Etext of A Little Book of Old Time Verseby Gladys Sidney Crouch

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Title: A Little Book of Old Time Verse
Old Fashioned Flowers

Author: Various

Editor: Gladys Sidney Crouch

Release Date: February 12, 2012 [EBook #38839]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE BOOK OF OLD TIME VERSE ***

Produced by Al Haines

A Little Book of
Old Time Verse

Old-fashioned Flowers

Gathered by

Gladys Sidney Crouch

Published by

P. F. Volland Company

NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO

Copyright, 1917

P. F. Volland Company

Chicago

To My Father

That the verses in this little book will bring back sweet memories

of the long ago to every reader, as they do to me, is the earnest wish of
the humble gatherer of these old-fashioned flowers. G. S. C.

CHRONOLOGICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS

Sir Edward Dyer. (Born 1550—Died 1607.)
To Phyllis, the Fair Shepherdess

Sir Philip Sidney. (Born 1554—Died 1586.)
A Ditty

John Lyly. (Born 1554—Died 1606.)
Appelles' Song

Thomas Lodge. (Born 1556—Died 1625.)
Love's Wantonness

Thomas Campion. (Born (unknown)—Died 1619.)
Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air
Come, O come, my life's delight

Robert Green. (Born 1560—Died 1592.)
Content

Christopher Marlowe. (Born 1562—Died 1593.)
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

William Shakespeare. (Born 1564—Died 1616.)
O Mistress Mine, Where are you Roaming

Ben Jonson. (Born 1573—Died 1637.)
To Celia

John Donne. (Born 1573—Died 1631.)
Song

Francis Beaumont. (Born 1584—Died 1610.)
Fie on Love

George Wither. (Born 1588—Died 1667.)
The Author's Resolution in a Sonnet

Thomas Carew. (Born 1589—Died 1639.)
Song
A Fragment
Truce in Love Entreated
Phillida Flouts Me

Robert Herrick. (Born 1591—Died 1674.)
A Hymn to Love
To Anthea
To Daffodils
To Electra
To his Mistress
To his Mistress, Objecting to his Neither Toying nor Talking

To the Virgins, to make much of Time

Henry King. (Born 1592—Died 1669.)
On the Life of Man

Thomas Bateson. (Born 1600—Died (no record).)
Her hair the net of golden wire

Sir William D'Avenant. (Born 1605—Died 1668.)
The Lark now Leaves his Watr'y Nest

Edmund Waller. (Born 1605—Died 1687.)
Song: Go Lovely Rose
Song to Flavia

Sir John Suckling. (Born 1609—Died 1641.)
Why so pale and wan, fond lover
Song: O pr'y thee send me back my heart
The Constant Lover

Richard Lovelace. (Born 1618—Died 1658.)
Stone walls do not a prison make
To Althea, from Prison
To Lucasta, on going to the wars

Thomas Stanley. (Born 1625—Died 1678.)
Speaking and Kissing

Walter Porter. (Born (no record)—Died 1649.)
Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise

George Granville (Lord Lansdowne). (Born 1668—Died 1735.)
Adieu L'Amour

William Congreve. (Born 1672—Died 1728.)
Song: Though she be false to me and love

John Oldmixon. (Born 1673—Died 1742.)
Song: I lately vowed but 'twas in haste

Dr. Isaac Watts. (Born 1674—Died 1748.)
Few Happy Matches

Aaron Hill. (Born 1684—Died 1749.)
Song: Gentle love, this hour befriend me

William Somerville. (Born 1692—Died 1742.)
Cupid Mistaken
Song: Hard is the fate of him who loves
To a discarded toast

Thomas Walker. (Born 1698—Died 1743.)
Sweet love, I will no more abuse thee

James Thomson. (Born 1700—Died 1748.)
Unless with my Amanda blest

George Lyttleton. (Born 1709—Died 1773.)
Song: When Delia on the plain appear

Edward Moore. (Born 1711—Died 1757.)
Song: How blest has my time been

John Wilke. (Born 1727—Died 1797.)
Love not me for comely grace

Robert Burns. (Born 1759—Died 1796.)
Delia
My Jean

Of A' the Airts the Wind Can Blaw
The Bonnie Wee Thing

Sir Walter Scott. (Born 1771—Died 1832.)
The Truth of Woman

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. (Born 1772—Died 1834.)
Names

