Bring us in good ale, and bring us in good ale;
For our blessed Lady sake bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no browne bred, for that is made of brane,
Nor bring us in no white bred, for therein is no gane,
But bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no befe, for there is many bones,
But bring us in good ale, for that goth downe at ones,
And bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no bacon, for that is passing fate,
But bring us in good ale, and gife us enough of that;
And bring us in good ale!

Bring the biggest bath you've seen,
Water hot and towels clean,
Bring the soap that smells so sweetly;
Bring the nighties, folded neatly —
Bath time! Bath time! Hip hooray!
Jolliest time of all the day!

Bring the funny rubber toys,
Bring the little girls and boys;
Sticky fingers, grubby knees,
Rub them, scrub them, if you please.
Bath time! Bath time! Work away —
Busiest time of all the day.

Bring the grumbles and complainings,
Bring the little aches and painings,
All the frowns and all the tears,

(The Minster speaks)

Bring me my dead!
To me that have grown,
Stone laid upon stone,
As the stormy brood
Of English blood
Has waxed and spread
And filled the world,
With sails unfurled;
With men that may not lie;
With thoughts that cannot die.

Bring me my dead!
Into the storied hall,
Where I have garnered all
My harvest without weed;
My chosen fruits of goodly seed,
And lay him gently down among
The men of state, the men of song:
The men that would not suffer wrong:

Past Yü-ku Tower glides the river Ch'ing —
Laden with tears shed by how many suffering wayfarers?
And I gaze northwest toward the lost capital,
To my dismay barred by countless intervening hills.

Futile for green hills to bar the way!
To the east the river ever freely flows.
But my heart is heavy as evening descends on the stream,
To hear partridges calling deep in the hills.

Mulberries at the roadside break into bud,
The eggs of the east neighbor's silkworms are just hatching.
A brown calf on the smooth, grassy slope gives a contented low,
A sprinkling of dusky crows dot the chill wood in the slanting sun.

Hills far and near,
Footpaths crisscrossed between the fields,
And a wineshop with its blue pennon fluttering.
Spring is here with the shepherd's purse at the brookside,
While peach and plum in town are still assailed by wind and rain.

Bring cypress, rosemary and rue
For him who kept his rudder true;
Who held to right the people's will,
And for whose foes we love him still.

A man of Plutarch's marble mold,
Of virtues strong and manifold,
Who spurned the incense of the hour,
And made the nation's weal his dower.

His sturdy, rugged sense of right
Put selfish purpose out of sight;
Slowly he thought, but long and well,
With temper imperturbable.

Bring cypress, rosemary and rue
For him who kept his rudder true;
Who went at dawn to that high star

Bring a torch, Jeanette, Isabella!
Bring a torch, to the cradle run!
It is Jesus, good folk of the village;
Christ is born, and Mary's calling;
Ah! Ah! beautiful is the mother;
Ah! Ah! beautiful is her son.

It is wrong when the Child is sleeping,
It is wrong to talk so loud;
Silence, all, as you gather around,
Lest your noise should waken Jesus:
Hush! Hush! see how fast He slumbers;
Hush! Hush! see how fast He sleeps.

Who goes there a-knocking so loudly?
Who goes there a-knocking like that?

Brilliant, bright—the flowers of the cold season!
Their subtle fragrance arises in the quiet.
Others are hoping to smell them a few times,
but I prefer to use my ears!
The fragrance sends forth jewel-like songs;
singing them out loud, I feel such joy!
And who says there is no fragrance in sound?
Smelling and hearing are really the same thing.
But best of all would be to end all sound,
and also get rid of fragrance and form.
No smelling, and also no hearing at all—
back to the mystery of the Primal One.

Swiftly riding past the willows,
My traveling cloak heavy and wet with dew.
Lone shadow of a roosting egret astir
As it drowsily eyes the sandbank —
Fish and shrimp haunting its dreams.

Bright moon, a sprinkling of stars
Bathe the stream in a blaze of light.
Graceful the shadow of a young washer of silks:
A bashful smile to passersby,
And she is off to
Where her baby is crying at the door.

Low hang the eaves of the thatched hut,
Green, green grows the grass beside the brook.
To whose family belongs that tipsy white-haired couple,
Chatting and merry-making in the dulcet accents of the south?

Their eldest son is hoeing the bean-field east of the brook,
The second is busy weaving a hen-coop;
But the one they think most lovable is the youngest, that scamp of a boy:
Lo! he is sprawled on the bank peeling lotus pods!