The Arnold Book of Old Songs

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup,
And I'll not ask for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And send'st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear
Not of itself, but thee.

Over the mountains,
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves.
Under floods that are deepest
Which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place
For the glow-worm to lie,
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dare not venture
Lest herself fast she lay,
If love come, he will enter
And will find out the way.

 ... 

Some think to loose him
Or have him confined;
 ...  some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind;
But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that ye may,
Blind love, if so ye call him,
Soon will find out his way.

You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The phoenix of the East,
The lioness, you may move her
to get o'er her prey;
But you'll ne'er stop a lover:
love shall find out the way.

Oh who is fair as she is fair
And who can such a grace posess!
The rose itself could not compare
Nor rob her of her comeliness. 

Come love be all my joy,
Thou alone are my delight.
Come love be my heart of gold
And who but my lady Greensleeves. 

Oh who is sweet as she is sweet
Above all things that mortals prize:
I’d lay a kingdom at her feet
Nor seek a richer merchandise 

Come love… 

Oh who is rare as she is rare
And who is such a charming maid.
The lute shall tell her my despair
And fill with song the myrtle shade. 

Come love… 

Oh who is kind as she is kind.
Whose gentle heart could ne’er betray!
If Argus prove himself but blind.
Yet she would have my constancy. 

Come love…

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like [fairy-gifts]1, fading away!
Thou wouldst still be ador'd as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will;
And, around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still!

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear,
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
[No, the]2 heart, that has truly lov'd, never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turn'd when he rose!

Oh! 'tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near!
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,
To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there;
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
'Twas a pity to limit one's love to a pair.
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,
They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too,
And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue!
Then, oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips that are near.

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
  How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
How can ye chaunt, ye little birds,
  And I sae weary, fu' o' care!
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
  That wantons thro' the flower thorn: 
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
  Departed -- never to return!

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
  To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its love,
  And fondly sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
  Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
But my fause lover stole the rose,
  And oh, he left the thorn wi' me.

Refrain:
 O Charlie is my darling,
 My darling, my darling;
 O Charlie is my darling,
 The young cavalier.

'Twas on a Monday morning,
When birds were singing clear;
That Charlie to the Highlands came,
The gallant cavalier.

(Refrain)

And many a gallant Scottish chief,
Came round their Prince to cheer,
That Charlie was their darling,
The young cavalier.

(Refrain)

Now up the wild Glen Nevis,
And down by Locky side;
Young Malcom leaves his shealing,
And Donald leaves his bride.

(Refrain)

Ca' the yowes tae the knowes,
  Ca' them whar the heather grows,
Ca' them whar the burnie rows,
  My bonnie dearie.

Hark, the mavis' e'enin' sang,
Soundin' Cluden's woods amang;
Then a fauldin' let us gang,
  My bonnie dearie.

We'll gang down by Clouden side,
Through the hazels spreading wide
O'er the waves that sweetly glide
  To the moon sae clearly.

Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stol'n my very heart;
I can die, but canna part,
  My bonnie Dearie.

While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie
Till death shall blin' my e'e
  Ye shall be my dearie.

The man behind the plough,
He has trouble and to spare.
From the cradle to the grave
Heavy burden must he bear.
Come rain, come wind, come tempest,
No matter when or how,
His toil must be unceasing,
The man behind the plough.

 ... 

The man behind the plough,
He has bairns to call his own;
Must breed them to his trade,
Some are babes and some half grown.
Come rain, come wind, come thunder,
No matter when or how,
His life is toil and labour,
The man behind the plough.

The man behind the plough,
He will sing the time along;
As he guides the cleaving share...
Never is the day an hour too long.
No prince, nor duke, nor lordling,
Nor king with crown on brow
But lives upon his labour,
The man behind the plough.

Le pauvre laboureur
Il a bien du malheur
Du jour de sa naissance
'L est déjà malheureux.
Qu’il pleuve, qu’il tonne, qu’il vente,
Qu’il fasse mauvais temps,
L’on voit toujours, sans cesse,
Le laboureur aux champs.

 ... 

Le pauvre laboureur
L'a deux petits enfants ;
Les mène à la charrue
N'ont pas encor' quinze ans.
Qu’il pleuve, qu’il tonne, qu’il vente,
Qu’il fasse mauvais temps,
L’on voit toujours, sans cesse,
Le laboureur aux champs.

Le pauvre laboureur,
Il est toujours chantant ;
Quand il est à la charrue,
Il est toujours content.
Il n’est ni roi ni prince,
Ni ducque, ni seigneur
Qui n'vive de la peine
Du pauvre laboureur.

