Joy crowns our bowers! Philomel
Leave off Tereus' rape to tell:
Let trees dance,

As they at Thracian lyre did once:
Mountains play,

This is the shepherd's holiday.

THE PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S LIFE.
JOHN CHALKHILL. From Walton's Angler, 1653.

OH! the sweet contentment
The countryman doth find.

High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee.
That quiet contemplation

Possesseth all my mind,

Then, care away, and wend along with me.
For courts are full of flattery,
As hath too oft been try'd;

High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee.
The city full of wantonness,

And both are full of pride;
Then, care away, and wend along with me.
But oh the honest countryman
Speaks truly from his heart,

High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee.
His pride is in his tillage,

His horses, and his cart;

Then, care away, and wend along with me.

Our clothing is good sheep-skins,
Grey russet for our wives;

High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee.
'Tis warmth, and not gay clothing,
That doth prolong our lives;

Then, care away, and wend along with me.

The ploughman, though he labour hard,
Yet on the holy day,

High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee.
No emperor so merrily

Does pass his time away;

Then, care away, and wend along with me.

To recompense our tillage

The heavens afford us showers,

High trolollie, lollie, lol, high trolollie, lee.
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 trolollie, 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 May-pole 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 us'd to thread,
Ile 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 cry'd when she sung,

Was nightingale ever so sweet!

How 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,

Or

So kind and so constant would prove,
go clad like our maidens in grey,
Or live in a cottage on love?

What though I have skill to complain,

Tho' the muses my temples have crown'd;
What tho' 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.
Tho' thro' the wide world I should range,
"Tis in vain for my fortune to fly,
'Twas her's 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 talked of or seen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon,

His ghost shall glide over the green.

F

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 flourished 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 barebell blue;
And as she pull'd them, still cried she,
Alas, none ever lov'd like me!

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 fill'd 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.