While here I waste in fruitless sighs,
Afar my cruel D ELIA flies:
Kind Venus ! to those longing arms
Again restore her bloomy charms,
And lo! thy myrtle-woven fane
A heifer's tender blood shall stain,
But should she to my suit incline,
My herd, my little herd be thine!

There was an old woman lived under the hill
And it's green, oh green the leaves do grow
And she had good beer and ale for to sell
And it's ha young man, why do you tell me so?

The woman's daughter and her name it was Nelly
And she took sick with a fever in her belly.

It was a bold trooper rode up to the inn,
He's perishing cold and wet to the skin.

He drank up his beer and called for another.
He kissed pretty Nelly, likewise her old mother.

The night coming on, the day being spent,
They both went to bed with the mother's consent.

From Oberon, in fairy land,
The king of ghosts and shadows there,
Mad Robin I, at his command,
Am sent to view the night-sports here.
What revel rout
Is kept about,
In every corner where I go,
I will o'ersee,
And merry be,
And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho

More swift than lightning can I fly
About this airy welkin soon,
And, in a minute's space, descry
Each thing that's done below the moon.
There's not a hag
Or ghost shall wag,
Or cry, 'ware goblins! where I go;
But Robin I
Their feats will spy,

Ragged-and Tough.

Not Ragged-and-Tough,
But--
Huckem-a-Buff,
First cousin to Ragged-and-Tough.

Not Ragged-and-Tough
Nor Huckem-a-Buff
First cousin to Ragged-and-Tough,
But--
Miss Grizzle,
Maiden aunt to Huckem-a-Buff
First cousin to Ragged-and-Tough.

Not Ragged-and-Tough
Nor Huckem-a-Buff
First cousin to Ragged-and-Tough
Nor Miss Grizzle, maiden aunt to Huckem-a-Buff
First cousin to Ragged-and-Tough,
But--
Goody Gherkin,
Grandmama to Miss Grizzle
Maiden aunt to Huckem-a-Buff
First cousin to Ragged-and-Tough.

When the king comes into the court
To greet the ladies there,
One has stolen away his heart,
The one who is most fair.

“Whose wife is she, my gentlemen?”
A marquis proud replied:
“That fairest lady of them all
Is my wedded bride.”

“Marquis is happier than king
With a lady so divine;
But I swear to you upon my faith
I must have your wife for mine.”

The good marquis has answer made:
“King's justice is but short;
My wife has promised faith to me.
Sire, I leave the court.”

The king has taken her by the hand

Three grey geese in a green field grazing,
Grey were the geese and green was the grazing.

There was an old man of Boulogne,
Who sang a most topical song;
It wasn't the words
Which frightened the birds,
But the horrible double entendre.

I have so many faults myself
I seldom ever see
A defect in another's life
But what I see in me,
I make so many rash mistakes
I feel condemned to find
A bit of fault in everyone
When I'm so far behind.

I used to censure everyone;
I was a Pharisee,
Until quite unexpectedly
I got a glimpse of me,
I tried to justify myself
And frame some alibi;
But here I stood, caught by myself
And I to me won't lie.

And now whenever I'm inclined
Some other's judge to be,
I always go and take a look
At him whom I call me,

Not where the battle red
Covers with fame the dead,—
Not where the trumpet calls
Vengeance for each that falls,—
Not with his comrades dear,
Not there—he fell not there.

He grasps no brother's hand,
He sees no patriot band;
Daring alone the foe
He strikes—then waits the blow,
Counting his life not dear,
His was no heart to fear!

Shout! shout, his deed of glory!
Tell it in song and story;
Tell it where soldiers brave
Rush fearless to their grave;
Tell it—a magic spell
In that great deed shall dwell.

Yes! he hath won a name

There was a may, a maiden sae gay,
Went out wi her milking-pail;
Lang she foucht or her ewes wad bucht,
And syne she a milking fell.

And ay as she sang the rocks they rang,
Her voice gaed loud and shill;
Ye wad hae heard the voice o the maid
On the tap o the ither hill.

And ay she sang, and the rocks they rang,
Her voice gaed loud and hie;
Till by there cam a troop o gentlemen,
A riding up that way.

‘Weel may ye sing, ye bonnie may,
Weel and weel may ye sing!
The nicht is misty, weet, and mirk,
And we hae ridden wrang.’