O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde?
O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope?
How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie,
On Haribee to hand him up?

Had Willie had but twenty men,
But twenty men as stout as he,
Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en
Wi' eight score in his cumpanie.

They band his legs beneath the steed,
They tied his hands behind his back;
They guarded him, fivesome on each side,
And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.

They led him thro' the Liddel-rack
And also thro' the Carlisle sands;

The giddy lark reacheth the steepy air
By sweet degrees, making each note a stair.
Her voice leads softly on, the feathered strain
Follows, and leaves the last note to her train.
At the first stage she rests, seeming to tire;
Her wing mounts up her voice some eight notes higher.
At the next period in this airy hill,
Her rising voice lifts up her restive quill.
Hard tale to tell, when she her matins sings,
Whether her tongue gives, or receives her wings.
To the observing ear, attentive eye,
Her wings would seem to chant, her tongue to fly.

I T'S growing evening in my soul,
It darkens in.
At the gray window now and then
I hear them toll
The hour-and-day-long chimes of St. Etienne.

Indeed I'd not have lived elsewhere
Nor otherwise,
Nor as the dreary saying is
Been happier,
To wear the love of life within my eyes.

My heart's desolate meadow ways,
All wet and green,
Opened for her to wander in
A little space.
I'd have it even so as it has been.

I've lived the days that fly away,
I have a tale
To tell when age has made me pale
And hair of gray

In all thy humours, whether grave or mellow,
Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow;
Hast so much wit and mirth, and spleen about thee,
There is no living with thee or without thee!

I'm gonna walk to the graveyard
'Hind ma friend Miss Cora Lee.
Gonna walk to the graveyard
'Hind ma dear friend Cora Lee
Cause when I'm dead some
Body'll have to walk behind me.

I'm goin' to the po' house
To see ma old Aunt Clew.
Goin' to the po' house
To see ma old Aunt Clew.
When I'm old an' ugly
I'll want to see somebody, too.

The po' house is lonely
An' the grave is cold.
O, the po' house is lonely,
The graveyard grave is cold.
But I'd rather be dead than
To be ugly an' old.

When love is gone what
Can a young gal do?

I'm a-layin' around, just spendin' muh time,
Out of a job an' ain't holdin' a dime,
When a feller steps up, an' sez, “I suppose
That you're uh bronk fighter by the looks uh yure clothes.”

“Yuh figures me right—I'm a good one, I claim,
Do you happen tuh have any bad uns tuh tame?”
He sez he's got one, uh bad un tuh buck,
An' fur throwin' good riders, he's had lots uh luck.

He sez that this pony has never been rode,
That the boys that gets on 'im is bound tuh get throwed,
Well, I gets all excited an' asks what he pays,

If you don't like my apples,
Then don't shake my tree;
I'm not after your boy friend,
He's after me.

If I could stand, gel, goldenly,
Like glinting dandelions do,
I would go grandly down the lane,
And knock, and ask your dad for you.

When I clomp heavy home at night,
They glim like guineas on the way,
Until the fairies thieve their gold,
And spend it all on clocks next day.

But seven-and-forty pounds I have,
Come Michaelmas I'll make three more,
And then, belike, your dad will hear
An ash-stick tapping on his door.

If fansy would favor
As my deserving shall,
My love, my paramor,
Should love me best of all.

But if I cannot attain
The grace that I desire,
Then may I well complain
My service and my hiere.

Fansy doethe knowe how
To fourther my trew hert
If fansy myght avowe
With faith to take part.

But fansy is so fraill
And flitting still so fast,
That faith may not prevaill
To helpe me furst nor last.

For fansy at his lust
Doeth rule all but by gesse,
Whereto should I then trust
In trouth or stedfastnes?

I'd mend them but there's not half a sheet of paper in my bag.
All my windows torn, I don't have to bother opening them.
Wind comes to my bedside, blows out the lamp for me,
rain from beyond the eaves wets down my inkstone.