Songs from Garrick’s The Jubilee published as separate volumes

The success of Garrick’s afterpiece at Drury Lane prompted the publication of numerous cheap versions of the songs. This kind of commercial tie-in helped to disseminate the songs well beyond the playhouse walls.

1. Songs, Chorusses, &c. which are introduced in the New Entertainment of the Jubilee at the Theatre-Royal, in Drury Lane. 1778.

i. The Serenade: or, Morning Address. To the Ladies. Sung by Mr. Bannister, Mr. Kear, Mr. Fawcett, &c.

Let Beauty with the sun arise
To Shakespeare tribute pay
With heavenly smiles and speaking eyes,
Give lustre to the day.

Each smile she gives protects his name;
And who shall dare to frown?
Not envy’s self can blast the fame,
Which beauty deigns to crown.

ii. Air. Sung by Mr. Bannister.

This is, Sir, a Jubilee,
Crowding without company,
Riot without jollity,
That’s a Jubilee!

Thus ’tis night and day, Sir,
I hope that you will stay, Sir,
To see our Jubilee.

On the road such crosses, Sir,
Cursing, jolts, and tosses, Sir
Posting without horses, Sir,
That’s a Jubilee!

Thus ’tis, &.

Odes, Sir, without poetry,
Music without melody,
Singing without harmony,
That’s a Jubilee!

Thus ’tis, &.

Holes to thrust your head in, Sir,
Lodgings without bedding, Sir,
Beds as if they’d lead in, Sir,
That’s a Jubilee!

Thus ’tis, &.

Blankets without sheeting, Sir,
Dinners without eating Sir,
Not without much cheating, Sir,
That’s a Jubilee!

Thus ’tis night and day, Sir,
I hope that you will stay, Sir,
To see our Jubilee.

iii. Warwickshire. Sung by Mr. Vernon, Mr. Davies, &c.

Ye Warwickshire lads, and ye lasses,
See what at our Jubilee passes;
Come revel away, rejoice and be glad,
For the lad of all lads, was a Warwickshire lad,
Warwickshire lad,
All be glad,
For the lad of all lads, was a Warwickshire lad.

Be proud of the charms of your country,
Where nature has lavish’d her bounty,
Where much she has giv’n, that some may be spar’d,
For the bard of all bards, was a Warwickshire bard.
Warwickshire bard,
Never pair’d
For the bard of all bards, was a Warwickshire bard.

Each shire has its different pleasures,
Each shire has its different treasures,
But to rare Warwickshire all shires must submit,
For the wit of all wits, was a Warwickshire wit,
Warwickshire wit,
How he writ!
For the wit of all wits, was a Warwickshire wit,

Old Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden,
And a half a score more, we take pride in,
Of famous Will Congreve we boast too the skill,
But the Will of all Wills, was a Warwickshire Will,
Warwickshire Will,
Matchless still,
But the Will of all Wills was a Warwickshire Will.

Our Shakespeare compar’d is to no man,
Nor Frenchman, nor Grecian, nor Roman,
Their swans are all geese to the Avon’s sweet swan,
And the man of all men, was a Warwickshire man,
Warwickshire man,
Avon’s swan,
And the man of all men, was a Warwickshire man.

As ven’son is very inviting,
To steal it our bard took delight in,
To make his friends merry he was never lag,
And the wag of all wags, was a Warwickshire wag,
Warwickshire wag,
Ever brag,
And the wag of all wags, was a Warwickshire wag.

There never was such a creature,
Of all she was worth, he robb’d nature!
He took all her smiles, and he took all her grief,
And the thief of all thieves, was a Warwickshire thief,
Warwickshire thief,
He’s the chief,
And the thief of all thieves, was a Warwickshire thief.

iv. The Mulberry-Tree. Sung by Mr. Vernon, Mr. Bannister, &c.

Behold this fair goblet, ’twas carv’d from the tree,
Which, O my sweet Shakespeare, was planted by thee.
As a relick I kiss it, and bow at the shrine:
What comes from thy hand, must be ever divine!
All shall yield to the mulberry-tree,
Bend to thee
Blest mulberry;
Matchless was he,
Who planted thee,
And thou like him immortal be!