Walter Savage Landor. (Born 1775—Died 1864.)
The Maid I love ne'er thought of me

William Stanley Roscoe. (Born 1782—Died 1841.)
To Spring: On the Banks of the Cam

Leigh Hunt. (Born 1784—Died 1859.)
Jenny Kissed Me
The Nun

Bryan Waller Proctor. (Born 1787—Died 1874.)
Hermione

George Gordon (Lord Byron). (Born 1788—Died 1824.)
There be none of Beauty's daughters

William Cullen-Bryant. (Born 1794—Died 1878.)
The Forest Maid

George Darley. (Born 1795—Died 1846.)
Love's Likeness

Hartley Coleridge. (Born 1796—Died 1849.)
Song: She is not fair to outward view
To a lofty beauty, from her poor kinsman

Thomas Hood. (Born 1798—Died 1845.)
Time of Roses

Sir Henry Taylor. (Born 1800—Died 1886.)
Song: The bee to the heather

Ralph Waldo Emerson. (Born 1803—Died 1882.)
Days

James Clarence Mangan. (Born 1803—Died 1849.)
Advice against travel

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. (Born 1806—Died 1861.)
My Kate
Grief

John Greenleaf Whittier. (Born 1807—Died 1892.)
Memories
All's Well

Oliver Wendell Holmes. (Born 1809—Died 1894.)
There is no friend like an old friend

Robert Jones. (Born 1809—Died 1879.)
Once did my thoughts both ebb and flow

Alfred Tennyson. (Born 1809—Died 1892.)
Song from 'The Princess'

Edgar Allan Poe. (Born 1809—Died 1849.)
To Helen

Frances Anne Kemble. (Born 1809—Died 1893.)
Faith

John Stuart Blackie. (Born 1809—Died 1895.)
My Loves

Robert Browning. (Born 1812—Died 1889.)
Home-Thoughts from Abroad

Philip James Bailey. (Born 1816—Died 1902.)
My Lady

Henry David Thoreau. (Born 1817—Died 1862.)
Love

John Ruskin. (Born 1819—Died 1900.)
Trust thou thy love

Francis Turner Palgrave. (Born 1823—Died 1897.)
Eutopia

William Caldwell Roscoe. (Born 1823—Died 1859.)
Spiritual Love

George Meredith. (Born 1828—Died 1909.)
Lucifer in Starlight
Woman
Love in the Valley

Richard Garnett. (Born 1835—Died 1906.)
The Fair Circassian

Matilda Betham Edwards. (Born 1836.)
A Valentine

Christina Georgina Rossetti. (Born 1839—Died 1894.)
A Birthday
Remember

John Addington Symonds. (Born 1840—Died 1893.)
Farewell

Austin Dobson. (Born 1840.)
On a fan that belonged to the Marquis de Pompadour
A Rondeau to Ethel

Thomas Hardy. (Born 1840.)
The Darkling Thrush

Frederic William Henry Myers. (Born 1843—Died 1901.)
Evanescence

Robert Louis Stevenson. (Born 1850—Died 1894.)
Wishes
Romance

Francis William Bourdillon. (Born 1852.)
A Violinist

Edward Cracroft Lefroy. (Born 1855—Died 1891.)
Ageanax
A Summer in Old Sicily

Douglas Brook Wheelton Sladen. (Born 1856.)
Under the Wattle

William Sharp. (Born 1856—Died 1902.)
On a nightingale in April

Agnes Mary Frances Duclaux. (Born 1857.)
Then, when all the feasting's done

Arthur Symons. (Born 1865.)
Rain on the Down

William Butler Yeats. (Born 1865.)
Down by the Sally Gardens
When you are Old

Richard LeGallienne. (Born 1866.)
Song: She's somewhere in the sunlight strong

Alfred Noyes. (Born 1880.)
A Japanese Love Song

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A beautiful and happy girl

Better trust all, and be deceived
Bid me to live, and I will live
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing

Celia, confess, 'tis all in vain
Chicken skin, delicate, white
Choose me your Valentine
Come live with me, and be my love
Come, O come, my life's delight
Cupid and my Campaspe played

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days
Dear voyager, a lucky star be thine
Down by the sally gardens
Drink to me only with thine eyes

Fair daffodils, we weep to see
Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries
Fair the face of orient day
False though she be to me and love
Forty Viziers saw I go

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may
Gentle love, this hour befriend me
Gods, what a sun! I think the world's aglow
Go little book, and wish to all
Go, lovely rose

