HEY ! hey! by this day!
What availeth it me though I say nay?

I would fain be a clerk,
But yet it is a strange work;
The birchen twigs be so sharp,
It maketh me have a faint heart.
What availeth it me though I say nay?

On Monday in the morning when I shall rise
At six of the clock, it is the guise
To go to school without advice —
I would rather go twenty miles twice!
What availeth it me though I say nay?

My master looketh as he were mad:
" Where hast thou been, thou sorry lad?"

Hey, diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
The little dog laughed
To see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

Hetero-sex is best for the man of a serious turn of mind,
But here's a hint, if you should fancy the other:
Turn Menophila round in bed, address her peachy behind.
And it's easy to pretend you're screwing her brother.

He's still among us
Fill his empty cup
Repeat the songs he raised
in chanting to the sky,
recall how wine and grief
could never weaken him —
Hand firm on the trigger,
Legs straight under the load,
A man of unfurling history,
he faced the ferocious motion of his time.
For him, the world had a solid core.

Naked, he dreamed death would be
the final shining cloak.
Humming the sad maijana ,
he swam in the sorrow of its tune.
" Maijana , oh maijana ,

He's gone, I am now sad and lonely,
He's left me to cross the deep sea.
I know that he thinks of me only
And will soon be returning to me.
My eyes they are filled with devotion
For my husband he said he would be.
Blow gently the winds on the ocean
And send back my Johnny to me.

Each night as I lie on my pillow,
My bosom it heaves with a sigh.
I think of each angry billow
And I'm watching the clouds in the sky.
Some say that my love is returning
To his own native country and me,
So blow gently the winds on the ocean

Heroic soul, in homely garb half hid,
Sincere, sagacious, melancholy, quaint;
What he endured, no less than what he did,
Has reared his monument, and crowned him saint.

The hero first thought it
To him 'twas a deed:
To those who retaught it,
A chain on their speed.

The fire that we kindled,
A beacon by night,
When darkness has dwindled
Grows pale in the light.

For life has no glory
Stays long in one dwelling,
And time has no story
That's true twice in telling.

And only the teaching
That never was spoken
Is worthy thy reaching,
The fountain unbroken.

The hermit sat within his cave,
A prey to anxious care;
Distress sat gravely on his brow,
And suffering slumbered there.
His form is worn with constant fasts,
His eyes are dimmed from tears,
Within this gloomy wilderness,
He's spent full twenty years.

Yet 'neath the lofty, classic brow,
The window of his soul
O'erlooks a face where beauty dwells,
And strong emotions roll.

Hermit hoar, in solemn cell,
Wearing out life's evening gray,
Smite thy bosom, Sage, and tell,
What is bliss? And which the way?

Thus I spoke; and speaking sigh'd;
Scarce repress'd the starting tear;
When the hoary sage reply'd:
"Come, my lad, and drink some beer."

H ERE'S to the town of New Haven,
— The home of the Truth and the Light,
Where God talks to Jones in the very same tones
— That He uses with Hadley and Dwight!