Ye trees of the forest, so rampant and high,
Who spread round your branches, whose heads sweep the sky,
Ye curious exotics, whom taste has brought here,
To root out the natives at prices so dear;
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

Our oak is held royal in Britain’s great boast,
Preserv’d once our king, and will always our coast,
But of fir we make ships, we have thousands that fight;
While one, only one, like our Shakespeare can write,
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

*Let Venus delight in her gay myrtle bowers,
Pomona in fruit trees, and Flora in flowers;
The garden of Shakespeare all fancies will suit,
With the sweetest of flowers, and the fairest of fruit,
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

*With learning and knowledge the well letter’d birch
Supplies law and physick, and grace for the church,
But law and the gospel in Shakespeare we find,
And he gives the best physick for body and mind.
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

The fame of the patron gives fame to the tree,
From him and his merits this takes its degree;
Let Phœbus and Bacchus their glories resign,
Our tree shall surpass both the laurel and vine.
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

The genius of Shakespeare out-shines the bright day,
More rapture than wine to the heart can convey:
So the tree which he planted by making his own,
Has laurel, and bays, and the vine all in one.
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

Then take each a relick of this hallow’d tree,
From folly and fashion a charm let it be;
Fill, fill to the planter, the cup to the brim:
To honour his country, do honour to him.
All shall yield to the mulberry tree,
Bend to thee,
Blest mulberry,
Matchless was he
Who planted thee,
And thou like him immortal be!

*N.B. The stanzas marked thus * are omitted in the performance.

v. Chorus for the Pageant.

Hence, ye prophane! and only they,
Our pageant grace, our pomp survey,
Whom love of sacred genius brings:
Let pride, let flattery decree,
Honours to deck the memory,
Of warriors, senators, and kings!
Not less in glory and desert,
A poet here receives his part,
A tribute from the feeling heart.

vi. A Ballad. Sung by Mrs. Wrighten.

The pride of all nature was sweet Willy O,
The first of all swains
He gladden’d the plains;
None ever was like to the sweet Willy O.

He sung it so rarely did sweet Willy O,
He melted each maid;
So skilful he play’d,
No shepherd e’er pip’d like the sweet Willy O,

He would be a soldier (the sweet Willy O);
When arm’d in the field
With sword and with shield
The laurel was won by the sweet Willy O.

All Nature obey’d him (the sweet Willy O);
Where-ever he came,
What-e’er had a name,
When-ever he sung, follow’d sweet Willy O.

He charm’d all when living (the sweet Willy O);
And when Willy di’d
’Twas Nature that sigh’d,
To part with her all in her sweet Willy O.

vii. Air. Sung by Mrs. Davies.

All this for a poet—O no,
Who liv’d lord knows how long ago!
How can you jeer one,
How can you steer one,
A poet, a poet—O no:
’Tis not so,
Who liv’d lord knows how long ago.

It must be some great man,
A prince, or a state-man,
It can’t be a poet—O no:
Your poet is poor,
And nobody sure,
Regards a poor poet I trow:
The rich ones we prize,
Send ’em up to the skies,
But not a poor poet—O no—
Who liv’d lord knows how long ago.

viii.

[Spoken by Mrs. Wrighten]

O’er each heart he was ruler,
Made ’em warmer or cooler,
Could make ’em laugh or to cry:
What we lock’d in our breasts,
Tho’ as close as in chests,
Was not hid from the conjuror’s eye:

[Mrs. Davies]

Tho’ sins I have none,
I am glad he is gone,
No maid could live near such a mon.

[Mrs. Wrighten]

If he saw ye he knew ye,
Would look thro’ and thro’ ye,
Thro’ skin, and your flesh, and your cloaths,
Had you vanity, pride,
Fifty follies beside,
He would see ’em, as plain as your nose.

[Mrs. Davies]

Tho’ sins I have none,
I am glad he is gone,
No maid would live near such a mon.

Duetto. Sung by Mrs. Wrighten and Mrs. Davies.

Let us sing it, and dance it,
Rejoice it, and prance it,
That no man has now such an art;
What would come of us all,
Both the great ones, and small,
Should he live to peep now in each heart?

Tho’ sins I have none,
I’m glad he is gone;
No maid could live near such a mon.

ix. Chorus.

This is the day, a holiday! a holiday!
Drive spleen and rancour far away,
This is the day, a holiday! a holiday!
Drive care and sorrow far away.
* Here nature nurs’d her darling boy,
From whom all care and sorrow fly,
Whose harp the Muses strung:
From heart to heart let joy rebound,
Now, now, we tread enchanted ground,
Here Shakespeare walk’d and sung!

