Barrel-belly'd Bacchus, giant like,

Bestrode a strong beer barrel;

To me he drank whole butts,

Until he burst his guts;

But mine were ne'er the wider.

Poor Tom is very dry;

A little drink for charity.

Hark! I hear Actæon's hounds,

The huntsman's whoop and hallo;
Ringwood, Rockwood, Jowler, Bowman,
All the chase do follow.

The man in the moon drinks claret,
Eats powder'd beef, turnip, and carrot;
But a cup of old Malaga sack

Will fire the bush at his back.

"The words of the latter half of this song are not now sung. George Bayden, also called 'Mad Tom,' has been stitched' upon

Another song, set by it."-CHAPPELL.

THE DISTRACTED LOVER.

HENRY CAREY.

I Go to the Elysian shade,

Where sorrow ne'er shall wound me;
Where nothing shall my rest invade,
But joy shall still surround me.

I fly from Celia's cold disdain,
From her disdain I fly;

She is the cause of all my pain;
For her alone I die.

Her eyes are brighter than the mid-day sun,
When he but half his radiant course has run,
When his meridian glories gaily shine,
And gild all nature with a warmth divine.

See yonder river's flowing tide,

Which now so full appears;

Those streams, that do so swiftly glide,

Are nothing but my tears.

There I have wept till I could weep no more,

And curst my eyes, when they have wept their store;

Then, like the clouds, that rob the azure main,

I've drain'd the flood to weep it back again.

Pity my pains,

Ye gentle swains!

Cover me with ice and snow;

I scorch, I burn, I flame, I glow!

Fairies tear me,

Quickly bear me,

To the dismal shades below!

Where yelling, and howling,
And grumbling, and growling,

Strike the ear with horrid woe.

Hissing snakes,

Fiery lakes,

Would be a pleasure, and a cure;

Not all the hells

Where Pluto dwells,

Can give such pain as I endure.

To some peaceful plain convey me,
On a mossy carpet lay me,
Fan me with ambrosial breeze;

Let me die, and so have ease!

The "Distracted Lover" was written by Henry Carey, a celebrated composer of music, at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and author of several little theatrical entertainments, which are enumerated in "The Companion to the Playhouse," &c. The sprightliness of this songster's fancy could not preserve him from a very melancholy catastrophe, which was effected by his own hand.-PERCY.

OLD MAD TOM.

From "The Thrush," 1749,

I'm old mad Tom, behold me!
My wits are quite unframed ;
I'm mad, I'm sure, and past all cure,
And in hopes of being proclaimed.

I'll mount the frosty mountains,

And there I'll skim the weather;

I'll pluck the rainbow from the sky,
And I'll splice both ends together.

I'll mount the stairs of marble,

And there I'll fright the gipsies ;
And I'll play at bowls with sun and moon,
And win them with eclipses.

I 'prentice was to Vulcan,

And serv'd my master faithful,

In making tools for jovial fools,

But, ye gods, ye proved unfaithful.

The stars pluck'd from their orbs, too,
I'll put them in my budget;

And if I'm not a roaring boy,

Then let the nation judge it.