L'amour de moi, s'y est enclose
Dedans un joli jardinet
Où croît la rose et le muguet,
Et aussi fait la passerose.

Ce jardin est bel et plaisant,
Il est garni de toutes fleurs.
On y prend son ébattement,
Autant la nuit comme le jour.

Hélas ! il n'est si douce chose
Que de ce doux rossignolet
Qui chante au soir, au matinet.
Quand il est las, il se repose.

Je la vis l'autre jour cueillir
La violette en un vert pré.
Le plus belle qu'oncque je vis,
Et la plus plaisante à mon gré.

Je l'ai regardé une pose ;
Elle était blanche comme lait
Et douce comme un agnelet,
Vermeille et fraîche comme rose.

There is a garden that all sweets encloses,
Where my love is wont to stray;
There blow the fairest flow'rs of May
And, lovelier yet, soft damask roses.

There by her side among the flow'rs
Would I might pass the days of June,
Fleeting the careless summer hours,
Whether by night or by noon.

Happy the nightingale that haunts its closes,
Telling his love as best he may:
Freely he sings both night and day,
And then at last in peace reposes.

Fairer than blossom red or white,
Lily or violet wet with dew,
No flow'r that blooms the summer through
Half so fair is to my sight.

I saw her gath'ring matchless posies,
Yet were they not so sweet as she.
Would that my fortune were to be 
As dear to her as are the roses.

Aime moi, bergère,
Et je t'aimerai ;
Ne sois point légère,
Je ne le serai :
  Ah ! que l'amour est gai
  Le joli mois de mai.

Mon cœur et ma vie
Je te donnerai,
Jamais d'autre amie
Je ne servirai.
  Ah ! Que l'amour est gai
  Le joli mois de mai.

 ... 

Will you love me, pretty one
As I love thee?
I'll be true and loving 
If you're true to me.
  Ah! love is sweet and gay,
  The pretty month of May!

Now my own, my dearest, 
You have all my heart;
We will love forever,
Nevermore to part.
  Ah! love is sweet and gay,
  The pretty month of May!

 ... 

There was a jolly Miller once
Lived on the river Dee;
He danced and sang from morn till night, 
No lark more blithe than he;
And this the burden of his song 
Forever used to be: -
I care for nobody, no not I, 
If nobody cares for me.

I love my mill, she is to me
Both parent, child, and wife;
I would not change my station for 
Another one in life.
Then push, push, push the bowl, my boys,
And pass it round to me;
The longer we sit here and drink
The merrier we shall be.

Thus like the miller, bold and free, 
Let us rejoice and sing.
The days of youth were made for glee
And time is on the wing.
This song shall pass from me to thee
Around this jovial ring;
Let heart and voice and all agree 
To sing "Long live the king."

In Scarlet Town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin',
Made ev'ry youth cry "Well-a-day!"
Her name was Barb'ra Allen.

All in the merry month of May
When green buds they were swellin',
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay
For love of Barb'ra Allen.

Then slowly, slowly she came up,
And slowly she came nigh him,
And all she said when there she came
"Young man, I think you're dying".

As she was walking o'er the fields
She heard the dead-bell knellin',
And ev'ry stroke the dead-bell gave
Cried "Woe to Barb'ra Allen!"

When he was dead and laid in grave
Her heart was struck with sorrow.
"O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall die tomorrow."

"Farewell," she said, "ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in;
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barb'ra Allen."

O we be three poor Mariners
 . . . . . . . . . .

— The rest of this text is not
currently in the database but will be
added as soon as we obtain it. —

Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye,
If now I be disdained I wish my heart had never known ye.
What? I that loved and you that liked shall we begin to wrangle?
No, no no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle.

If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me
Or if my hands had strayed but a touch, then justly might you leave me.
I asked you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me?
No no no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me.

The sun whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder,
And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder,
Where beauty moves, and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me
There, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me.

Away in the shadows a lone bird is singing,
The wind whispers low in a sighing refrain;
Their music makes memory’s voices go winging:
The Ash Grove in beauty I see once again;
The voices of friends that the log years have taken,
Oh faintly I hear them, the song and the word.
How much in the heart can so little awaken:
The wind in the leaves and the song of a bird.

How little we knew, as we laughed there so lightly,
And time seemed to us to stretch endless away,
The hopes that then shone like a vision so brightly
Could fade as a dream at the coming of day!
And still, spite of sorrow, whene’er I remember,
My thoughts will return like a bird to the nest,
No matter though summer may wane to December,
And there in the ash grove my heart be at rest.