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Page 167 - Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburden his full soul Of all its music...
Page 170 - I have never yet heard any account of the origin of this English custom; but it is unquestionably very ancient, and is still kept up even in great towns, though less in them than in the country.
Page 166 - Most musical, most melancholy" bird! A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought! In Nature there is nothing melancholy. But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love, (And so, poor wretch!
Page 30 - Adde sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, With store of ale too ; And thus ye must doe To make the wassaile a swinger. Give then to the king And queene wassailing ; And though with ale ye be whet here ; Yet part ye from hence, As free from offence, As when ye innocent met here.
Page 30 - This night as ye use, Who shall for the present delight here ; Be a king by the lot, And who shall not Be Twelfe-day queene for the night here.
Page 56 - Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind Their paramours with mutual chirpings find, I early rose, just at the break of day, Before the sun had chased the stars away; A-field I went, amid the morning dew, To milk my kine (for so should...
Page 65 - The hen is hung at a fellow's back, who has also some horse-bells about him ; the rest of the fellows are blinded, and have boughs in their hands, with which they chase this fellow and his hen about some large court or small enclosure. The fellow with his hen and bells shifting as well as he can, they follow the sound, and sometimes hit him and his hen, other times, if he can get behind one of them, they thresh one another well...
Page 165 - Gently o'er the accustomed oak; Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, I woo to hear thy even-song...
Page 166 - But hear no murmuring: it flows silently, O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 10 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, "Most musical, most melancholy" bird ! A melancholy bird ? Oh idle thought!