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O, I'd rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
And a lady for my bride;

For the lady would sit forninst me,
On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me,

With my arm around her waist,
While we drove in the low-backed car,
To be married by Father Mahar;
O, my heart would beat high
At her glance and her sigh,
Though it beat in a low-backed car!

SAMUEL LOVER.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em ;

Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em ; But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally! She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

When she is by I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely.
But let him bang his bellyful, -
I'll bear it all for Sally;
For she 's the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week
I dearly love but one day,

And that's the day that comes betwixt
The Saturday and Monday;
For then I'm drest all in my best

To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blaméd
Because I leave him in the lurch
As soon as text is naméd:

I leave the church in sermon-time,
And slink away to Sally,

She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
O, then I shall have money!
I'll hoard it up, and, box and all,

I'll give it to my honey;

O, would it were ten thousand pound! I'd give it all to Sally;

For she's the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

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P

Be what it may the time of day, the place be O, might we live together in lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall;

where it will,

Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

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Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and

so fine,

THE POSIE.

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered O, LUVE will venture in where it daurna weel be

in a twine.

seen, O, luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been!

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded But I will down yon river rove amang the woods

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sae green:

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. when Phoebus peeps in

I'll pu' the budding rose, view,

For it's like a balmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou’; The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

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And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star is near,

And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to your beauty bright,

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

wear:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

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Love,

if I dare so name

My esteem for thee.

Surely flowers can bear no blame,

My bonny Mary Lee.

Here's the violet's modest blue,

That 'neath hawthorns hides from view,

My gentle Mary Lee,
Would show whose heart is true,

While it thinks of thee.
While they choose each lowly spot,
The sun disdains them not;
I'm as lowly too, indeed,

My charming Mary Lee;

So I've brought the flowers to plead,
And win a smile from thee.

Here's a wild rose just in bud;
Spring's beauty in its hood,

My bonny Mary Lee!
"T is the first in all the wood

I could find for thee.
Though a blush is scarcely seen,
Yet it hides its worth within,
Like my love; for I've no power,
My angel Mary Lee,

To speak unless the flower

Can make excuse for me.

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LOVE IS A SICKNESS.

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing ;

A plant that most with cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind,
Not well, nor full, nor fasting.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!

LOVE.

SAMUEL DANIEL.

AH! WHAT IS LOVE?

AH! what is love? It is a pretty thing, As sweet unto a shepherd as a king,

And sweeter too;

For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,
And cares can make the sweetest face to frown:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

His flocks are folded; he comes home at night
As merry as a king in his delight,

And merrier too;

For kings bethink them what the state require,
Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:
Ah then, ah then,

If country love such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat
His cream and curd as doth the king his meat,
And blither too;

For kings have often fears when they sup,
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound
As doth the king upon his beds of down,
More sounder too;

For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill :
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe
As doth the king at every tide or syth,
And blither too;

For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,
When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

ROBERT GREENE.

TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE.

WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Awed by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear
No other voice than hers can hear;
No other wit but hers approve ;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

If she some other swain commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

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AH, HOW SWEET.

Aн, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young desire!
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach love's fire!
Pains of love are sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart:
E'en the tears they shed alone

Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death.

Love and Time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send:
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.

Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein;
But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite shrink in again.
If a flow in age appear,

"T is but rain, and runs not clear.

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shear,
All your wish is woman to win;
This is the way that boys begin,

Wait till you come to forty year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains; Billing and cooing is all your cheer, Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes, Wait till you come to forty year. Forty times over let Michaelmas pass; Grizzling hair the brain doth clear; Then you know a boy is an ass, Then you know the worth of a lass,

Once you have come to forty year.

Pledge me round; I bid ye declare,

--

All good fellows whose beards are gray, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere

Ever a month was past away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead! God rest her bier,

How I loved her twenty years syne ! Marian's married; but I sit here, Alone and merry at forty year,

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

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