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JOHN BARLEY CORN.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe,
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They tossed him to and fro.
They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones ;
But a miller used him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.
And they ha' taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.
'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy ;
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Though the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each map a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar,
There would I weep my woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne'er to wake more.
Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare
All thy fond plighted vows fleeting as air?
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try
What peace is there.
CHIEFLY FROM THE ANCIENT DRAMATIC AUTHORS.
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Looking on darkness which the blind doth see. When I behold the violet past prime,
Save that my soul's imaginary sight And sable curls, all silver'd o'er with white;
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ;
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. Then of thy beauty do I question make,
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, That thou among the wastes of time must go,
I all alone beweep my out-cast state, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And die as fast as they see others grow;
And look upon myself, and curse my fate, And nothing 'gainst time's scythe can make defence,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence.
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time ?
With what I most enjoy contented least : And fortify yourself in your decay
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, With means more blessed than my barren rhime ?
Haply I think on thee,—and then my state Now stand you on the top of happy hours;
(Like to the lark at break of day arising And many maiden gardens yet unset,
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings, Much liker than your painted counterfeit;
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. So should the lines of life that life repair, Which this, 'Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
If thou survive my well-contented day, Neither in inward worth, nor outward fair,
When that churl death my bones with dust shall Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey (cover,
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time;
And though they be out-stripp'd by every pen, Let those who are in favour with their stars,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhime, Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Exceeded by the height of happier men. Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought! Unlook'd for joy in that I honour'd most.
Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age Great princes favourites their fair leaves spread, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, But as the marigold at the sun's eye;
To march in ranks of better equipage: And in themselves their pride lies buried,
But since he died, and poets better prove, For at a frown they in their glory die.
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Full many a glorious morning have I seen Is from the book of honor razed quite,
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd.
Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Then happy I, that love and am belov'd,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy; Where I may not remove, nor be removed.
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face, Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ;
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: But then begins a journey in my head,
E'en so my sun one early morn did shine, To work my mind, when body's work's expired: With all triumphant splendour on my brow; For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,