In summer time, when leaves grow green,
And flowers are fresh and gay,
Robin Hood and his merry men
Were disposed to play.

Then some would leap, and some would run,
And some would use artillery:
‘Which of you can a good bow draw,
A good archer to be?

‘Which of you can kill a buck?
Or who can kill a do?
Or who can kill a hart of greece,
Five hundred foot him fro?’

Will Scadlock he killd a buck,
And Midge he killd a do,
And Little John killd a hart of greece,
Five hundred foot him fro.

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
The breath goes now, and some say, no:

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of the earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did and meant,
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love,
Whose soul is sense, cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove

1. I 'rived in the camp, and all I could see Was a
lousy old cook and a lousy cookee; The floors were all dirty, all
covered with mud; The bed quilts were lousy, and so was the grub.

2 The cook called for supper; they all tore from work.
Some had two knives and other two forks.
While fighting for molasses they upset the lamp,
And thus I was greeted at Burns's log camp.

The clouds that are so light,
Beautiful, swift and bright,
Cast shadows on field and park
Of the earth that is so dark,

And even so now, light one!
Beautiful, swift and bright one!
You let fall on a heart that was dark,
Unillumined, a deeper mark.

But clouds would have, without earth
To shadow, far less worth:
Away from your shadow on me
Your beauty less would be,

And if it still be treasured
An age hence, it shall be measured
By this small dark spot
Without which it were not.

1. Tarry with me, O my Saviour! For the day is passing by;
2. Deeper, deeper grow the shadows, Paler now the glowing west,
See! the shades of evening gather, And the night is drawing nigh.
Swift the night of death advances; Shall it be the night of rest?

3. Feeble, trembling, fainting, dying,
Lord, I cast myself on thee;
Tarry with me through the darkness;
While I sleep, still watch by me.

4. Tarry with me, O my Saviour!
Lay my head upon thy breast,
Till the morning; then awake me,
Morning of eternal rest!

I suffered so much from printer's errors
That death for me can hold no terrors;
I'll bet this stone has been misdated,
I wish to God I'd been cremated.

I want to be a cowboy and with the cowboys stand,
Big spurs upon my bootheels and a lasso in my hand;
My hat broad brimmed and belted upon my head I'll place,
And wear my chaparajos with elegance and grace.

The first bright beam of sunlight that paints the east with red
Would call me forth to breakfast on bacon, beans, and bread;
And then upon my broncho so festive and so bold
I'd rope the frisky heifer and chase the three year old.

And when my work is over to Cheyenne then I'll head,
Fill up on beer and whiskey and paint the damn town red.

I woke up this morning
feeling around for my shoes
Know by that I got these
old walking blues
Woke
up this morning
feeling around
oh for my shoes
But you
know by that I
got these old walking blues

Lord I
feel like blowing my
poor lonesome home
Got up this morning my little Bern-
iece was gone
Lord
I feel like
blo-ow
my lonesome home
Well I got up this morning
all I had was gone

Well
leaving this morning if I have to
oh ride the blinds
I feel mistreated and I
don't mind dying
Leaving this morning

If you want to have the kind of a church
Like the kind of a church you like,
You needn't slip your clothes in a grip
And start on a long, long hike.
You'll only find what you left behind,
For there's nothing really new.
It's a knock at yourself when you knock your church;
It isn't the church--it's you.

When everything seems to be going wrong,
And trouble seems everywhere brewing;
When prayer-meeting, Young People's meeting, and all,
Seem simmering slowly--stewing,
Just take a look at yourself and say,
"What's the use of being blue?"

As riper years approach us,
Whiffs of infancy appear;
In mere sparkles of the sunshine,
Glimpses, come of other years.

In the fanning of soft breezes,
Or the sun's ray on the snow,
Oft a transient flash comes o'er us,
Flickering scenes from long ago.

A strange flash, yet half familiar,
That our infant brain once knew,
Now pushed back, by riper knowledge,
Oft they flash, with infant hue.