Lulla, lulla, lullaby: lulla, lulla, lullaby: Come our lovely lady nigh! So good-night, with lullaby. SHAKESPEARE. UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH. B EFORE my face the picture hangs Do think hereon, that I must die. I often look upon a face Most uglie, grislie, bare, and thin; Where eyes and nose have sometime been; I read the label underneathe, That telleth me whereto I must: I see the sentence eke that saithe "Remember, man, that thou art duste;" But yet, alas, but seldom I Do think indeed, that I must die! Continually at my bed's head An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I, ere morning, may be dead, But yet, alas, for all this, I Have little minde that I must die! The gowne which I do use to weare, All these do tell me I must die; My ancestors are turn'd to clay, Not Solomon, for all his wit, Nor Samson, though he were so strong, Could 'scape, but Death laid him along! Though all the east did quake to hear If none can 'scape Death's dreadful darte, If strong, if wise, if all do smarte, I THE ANGEL. DREAM'D a dream, what can it mean? Guarded by an Angel mild: And I wept both night and day, So he took his wings and fled; I dried my tears, and arm'd my fears Soon my Angel came again; And grey hairs were on my head. WILLIAM BLAKE. LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. AN IRISH BALLAD. OH, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a show'r, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup, Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gather'd in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before, No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly kill'd itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moan'd his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But bless'd himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung, Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! O might we live together in a cottage mean and small; With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress. It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go ! WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. |