Six Songs for Two Sopranos , opus 138

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Charm me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish'd, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou power that canst sever
From me this ill,
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire
Into a gentle licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep;
And give me such reposes
That I, poor I,
May think thereby
I live and die
'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like [a]1 silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers
Melt, melt my [pains]2
With thy soft strains;
That, having ease me given,
With full delight
I leave this light,
And take my flight
[For]3 Heaven.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,
And the Year
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying.  
Come, Months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead cold Year, 
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling
For the Year;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
To his dwelling;
Come, Months, come away;
Put on white, black, and gray;
Let your light sisters play --
Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead cold Year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.

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Old Meg she was a Gipsy, 
    And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
    And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
    Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
    Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
    Her Sisters larchen trees--
Alone with her great family
    She liv'd as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,
    No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
    Full hard against the Moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh
    She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
    She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers old and brown
    She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
    She met among the Bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
    And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
    A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere--
    She died full long agone!

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers:
  O sweet content!
Art thou rich yet is thy mind perplexed,
  O punishment.
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed,
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers.
  O sweet content, etc.

[Work]1 work apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny, hey nonny: hey nonny, nonny.

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring,
  O sweet content!
Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears,
  O punishment.
Then he [that]2 patiently wants, burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a King, a King.
  O sweet content, etc.