Three dollars to pay for this poor old hound!
May the tempest strike me down to the ground!
What mean you, gentlemen of the police?
I wonder what new imposition's this!

For an old, sick, helpless, man am I,
Not a penny can earn, whate'er I try;
No money have I; no, nor bread; indeed,
I live but a life of hunger and need.

And when I became thus feeble and poor,
Say, whose compassion and pity was sure?
Who, since God's world I've traveled alone,
Himself a faithful companion hath shown?

When grief wrung my heart, whose love then was true?

Dear Lord—before I take my place
Today behind the wheel,
Please let me come with humble heart
Before Thy throne to kneel
And pray, that I am fit to drive
Each busy thoroughfare,
And that I keep a watchful eye
Lest some small child be there.

And keep me thinking constantly
About the Golden Rule
When driving past the playground zone
Or by some busy school
Then when I stop to give someone
His right to cross the street,
Let me, my brother's keeper be
And spare a life that's sweet.

Please make me feel this car I drive

Once, on a morning of sweet recreation,

I heard a fair lady a-making her moan,
With sighing and sobbing, and sad lamentation,
Aye singing, “My Blackbird for ever is flown!
He's all my heart's treasure, my joy and my pleasure,
So justly, my love, my heart follows thee;
And I am resolved, in foul or fair weather,
To seek out my Blackbird, wherever he be.

‘I will go, a stranger to peril and danger,
My heart is so loyal in every degree;
For he's constant and kind, and courageous in mind:
Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he be.

As it fell on a light holyday,
As many more does in the yeere,
Little Mousgrove would to the church and pray,
To see the faire ladyes there.

Gallants there were of good degree,
For beauty exceeding faire,
Most wonderous lovely to the eie,
That did to that church repaire.

Some came downe in red velvet
And others came downe in pall;
But next came downe my Lady Barnet,
The fairest amongst them all.

She cast a looke upon Little Mousgrove,
As bright as the summer's sunne;
Full well perceived then Little Mousgrove

B ALOW , my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thou'st be silent, I'se be glad;
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire;
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!

It fell about the month of June,
On Tuesday, timouslie,
The northern lords hae pitchd their camps
Beyond the brig o Dee.

They ca'ed him Major Middleton
That mand the brig o Dee;
They ca'ed him Colonel Henderson
That gard the cannons flee.

Bonny John Seton o Pitmedden,
A brave baron was he;
He made his tesment ere he gaed,
And the wiser man was he.

He left his lands unto his heir,
His ladie her dowrie;
Ten thousand crowns to Lady Jane,
Sat on the nourice knee.

Then out it speaks his lady gay,
‘O stay my lord wi me;

I at my window sit, and see
Autumn his russet fingers lay
On ev'ry leaf of ev'ry tree.
I call, but Summer will not stay.

She flies, the boasting goddess flies,
And, pointing where th' espaliers shoot,
‘Deserve my parting gift,’ she cries,
‘I take the leaves but not the fruit.’

Let me the parting gift improve,
And emulate the just reply,
As life's short seasons swift remove,
Ere fixed in Winter's frost I lie.

Health, beauty, vigour now decline,
The pride of Summer's splendid day,
Leaves, which the stem must now resign,

There was an old woman lived on the seashore,
Bow and balance to me.
There was an old woman lived on the seashore,
Her number of daughters one, two, three, four,
And I'll be true to my love if my love'll be true to me.

There was a young man came by to see them,
Bow and balance to me.
There was a young man came by to see them,
And the oldest one got struck on him,
And I'll be true to my love if my love'll be true to me.

He bought the youngest a beaver hat,
And the oldest one got mad at that.

"Oh, sister, oh, sister, let's walk the seashore,

Farewell, dear Love! since thou wilt needs be gone:
Mine eyes do show my life is almost done.
Nay, I never will die
So long as I can spy;
There be many moe
Though that she do go.
There be many moe, I fear not.
Why then, let her go, I care not.

Farewell, farewell! since this I find is true,
I will not spend more time in wooing you.
But I will seek elsewhere
If I may find her there.
Shall I bid her go?
What and if I do?
Shall I bid her go, and spare not?
Oh, no, no, no, no, I dare not.

Ten thousand times farewell! Yet stay awhile,

M AN'S LIFE is laid in the loom of time
To a pattern he does not see,
While the weavers work and the shuttles fly
Till the dawn of eternity.

Some shuttles are filled with silver threads
And some with threads of gold,
While often but the darker hues
Are all that they may hold.

But the weaver watches with skillful eye
Each shuttle fly to and fro,
And sees the pattern so deftly wrought
As the loom moves sure and slow.

God surely planned the pattern:
Each thread, the dark and fair,
Is chosen by His master skill