LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Blame not my lute Julian Portch. 0

The soote season E. M. WlHPERIS. 11

With how sad steps, 0 Moon — 14

When May is in his prime — 19

Come live with me — 21

Like as a ship — 27

The wrathful winter 31

The pedlar's sung John Gilbert. 33

Jog on, jog on — 35

Blow, blow, thou winter wind E. M. Wimperis. 36

Under the greenwood tree — 37

When icicles hang by the trail John Gilbert. 38

Go, soul, the body's guest Julian Portch. 41

Birds in spring E. 51. Wimperis. 40

Sweet rose.' Julian Portch. 4S

0 day most calm, most bright E. M. Wimperis. 49

See the chariot at hand Julian Portch. 52

You meaner beauties of the night E. M. Wimperis. 54

Sweet bird.' that sing'st away P. W. Keyl. 59

The shepherd's life E. M. Wimperis. 61

Fair daffodils Julian Portch. 63

Sweet country life E. M. Wimperis. 65

The breath of great-eyed kine — 67

Christmas time — 71

The wenches with their wassail howls — 74

/ with my angle would rejoice — 77

Go, lovely rose Julian Portch. 79

My mind to me « kingdom is Biuket Foster. S3

BLAME NOT MY LUTE.

Blame not my Lute! for he must sound

Of this or that as liketh me; For lack of wit the Lute is bound

To give such tunes as pleaseth me; Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch my change, Blame not my Lute!

My Lute, alas! doth not offend,
Though that perforce he must agree

To sound such tunes as I intend,
To sing to them that heareth me;

Then though my songs be somewhat plain,

And toucheth some that use to feign,
Blame not my Lute!

BLAME NOT MY LUTE.

My Lute and strings may not deny,

But as I strike they must obey; Break not them then so wrongfully,

But wreak thyself some other way;
And though the songs which I indite,
Do quit thy change with rightful spite,
Blame not my Lute!

Spite asketh spite, and changing change,
And falsed faith, must needs be known;

The faults so great, the case so strange;
Of right it must abroad be blown:

Then since that by thine own desert

My songs do tell how true thou art,
Blame not my Lute!

Blame but thyself that hast misdone,
And well deserved to have blame;

Change thou thy way, so evil begone,

And then my Lute shall sound that same;

But if till then my fingers play,

By thy desert their wonted way,

Blame not my Lute!

Farewell! unknown; for though thou break

My strings in spite with great disdain,
Yet have I found out for thy sake,

Strings for to string my Lute again:
And if perchance this silly rhyme,
Do make thee blush at any time,

Blame not my Lute!

Sir Thomas Wyat.