Hard is the fate of him who loves
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Here end my chains, and thraldom cease
Her hair, the net of golden wire
He that loves a rosy cheek
How blest has my time been, what days have I known,

I asked my fair, one happy day
I dare not ask a kiss
If the quick spirits in your eye
If you become a nun, dear
I lately vowed, but 'twas in haste
I leant upon a coppice gate
I loved her for that she was beautiful
"In tea-cup times!" The style of dress
I pr'y thee send me back my heart
I see her in the dewy flowers
I saw, I saw the lovely child

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless
It is buried and done with
It was not in the winter
I will confess with cheerfulness
I will make your brooches and toys for your delight

Jenny kissed me when we met

Like to the falling of the star
Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise
Love guides the roses of thy lips
Love not me for comely grace

Maidens kilt your skirts and go
My heart is like a singing bird
My little pretty one
My Phyllis hath the morning sun
My true love hath my heart and I have his

Name the leaves on all the trees
Night and the down by the sea
No more blind god! for see, my heart
No show of bolts and bars
Now fie on foolish love, it not befits
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white

O fairest of the rural maids!
O mark yon Rose-tree! When the West
O, Mistress mine, where are you roaming
O, to be in England
Oh thou that from the green vales of the West
Oh, what a plague is love!
On a starr'd night. Prince Lucifer uprose
Once did my thoughts both ebb and flow
Out upon it, I have loved
Over the mountains

Remember me when I am gone away

Say, mighty love, and teach my song
Send home my long stray'd eyes to me
Shall I, wasting in despaire
She can be as wise as we
She is not fair to outward view
She's somewhere in the sunlight strong
She was not as pretty as women I know
Stone walls do not a prison make
Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind
The air which thy smooth voice doth break
The bee to the heather
The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake
The lark above our heads doth know
The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest
The Maid I love ne'er thought of me
The yellow moon is a dancing phantom
The young moon is white
There be none of beauty's daughters
There is a garden where lilies
There is no friend like an old friend
Though cruel fate should bid us part
Thou hast beauty bright and fair
Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air
'Tis not your beauty can engage
Traverse not the globe for lore!
Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?

Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward
Unless with my Amanda blest

Venus whipt Cupid t'other day

Were the gray clouds not made
What care I tho' beauty fading
What shall I send my love today
When Delia on the plain appears
When love, with unconfined wings
When you are old and gray and full of sleep
Why should not the wattle do?
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Woman's faith, and woman's trust—

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play

A LITTLE BOOK OF OLD TIME VERSE

Love's Wantonness

Love guides the roses of thy lips,
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
And if I kiss he stingeth me.

Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleeps within their pretty shrine,
And if I look the boy will lower,
And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.
—Thomas Lodge

Song

Send home my long-stray'd eyes to me,
Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee:
But if from you they've learnt such ill,
To sweetly smile,
And then beguile,
Keep the deceivers, keep them still.

Send home my harmless heart again.
Which no unworthy thought could stain;
But if it has been taught by thine
To forfeit both
Its word and oath,
Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.
—John Donne, D.D.

Fie on Love

Now fie on foolish love, it not befits
Or man or woman know it.
Love was not meant for people in their wits,
And they that fondly show it
Betray the straw, and features in their brain,
And shall have Bedlam for their pain:
If simple love be such a curse,
To marry is to make it ten times worse.
—Francis Beaumont

A Fragment

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
—Thomas Carew

Truce in Love Entreated

No more, blind god! for see, my heart
Is made thy quiver, there remains
No void place, for another dart;
And, alas! that conquest gains
Small praise, that only brings away
A tame and unresisting prey.

Behold a nobler foe, all arm'd,
Defies thy weak artillery,
That hath thy bow and quiver charm'd;
A rebel beauty, conquering thee:
If thou dar'st equal combat try,
Wound her, for 'tis for her I die.
—Thomas Carew

Jenny Kissed Me

Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.

—Leigh Hunt

A Ditty

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me, keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him, his thought and senses guides;
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
I cherish his, because in me it bides:
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
—Sir Phillip Sidney

To Electra

I dare not ask a kiss;
I dare not beg a smile;
Lest having that, or this,
I might grow proud the while.

