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Lulla, lulla, lullaby: lulla, lulla, lullaby :
Come our lovely lady nigh!
UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH.
EFORE my face the picture hangs
That dailie should put me in minde Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs That shortly I am like to finde :
But yet, alas! full little I
Do think hereon, that I must die. I often look upon a face
Most uglie, grislie, bare, and thin ; I often view the hollow place Where eyes and nose have sometime been;
I see the bones across that lie ;
Yet little think, that I must die. 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
But yet, alas, for all this, I
The gowne which I do use to weare,
The knife, wherewith I cut my meate,
All these do tell me I must die;
My ancestors are turn'd to clay,
And many of my mates are gone;
No, no, I know that I must die;
Not Solomon, for all his wit,
Nor Samson, though he were so strong,
Wherefore I know that I must die ;
Though all the east did quake to hear
Of Alexander's dreadful name,
Yet both by death in duste now lie;
If none can ’scape Death's dreadful darte,
If rich and poor his beck obey,
O grant me grace, O God, that I
ROBERT SOUTHWELL. THE ANGEL.
I mean ?
And that I was a maiden queen,
And I wept both night and day,
So he took his wings and fled ;
fears With ten thousand shields and spears.
Soon my Angel came again ;
LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.
AN IRISH BALLAD.
OH, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the
best! 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
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
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gather'd in a
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
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 be
side 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
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 cur
tains fall! O might we live together in a cottage mean and
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only
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 !