Coridon's Song That quiet contemplation Then care away, And wend along with me. For courts are full of flattery, The city full of wantonness, But oh, the honest countryman High trolollie lollie loe, His pride is in his tillage, His horses and his cart: Our clothing is good sheepskins, Gray russet for our wives, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, 'Tis warmth and not gay clothing That doth prolong our lives: The plowman, though he labor hard, Yet on the holiday, High trolollie lollie loc, High trollolie lee, No emperor so merrily To recompense our tillage High trolollie lee, And for our sweet refreshments The earth affords us bowers: 1637 The cuckoo and the nightingale High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, And with their pleasant roundelays Bid welcome to the spring: This is not half the happiness High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, Though others think they have as much Yet he that says so lies: Then come away, turn Countryman with me. John Chalkhill (fl. 1648] THE OLD SQUIRE I LIKE the hunting of the hare I like the calm of the early fields, I like the pheasants and feeding things I like the flap of the wood-pigeon's wings I like the blackbird's shriek, and his rush And the partridge hiding her head in a bush, I like these things, and I like to ride, When all the world is in bed, To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide, And where the sun grows red. The Old Squire The beagles at my horse-heels trot In silence after me; There's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot, A score of names well used, and dear, I like the hunting of the hare The new world still is all less fair I covet not a wider range Than these dear manors give; I leave my neighbors to their thought; On my own lands to find my sport, The hare herself no better loves I know my quarries every one, A hundred years ago. The lags, the gills, the forest ways, These are the kingdoms of my chase, 1639 Nor has the world a better thing, Though one should search it round, Than thus to live one's own sole king, Upon one's own sole ground. I like the hunting of the hare; To these, as homeward still I ply I like the hunting of the hare; Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840 INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE Within my limits, lone and still, The Retirement At morn I take my customed round, I teach in winding wreaths to stray At eve, within yon studious nook, Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed; Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn, While such pure joys my bliss create, 1641 Thomas Warton [1728-1790] THE RETIREMENT FAREWELL, thou busy world, and may We never meet again; Here I can eat and sleep and pray, And do more good in one short day Than he who his whole age outwears Upon the most conspicuous theaters, Good God! how sweet are all things here! |