If any frisk or milling match should call me out of town, I can pass the blades with white cockades, their whiskers hanging down; With large jack-towels round their necks, they think they’re first and fast, But, with their gapers open wide, they find that they are last. Whilst I ride away, &c. If threescore miles I am from home, I darkness never mind, My friend is gone, and I am left, with pipe and pot behind; Up comes some saucy kiddy, a scampsman on the hot, But ere he pulls the trigger I am off just like a shot. For I ride away, &c. If Fortune e’er should fickle be, and wish to have again That which she so freely gave, I’d give it without pain; I would part with it most freely, and without the least remorse, Only grant to me what God hath gave, my mistress and my horse! That I may ride away, &c. THE SEEDS OF LOVE. [THIS very curious old song is not only a favourite with our peasantry, but, in consequence of having been introduced into the modern dramatic entertainment of _The Loan of a Lover_, has obtained popularity in higher circles. Its sweetly plaintive tune will be found in _Popular Music_. The words are quaint, but by no means wanting in beauty; they are, no doubt, corrupted, as we have derived them from common broadsides, the only form in which we have been able to meet with them. The author of the song was Mrs. Fleetwood Habergham, of Habergham, in the county of Lancaster. ‘Ruined by the extravagance, and disgraced by the vices of her husband, she soothed her sorrows,’ says Dr. Whitaker, ‘by some stanzas yet remembered among the old people of her neighbourhood.’—_History of Whalley_. Mrs. Habergham died in 1703, and was buried at Padiham.] I SOWED the seeds of love, it was all in the spring, In April, May, and June, likewise, when small birds they do sing; My garden’s well planted with flowers everywhere, Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself the flower that I loved so dear. My gardener he stood by, I asked him to choose for me, He chose me the violet, the lily and pink, but those I refused all three; The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon, The lily and the pink I did o’erlook, and I vowed I’d stay till June. In June there’s a red rose-bud, and that’s the flower for me! But often have I plucked at the red rose-bud till I gained the willow-tree; The willow-tree will twist, and the willow-tree will twice,— O! I wish I was in the dear youth’s arms that once had the heart of mine. My gardener he stood by, he told me to take great care, For in the middle of a red rose-bud there grows a sharp thorn there; I told him I’d take no care till I did feel the smart, And often I plucked at the red rose-bud till I pierced it to the heart.