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XXIV.

SHEPHERD'S DELIGHT.

To the tune of Frog's Galliard.

[Black letter, for the Assigns of Symcocke.]

On yonder hill there springs a flower,

Fair befall the dainty sweet,
And by that flower there stands a bower

Where all the heavenly Muses meet,
And in that bower there stands a chair,

Fringed all about with gold,
And therein sits the fairest fair

That ever did mine eyes behold.

It was Phillida fair and bright,

And the shepherd's only joy,
She whom Venus most did spite,

And the blinded little boy,
It was she the wise, the rich,

Whom all the world did joy to see,
It was, Ipsa quæ, the which,

There was none but only she.
YOL, I.

Thou art the shepherd's queen,

Pity me, thy woful swain,
For by thy virtue have been seen

Dead men restored to life again;
Look on me now with thy fair eyes

One smiling look and I am gone,
Look on me for I am he,
Thy poor

afflicted Corydon.

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Dead I am to all delights,

Except thy mercy quicken me, Grant, oh queen, or else I die,

A salve for this my malady, The while we sing with cheerful noise,

Wood nymphs and satyrs all may play, With silver sounding music's voice,

Rejoicing at this happy day.

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“ Since she did from her friends depart,

No earthly thing can cheer her heart,
But still she doth her case lament,
Being always filled with discontent,
Resolving to do nought but mourn,
Till to the north she doth return."

To the tune, I would I were in my own country.

A north country lass

Up to London did pass,
Although with her nature it did not agree,

Which made her repent,

And so often lament,
Still wishing again in the North for to be,

O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
Do flourish at home in my own country:

Fain would I be,

In the north country, Where the lads and the lasses are making of hay,

There should I see

What is pleasant to me,
A mischief light on them entic'd me away!

O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree
Do flourish most bravely in our country.

Since that I came forth

Of the pleasant North,
There's nothing delightful I see doth abound,

They never can be

Half so merry as we,
When we are a dancing of Sellinger's round.

O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree Do flourish at home in our own country.

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I like not the court,

Nor the city resort,
Since there is no fancy for such maids as me,

Their pomp and their pride

I can never abide;
Because with my humour it doth not agree.

O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree, Do flourish at home in my own country,

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How oft have I been

On the Westmorland green,
Where the young men and maidens resort for to

play,
Where we with delight

From morning till night,
Could feast it and frolick on each holyday.

O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree, Do flourish most bravely in our country.

A milking to go,

All the maids on a row,
It was a fine sight and pleasant to see,

But here in the city,

They are void of pity,
There is no enjoyment of liberty.

O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree, They flourish most bravely in our country.

When I had the heart

From my friends to depart,
I thought I should be a lady at last :

But now do I find,

That it troubles my mind,
Because that my joys and pleasures are past.

O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree, They flourish at home in my own country.

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