OLD ENGLISH SONGS.

SHALL I LIKE A HERMIT DWELL?

(Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)

Shall I like a hermit dwell,

On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part

That is missing of my heart,

To bestow it where I may

Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold [79]

If a stranger may be bold

Unrebuked, unafraid

To convert them to a braid;

And with little more ado

Work them into bracelets, too;

If the mine be grown so free

What care I how rich it be?

Were her hands as rich a prize

As her hairs or precious eyes;

If she lay them out to take

Kisses for good manners’ sake;

And let every lover skip

From her hand unto her lip;

If she be not chaste to me

What care I how chaste she be?

No; she must be perfect snow,

In effect as well as show,

Warming but as snow-balls do,

Not like fire, by burning too;

But when she by change hath got

To her heart a second lot;

Then if others share with me,

Farewell her, whate’er she be!

The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful poem by George Wither, which follows:—

Shall I, Wasting in Despair.

(George Wither, born 1588, died 1667.)

Shall I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman’s fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,

’Cause another’s rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day,

Or the flow’ry meads in May,

If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be grieved or pined

’Cause I see a woman kind

Or a well disposed nature

Joined with a lovely feature?

Be she meeker, kinder, than

Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman’s virtues move

Me to perish for her love?

Or, her well-deservings known,

Make me quite forget my own

Be she with that goodness blest

Which may gain her name of best,

If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be?

’Cause her fortune seems too high,

Shall I play the fool and die?

Those that bear a noble mind,

Where they want of riches find,

Think what with them they would do

That without them dare to woo;

And, unless that mind I see,

What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,

I will ne’er the more despair.

If she love me, this believe,

I will die ere she shall grieve:

If she slight me when I woo,

I can scorn and let her go:

For, if she be not for me,

What care I for whom she be?

From “The Mistress of Philarete,”
published in 1622.

Song. Mr. Gladstone.

Shall my heart be filled with care

’Cause the Whigs are so unfair?

Or, their services to keep,

Shall I sacrifice my sleep?

Or, lest they offence may take,

My great measures weaker make?

If they are not true to me,

What care I what Whigs they be.

’Cause they show such self-conceit,

Shall I risk severe defeat?

Or, in their good books to stay,

Scare good Radicals away?

Tho’ their talent be as great

As they never fail to state,

Yet, if they are not with me,

What care I what Whigs they be?

They have duped me far too long,

Threatening they were very strong,

Now I know they are at best

Fossils of no powers possest,

And methinks they soon will find

I am neither weak nor blind.

If their heats beat not for me,

What care I what Whigs they be?

They have thwarted me enough,

Tried to hinder and rebuff;

Why should I reward them, then,

To the loss of better men;

Better far to let them go,

And become an open foe!

If they will not work with me,

They may Tories be for me!

Truth. Christmas number 1882.

Matilda.

Shall I fret and fume and swear,

Because Matilda dyes her hair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,

That hers so very rosy are?

Though her raven locks to-day

Turn as yellow as the hay,

If she be but true to me,

What care I how blonde she be!

Shall a woman’s weakness move

Me such weakness to reprove?

Or her little failings known

Make me careless of my own?

Though her bills be longer than

Bill of duck or pelican,

If they be not paid by me,

What care I how long they be?

If her youth be left behind,

Shall I play the fool and mind?

She must be, the women say,

Forty-five if she’s a day—

But I swear she looks no more,

At the most, than forty-four:

If she’s young enough for me,

What care I how old she be?

Be she painted, fast, or old—

Be she flirt, or rake, or scold—

She has cash enough to make

Me submissive for her sake:

If she loose her money, though,

I can scorn and let her go;

If in poverty she be,

She may go to Bath for me!

From The White Pilgrim, and other Poems. By Herman Charles Merivale. London, Chapman & Hall, 1883.

(By the Author’s kind permission.)

——:o:——

The Cockney Shepheard to his Love.

(Arcadia.—Switchback railway now running through groves of trees, and above a veritable Fairyland of flowers, foliage, and illuminations, to strains of military music.)

Come, switch with me, my cockney Love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

Of hills, vales, groves, and flowery lands,

And strains of military bands.

And we will, sitting on the car,

Where other nymphs and shepheards are,

Shoot up and down, in rise and fall,

With catch (of breath) for madrigal.

My manly arm about thy waist,

For belt and clasp, Love, interlaced;

Thy skirt beflowered, and thy head-gear

The latest thing from Swan and Edgar.

My checks, my tie, my gilded studs,

Will vanquish all the rival “bloods.”

So, if such pleasures may thee move,

Come, switch with me, my cockney Love.

The Globe. September 19, 1887.

The Nymph’s Reply

to the “Cockney Shepheard,” is unfavourable to his appeal to her to come and switch with him in “Arcadia.” Much sympathy will be felt with the “Shepheard” on this refusal of his love to “switch the world with noble carmanship.”

Shepheard, an I were sweet seventeen,

And thou wert green and I were green,

These pretty pleasures might me move

To switch with thee, my cockney Love.

But hills and valleys have their fears

For maidens of discreeter years;

And nymphs when they have had their tea

Like to digest it quietlie.

These sudden flights, and jumps, and shoots

Plunge hearts from bosoms into boots;

And where in flowering Arcadee

Flow founts of Sal Volatile?

Thy checks, thy tie, thy gilt of stud,

Stir no bold humours in my blood;

And nothink, ’Arry, can me move

To switch with thee, my cockney Love.

The Globe. September 20, 1887.

——:o:——

After Herrick.

(Upon seeing her picture in profile.)

I die

If I but spy

One eye;

Yet would I fain

See twain.

(Upon receiving the same in a full view.)

In profile

’Twas vile;

But in th’ obverse

’Tis worse.

Ernest Radford.

Cats’ meat, cats’ meat—meat I cry

On a skewer—come and buy;

From Hyde Park Corner to Wapping Wall,

All the year I cats’ meat bawl;

Cats’ meat—cats’ meat—meat, I cry,

On a skewer—come and buy.

From The Book of Cats, by C. H. Ross. 1868.

The Whip’s Song.

(After Ben Jonson.)

Come to my lobby with thy vote,

And give it in with mine;

Or pair with one who’d vote against,

And I’ll not ask for thine.

Divisions thus will make us still