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YE banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As, underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary!

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But, oh, fell death's untimely frost,
That nipp'd my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

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SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
And through the streets does cry 'em
Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em :
But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely-
But let him bang his bellyful,

I'll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week
I dearly love but one day—
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm drest all in my best

To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed
Because I leave him in the lurch
As soon as text is named;

I leave the church in sermon-time
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
Oh then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up, and box it all,

I'll give it to my honey:

I would it were ten thousand pound,
I'd give it all to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

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AWAKE, awake, my Lyre!

WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED
MISTRESS.

WHOE'ER she be,

That not impossible She

That shall command my heart and me;

Where'er she lie,

Lock'd up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth

Of studied Fate stand forth,

And tell thy silent master's humble And teach her fair steps to our earth;

tale

In sounds that may prevail;

Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:

Though so exalted she

And I so lowly be,

Till that divine

Idea take a shrine

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

-Meet you her, my Wishes,

Tell her, such different notes make all thy Bespeak her to my blisses,

harmony.

Hark! how the strings awake:

And, though the moving hand approach

not near,

Themselves with awful fear

A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;

Now all thy charms apply;

Revenge upon her ear the conquests of

her eye.

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure

Is useless here, since thou art only found

To cure, but not to wound,

And she to wound, but not to cure.
Too weak too wilt thou prove

My passion to remove;

Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment

to love.

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!

And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie :

Something more than

Taffata or tissue can,

Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

A face that's best

By its own beauty drest,

And can alone command the rest:

A face made up

Out of no other shop

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

Sydneian showers

Of sweet discourse, whose powers

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

Whate'er delight

For thou canst never tell my humble Can make day's forehead bright

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Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
Full of pity as may be,
Though perhaps not so to me.

Reason masters every sense,
And her virtues grace her birth;
Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth.
Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is; and if you know
Such a one as I have sung;
Be she brown, or fair, or so

That she be but somewhile young;
Be assured 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

TO VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF
TIME.

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting

The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer, But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry ;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

ROBERT HERRICK.

ROSALINE.

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame color is her hair,
Whether unfolded, or in twines;

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling heaven by every wink; The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,

Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity;

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck is like a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same;

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire Llue,

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LINES ON ISABELLA MARKHAM.

WHENCE comes my love? O heart, disclose;

Then muse not, nymphs, though I be- It was from cheeks that shamed the rose,

moan

The absence of fair Rosaline,

Since for a fair there's fairer none,

Nor for her virtues so divine;

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;

From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe? as freely own; Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,

Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she The lips befitting words most kind,

were mine!

THOMAS LODGE.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. WHEN Love, with unconfinèd wings, Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates; When I lye tangled in her haire;

And fetter'd with her eye,

The birds that wanton in the aire
Know no such libertye.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,
When healths and draughts goe free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deepe,

Know no such libertìe.

When, linnet-like, confinèd I
With shriller note shall sing
The mercye, sweetness, majestye,
And glories of my king;
When I shall voyce aloud how good

He is, how great should be,

Th' enlarged windes, that curle the flood, Know no such libertìe.

Stone walls doe not a prison make,

Nor iron barres a cage, Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love, And in my soule am free,

The does tempt to love's desire,
eye
And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire;
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Sith naught doth say the heart of stone.
Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing
cheek-

Yet not a heart to save my pain?
O Venus, take thy gifts again!
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.
JOHN HARRINGTON.

SONG.

FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you;
Seem to fly it, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, she denies you;

Let her alone, she will court you.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?

At morn and even shades are longest;
At noon they are or short or none;
So men at weakest they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they're not known
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?

TO LUCASTA,

BEN JOSON.

ON GOING TO THE WARS.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flee.

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