" Go steal your father's weight in gold,
Likewise your mother's fee,
And two of the best horses that there are,
For there stands thirty-three. "

She stole her father's weight in gold,
And likewise her mother's fee,
And two of the best horses that there were,
For there stood thirty-three.

She mounted on a milk-white steed
And he upon a bay;
They rode, they rode through the merry green woods
Till they came to the side of the sea.

" Dismount, dismount, my pretty fair maid,
Dismount, dismount, I say.

Go, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless arrant:
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church it shows
What's good, and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others' action;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by affection:
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

At night
yes night
when walls start breathing
and concrete fogs spread
seeping between fingers, into nostrils
when we find no one to talk to
when in vain we search out wrinkled faces, scarred hands
when in rooms hermetically sealed we scream
where echo does not echo
when we raise our hands and no shadow falls
when at the door we hear no knock
and none pass beneath the window
when we hear no marmots gnaw in the cupboard
or love groan in the next room
when we rush to the dresser drawer
but fail to find the family photo album

Go, smiling souls, your new-built cages break,
In heaven you'll learn to sing, ere here to speak,
Nor let the milky fonts that bathe your thirst
Be your delay;
The place that calls you hence is, at the worst,
Milk all the way.

1.

Go saddle up my milk-white steed,
Go saddle it full gayly,
Until I write to the earthen sires(?)
To plead for the life of Georgie.

2.

She rid till she come to the earthen sires' office
So early in the morning;
She tumbled down on her bended knees,
Saying, " Spare me the life of Georgie! "

3.

There were an old man stepped up to her,
He looked as if he was pleasing;

Go, ploughman, plough
The mearing lands,
The meadow lands,
The mountain lands:
All life is bare
Beneath your share,
All love is in your lusty hands.

Up, horses, now!
And straight and true
Let every broken furrow run:
The strength you sweat
Shall blossom yet
In golden glory to the sun.

On the Unparalleled Proceedings of the Incomparable Couple of Whiggish Walloons.

Go on, brave heroes, you whose merits claim
Eternal plaudit from the trump of Fame,
Beyond the daring hector that aspired
To leave a name, when he the temple fired,
For after ages; and let nothing pall
Your well-fixed resolutions; not though all
The seas were heaped on seas, and hills on hills:
Small are secured by doing greater ills.
Go on, and may your tow'ring deeds outshine
The high achievements of blessed Catiline.

Go not to the hills of Erinn
When the night winds are about,
Put up your bar and shutter,
And so keep danger out.

For the good-folk whirl within it,
And they pull you by the hand,
And they push you on the shoulder,
Till you move to their command.

And lo! you have forgotten
What you have known of tears,
And you will not remember
That the world goes full of years.

A year there is a lifetime,
And a second but a day,
And an older world will meet you
Each morn you come away.

Your wife grows old with weeping,

Go, lovely rose,
Tell her that wastes her time and me
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That, hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,

Go! little bill, and do me recommende
Unto my lady with godely countenaunce.
For, trusty messenger, I thee sende,
Pray her that she make purviaunce:
For my love, thurgh here sufferaunce,
In her bosome desireth to reste,
Sith of all women I love here beste.

She is lilly of redolence,
Which only may do me plesure;
She is the rose of confidence,
Most comforting to my nature.
Unto that lady I me assure:
I will her love and never mo,
Go! little bill, and sey her so.

She resteth in my remembraunce
Day other night wherso I be.