PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.

In the merrie moneth of Maye,
In a morne by break of daye,
With a troope of damselles playing
Forthe "I yode" forsooth a-maying:
When anon by a wood side,
Where as Maye was in his pride,
I espièd all alone
Phillida and Corydon.

Much adoe there was, god wot;
He wold love, and she wold not.
She sayde, never man was trewe;
He sayes, none was false to you.

He sayde, hee had lovde her longe:
She sayes, love should have no wronge.
Corydon wold kisse her then :
She sayes, maydes must kisse no men,

Tyll they doe for good and all.
When she made the shepperde call
All the heavens to wytnes truthe,
Never loved a truer youthe.
Then with manie a prettie othe,
Yea and nay, and faith and trothe;
Suche as seelie shepperdes use
When they will not love abuse;

Love, that had bene long deluded,
Was with kisses sweete concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gaye
Was made the lady of the Maye.

NICHOLAS BRETON.

"For he is in a foreign far land

Whose arm should now have set me free;

And I must wear the willow garland

For him that's dead, or false to me."

"Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!"-
He raised his visor,-at the sight
She fell into his arms and fainted;
It was indeed her own true knight.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

MAID OF ATHENS.

MAID of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back heart!
my
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Ζώη μου, σὰς ἀγαπῶ.

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge,
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπῶ,

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;

BONNIE LESLEY.

OH saw ye bonnie Lesley
As she gaed o'er the border?
She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests further.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And ne'er made sic anither.

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley-
Thy subjects we, before thee;
Thou art divine, fair Lesley-
The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Spanish maid is no coquette,

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, And if she love, or if she hate,

Alike she knows not to dissemble. Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold— Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely; And, though it will not bend to gold,

"Twill love you long and love you dearly.

Still be it ours, in Care's despite,

To join the chorus free:
"I love my Love, because I know
My Love loves me."

CHARLES MACKAY.

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken
deer,

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy
home is still here;

Here still is the smile that no cloud can

o'ercast,

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh, what was love made for, if 'tis not the

same

Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss,

And thy angel I'll be 'mid the horrors of this,

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,

And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!

THOMAS MOORE.

THE SILLER Croun.

AND sall walk in silk attire,
ye

And siller hae to spare,
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride,
Nor think o' Donald mair."

Oh wha wad buy a silken goun
Wi' a puir broken heart?
Or what's to me a siller croun

Gin frae my love I part?

The mind, whose meanest wish is pure,

Far dearest is to me,

And ere I'm forced to break my faith,

I'll lay me doun an' dee.

For I hae vow'd a virgin's vow

My lover's fate to share,

MARY MORISON.

O MARY, at thy window be!

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see

That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely 'Mary Morison!

Yestreen' when to the trembling string

The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,—

I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',)
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,

At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

ROBERT BURNS

THE MINSTREL'S SONG.

OH, sing unto my roundelay!

Oh, drop the briny tear with me!
Dance no more at holiday;
Like a running river be.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death bed,
All under the willow tree.