My gardener he stood by, he told me to take great care,
For in the middle of a red rose-bud there grows a sharp thorn there;
I told him I’d take no care till I did feel the smart,
And often I plucked at the red rose-bud till I pierced it to the heart.
I’ll make me a posy of hyssop,—no other I can touch,—
That all the world may plainly see I love one flower too much;
My garden is run wild! where shall I plant anew—
For my bed, that once was covered with thyme, is all overrun with rue? [221a]
THE GARDEN-GATE.
[One of our most pleasing rural ditties. The air is very beautiful. We first heard it sung in Malhamdale, Yorkshire, by Willy Bolton, an old Dales’-minstrel, who accompanied himself on the union-pipes. [221b]]
The day was spent, the moon shone bright,
The village clock struck eight;
Young Mary hastened, with delight,
Unto the garden-gate:
But what was there that made her sad?—
The gate was there, but not the lad,
Which made poor Mary say and sigh,
‘Was ever poor girl so sad as I?’
She traced the garden here and there,
The village clock struck nine;
Which made poor Mary sigh, and say,
‘You shan’t, you shan’t be mine!
You promised to meet at the gate at eight,
You ne’er shall keep me, nor make me wait,
For I’ll let all such creatures see,
They ne’er shall make a fool of me!’
She traced the garden here and there,
The village clock struck ten;
Young William caught her in his arms,
No more to part again:
For he’d been to buy the ring that day,
And O! he had been a long, long way;—
Then, how could Mary cruel prove,
To banish the lad she so dearly did love?
Up with the morning sun they rose,
To church they went away,
And all the village joyful were,
Upon their wedding-day:
Now in a cot, by a river side,
William and Mary both reside;
And she blesses the night that she did wait
For her absent swain, at the garden-gate.
THE NEW-MOWN HAY.
[This song is a village-version of an incident which occurred in the Cecil family. The same English adventure has, strangely enough, been made the subject of one of the most romantic of Moore’s Irish Melodies, viz., You remember Helen, the hamlet’s pride.]