Levedy, ic thonke thee,
Wid herte swithe milde,
That god that thu havest idon me
Wid thine swete childe.

Thu art god and swete and bright,
Of alle otheir icoren.
Of thee was that swete wight,
That was Jesus, iboren.

Maide milde, bidd I thee
Wid thine swete childe,
That thu herdie me
To habben Godis milce.

Moder, loke one me,
Wid thine swete eyen,
Reste and blisse gef thu me,
My levedy, then ic deyen.

All day I tell my rosary
For now my love's away:
To-morrow he shall come to me
About the break of day;
A rosary of twenty hours,
And then a rose of May;
A rosary of fettered flowers,
And then a holy-day.

All day I tell my rosary,
My rosary of hours:
And here's a flower of memory,
And here's a hope of flowers,
And here's an hour that yearns with pain
For old forgotten years,
An hour of loss, an hour of gain,
And then a shower of tears.

All day I tell my rosary,
Because my love's away;
And never a whisper comes to me,

King Hancock sat in regal state,
And big with pride and vainly great,
Address'd his rebel crew:
“These haughty Britons soon shall yield
The boasted honors of the field,
While our brave sons pursue.

“Six thousand fighting men or more,
Protect the Carolina shore,
And Freedom will defend;
And stubborn Britons soon shall feel,
'Gainst Charleston, and hearts of steel,
How vainly they contend.”

But ere he spake, in dread array,
To rebel foes, ill-fated day,
The British boys appear;
Their mien with martial ardor fir'd,

Lo! lemman swete, now may þou se
þat I haue lost my lyf for þe.
What myght I do þe mare?
For-þi I pray þe speciali
þat þou forsake ill company
þat woundes me so sare;

And take myne armes pryuely
& do þam in þi tresory,
In what stede sa þou dwelles,
And, swete lemman, forget þow noght
þat I þi lufe sa dere haue boght,
And I aske þe noght elles.

Joseph Mica was good engineer,
Tole his fireman not to fear.
All he want is water'n coal,
Poke his head out, see drivers roll.

Early one mornin' look like rain,
'Round de curve come passenger train.
On powers lie ole Jim Jones,
Good ole engineer, but daid an' gone.

Left Atlanta hour behin',
Tole his fireman to make up the time.
All he want is boiler hot,
Run in there 'bout four o'clock.

Ah! sad wer we as we did peace
The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce,
The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep
Above our child a-left asleep,
Wer now a-zingen all alive
Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive.
But up at woone pleäce we come by,
'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry:
On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
Up where, as vo'k do pass along,
The turnen stile, a-païnted white,
Do sheen by day an' show by night.
Vor always there, as we did goo
To church, thik stile did let us drough,
Wi' spreaden eärms that wheel'd to guide

Man upon mold, whatsoever thou be,
I warn utterly thou gettest no degree,
Ne no worship abid with thee,
But thou have the peny redy to tak to.

If thou be a yeman, a gentleman wold be,
Into sum lordes cort than put thou thee:
Lok thou have spending, larg and plente,
And alway the peny redy to tak to.

If thou be a gentleman and wold be a squire,
Ridest out of cuntre as wild as eny fire:
I thee warn as my frend thou failest of thy desire
But thou have the peny redy to tak to.

If thou be a squire and wold be a knight,

Marry Monday, marry for wealth;
Marry Tuesday, marry for health;
Marry Wednesday, the best day of all;
Marry Thursday, marry for crosses;
Marry Friday, marry for losses;
Marry Saturday, no luck at all.

Merry it is in May morning
Merry ways for to gone.

And by a chapel as I came
Met I wyhte Jesu to churchward gone,
Peter and Paul, Thomas and John,
And his disciples everyone.
Merry it is.

Saint Thomas the bells gan ring,
And Saint Collas the mass gan sing,
Saint John took that sweet offering,
And by a chapel as I came.
Merry it is.

Our Lord offered what he wolld,
A chalice all of rich red gold,
Our Lady the crown off her mould,
The sun out of her bosom shone.
Merry it is.

Saint George that is Our Lady knight,

Ah , June is here, but where is May?—
That lovely, shadowy thing,
Fair promiser of fairer day,
That made my fancy stretch her wing,
In hope-begetting spring.

The spaces vague, the luminous veil,
The drift of bloom and scent,
Those dreamy longings setting sail,
That knew not, asked not, where they went,—
Ah! was this all they meant,—

This day that lets me dream no more,
This bright, unshadowed round?
On some illimitable shore,
The harbor whither those were bound
Lieth, nor yet is found.