My own little darling—dead!
The dove of my happiness fled!
Just Heaven, forgive,
But let me not live,
Now my poor babe is dead!

No more to my yearning breast
Shall that sweet mouth be prest;
No more on my arm,
Nestled up warm,
Shall my fair darling rest:

Alas, for that dear glazed eye!
Why did it dim or die?
Those lips so soft
I have kissed so oft,
Why are they ice, oh why?

Alas, little frocks and toys,
Shadows of bygone joys,
Have I not treasure
Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?

Tis done the world has vanished Christ remains
The only sure the only lasting trust
Look see its smouldering fire the iron chains
Are broke that bound my spirit to the dust
A life of love henceforth my sole employ
The Father's love in him so freely shown
Come hasten on and share with me the joy
That only from the cross by blood has flown
The joy I share to all is freely given
Who live the life he led on earth before
Come and e'en here thou hast the bliss of heaven
The robe put on the wedding robe he wore
And thou shalt be accepted at his feast

Here is a fountain of Christ's blood
Wide open set to drown our sins,
Where Christ stands with open arms
With mercy to invite you in.

For you will see his bleeding wounds
And hear him breathe forth dying groans.
He shed His rich redeeming blood
Only to do poor sinners good.

A crown of thorns, spit on with scorn,
His soul was pained and His flesh was torn,
With ragged nails through hands and feet
They nailed our rich Redeemer sweet.

When all His precious blood was spent,
The thunder roared, the rocks were rent.

Lejos, lejos de mí, vulgo profano,
Oídme, gentes, metros nunca oídos,
Que, como sacerdote de las musas,
A las vírgenes canto y a los niños.
Los pueblos temen a sus sacros Reyes,
Y los Reyes también tiemblan rendidos
Ante el excelso trono del gran Jove;
A cuyo ceño el Cielo y el abismo
Se mueve obedeciendo, y cuya mano
Aterró a los gigantes atrevidos.

I went visiting Miss Melinda,
Miss Melinda Brown.
She has a cottage out in the country;
I live here in town.

“Guess what I've got for your dinner, dearie,”
Miss Melinda said.
“Strawberry jam,” for my nose had guessed it!
“Strawberry jam and bread.”

Strawberry jam in the corner cupboard,
On the middle shelf.
She let me stand on a chair and tiptoe,
Get it down myself.

Somehow, visiting Miss Melinda,
Time goes by on wings.
“What do you do all alone,” I asked her.
“I make jam and things.”

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost
Who died before the god of love was born.
I cannot think that he who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produced a destiny
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be,
I must love her that loves not me.

Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practiced it,
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondency
Only his subject was; it cannot be

The Rose in the garden slipped her bud,
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,
As she thought of the Gardener standing by—
“He is old—so old! And he soon must die!”

The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,
And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread—
‘He is older now! He will soon be dead!”

But the breeze of the morning blew, and found
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;
And he came at noon, that Gardener old,
And he raked them gently under the mold.

Success to Tommy Atkins, he's a very brave man,
And to deny it there's few people can;
And to face his foreign foes he's never afraid,
Therefore he's not a beggar, as Rudyard Kipling has said.

No, he's paid by our Government, and is worthy of his hire;
And from our shores in time of war he makes our foes retire,
He doesn't need to beg; no, nothing so low;
No, he considers it more honourable to face a foreign foe.

No, he's not a beggar, he's a more useful man,
And, as Shakespeare has said, his life's but a span;

Whilst Gay's unhappy Fate thy Ear attends,
Thy Heart, indignant, scorns his faithless Friends,
Thy gen'rous Heart, which never learnt the Way,
A Friend or to deceive, or to betray:
With Honour and Integrity so blest,
Not Law, infectious, can pollute thy Breast:

With Justice and Humanity endow'd,
You shine, distinguish'd, 'midst a venal Croud.

At Stool-ball, Lucia, let us play,
For Sugar-cakes and Wine;
Or for a Tansie let us pay,
The losse or thine, or mine.

If thou, my Deere, a winner be
At trundling of the Ball,
The wager thou shalt have, and me,
And my misfortunes all.

But if (my Sweetest) I shall get,
Then I desire but this;
That likewise I may pay the Bet,
And have for all a kisse.