#1878 #ABookOfMiscellaneousLyrics #EnglishWriters #VictorianWriters
“GET UP!” the caller calls, “Ge… And in the dead of night, To win the bairns their bite and s… I rise a weary wight. My flannel dudden donn’d, thrice o…
I HAD a merry bird Who sung a merry song, And take it on my word, The day it was not long In presence of my bird with its me…
THE vision will vanish for ever, That gildeth this moment thy track… And in vain were the noblest endea… To call the enchantment back. Yet pine not; a balm—an ovation
MUST all the passion which I’ve… So long to hide be paid with scorn… And must a bosom framed for love, Be doomed a hopeless love to mourn… And must thou still its homage spu…
AH! a lovely jewel was Mary of C… And now she is cold in the clay, We think of the heart-cheering ima… As we pass down the old waggon way… Her air was a magical air, and the…
MY little boy, thy laughter Goes to my bosom core, And sends me yearning after The days that are no more. Adown my cheek is stealing
THEY’D told me he was hoar and o… They’d told me he was weak and wor… And wonder-bound did I behold Him merry as a summer morn. Bound, wonder-bound; but when I f…
’TWAS on a night, with sleet and… From out the north a tempest blew, When Thistle to her cot did go The little Nettle’s self to woo. His errand known, she, with a frow…
MY loved one appears In a vision by night, The loveliest jewel Ever gladdened the sight; With her pensive blue eyes,
YOU quite mistake the sprite you… I’m of the under, not the upper, Order of the fairy race; And cannot go with you to supper. ‘You silly elf, Titania’s self
AS I came down from Earsdon Town… A-lilting of a lay, Whom did I meet but she, the swee… The blue-eyed Lotty Hay. A crimson blush her cheek did flus…
‘NOT now shall I sing of my spor… But the golden hours and gay,’ Sang the Breeze, ‘when I, a wild… With the Summer flowers to play. ’When I tiptoe go to the pansy, t…
WOULD I could to freedom awaken… Half worthy the theme, then, a son… Would be echoed on high by the ser… And re-echoed on earth till with r… I would tell of the glory she give…
THE sun is in the western sky And thro’ the barley, she— Comes she, the apple of my eye, The rose-cheeked Rosa Rea. Away I slink the maid to meet,
’TIS little Robin Redbreast Was piping on the spray, ‘And pray, mamma, what shall we do To bring him up this way?’ Mamma into the pantry goes,