her, in all their songs of glee and gladness, invariably below the bottle. She was held out in terrorem to all happiness and joy, and to fly from her was the burthen of every song." He, on the contrary, wrote "to discipline anew the social bands of convivial life, to blend the sympathies of fellow hearts, and wreathe a sweeter and gayer garland for the brow of festivity from the divine plants of concord, gratitude, friendship, and love." His genius, however, was not equal to his good intentions, and of the many hundred songs which he wrote, not one is worth remembering, except as a slight improvement upon the verses of Pope's " Lady of Quality," -that mythological person who is supposed to have been the parent of all the love songs of the eighteenth century.

The return to the simplicity of nature, as the only source of poetic beauty, which signalized the revival of English literature at the commencement of the present century, had of course an effect upon the public taste as regarded songs; and a song writer appeared whose fame eclipsed that of all other competitors. Thomas Moore, whose Irish Melodies are Irish by their music, and by their nationality of sentiment, is, nevertheless, the best writer of English songs whom our literature has produced. He may be claimed for England, as well as for the country of his birth ;—and the example of heart, united with intellect, of vigour combined with elegance, and of philosophy with fancy, which he set to his contemporary writers of verse, will long exercise a genial influence upon the literature of song.

While English songs that are written to be read have gradually attained the highest beauty, English songs intended to be sung have not reached the same perfection. In this respect the fault lies with the musical composers, who seem to. love the " 'Lady of Quality" and her smooth " nonsense verses" far better than they love poetry, and to fail in adapting to music the higher flights of fancy or imagination, and the tenderer bursts of natural feeling. Without their aid the song writer cannot win his way to the popular heart; and poets, disgusted with musicians, will neglect this fascinating branch of the poetic art, and direct the energies of their minds to more elaborate composition.

1 This is a small oblong paper volume-known to be of this early date by the badges on the binding, and the names on the fly leaf. It passed through the hands of Thomas Mulliner, Thomas Heywood, and Churchyard the poet. It was in the library of Sir John Hawkins, the musical historian, and afterwards in that of J. S. Smith, the author of "Musica Antiqua," and is now in the possession of Dr. Rimbault.

When I behold my sweeting sweet,
Her face, her hands, her minion feet,
They seem to me there is none so mete,
As my sweet sweeting.

Above all other praise must I,
And love my pretty pygsnye,1

For none I find so womanly
As my sweet sweeting.

THE LOYAL LOVER.

From the same MS. as the preceding sang.

As I lay sleeping,
In dreams fleeting,
Ever my sweeting
Is in my mind.

She is so goodly,
With looks so lovely,

That no man truly

Such one can find.

Her beauty so pure,
It doth under lure

My poor heart full sure

In governance.

Therefore now will I

Unto her apply,

And ever will cry

For remembrance.

Her fair eye piercing,

My poor heart bleeding,
And I abiding,

In hope of mede;

1 A term of endearment, used by Chaucer, Skelton, &c., probably the origin of the modern word pickaninny. It is spelled piggesnie in Tyrwhitt's edition of Chaucer. The poet, describing the Carpenter's wife in the Miller's Tale, says, " She was a primesole -a piggesnie;" primesole, signifies a primrose. "The Romans," says Tyrwhitt," used oculus as a term of endearment, and perhaps piggesnie, in vulgar language, only means ocellus; the eyes of that animal being remarkably small."-Note on Chaucer's Cant. Tales, v. 3268. Todd (Johnson's Dict. in v. Pigsney) has shown that the word was occasionally written pigs eie. The derivation, however, seems more likely to be from the d Saxon word, piga, a girl.

But thus have I long,
Entuning this song,
With pains full strong,

And cannot speed.

Alas will not she,
Now show her pity,
But this will take me,
In such disdain ;

Methinketh I was

Unkind that she is,

That bindeth me thus,
In such hard pain.

Though she me bind,
Yet shall she not find,
My poor heart unkind,

Do what she can ;

For I will her pray,
While I live a day,

Me to take for aye,

For her own man.

THE SORROWS OF TRUE LOVERS' PARTING.

SIR THOMAS WYATT, born 1503, died 1554

THERE was never nothing more me pain'd,

Nor more my pity mov'd

As when my sweetheart her complain'd

That ever she me lov'd,

Alas! the while!

With piteous look she said, and sigh'd,

"Alas! what aileth me?

To love and set my wealth so light,
On him that loveth not me ;

Alas the while!

"Was I not well void of all pain,

When that nothing me griev'd?

And now with sorrows I must complain,
And cannot be reliev'd,

Alas! the while!

"My restful nights, and joyful days,
Since I began to love

Be take from me; all thing decays
Yet can I not remove,

Alas! the while!"

She wept and wrung her hands withal,
The tears fell on my neck;

She turned her face, and let them fall,
And scarce therewith could speak:
Alas! the while!

Her pains tormented me so sore
That comfort I had none,

But cursed my fortune more and more
To see her sob and groan,

Alas! the while!

THE DECEIVED LOVER SUETH ONLY FOR LIBERTY.

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

IF chance assign'd,

Were to my mind,

By every kind

Of destiny;

Yet would I crave

Nought else to have,

But (dearest?) life and liberty.1

Then were I sure,

I might endure

The displeasure

Of cruelty;

Where now I plain

Alas! in vain,

Lacking my life for liberty.

For without th' one,

Th' other is gone,

And there can none

It remedy;

1 In the ordinary version this line is printed "But life and liberty,"-as, however, the line is thus shorter by two feet than the corresponding lines of the other stanzas, the word "dearest" is suggested as the proper word to supply the omission.