GEORGE DARLEY.

1795-1846.

MAY DAY.
From “Sylvia”: Act III. Scene ii. O may, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale. When lasses and their lovers meet Beneath the early village-thorn, And to the sound of tabor sweet Bid welcome to the Maying-morn! O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale. When grey-beards and their gossips come With crutch in hand our sports to see, And both go tottering, tattling home, Topful of wine as well as glee! O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale. But Youth was aye the time for bliss, So taste it, Shepherds! while ye may: For who can tell that joy like this Will come another holiday? O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale.
I’VE BEEN ROAMING.
FROM “LILIAN OF THE VALE.” I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming! Where the meadow dew is sweet, And like a queen I ’m coming With its pearls upon my feet. I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming! O’er red rose and lily fair, And like a sylph I ’m coming With their blossoms in my hair. I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming! Where the honeysuckle creeps, And like a bee I ’m coming With its kisses on my lips. I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming! Over hill and over plain, And like a bird I ’m coming To my bower back again!

SYLVIA’S SONG. T he streams that wind amid the hills And lost in pleasure slowly roam, While their deep joy the valley fills,— Even these will leave their mountain home; So may it, Love! with others be, But I will never wend from thee. The leaf forsakes the parent spray, The blossom quits the stem as fast; The rose-enamour’d bird will stray And leave his eglantine at last: So may it, Love! with others be, But I will never wend from thee.
SERENADE.
From “Sylvia”: Act IV. Scene I. Romanzo sings: A wake thee, my Lady-love! Wake thee, and rise! The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes! Behold how the early lark Springs from the corn! Hark, hark how the flower-bird Winds her wee horn! The swallow’s glad shriek is heard All through the air! The stock-dove is murmuring Loud as she dare! Apollo’s winged bugleman Cannot contain, But peals his loud trumpet-call Once and again! Then wake thee, my Lady-love, Bird of my bower! The sweetest and sleepiest Bird at this hour!