“Oh where ha’e ye been, Lord Rand… And where ha’e ye been, my handsom… “I ha’e been to the wild wood: mot… For I’m wearied wi’ hunting, and… “An wha met ye there, Lord Randal…
A lthough things are not perfect B ecause of trial or pain C ontinue in thanksgiving D o not begin to blame E ven when the times are hard
Moo, moo, brown cow Have you any milk? Yes miss, three jugs smooth as sil… One for you, And one for me,
Please God, forsake your water an… And fling the bitter cress you eat… Put by your rosary. In Mary’s nam… To mildewing monks in Rome. Spring’s at work in gardens bright…
Whan bells war rung, an mass was s… A wat a’ man to bed were gone, Clark Sanders came to Margret’s w… With mony a sad sigh and groan. “Are ye sleeping, Margret,” he sa…
YE Highlands and ye Lawlands, O where hae ye been? They hae slain the Earl of Murray… And hae laid him on the green. Now wae be to thee, Huntley!
The following Epilogue to “The Padlock” was written by a very worthy Clergyman, soon after the first representation of that opera. The author of this little poem died in the Summer of 1...
The key to friendship Is not in the hand you hold But how you hold the hand. It’s not in the tears you dry But all the reasons why.
ON a time the amorous Silvy Said to her shepherd, ‘Sweet, how… Kiss me this once and then God be… My sweetest dear! Kiss me this once and then God be…
I eat my peas with honey; I’ve done it all my life. It makes the peas taste funny, But it keeps them on the knife.
My Loue in her Attyre doth shew h… It doth so well become her: For eu’ry season she hath dressing… For Winter, Spring, and Summer. No Beautie shee doth misse,
“If all the world were paper And all the sea were ink, If all the trees were bread and ch… What would we do for drink? If all the world were sand O,
‘Oh, you must answer my questions… Sing ninety-nine and ninety, Or you’re not God’s, you’re one o… And you are the weaver’s bonny.’ ‘What is whiter than the milk?
ICHOT a burde in boure bryht, That fully semly is on syht, Menskful maiden of myht; Feir ant fre to fonde; In al this wurhliche won
O WHAT a plague is love! How shall I bear it? She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it. She so torments my mind