Twickenham Ferry

"But," ses I, "would ye like it to meet Clancy's bull, Or the tinks poachin' rabbits above Slieve-na-coul? An' the ford at Kilmaddy is big wid the snows,

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An' the whisht Little People that wear the green close, They'd run from the bog to be makin' a catch o' ye, The king o' them's wishful o' weddin' the match o' ye, "Twould be long, if they did, ere ye lifted the latch o' ye-" "What fairy's to touch her that sings as she goes!"

"Ah, where are ye goin'," ses I, "wid the shawl,
An' the gray eyes a-dreamin' beneath it an' all?
The road by the mountain's a long one, depend
Ye'll be done for, alannah, cre reachin' the end;.

Ye'll be bate wid the wind on each back-breakin' bit on it,
Wet wid the puddles and lamed wid the grit on it,-
Since lonesome ye're layin' yer delicut fit on it—”
"Sure whin's a road lonesome that's stepped wid a friend?"

That's stepped wid a friend?

Who did Bridgy intend?

Still 'twas me that went wid her right on to the end!

Patrick R. Chalmers [18

TWICKENHAM FERRY

"AнOY! and O-ho! and it's who's for the ferry?” (The briar's in bud and the sun going down) "And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye so steady, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town." The ferryman's slim and the ferryman's young, With just a soft tang in the turn of his tongue; And he's fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry,

And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and O-ho! and it's I'm for the ferry,"

(The briar's in bud and the sun going down) "And it's late as it is and I haven't a penny-

Oh! how can I get me to Twickenham Town?" She'd a rose in her bonnet, and oh! she looked sweet 'As the little pink flower that grows in the wheat,

With her cheeks like a rose and her lips like a cherryIt's sure but you're welcome to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and O-ho!"-You're too late for the ferry, (The briar's in bud and the sun has gone down) And he's not rowing quick and he's not rowing steady; It seems quite a journey to Twickenham Town. "Ahoy! and O-ho!" you may call as you will;

The young moon is rising o'er Petersham Hill; And, with Love like a rose in the stern of the wherry, There's danger in crossing to Twickenham Town. Théophile Marzials [1850

THE HUMOR OF LOVE

SONG

I PRITHEE send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine:

For if from yours you will not part,
Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain,

For thou hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?

O love, where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

. I cannot find it out:

For when I think I'm best resolved,

I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe!

I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart,

As much as she hath mine.

John Suckling [1609-1642]

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING

I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;

And there did I see coming down

Such folk as are not in our town,
Forty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine
(His beard no bigger, though, than mine)
Walked on before the rest;

Our landlord looks like nothing to him;
The king (God bless him!) 'twould undo him
Should he go still so drest.

At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' th' town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the green,

Or Vincent of the Crown.

But wot you what? The youth was going To make an end of all his wooing;

The parson for him staid:

Yet by his leave (for all his haste),
He did not so much wish all past,
(Perchance) as did the maid.

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale)
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale
Could ever yet produce:

No grape that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft, as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring;

It was too wide a peck:

And to say truth (for out it must)

It looked like the great collar (just)

About our young colt's neck.

A Ballad upon a Wedding

Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like little mice stole in and out,

As if they feared the light:
But oh, she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison;

Who sees them is undone;

For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cathʼrine pear,
The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin
Compared to that was next her chin
(Some bee had stung it newly);
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,

That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,

They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

Passion o' me! how I run on!

There's that that would be thought upon,

I trow, besides the bride:

The business of the kitchen's great,

For it is fit that men should eat;

Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice,

And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving-man, with dish in hand,

Marched boldly up, like our trained-band,

Presented and away.

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