Music Which Reaches the Heart: Song Lyrics

Arhyd Y Nos or the Live-Long Night. Poor Mary Anne! A Dirge:

Here beneath this willow sleepeth
Poor Mary Anne, . . . .
One whom all the village weepeth;
Poor Mary Anne!
He she loved her passion slighted,
Breaking all the vows he’d plighted;
Therefore life no more delighted
Poor Mary Anne

Pale thy cheek grew, where thy lover,
Poor Mary Anne,
Once could winning charms discover; . . . .
Poor Mary Anne!
Dim those eyes, so sweetly speaking
When true love’s expression seeking; . . . .
Oh! we saw thy heart was breaking,
Poor Mary Anne!

Like a rose we saw thee wither,
Poor Mary Anne! . . . .
Soon, a corpse, we brought thee hither,
Poor Mary Anne!
Now, our evening pastime flying,
We, in heartfelt sorrow vying,
Seek this willow, . . . . softly sighing
‘Poor Mary Anne!’

Fill the Bowl, and Let’s Be Joyous:

Fill the bowl, and let’s be joyous,
Time and Youth are flying,
Why should anxious care annoy us.
What’s the use of sighing.
I’ll heave no sighs but those,
Caus’d by the blush of beauty,
And when we gaze on beauty’s rose,
To sigh is duty.
Fill the bowl then fill it higher,
And all care defying,
Save the sigh of soft desire
Here’s farewell to sighing.
Hence hence the pale cheek,
The wrinkled brow,
Come ye whose cheeks
With crimson glow,
Let Music wake the quivering string,
Let Cupid wave his downy wing;
And give us kind indulgent boy,
None of his grief, but all his joy.

I Know You False, I Know You Vain, a Ballad:

I know you false, I know you vain,
Yet still I cannot break my chain:
Though with those lips so sweetly smiling,
Those eyes so bright and so beguiling,
On every youth by turns you smile,
And every youth by turns beguile,
Yet still enchant and still deceive me,
Do all things, fatal fair, . . . . but leave me.
Still let me in those speaking eyes
Trace all your feelings as they rise;
Still from those lips in crimson swelling,
Which seem of soft delights the dwelling,
Catch tones of sweetness, which the soul
In fetters ever new control;
Nor let my starts of passion grieve thee, . . . .
Though death to stay, ’t were death to leave thee

Mentra Gwen: Venture Gwen:

Low hung the dark clouds on Plinlimmon’s tall peak,
And slowly, yet surely, the winter drew near;
When Ellen, sweet Ellen, a tear on her cheek,
Exclaimed as we parted, ‘In May I’ll be here.’

How swiftly I ran up the mountain’s steep height,
To catch the last glimpse of an object so dear!
And, when I no longer could keep her in sight,
I thought on her promise, . . . . ‘In May I’ll be here.’

Now gladly I mark from Plinlimmon’s tall peak
The low-hanging vapours and clouds disappear,
And climb the rough mountain, thence Ellen to seek,
Repeating her promise . . . . ‘In May I’ll be here.’

But vainly I gaze the wide prospect around,
’T is May, yet no Ellen returning is near:
Oh, when shall I see her! when feel my heart bound,
As sweetly she cries, ‘It is May, and I’m here!’

My Love to War is Going:

My Love to War is going,
And I am left to mourn,
For him my Tears are flowing,
Who knows when he’ll return?

Oh! War creates much sorrow
Makes many a heart to mourn,
Who knows but that tomorrow
He may a Corpse return.

Nos Galen, or New Year’s Night:

Bring the song, and join in chorus;
Let the voice of gladness sound;Pleasure, shed thy roses o’er us;
Come ere dangers threaten round.

Now to care let’s bid defiance,
Welcome, hearts and features gay;
On tomorrow no reliance,
But let us enjoy today.

Future suns may set in sorrow,
Or in sorrow dimly rise;
Then, regardless of the morrow,
We the present hour will prize.

Pleasure, come! for thee we languish;
Bind us in thy silken sway!
Be tomorrow’s joy or anguish,
We’ll to smiles devote today.

The Poor Hindoo:

’Tis thy will, and I must leave thee:
O! then, best-beloved, farewell!
I forbear, lest I should grieve thee,
Half my heartfelt pangs to tell.
Soon a British fair will charm thee,
Thou her smiles wilt fondly woo;
But though she to rapture warm thee,
Don’t forget THY POOR HINDOO.

Well I know this happy beauty
Soon thine envied bride will shine;
But will she by anxious duty
Prove a passion warm as mine?
If to rule be her ambition,
And her own desires pursue,
Thou’lt recall my fond submission,

Born herself to rank and splendour,
Will she deign to wait on thee,
And those soft attentions render
Thou so oft hast praised in me?
Yet, why doubt her care to please thee?
Thou must every heart subdue;
I am sure each maid that sees thee
Loves thee like THY POOR HINDOO.

No, ah! no! . . . . though from thee parted,
Other maids will peace obtain;
But thy Lolà, broken-hearted,
Ne’er, oh! ne’er, will smile again.
Oh! how fast from thee they tear me!
Faster still shall death pursue:
But ’tis well . . . . death will endear me,
And thou’lt mourn THY POOR HINDOO.

Then Be it So, A Ballad by Mrs. Opie:

Then be it so and let us part,
Since love like mine has fail’d to move thee;
But do not think this constant heart
Can ever cease, ingrate, to love thee.
No––spite of all thy cold disdain,
I’ll bless the hour when first I met thee
And rather bear whole years of pain
Than e’en for one short hour forget thee.
Forget thee! No.

Still Mem’ry now my only friend,
Shall with her soothing art endeavour
My present anguish to suspend,
By painting pleasures lost for ever,
She shall the happy hours renew.
When full of hope and smiles I met thee,
And little thought the day to view
When thou woudst wish me to forget thee.
Forget thee! No.

Yet, have I liv’d to view that day,
To mourn my past destructive blindness,
To see now turn’d with scorn away
Those eyes once fill’d with answering kindness;
But go––farewell and be thou blest,
If thoughts of what I feel will let thee;
Yet, though thy Image kills my rest,
’Twere greater anguish to forget thee
Forget thee! No.

To the Chace Let’s Away:

To the chace let’s away the hounds are in sight,
And hark their full tones to the forest invite.
See they lead let’s pursue
For the Fox is in view,
Hark away hark hark away
To the sport of the day.
Who’d tarry behind such joys being nigh
As the Fox full in sight, and the hounds full in cry.
O the joys of the chace,
See he slackens his pace,
See he pants as he flies,
Now he totters and dies.
Not long was the sport, but each joyous soul
In song shall renew it at night o’er the bowl.
Sly Reynard again shall die in the strain
While the sport breathing song,
We in chorus prolong
And cry while mirth beams on each health-speaking face
‘No joys sure can equal the joys of the chace.’

Who Gave the Sun His Light:

Who gave the Sun his light,
To charm the wond’ring sight,
Who cloath’d in verdure bright,
Earth’s wealth bestowing breast?
What Pow’rs sublime command,
Bade Ocean’s floods expand,
Then could their course arrest?


Great God! these works were thine,
Wak’d by thy voice divine,
These wonders round us shine,
The Sun’s bright beams,
Earth’s verdant vest,
And Ocean’s swelling flood,
Proclaim thee, gracious pow’r!
Most good, most wise, most great, most blest!

Then the vast thanks we owe,
In songs devout shall flow,
Thine ’tis thy pow’r to show,
And ours that power to praise,
While thus the votive lay,
In solemn sounds we pay,
Thus the full Chorus raise.