No, no, the utmost share
Of my desire shall be,
Only to kiss that air
That lately kissed thee.
—Robert Herrick

To Phyllis, the Fair Shepherdess

My Phyllis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her:
And Phyllis hath morn-waking birds
Her rising still to honour.
My Phyllis hath prime feathered flowers
That smile when she treads on them:
And Phyllis hath a gallant flock
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phyllis hath too hard a heart,
Alas, that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert
Nor peace to those that crave it.
Sweet Sun, when thou look'st on,
Pray her regard my moan!
Sweet birds, when you sing to her.
To yield some pity woo her!
Sweet flowers, that she treads on,
Tell her, her beauty dreads one;
And if in life her love she'll not agree me.
Pray her before I die, she will come see me.
—Sir Edward Dyer

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

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

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

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'll 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,
Come live with me and be my love.
—Christopher Marlowe

Content

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content,
The quiet mind is richer than a crown,
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent,
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown;
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princess oft do miss.

The homely house that harbours quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride nor care,
The mean that 'grees with country music best,
The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare,
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
—Robert Greene

My Jean

Though cruel fate should bid us part,
Far as the pole and line,
Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.

Though mountains rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.
—Robert Burns

Sweet Love, I will no more abuse thee,
Nor with my voice accuse thee;
But tune my notes unto thy praise,
And tell the world Love ne'er decays.
Sweet Love doth concord ever cherish:
What wanteth concord soon must perish.
—Thomas Walker

To Celia

Drink to me only with thine eyes.
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be:
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee!
—Ben Jonson

Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part:
No, nor for a constant heart!
For these may fail or turn to ill:
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why!
So hast thou the same reason still
To dote upon me ever.
—John Wilkye

To His Mistress

Choose me your Valentine;

Next, let us marry;
Love to the death will pine
If we long tarry.

Promise and keep your vows.
Or vow ye never;
Love's doctrine disallows
Troth-breakers ever.

You have broke promise twice,
Dear, to undo me;
If you prove faithless thrice,
None then will woo ye.
—Robert Herrick

The Author's Resolution in a Sonnet

Shall I, wasting in despaire
Dye, because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
Cause anothers Rosie are?
Be she fairer than the Day
Or the flowry Meads in May,
If she thinke not well of me,
What care I how faire she be?

Shall a woman's Vertues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well deservings knowne
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that Goodness blest
Which may merit name of best:
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

Cause her fortunes seem too high
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a Noble mind,
If not outward helpes she find,
Think that with them he wold do,
That without them dares her woe.
And unlesse that Minde I see
What care I how great she be?

Great, or Good, or Kind, or Faire,
I will ne're the more despaire:
If she love me (this believe)
I will Die ere she shall grieve,
If she slight me when I woe,
I can scorne and let her goe,
For if she be not for me
What care I for whom she be?
—George Wither

Song

If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish, and anon must die;

If ev'ry sweet and ev'ry grace
Must fly from that forsaken face:
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys
Ere time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow
For ever, free from aged snow;
If those bright suns must know no shade.
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What still being gathered still must grow.
Thus, either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.
—Thomas Carew

Love Will Find the Way

Over the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under the floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey;
Over the rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place
For the glow-worm to lie;
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dares not venture,
Lest herself fast she lay;
If Love come, he will enter
And soon find out his way.

You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward for his flight;
But if she whom Love doth honour
Be concealed from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him
By having him confin'd,
And some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind;
But if ne'er so close you wall him,
Do the best that you may;
Blind Love, if so ye call him,
Will find out his way.

You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The Phoenix of the East;
The lioness, you may move her
To give o'er her prey;
But you will ne'er stop a lover—
He will find out his way.
—Unknown

To Daffodils

Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the lasting day
Has run
But to the evensong
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.
—Robert Herrick

Phillida Flouts Me

Oh, what a plague is love!
I cannot bear it.
She will inconstant prove,
I greatly fear it;
It so torments my mind,
That my heart faileth.
She wavers with the wind,
As a ship saileth;
Please her the best I may,
She looks another way;
Alack and well a-day!
Phillida flouts me.

I often heard her say
That she loved posies;
In the last month of May
I gave her roses,
Cowslips and gilly flow'rs
And the sweet lily,
I got to deck the bow'rs
Of my dear Philly;
She did them all disdain,
And threw them back again;
Therefore, 'tis flat and plain
Phillida flouts me.

Which way, soe'er I go.
She still torments me;
And whatso'er I do,
Nothing contents me:
I fade, and pine away
With grief and sorrow;
I fall quite to decay,
Like any shadow;
Since 'twill no better be,
I'll bear it patiently;
Yet all the world may see
Phillida flouts me.
—Thomas Carew