English

Cold blows the wind to my true love,
And gently drops the rain,
I never had but one sweetheart,
And in greenwood she lies slain,
And in greenwood she lies slain.

I'll do as much for my sweetheart
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all on her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.

When the twelvemonth and one day was past,
The ghost began to speak;
"Why sittest here all on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?'

"There's one thing that I want, sweetheart,
There's one thing that I crave;

The cold blast at the casement beats;
The window-panes are white;
The snow whirls through the empty streets;
It is a dreary night!
Sit down, old friend, the wine-cups wait;
Fill to o'erflowing, fill!
Though winter howleth at the gate,
In our hearts 't is summer still!

For we full many summer joys
And greenwood sports have shared,
When, free and ever-roving boys,
The rocks, the streams, we dared;
And, as I looked upon thy face,
Back, back o'er years of ill,
My heart flies to that happy place,

Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte

I

Will there be snowfall on lofty Soracte
After a summer so tranquil and torrid?
Whoso detests the east wind, as a fact he
Thinks 'twill be horrid.
But there are zephyrs more mild by the ocean,
Every keen touch of the snowdrifts to lighten:
It to be cosy and snug you've a notion —
Winter in Brighton!

II

Politics nobody cares about Spurn a

Cocks in the north at dawn
crow softly, drowsily.

Cocks in the south
crow when the stars
of dawn are grains of maize
in the sky's wide blue close.

Clarion. Clangour.
Every clarion clamant
for the supreme clarion cry.

Cockloft dian,
dawn stir
of cavalry.

At night when the last
fortress is ashes,
dreaming we hear
blue rockets soar,
violet and white,
when the cocks crow. . . .

In your insomnia, festive spirit,
do you not hear him crowing,

The cock crows
But no queen rises.

The hair of my blonde
Is dazzling,
As the spittle of cows
Threading the wind.

Ho! Ho!

But ki-ki-ri-ki
Brings no rou-cou,
No rou-cou-cou.

But no queen comes
In slipper green.

Cock a doodle doo!
My dame has lost her shoe,
My master's lost his fiddling stick,
And knows not what to do.

Cock a doodle doo!
What is my dame to do?
Till master finds his fiddling stick
She'll dance without her shoe.

Cock a doodle doo!
My dame has found her shoe,
And master's found his fiddling stick,
Sing doodle doodle doo.

Cock a doodle doo!
My dame will dance with you,
While master fiddles his fiddling stick
For dame and doodle doo.

Cock a doodle do! 'tis the bravest game,
Take a cock from his dame,
And bind him to a stake:
How he struts! how he throws!
How he swaggers! how he crows!
As if the day newly brake.
How his mistress cackles
Thus to find him in shackles
And tied to a pack-thread garter!
Oh, the bears and the bulls
Are but corpulent gulls
To the valiant Shrovetide martyr!

Cock a doodle do! 'tis the bravest game,
Take a cock from his dame,
And bind him to a stake:
How he struts! how he throws!

[March]
A Coal-white Bird appeares this spring
That neither cares to sigh or sing.
This when the merry Birds espy,
They take her for some enemy.
Why so, when as she humbly stands
Only to shake you by your hands?
[April]

That which hath neither tongue nor wings
This month how merrily it sings:
To see such, out for dead who lay
To cast their winding sheets away?
Freinds! would you live? some pils then take
When head and stomack both doe ake.
[May]

White Coates! whom choose you! whom you list:

Coal black woman
fry no meat for me
No coal black woman can
fry no meat for me
You know black is evil
that gal may poison me

I got a new way of spelling
sweet old Tennessee
New way of spelling
sweet old Tennessee
New way of spelling
sweet old Tennessee
Double T, double N,
double T, double S, U, Z

My girl rolled and tumbled
cried the whole night long
Rolled and tumbled
cried the whole night long
Rolled and tumbled
cried the whole night long

The red sun breaks through muddy lakes of haze and rifted cloud,
And still and gray the prairies lay as motionless as the shroud.
But a distant roar was on the air, a rumble from afar,
And a dust cloud brown was sweeping down from the blue horizon's bar.

Above the line the great horns shine, beneath, the sharp hoofs speed,
And the solid ground shakes with the sound of a herd in full stampede.
And close to the lead is a coal-black steed, and a boy with a dashing bay,
Then a man with a roan who rides alone, whose hair is streaked with gray.