O Nanny, canst thou love so true,

Through perils keen with me to go;
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of woe ?
Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath,
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay

Strew flowers and drop the tender tear,
Nor then regret those scenes so gay,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

Robert Burns affirmed this song to be the most beautiful composition of its kind

in the English language.


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, born 1731, died 1774. The music by SIGNOR GIARDINI,

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom, is—to die.

“For elegant simplicity of language, harmony of versification, and pointed neatness of composition,” says Dr. Aikin in his “ Vocal Poetry,

," "there are not, perhaps, to be found in the language two more finished stanzas than these, which are introduced in The Vicar of Wakefield.” It may be doubted whether Dr. Aikin's eulogium be deserved. To die is not an “art.” And, independently of this verbal objection, the sentiment of the song is not irreproachable, for it points to suicide, and not to repentance.


JOIN O'KEEFE. The music, by WM. SHIELD, was composed expressly for Incledon.

In the original edition the words are erroneously ascribed to Burns,

FROM the white-blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested

A sprig her fair breast to adorn; “No, by heavens!” I exclaim'd “may I perish,

If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn !''

When I show'd her the ring and implored her to marry,

She blush'd like the dawning of morn: “Yes, yes! I'll consent,” she replied, “ if you promise

That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.


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DEAR Betty, come give me sweet kisses,

For sweeter no girl ever gave;
But why, in the midst of our blisses,

Do you ask me how many I'd have?
I'm not to be stinted in pleasure;

Then prithee, dear Betty, be kind;
For as I love thee beyond measure,

To numbers I'll not be confined.

Count the bees that on Hybla are straying,

Count the flowers that enamel the fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempé are playing,

Or the grain that each Sicily yields;
Count how many stars are in heaven,

Go reckon the sands on the shore;
And when so many kisses you've given,

I still will be asking for more.

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To a heart full of love let me hold thee,

A heart that, dear Betty, is thine;
In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee,

And curl round thy neck like a ine.

What joy can be greater than this is ?

My life on thy lips shall be spent ;
But those who can number their kisses

Will always with few be content.

Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, Bart., wrote a great number of political and other songs, which, with his other works, were published in 1822, in 3 vols., from the original MSS. in the possession of his grandson the Earl of Essex, with notes by Horace Walpole. This songthe only one of the many which is a shade above mediocrity--is an imitation of Martial, Lib. vi. Ep. xxxiv. The greater portion of the songs of this writer were produced between 17:30 and 1745. In Ritson's “English Songs," this is inserted with the music, under the title of “Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses.” The author of the music is unknown.


From the “Myrtle and the Vine,” A.D. 1780.

My fair, ye swains, is gone astray;
The little wand'rer lost her way
In gathering flow’rs the other day;

Sing high, sing high, sing low:
Oh, lead her home, ye gentle swains,
Who know an absent lover's pains;
And bring in safety o'er the plains

My pretty little Sue.
Whene'er a charming form you see,
Serenely grave, sedately free,
Oh, bring her, for it must be she;

Sing high, sing high, sing low:
When such a tuneful voice


hear As makes you think a syren's near, Oh, bring her,--for it is my dear,

My pretty little Sue.

But rest, my soul, and bless your fate;
The gods who form’d her so complete
Will safely guard her harmless feet;

Sing high, sing high, sing low:
Oh, lead her home, ye gentle swains,
Who know an absent lover's pains,
And bring in safety o'er the plains

My pretty little Sue.


Words and Music by CHARLES DIBDIN, born 1745, died 1814.

IF 'tis love to wish you near,
To tremble when the wind I hear,

Because at sea you floating rove;
If of you to dream at night,
To languish when you're out of sight, -

If this be loving, then I love.

If, when you're gone, to count each hour,
To ask of every


That you may kind and faithful

If void of falsehood and deceit,
I feel a pleasure when we meet,-

If this be loving, then I love.

To wish your fortune to partake,
Determin'd never to forsake,

Though low in poverty we strove;
If, so that me your wife you'd call,
I offer you my little all, —

If this be loving, then I love.


R. B. SHERIDAN, born 1751, died 1816.

Had I heart for falsehood fram’d,

I ne'er could injure you ;
For though your tongue no promise claim’d,

Your charms would make me true:
To you no soul shall bear deceit,

No stranger offer wrong;
But friends in all the aged you'll mect,

And lovers in the young.
For when they learn that you have blest

Another with your heart,
They'll bid aspiring passion rest,

And act a brother's part;

Then, lady, dread not here deceit,

Nor fear to suffer wrong;
For friends in all the aged you'll mect,

And lovers in the young.


Sir WALTER SCOTT, born 1771, died 1832.

O COUNTY Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,
The orange-flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea';
The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,

Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour:

But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade,

Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,

Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of love, all stars above,

Now reigns o’er earth and sky;
Now high and low the influence know:

But where is County Guy?


From the operatic play" The Heir of Verona,” produced in 1817, at Covent Garden Theatre.

The music by JOHN WHITTAKER.

Oh! say not woman's heart is bought

With vain and empty treasure;
Oh! say not woman's heart is caught

By every idle pleasure.
When first her gentle bosom knows

Love's flame, it wanders never;
Deep in her heart the passion glows,-

She loves, and loves for ever.

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