But if the house be swept,
And from uncleanness kept,
We praise the household maid,
And duly she is paid:

For we use before we go

To drop a tester in her shoe.

Upon a mushroom's head
Our table-cloth we spread;
A grain of rye, or wheat,
Is manchet, which we eat :
Pearly drops of dew we drink,
In acorn cups fill'd to the brink.

The brains of nightingales,
With unctuous fat of snails,
Between two cockles stew'd,
Is meat that's easily chew'd;
Tails of worms, and marrow of mice,
Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,
Serve for our minstrelsy ;

Grace said, we dance a while,

And so the time beguile :

And if the moon doth her head,
The glow-worm lights us home to bed.

On tops of dewy grass

So nimbly do we pass,

The young and tender stalk

Ne'er bends when we do walk:

Yet in the morning may be seen

Where we the night before have been.

We have here a short display of the popular belief concerning fairies. It will afford entertainment to a contemplative mind to trace these whimsical opinions up to their origin. Whoever considers how early, how extensively, and how uniformly, they have prevailed in these nations, will not readily assent to the hypothesis of those who fetch them from the East so late as the time of the Crusades. Whereas it is well known that our Saxon ancestors, long before they left their German forests, believed in the existence of a kind of diminutive demons, or middle species between men and spirits whom they called Duergars or Dwarfs, and to whom they attributed many wonderful performances, far exceeding human art. Vid. Hervarer Saga Olaj Verelj. 1675. Hickes Thesaur, &c. This song is given (with some corrections by another copy) from a book entitled "The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence," &c. Lond. 1658. 8vo.-DR. PERCY.

AWAY WITH GRIEF.

rom HUGH CROMPTON'S "Pierides, or the Muses Mount," 1658.

AWAY, thou gnawing worm, fond grief!

Away from me, away:

Thy absence is my sweet relief;

Then flee, without delay.

He that gives way to woe and sorrow,
May grieve to-day, and mourn to-morrow.

Go now into another zone,

Where mortal brains are light,

And press them down ;-I've need of none,
Since I have felt thy weight:

He that shall change his frown to laughter,
May laugh to-day, and sing hereafter :

I tried you both, and know you well,
But do not like you so :

A light heart has no parallel ;

But oh the pangs of woe! Yet woe the heart can never shoot, If thought be not the porter to 't.

Suppose you, then, that all is good,
And in that thought repose;

This will allay that fiery blood,
Which in thy body flows:

And mark me now,-for this is chief,-
Nothing on earth requireth grief.

If accident should chance to fall,
It falls from heaven above;

Then let no poverty or thrall,

Your soaring spirits move :

Nothing but sin can grief require;

Then grieve for sin,-else grief, expire.

THE JOVIAL BEGGARS.

From PLAYFORD'S "Choice Aires," 1660

THERE was a jovial beggar,

He had a wooden leg,

Lame from his cradle,

And forced for to beg.

And a begging we will go, will go, will go, And a begging we will go.

A bag for his oatmeal,

Another for his salt,

And a pair of crutches

To show that he can halt.

And a begging, &c.

A bag for his wheat,

Another for his rye,

And a little bottle by his side,
To drink when he's a dry.
And a begging, &c.

Seven years I begged

For my old master Wild,

He taught me to beg

When I was but a child.

And a begging, &c.

I begged for my master,

And got him store of pelf,

But, Jove now be praised,

I'm begging for myself.
And a begging, &c.

In a hollow tree

I live and pay no rentProvidence provides for me, And I am well content. And a begging, &c.

Of all the occupations,

A beggar's is the best,

For, whenever he's a-weary,

He can lay him down to rest.

And a begging, &c.

I fear no plots against me,
I live in open cell,

Then who would be a king

When beggars live so well?

And a begging we will go, &c.

This song is the prototype of many others in the English language, including the popular favourite, "A Hunting we will go," which appears among the sporting songs in this olume, and "A Sailing we will go," which appears among the sea songs.

THE PRAISE OF MILK.

From PLAYFORD'S " Musical Companion," Part II., 1687.

In praise of a dairy I purpose to sing,

But all things in order-first, God save the King.
And the Queen, I may say,

Who every May-day,

Has many fine dairy-maids, all fine and gay:
Assist me, fair damsels, to finish my theme,
Inspiring my fancy with strawberry cream.

The first of fair dairy-maids, if you'll believe,
Was Adam's own wife, our great grandmother Eve,
Who oft milked a cow,

Tho' butter was then not so cheap as 'tis now:
She hoarded no butter nor cheese on a shelf,
For butter and cheese in those days made itself.

In that age or time there was no horrid money,

Yet the children of Israel had both milk and honey.
No queen could you see,

Of the highest degree,

But would milk the brown cow with the meanest she:
Their lambs gave them clothing, their cows gave them meat,
And in plenty and peace all their joys were complete.

Amongst the rare virtues that milk does produce,

For a thousand of dainties it's daily in use;

Now a pudding, I'll tell ye,

Ere it goes in the belly,

Must have from good milk both the cream and the jelly:

For a dainty fine pudding, without cream or milk,

Is a citizen's wife, without satin or silk.

In the virtues of milk there is more to be muster'd

Than charming delights both of cheese-cake and custard,
For at Tottenham Court

You can have no sport,

Unless you have custard and cheese-cake too for 't.
And what's the jack-pudding that makes us to laugh,
Unless he hath got a great custard to quaff.

Both pancake and fritter, of milk have good store,
But a Devonshire white-pot must needs have much more.
No state you can think

Though you study and wink,

From the lusty sack-posset to pour posset drink,
But milk's the ingredient, tho' sack's ne'er the worse,
For 't is sack makes the man, tho' 't is milk makes the nurse.

THE OLD MAN'S WISH.

DR. WALTER POPE, born about 1630, died 1714

IF I live to grow old, for I find I go down,
Let this be my fate :-in a country town,
May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate.
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook,
With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look;
With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile,
And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile.
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,

And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more
Of the best wits that reign'd in the ages before;
With roast mutton, rather than ven'son or veal,
And clean, though coarse linen, at every meal.
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.