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HUNTING SONG.

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chace is here,
With hawk and horse, and hunting spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Waken, lords and ladies gay, .
The mist has left the mountains gray,
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chaunt our lay,
« Waken, lords and ladies gay,"

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

To the greenwood haste away; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size, We can show the marks he made When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed ; You shall see him brought to bay, “ Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Louder, louder, chaunt the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk,
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk;
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

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Come, live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That vallies, groves, or hills and fields,
And all the steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds singʻmadrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight each May morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love,

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE

SHEPHERD.

(Sir Walter Raleigh.]

i

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These 'pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reck’ning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joy no date, nor age no need ;
Then these delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

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