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.

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.

Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose,

From the bare rock 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 woman kind

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!

THE SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT.

CHARLES HAMILTON, (LORD BINNING), died 1732-3.

DID ever swain a nymph adore

As I ungrateful Nanny do?
Was ever shepherd's heart so sore-
Was ever broken heart so true?
My eyes are swelled with tears; but she
Has never shed a tear for me.

If Nanny called did Robin stay,
Or linger when she bade me run?
She only had the word to say,

And all she asked was quickly done:
I always thought on her, but she
Would ne'er bestow a thought on me.

To let her cows my clover taste,
Have I not rose by break of day?
When did her heifers ever fast,

If Robin in his yard had hay?
Though to my fields they welcome were,
I never welcome was to her!

If Nanny ever lost a sheep,

I cheerfully did give her two:

Did not her lambs in safety sleep

Within my fold's in frost and snow? Have they not there from cold been free? But Nanny still is cold to me

Whene'er I climb'd our orchard trees,

The ripest fruit was kept for Nan;
Oh, how those hands that drown'd her bees
Were stung, I'll ne'er forget the pain!
Sweet were the combs, as sweet could be;
But Nanny ne'er look'd sweet on me.

If Nanny to the well did come,

'Twas I that did her pitchers fill;
Full as they were, I brought them home;
Her corn I carried to the mill,

My back did bear her sacks but she
Would never bear the sight of me.

To Nanny's poultry oats I gave,

I'm sure they always had the best;
Within this week her pigeons have

Eat up a peck of peas at least;
Her little pigeons kiss, but she
Would never take a kiss from me.
Must Robin always Nanny woo,

And Nanny still on Robin frown?
Alas, poor wretch! what shall I do,
If Nanny does not love me soon?
If no relief to me she'll bring,
I'll hang me in her apron string.

DAME DURDEN.

Anonymous. Date uncertain.

DAME Durden kept five serving girls,
To carry the milking pail;
She also kept five labouring men

To use the spade and flail.

'Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail, And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail.

'Twas John kiss'd Molly,

And Dick kiss'd Betty,

And Joe kiss'd Dolly,

And Jack kiss'd Katty,
And Dorothy Draggletail,

And Humphrey with his flail,

And Kitty was a charming girl to carry the milking pail.

Dame Durden in the morn so soon

She did begin to call:

To rouse her servants, maids and men,
She then began to bawl.

'Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy Draggletail, And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Humphrey with his flail. 'Twas John kiss'd Molly, &c.

'Twas on the morn of Valentine,

The birds began to prate,

Dame Durden's servants, maids and men,

They all began to mate.