* The last stanza is omitted in the performance.

x. Roundelay. Sung by Mr. Bannister, Mr. Davies, Mrs. Wrighten, Mrs. Davies, Mrs. Jewel, Mrs. Scott, &c.

Sisters of the tuneful strain!
Attend your parent’s jocund train,
’Tis Fancy calls you, follow me,
To celebrate the Jubilee.

On Avon’s banks, where Shakespeare’s bust
Points out, and guards his sleeping dust,
The sons of Scenic Mirth agree
To celebrate this Jubilee.

*By Garrick led, the grateful band,
Hast to their poet’s native land,
With rites of sportive revelry,
To celebrate his Jubilee.

*Come daughters then, and with you bring
The vocal reed, and sprightly string,
Wit, and joke, and repartee,
To celebrate our Jubilee.

Come, daughters come, and bring with you
Th’Aerial Sprite and Fairy Crew,
And the Sister-Graces three,
To celebrate our Jubilee

Hang around the scuptur’d tomb
The ’broider’d vest, the nodding plume,
And the mask of comic glee,
To celebrate our Jubilee.

From Birnam Wood and Bosworth’s Field,
Bring the standard, bring the shield,
With drums, and marital symphony,
To celebrate our Jubilee.

In mournful numbers now relate,
Poor Desdemona’s hapless fate,
With frantic deeds of jealousy,
To celebrate our Jubilee.

No be Windsor’s Wives forgot,
With their harmless, merry plot,
The whit’ning mead and haunted tree,
To celebrate our Jubilee.

Now in jocund strains recite
The humours of the braggard knight,
Fat Knight! and antient Pistol, he!
To celebrate our Jubilee.

But see! in crowds the gay, the fair,
To the splendid scene repair,
A scene as fine, as fine can be,
To celebrate our Jubilee.

2. Shakespeare’s Garland. Being a Collection of New Songs, Ballads, Roundelays, Catches, Glees, Comic-Serenatas, &c. Performed at the Jubilee at Stratford upon Avon. The Musick by Dr. Arne, Mr Barthelimon, Mr. Ailwood, and Mr. Dibdin.

i. Shakespeare’s Garland. The Morning Address.

To the Ladies,

Let beauty with the sun arise;
To Shakespeare tribute pay,
With heavenly smiles and speaking eyes;
Give grace and lustre to the day.
Each smile she gives protects his name;
What face shall dare to frown?
Not Envy’s self can blast the fame
Which beauty deigns to crown.

ii. Warwickshire. A Song. By Mr. G—

Ye Warwickshire lads, and ye lasses,
See what at our Jubilee passes;
Come revel away, rejoice and be glad,
For the lad of all lads, was a Warwickshire lad,
Warwickshire lad,
All be glad,
For the lad of all lads, was a Warwickshire lad.

Be proud of the charms of your country,
Where nature has lavish’d her bounty,
Where much she has giv’n, that some may be spar’d,
For the bard of all bards, was a Warwickshire bard.
Warwickshire bard,
Never pair’d
For the bard of all bards, was a Warwickshire bard.

Each shire has its different pleasures,
Each shire has its different treasures,
But to rare Warwickshire all shires must submit,
For the wit of all wits, was a Warwickshire wit,
Warwickshire wit,
How he writ!
For the wit of all wits, was a Warwickshire wit,

Old Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden,
And a half a score more, we take pride in,
Of famous Will Congreve we boast too the skill,
But the Will of all Wills, was a Warwickshire Will,
Warwickshire Will,
Matchless still,
But the Will of all Wills was a Warwickshire Will.

Our Shakespeare compar’d is to no man,
Nor Frenchman, nor Grecian, nor Roman,
Their swans are all geese to the Avon’s sweet swan,
And the man of all men, was a Warwickshire man,
Warwickshire man,
Avon’s swan,
And the man of all men, was a Warwickshire man.

As ven’son is very inviting,
To steal it our bard took delight in,
To make his friends merry he was never lag,
And the wag of all wags, was a Warwickshire wag,
Warwickshire wag,
Ever brag,
And the wag of all wags, was a Warwickshire wag.

