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 catas trophe, 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.

CRAZY JANE.

M. G. LEWIS, born 1773, died 1818.

WHY, fair maid, in every feature

Are such signs of fear express'd? Can a wand'ring wretched creature

With such terror fill thy breast Do my frenzied looks alarm thee?

Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain; Not for kingdoms would I harm thee; Shun not, then, poor Crazy Jane.

Dost thou weep to see my anguish ?
Mark me, and avoid my woe:
When men flatter, sigh, and languish,
Think them false-I found them so.

For I loved, ah! so sincerely

None could ever love again;

But the youth I loved so dearly
Stole the wits of Crazy Jane.

Fondly my young heart received him,
Which was doom'd to love but one.
He sigh'd-he vow'd-and I believed him,
He was false-and I undone.
From that hour has reason never
Held her empire o'er my brain.

Henry fled with him for ever
Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.

Now forlorn and broken-hearted,

And with frenzied thoughts beset ;
On that spot where last we parted,
On that spot where first we met,

Still I sing my love-lorn ditty,

Still I slowly pace the plain;

While each passer by, in pity,

Cries-God help thee, Crazy Jane!

OH, FOR MY TRUE LOVE.

From "The Myrtle and the Vine," 1800.

Down by the river there grows a green willow,

Sing, oh! for my true-love, my true-love, oh !
I'll weep out the night there, the bank for my pillow,
And all for my true-love, my true-love, oh!

When chill blows the wind, and tempests are beating,
I'll count all the clouds as I mark them retreating,
For true lovers' joys, well-a-day, are as fleeting;

Sing all for my true-love, my true-love, oh!

Maids, come in pity, when I am departed,

Sing, oh! for my true-love, my true-love, oh !
When dead on the bank I am found broken hearted,
And all for my true-love, my true-love, oh!
Make me a grave, all while the wind's blowing,
Close to the stream where my tears once were flowing,
And over my corpse keep the green willow glowing,
'Tis all for my true-love, my true-love, oh!

THE DISTRACTED MAID.

From "The Myrtle and the Vine."

ONE morning very early, one morning in the spring,

I heard a maid in Bedlam who mournfully did sing ;

Her chains she rattled on her hands while sweetly thus sung she : I love my love, because I know my love loves me.

"O cruel were his parents who sent my love to sea!

And cruel cruel was the ship that bore my love from me!

Yet I love his parents since they 're his, altho' they 've ruined me; And I love my love, because I know my love loves me.

"O should it please the pitying powers, to call me to the sky,
I'd claim a guardian angel's charge around my love to fly;
To guard him from all dangers how happy should I be !
For I love my love, because I know my love loves me.

"I'll make a strawy-garland, I'll make it wondrous fine,
With roses, lilies, daisies, I'll mix the eglantine;

And I'll present it to my love when he returns from sea,
For I love my love because I know my love loves me.

"Oh, if I were a little bird to build upon his breast,
Or if I were a nightingale to sing my love to rest !
To gaze upon his lovely eyes all my reward should be ;
For I love my love, because I know my love loves me.

Oh, if I were an eagle to soar into the sky!

I'd gaze around with piercing eyes where I my love might spy;
But, ah! unhappy maiden, that love you ne'er shall see :
Yet I love my love, because I know my love loves me."

THE MAD GIRL'S SONG.

THOMAS DIBDIN.

From "The Last Lays of the Three Dibdins," 1834.

O TAKE me to your arms, love,

For keen the wind doth blow!
O take me to your arms, my love,
For bitter is my woe!
She hears me not, she cares not,
Nor will she list to me;

And here I lie in misery,

Beneath the Willow Tree.

I once had gold and silver;

I thought them without end:

I once had gold and silver;
I thought I had a friend.

My wealth is lost, my friend is false,
My love is stol'n from me ;

And here I lie in misery,

Beneath the Willow Tree.