Six Songs

I know a maiden fair to see,
Take care!
She can both false and friendly be,
beware! beware!
Trust her not, she is fooling thee!

She has two eyes, so soft and brown,
take care!
She gives a side-glance and looks down,
beware! beware!
Trust her not, she is fooling thee!

And she has hair of a golden hue,
take care!
And what she says, it is not true,
beware! beware!
Trust her not, she is fooling thee!

She has a bosom as white as snow,
take care!
She knows how much it is best to show,
beware! beware!
Trust her not, she is fooling thee!

She gives thee a garland woven fair,
take care!
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear,
beware! beware!
Trust her not, she is fooling thee!

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And [turn]1 [his]2 merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease,
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to me.
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me.

Hearke, hearke, the Larke at Heavens gate sings,
     and Phœbus gins arise,
[His Steeds to water at those Springs
     on chalic'd Flowres that lyes:]1
And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their Golden eyes
With every thing that pretty is, my Lady sweet arise:
     Arise arise.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
[One foot in sea and one on shore;
To one thing constant never.]1
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no more,
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
[The fraud of men was ever so
Since summer first was leavy.]2
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny.

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.
Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week?
Or sells eternity to get a toy?
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

Sleep, little Baby! sleep!
  Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,
  But with the quiet dead.

Yes, with the quiet dead,
  Baby ! thy rest shall be -- 
Oh ! many a weary wight,
Weary of life and light,
  Would fain lie down with thee !

Flee, little tender nursling !
  Flee to thy grassy nest --  
There the first flowers shall blow,
The first pure flake of snow
  Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace ! peace ! the little bosom
  Labours with shortening breath. 
Peace ! peace ! that tremulous sigh 
Speaks his departure nigh -- 
  Those are the damps of Death.

I've seen thee in thy beauty,
  A thing all health and glee ;
But never then, wert thou
So beautiful, as now,
  Baby ! thou seem'st to me.

Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over
  Like harebells wet with dew -- 
Already veil'd and hid
By the convulsed lid,
  Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half open,
  The soft lip quivering, 
As if, like summer air, 
Ruffling the rose leaves, there
  Thy soul were fluttering.

Mount up, immortal essence !
  Young spirit! hence -- depart! 
And is this Death ? Dread thing !
If such thy visiting,
  How beautiful thou art!

Oh ! I could gaze for ever
  Upon that waxen face, 
So passionless ! so pure ! 
The little shrine was sure
  An angel's dwelling-place.

Thou weepest, childless mother !
  Ay, weep -- 'twill ease thine heart;
He was thy first-born son -- 
Thy first, thine only one ;
  'Tis hard from him to part.

'Tis hard to lay thy darling
  Deep in the damp cold earth,
His empty crib to see,
His silent nursery,
  Late ringing with his mirth.

To meet again in slumber
  His small mouth's rosy kiss,
Then -- waken'd with a start
By thine own throbbing heart -- 
  His twining arms to miss.

And then to lie and weep,
  And think the livelong night
(Feeding thine own distress
With accurate greediness)
  Of every past delight.

Of all his winning ways,
  His pretty, playful smiles,
His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimickry,
  And all his little wiles.

Oh ! these are recollections
  Round mothers' hearts that cling !
That mingle with the tears
And smiles of after years,
  With oft awakening.

But thou wilt then, fond mother,
  In after years, look back
(Time brings such wondrous easing)
With sadness not unpleasing,
  Even on this gloomy track.

Thou'lt say, "My first-born blessing!
  It almost broke my heart,
When thou wert forced to go,
And yet for thee, I know
  'Twas better to depart.

"God took thee in his mercy,
  A lamb untask'd -- untried -- 
He fought the field for thee -- 
He won the victory -- 
  And thou art sanctified.

"I look around, and see 
  The evil ways of men,
And oh, beloved child !
I'm more than reconciled
  To thy departure then.

"The little arms that clasp'd me,
  The innocent lips that prest,
Would they have been as pure
Till now, as when of yore
  I lull'd thee on my breast ?

"Now, like a dewdrop shrined 
  Within a crystal stone,
Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove !
Safe with the Source of love,
  The everlasting One!

"And when the hour arrives,
  From flesh that sets me free,
Thy spirit may await 
The first at heaven's gate,
  To meet and welcome me."