There never was such a creature,
Of all she was worth, he robb’d nature!
He took all her smiles, and he took all her grief,
And the thief of all thieves, was a Warwickshire thief,
Warwickshire thief,
He’s the chief,
And the thief of all thieves, was a Warwickshire thief.

iii. Sweet Willy O. A Song. By Mr. G—

The pride of all nature was sweet Willy O,
The first of all swains
He gladden’d the plains;
None ever was like to the sweet Willy O.

He sung it so rarely did sweet Willy O,
He melted each maid;
So skilful he play’d,
No shepherd e’er pip’d like the sweet Willy O,

He would be a *soldier, the sweet Willy O;
When arm’d in the field
With sword and with shield
The laurel was won by the sweet Willy O.

All Nature obey’d him, the sweet Willy O;
Where-ever he came,
What-e’er had a name,
When-ever he sung, follow’d sweet Willy O.

He charm’d all when living, the sweet Willy O;
And when Willy di’d
’Twas Nature that sigh’d,
To part with her all in her sweet Willy O.

*Writer of Tragedy

iv. Shakespeare’s Mulberry-Tree. Sung with a Cup in his Hand made of the Tree. By. Mr. G—

Let Venus delight in her gay myrtle bowers,
Pomona in fruit trees, and Flora in flowers;
The garden of Shakespeare all fancies will suit,
With the sweetest of flowers, and the fairest of fruit,
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

With learning and knowledge the well letter’d birch
Supplies law and physick, and grace for the church,
But law and the gospel in Shakespeare we find,
And he gives the best physick for body and mind.
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

v. Roundelay

Sisters of the tuneful strain!
Attend your parent’s jocund train,
’Tis Fancy calls you, follow me,
To celebrate the Jubilee.

On Avon’s banks, where Shakespeare’s bust
Points out, and guards his sleeping dust,
The sons of Scenic Mirth agree
To celebrate this Jubilee.

*By Garrick led, the grateful band,
Hast to their poet’s native land,
With rites of sportive revelry,
To celebrate his Jubilee.

*Come daughters then, and with you bring
The vocal reed, and sprightly string,
Wit, and joke, and repartee,
To celebrate our Jubilee.

Come, daughters come, and bring with you
Th’Aerial Sprite and Fairy Crew,
And the Sister-Graces three,
To celebrate our Jubilee

Hang around the scuptur’d tomb
The ’broider’d vest, the nodding plume,
And the mask of comic glee,
To celebrate our Jubilee.

From Birnam Wood and Bosworth’s Field,
Bring the standard, bring the shield,
With drums, and marital symphony,
To celebrate our Jubilee.

In mournful numbers now relate,
Poor Desdemona’s hapless fate,
With frantic deeds of jealousy,
To celebrate our Jubilee.

Yet Colin bring, and Rosalind,
Each shepherd true, and damsel kind,
For well with ours, their sports agree,
To crown the festive Jubilee.

N.B. the stanzas marked with a * are omitted in the singing.

vi. Chorus from the Church

This is the day, a holiday! a holiday!
Drive spleen and rancour far away,
This is the day, a holiday! a holiday!
Drive care and sorrow far away.

* Here nature nurs’d her darling boy,
From whom all care and sorrow fly,
Whose harp the Muses strung:
From heart to heart let joy rebound,
Now, now, we tread enchanted ground,
Here Shakespeare walk’d, and sung!

* To be sung at the house where Shakespeare was born.

vii. To the Immortal Memory of Shakespeare

Immortal be his name,
His memory, his fame!
Matchless Shakespeare full in thee!
Join’d by everlasting tyes,
Shakespeare but with Nature dies.
Immortal be his name,
His memory, his fame!

viii. The Dramatic Race. A Catch. By a Lover or the Turf.

