I' LL SING YOU a song of the world and its ways,
And the many strange people we meet—
From the rich man who rolls in his millions of wealth,
To the struggling wretch on the street.
But a man, tho' he's poor, and in tatters and rags,
We should never affect to despise;
But think of the adage, remember, my friends,
That six feet of earth makes us all of one size.

There's the rich man with thousands to spare if he likes,
But he haughtily holds up his head,
And who thinks he's above the mechanic who toils,
And is honestly earning his bread;

The kudzu spreads till it darkens the brier,
the bindweed blankets the fields.
My beautiful one—he's not here—
who would I live with, if not alone?

The kudzu spreads till it darkens the thorn tree,
the bindweed blankets the graves
My beautiful one—he's not here—
who would I sleep with, if not alone?

My pillow of horn gleams brightly,
my brocade coverlet glows,
my beautiful one—he isn't here—
who would I greet the dawn with, if not alone?

Days of summer,
winter nights:
after a hundred years have passed,
I'll join you in your dwelling

I'm looking at your lofty head
Away up in the air.
Eight thousand feet above the plain
Where grows the prickly-pear.
A great big thing with ice on,
You seem to be up there.

Away above the timber-line
You lift your frosty head,
Where lightnings are engendered;
And thunderstorms are bred;
But you'd be a bigger tract of land
If you were thin out-spread.

Abroad as I was walking
All on a summer's day,
I heard two lovers talking,
These words to him did say.

‘O true love, true love Samuel,
I'm come to break my vow.’
‘O true love, true love Saro,
Don't tell me nothing so.’

‘My friends and brother Barnswell
Are in such spite with thee,
Swearing that they will slay thee
All on the mountains high.’

‘Your friends and brother, Saro,
Take me for such a man,
But not them do I care for,
I'll do the best I can.

‘Give to me your hand, sweet Saro,
And stand you true by me,

In this our English coast much blessed blood is shed,
Two hundred priests almost in our time martyred
And many a layman die with joyful sufferance,
Many more in prison lie, God's cause for to advance.

Amongst this gracious troop that follow Christ his train,
To cause the Devil stoop four priests were lately slain;
Nutter's bold constancy with his sweet fellow Thwinge,
Of whose most meek modesty Angels and saints may sing.

Hunt's haughty courage stout with godly zeal so true;
Mild Middleton, O what tongue can half thy virtue show?

In Tuaim Inbhir here I find
No great house such as mortals build,
A hermitage that fits my mind
With sun and moon and starlight filled.

'Twas Gobbán shaped it cunningly
—This is a tale that lacks not proof—
And my heart's darling in the sky,
Christ, was the thatcher of its roof.

Over my house rain never falls,
There comes no terror of the spear;
It is a garden without walls
And everlasting light shines here.

It fell about the Martinmas,
When the wind blew shrill and cauld,
Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
“We maun draw till a hauld.

“And what a hauld sall we draw till,
My merry men and me?
We wull gae to the house o' the Rode,
To see that fair ladíe.”

The ladie stude on her castle wa',
Beheld baith dale and down:
There she was ware of a host of men
Come riding towards the toun.

“O see ye nat, my merry men a'?
O see ye nat what I see?
Methinks I see a host of men:
I marvel wha they be!”

It is talked the warld all over,
The brume blooms bonnie and says it is fair
That the king's dochter gaes wi child to her brither.
And we 'll never gang doun to the brume onie mair

He 's taen his sister doun to her father's deer park,
Wi his yew-tree bow and arrows fast slung to his back.

‘Now when that ye hear me gie a loud cry,
Shoot frae thy bow an arrow and there let me lye.

‘And when that ye see I am lying dead,
Then ye 'll put me in a grave, wi a turf at my head.’

Now when he heard her gie a loud cry,

It rains, it rains in merry Lincoln,
It rains both great and small,
When all the boys came out to play,
To play and toss the ball.

They play, they toss the ball so high,
They toss the ball so low,
They toss it over the Jews' garden
Where all the fine Jews go.

The first that came out was the Jew's daughter,
Was dressed all in green.
‘Come in, come in, my little Sir Hugh,
To have your ball again.’

‘I cannot come there, I will not come there,
Without my playmates all,
For I know full well from my mother dear

List, I hear the church bells ring,
They sound like distant music to me,
I love to go to church and hear the choir sing
The beautiful praises of God.

My heart is glad when the Sabbath appears,
Then I make preparations for church,
I sometimes wish Sabbath would last all the year,
For it drives away sorrow and grief.

My life has been cloudy, with sunshine and rain,
But I will just take that for my lot, and feel that
I am no better than Jesus my king,
And they crucified him on the cross.