The Frogs time out of mind
Lived uncontroll'd.
Their form of government was undefined,
But reasons, strong and manifold,
Which then were given,
Induced them to demand a King from Heaven.
Jove heard the prayer, and to fulfil it,
Threw them down a Log or Billet:
The Prince arrived with such a dash,
Coming down to take possession;
Frogs are easy to abash,
Their valour is diluted with discretion,--
In a word, their hearts forsook them:
That instant they dissolved the Session,
Choosing the shortest way that took them

A frog went walking one fine day
A-hmmm, A-hmmm,
A frog went walking one fine day,
He met Miss Mousie on the way
A-hmmm, A-hmmm.

He said Miss Mousie will you marry me
A-hmmm, A-hmmm,
He said Miss Mousie will you marry me,
We'll live together in a hollow tree,
A-hmmm, A-hmmm.

The first to the wedding was farmer Brown
A-hmmm, A-hmmm,
The first to the wedding was farmer Brown
He brought his wife in a wedding gown.
A-hmmm, A-hmmm.

The second to the wedding was Dr. Dick
A-hmmm, A-hmmm,

A frog he would a-wooing go,
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
Whether his mother would let him or no.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

So off he set with his opera hat,
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
And on the road he met with a rat.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

Pray, Mister Rat, will you go with me?
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
Kind Mistress Mousey for to see?
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

The frog has legs, yes, but the bull stepped on him

Frisky as a lambkin,
— Busy as a bee —
That's the kind of little girl
— People like to see.

Modest as a violet,
— As a rosebud sweet —
That's the kind of little girl
— People like to meet.

Bright as is a diamond,
— Pure as any pearl —
Everyone rejoices in
— Such a little girl.

Happy as a robin,
— Gentle as a dove —
That's the kind of little girl
— Everyone will love.

Fly away and seek her,
— Little song of mine,
For I choose that very girl
— As my Valentine.

Friends of the Muse, to you of right belong
The first staid footsteps of my square-toed song;
Full well I know the strong heroic line
Has lost its fashion since I made it mine;
But there are tricks old singers will not learn,
And this grave measure still must serve my turn.
So the old bird resumes the selfsame note
His first young summer wakened in his throat;
The selfsame tune the old canary sings,
And all unchanged the bobolink's carol rings;
When the tired songsters of the day are still
The thrush repeats his long-remembered trill;

Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blessed abode,
But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the road.

Not for us are content, and quiet, and peace of mind,
For we go seeking a city that we shall never find.

There is no solace on earth for us — for such as we —
Who search for a hidden city that we shall never see.

Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, and the rain,
And the watch fire under stars, and sleep, and the road again.

We seek the City of God, and the haunt where beauty dwells,

The friendly cow, all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple tart.

She wanders lowing here and there,
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day;

And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers,
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers.

Friend , you are grieved that I should go
Unhoused, unsheltered, gaunt and free,
My cloak for armor — for my tent
The roadside tree;

And I — I know not how you bear
A roof betwixt you and the blue.
Brother, the creed would stifle me
That shelters you.

Yet, that same light that floods at dawn
Your cloistered room, your cryptic stair,
Wakes me, too — sleeping by the hedge —
To morning prayer!

Friend, with regard to this same hare,
Am I to hope, or to despair?
By punctual post the letter came,
With P LL 's hand, and P LL 's name:
Yet there appear'd, for love or money,
Nor hare, nor leveret, nor coney.
Say, my dear Morgan, has my lord,
Like other great ones kept his word?
Or have you been deceiv'd by 'squire?
Or has your poacher lost his wire?
Or in some unpropitious hole,
Instead of puss, trepann'd a mole?
Thou valiant son of great Cadwallader,
Hast thou a hare, or hast thou swallow'd her?