Clear, clear the course—make room—make room I say!
Now they are off, and Jonson makes the play.
I’ll bet the odds—done, sir, with you and you;
Shakespeare keeps near him—and he’ll win it too!
Here’s even money—done for a hundred, done—
Now Jonson! now, or never—he has won.
I’ll take my oath, that Shakespeare won the prize—
Damme! Whoever says he lost it, lies.

ix. Catch in As You Like It

What shall he have that kill’d the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.
Take thou no scorn
To wear the horn, the horn, the horn:
It was a crest ere thou wast born.
Thy father’s father wore it;
And thy father bore it,
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

x. A Glee. By Dr. M—

Come, nymphs and fawns, where’er ye be,
To this your Father’s Jubilee,
With a tivy, tivy, tivy-tivie,ti.
Come elves, and fairies, in a row,
And if you ever sung, sing now,
With a row-dow, row tidow, dow.
Ev’n Caliban, tho’ void of art,
With a growling base, shall bear a part,
With a Ban, Ban, Cacaliban.

xi. Queen Mab. A Cantanta. The Words by Mr. B—. The Music by Mr. Dibdin.

recitative. Not long ago, ’tis said, a proclamation,
Was sent abroad through all the Fairy nation;
Mab to her loving subjects—A decree,
At Shakespeare’s tomb to hold a Jubilee.

accompanied. The night was come, and now on Avon’s side
The pigmy race was seen,
Attended by their queen,
On chasers some, and some on crickets ride.
The queen appear’d from far,
Monuted in a nut shell carr;
Six painted lady-birds the carriage drew;
And now the cavalcade,
In order due array’d,
March’d first,
Where erst,
The sacred Mulb’ry grew,
And there their homage paid:
Next they sought the holy ground,
And while
A thousand glow-worm torches glimmer’d round;
Thus Good Fellow, the herald of his fame,
Did from the alabaster height proclaim,
The poets titles and his stile.

air. Shakespeare, heaven’s most favor’d creature,
Truest copier of Nature,
First of the Parnassian train;
Chiefest fav’rite of the muses,
Which soe’er the poet chooses,
Blest alike in ev’ry strain.
Life’s great censor, and inspector,
Fancy’s treasurer, Wit’s director,
Artless to the shame of art;
Master of the various passions,
Leader of all inclinations,
Sov’reign of the human heart.

recitative. Then did the queen an acorn take,
Fill’d with morn and ev’ning dew,
Brush’d from ev’ry fragrant brake,
That round the lawns of Stratford grew.

accompanied. And thus said he, libation do I make,
To our friend and father’s shade:
’Twas Shakespeare that the Fairies made;
And men shall give us honour for his sake.

air. O happy bard, whose potent skill,
Can give existence where it will.
Let giant wisdom strive to chase,
From man’s belief the Fairy race;
Religion stern our pow’r reject,
Philosophy our tales neglect,
Only trusting what ’tis seeing;
Combat us howe’er they list,
In thy scenes we shall exist,
Sure as if Nature gave us being.

xii. The Country Girl. A Comic Serenata. By Mr. G.—

recitativo. Prithee tell me, Cousin Sue,
Why do they make so much to do,
Why all this noise and clatter?
Why all this hurry, all this bustle,
Law how they crowd, and bawl, and justle,
I caunno’ guess the matter:

For whom must all thus puther be?
The Emperor of Garmanee,
Or Great Mogul is coming,
Such eating, drinking, dancing, singing,
Such cannon firing, bells a ringing,
Such trumpeting and drumming!

air. All this for a poet—O no,
Who liv’d lord knows how long ago!
How can you jeer one,
How can you steer one,
A poet, a poet—O no:
’Tis not so,
Who liv’d lord knows how long ago:

recitativo. Yet now I call to mind,
Our larned doctor boasted,
One Shikspur did of all mankind,
Receive from heav’n the most-head—

That he could wonders do,
And did ’em o’er and o’er,
Raise sprites, and lay ’em too,
The like ne’er seen before.

A conjurer was he!
Who with a pen in hond,
Had earth, and air, and sea,
And all things at command.

air. O’er each heart he was ruler,
Made ’em warmer or cooler,
Could make ’em to laugh or to cry;
What we lock’d in our breasts,
Tho’ as close as in chests,
Was not bid from the conjuror’s eye:

Tho’ sins I have none,
I am glad he is gone,
No maid could live near such a mon.

If he saw ye he knew ye,
Would look thro’ ye,
Thro’ skin, and your flesh and your cloaths,
Had you vanity, pride,
Fifty follies beside,
He would see ’em, as plain as your nose.

Tho’ sins I have none,
I’m glad he is gone;
No maid could live near such a mon.

Let us sing it and dance it,
Rejoice it and prance it,
That no man has now such an art.
What would come of us all,
Both the great ones and small,
Did he live now to peep in each heart?

Tho’ sins I have none,
I’m glad he is gone;
No maid could live near such a mon.