The book of English songs

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;