‘WHY does your brand sae drop wi’… Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi’ b… And why sae sad gang ye, O?’ ‘O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
“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…
O MY deir hert, young Jesus swei… Prepare thy creddil in my spreit, And I sall rock thee in my hert And never mair from thee depart. But I sall praise thee evermoir
LATE at een, drinkin’ the wine, And ere they paid the lawin’, They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawin’. ‘O stay at hame, my noble lord!
THE Indian weed withered quite; Green at morn, cut down at night; Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay: Thus think, then drink Tobacco… And when the smoke ascends on high…
I SAW my Lady weep, And Sorrow proud to be advanced s… In those fair eyes where all perfe… Her face was full of woe; But such a woe (believe me) as win…
THERE is a Lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleased my mind; I did but see her passing by, And yet I love her till I die. Her gesture, motion, and her smile…
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...
HEY nonny no! Men are fools that wish to die! Is ‘t not fine to dance and sing When the bells of death do ring? Is ’t not fine to swim in wine,
HIERUSALEM, my happy home, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end, Thy joys when shall I see? O happy harbour of the Saints!
Jhesu Cryste, yn Trynyté, Oonly God and persons thre, Graunt us wele to spede, And gyf us grace so to do That we may come thy blys unto,
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…
God and the soldier All men adore In time of trouble, And no more; For when war is over
The time when first I fell in lov… Which now I must lament; The year wherein I lost such time To compass my content. The day wherein I saw too late
‘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?