English

Give me a boy whose tender skin
Owes its fresh bloom to youth, not art;
And for his sake may no girl win
A corner in my heart.

Give honor and love for evermore
To this great man gone to rest;
Peace on the dim Plutonian shore,
Rest in the land of the blest.

I reckon him greater than any man
That ever drew sword in war;
I reckon him nobler than king or khan,
Braver and better by far.

And wisest he in this whole wide land
Of hoarding till bent and gray;
For all you can hold in your cold dead hand
Is what you have given away.

So whether to wander the stars or to rest
Forever hushed and dumb,

1. Give ear, O God, to my loud cry, And to my prayer attend;
2. And now my heart is overwhelmed, Ready to fall and die,
As from the corners of the earth, My cries to thee ascend.
O lead me up into the rock, That higher is than I.

3. For in my danger thou hast been,
A shelter safe to me;
A tower of strength and sure defense
Against my enemy.

4. Within thy tabernacle I
Forever will abide;
And in the covert of thy wings
Will trust and safely hide.

5. For thou, O God, hast heard my vows,

Give attention to my ditty and I'll not keep you long;
I'll endeavour for to please you if you'll listen to my song.
I'll tell you an ancient story, the doings and the ways,
The manners and the customs of my grandfather's days.

Of many years that's gone and past, which hundreds do say hard,
When Adam was a little boy and worked in Chatham Yard,
We had no Waterloo soldiers dressed out in scarlet clothes;
The people were not frightened by one man's big, long nose.

We had not got Lord Brougham to pass the Poor Law Bill;

Gipsy man, O gipsy man,
In your yellow caravan,
Up and down the world you go —
Tell me all the things you know!

Sun and moon and stars are bright,
Summer's green and winter's white,
And I'm the gayest gipsy man
That rides inside a caravan.

Gin I were on my milkwhite steed
And three miles frae the toon,
I wadna fear your three bauld brithers
Amang the bents and broom.

But he wasna weel on o' his milkwhite steed,
Or ae mile frae the toon,
Till up it starts her three bauld brithers
Amang the bents and broom.

I wad a wad noo, sweet Willie,
A wad or than your life:
I hae nae wad to gie, he says,
Unless I gie my brand.

Then he pulled out a bloody brand
A little below his gair,
And he has killed her three bauld brithers

Giles Corey was a Wizzard strong,
A stubborn wretch was he;
And fitt was he to hang on high
Upon the Locust-tree.

So when before the magistrates
For triall he did come,
He would no true confession make,
But was compleatlie dumbe.

" Giles Corey, " said the Magistrate,
" What hast thou heare to pleade
To these that now accuse thy soule
Of crimes and horrid deed? "

Giles Corey, he said not a worde,
No single worde spoke he.
" Giles Corey, " saith the Magistrate,

G IL Morrice was an Earl's son,
His name it waxèd wide;
It was nae for his great riches,
Nor yet his meikle pride.

His face was fair, lang was his hair,
In the wild woods he stay'd,
But his fame was by a fair lady,
That lived on Carron side.

“Whare sall I get a bonny boy
That will win hose and shoon,
That will go to Lord Barnard's ha',
And bid his lady come.

“It's ye maun rin this errand, Willie,
And ye may rin wi' pride,
When other boys gae on their feet,

The gifts that to our breasts we fold
— Are brightened by our losses.
The sweetest joys a heart can hold
— Grow up between its crosses.
And on life's pathway many a mile
— Is made more glad and cheery,
Because, for just a little while,
— The way seemed dark and dreary.

Giant Thunder, striding home,
Wonders if his supper's done.

" Hag wife, hag wife, bring me bones! "
" They are not done, " the old hag moans.

" Not done? not done? " the giant roars,
And heaves the old wife out of doors.

Cries he, " I'll have them, cooked or not! "
And overturns the cooking pot.

He flings the burning coals about;
See how the lightning flashes out!

Upon the gale the old hag rides,
The clouded moon for terror hides.

All the world with thunder quakes;