Hail! lovely nymphs, be not too coy,
But freely yield your charms;
Let love inspire with mirth and joy,
In Cupid's lovely arms.

Bright Luna spreads its light around,
The gallants for to cheer;

As they lay sporting on the ground,
At the fair June bonfire.

All on the pleasant dewy mead,

They shared each other's charms;
Till Phoebus' beams began to spread,
And coming day alarms.

Whilst larks and linnets sing so sweet,
To cheer each lovely swain;
Let each prove true unto their love,
And so farewell the plain.

XIV.

Suffolk Harvest-Home Song.

IN no part of England are the harvest-homes kept up with greater spirit than in Suffolk. The following old song is a general favourite on such occasions.

HERE'S a health unto our master,

The founder of the feast!

I wish, with all my heart and soul,
In heaven he may find rest.

I hope all things may prosper,

That ever he takes in hand;
For we are all his servants,

And all at his command.

Drink, boys, drink, and see you do not spill, For if you do, you must drink two,—it is your master's will.

Now our harvest is ended,

And supper is past;

Here's our mistress' good health,
In a full flowing glass!

She is a good woman,·

She prepared us good cheer;

Come, all my brave boys,

And drink off your beer.

Drink, my boys, drink 'till you come unto me, The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier shall we be!

In yon green wood there lies an old fox,
Close by his den you may catch him, or no;
Ten thousand to one you catch him, or no.
His beard and his brush are all of one colour,-

[Takes the glass, and empties it off.]

I am sorry, kind sir, that your glass is no fuller. 'Tis down the red lane! 'tis down the red lane! So merrily hunt the fox down the red lane!

XV.

The Haymakers' Song.

AN old and very favourite ditty sung in many parts of England at merry-makings, especially at those which occur during the hay-harvest. It is not in any collection.

In the merry month of June,
In the prime time of the year;
Down in yonder meadows

There runs a river clear

And many a little fish

Doth in that river play;

:

And many a lad, and many a lass,
Go abroad a-making hay.

In come the jolly mowers,

To mow the meadows down;
With budget, and with bottle

Of ale, both stout and brown,
All labouring men of courage bold
Come here their strength to try;

They sweat and blow, and cut and mow,
For the grass cuts very dry.

Here's nimble Ben and Tom,

With pitchfork, and with rake;

Here's Molly, Liz and Susan,
Come here their hay to make.
While sweet jug, jug, jug!

The nightingale doth sing,

From morning unto even-song,

As they are hay-making.

And when that bright day faded,
And the sun was going down,
There was a merry piper

Approached from the town:
He pulled out his pipe and tabor,
So sweetly he did play,

Which made all lay down their rakes, And leave off making hay.

Then joining in a dance,

They jig it o'er the green;
Though tired with their labour,
No one less was seen.
But sporting like some fairies,
Their dance they did pursue,
In leading up, and casting off,
Till morning was in view.

And when that bright daylight,

The morning it was come,

They laid down and rested

Till the rising of the sun:

Till the rising of the sun,

When the merry larks do sing,

And each lad did rise and take his lass,

And away to hay-making.

XVI.

The Sword-Dancers' Song.

SWORD-DANCING is not so common in the North of England as it was a few years ago; but a troop of rustic practitioners of the art may still be occasionally met with at Christmas time, in some of the most secluded of the Yorkshire dales. The following is a copy of the introductory song, as it used to be sung by the Wharfdale sword-dancers. It was transcribed by the editor from a MS. in possession of Mr. Holmes, surgeon, at Grassington, in Craven. At the conclusion of the song a dance ensues, and sometimes a rustic drama is performed, similar to the one given in an article on sword-dancing, to be found in Sir Cuthbert Sharp's Bishoprick Garland.

The spectators being assembled, the clown enters, and after drawing a circle with his sword, walks round it, and calls in the actors in the following lines, which are sung to the accompaniment of a violin played outside, or behind the door.

THE first that enters on the floor,

His name is Captain Brown;

I think he is as smart a youth
As any in this town:

In courting of the ladies gay,

He fixes his delight;

He will not stay from them all day,
And is with them all the night.

The next's a tailor by his trade,

Called Obadiah Trim;

You may quickly guess, by his plain dress,
And hat of broadest brim,