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WELCOME, WELCOME, DO I SING.

WILLIAM BROWNE, born 1590, died 1615.

From a MS. copy of his poems in the Landsdowne collection.

WELCOME, welcome, do I sing,

Far more welcome than the spring,
Ile that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

Love that to the voice is near,
Breaking from your ivory pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.

Love, that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun

To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,

'Tis a fool, if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,

All the odours of the fields,

Never, never, shall be missing.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.

Love, that question would anew,
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,

And a brief of that behold.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.

We are indebted to Browne for having preserved in his " Shepherd's Pipe," a curious poem by Occleve. Mr. Warton conceives his works to "have been well known to Milton," and refers to "Britannia's Pastorals" for the assemblage of circumstances in a morning landscape as were brought together more than thirty years afterwards by Milton in a passage of L'Allegro, which has been supposed to serve as the repository of imagery on that subject for all succeeding poets.-ELLIS.

INVITATION TO MAY.

From THOMAS MORLEY'S Ballads, 1595.
Now is the month of maying
When merry lads are playing,
Fa, la, la.

Each with his bonny lass,
Upon the greeny grass,
Fa, la, la.

The spring clad all in gladness,
Doth laugh at winter's sadness,
Fa, la, la.

And to the bagpipe's sound,

The nymphs tread out their ground,
Fa, la, la.

Fye then why sit we musing,
Youth's sweet delight refusing?
Fa, la, la.

Say, dainty nymphs, and speak,
Shall we play at barley-break ?1
Fa, la, la.

THE SHEPHERD'S HOLIDAY.

JAMES SHIRLEY, born 1596, died 1666.
WOODMEN, shepherds, come away,
This is Pan's great holiday;

Throw off cares,

With your heaven-aspiring airs

Help us to sing,

While valleys with your echoes ring.

Nymphs that dwell within these groves,
Leave your arbours, bring your loves,
Gather posies,

Crown your golden hair with roses,
As you pass,

Foot like fairies on the grass.

A game popular in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and peculiar to the month of May.

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.

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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,
He 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,

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

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