Lord, in the fullness of my might
I would for thee be strong;
While runneth o'er each dear delight,
To thee should soar my song.

I would not give the world my heart,
And then profess thy love;
I would not feel my strength depart,
And then thy service prove.

O not for thee my weak desires,
My poorer, baser part!
Not, not for thee my fading fires,
The ashes of my heart!

O choose me in my golden time,
In my dear joys have part!
For thee the glory of my prime,
The fullness of my heart!

My God, my Strength, my Hope,
On thee I cast my care,
With humble confidence look up,
And know thou hear'st my prayer:
Give me on thee to wait,
Till I can all things do, —
On thee, almighty to create,
Almighty to renew.

I want a sober mind,
A self-renouncing will,
That tramples down and casts behind
The baits of pleasing ill;
A soul inured to pain,
To hardship, grief and loss;
Bold to take up, firm to sustain,
The consecrated cross.

I want a godly fear,
A quick-discerning eye,

In the northwest there is a Weaving-lady,
How dazzling are her silks, both flowered and plain!
From the bright dawn she plies her loom and shuttle,
When the sun goes down, not a piece of cloth is made!
All through the long night she sighs heavily,
Her mournful cries pierce the clouds in the blue.
“Your handmaid now must keep her empty chamber,
Her husband has gone marching off to war.
Although he swore to return in three years' time,
Nine months of spring have now already passed.
A solitary bird goes winging round the trees,

On our way rejoicing
As we homeward move,
Hearken to our praises,
O thou God of love!
Is there grief or sadness,
Thine it cannot be:
Is our sky beclouded,
Clouds are not from thee.
Refrain: On our way rejoicing.

If, with honest-hearted
Love for God and man,
Day by day thou find us
Doing what we can,
Thou who giv'st the seed-time
Wilt give large increase,
Crown the head with blessing,
Fill the heart with peace.
Refrain: On our way rejoicing.

'Tis no tale of heroism, 'tis no tale of storm and strife,
But of ordinary boozing, and of dull domestic life —
Of the everlasting friction that most husbands must endure —
Tale of nagging and of drinking — and a secret whisky cure.

Name of Jones — perhaps you know him — small house-agent here in town —
(Friend of Smith, you know him also — likewise Robinson and Brown),
Just a hopeless little husband, whose deep sorrows were obscure,
And a bitter nagging missis — and death seemed the only cure.

Here high advanced sit you an high Earle,
Ever adorned with true virtues pearle,
Ne're had you reacht the honour, had not worth,
Regarding of your honours noble birth,
Yeelded a fruitfull shower of vertues dew.

Gracing with virtue, honour falne on you,
Raigne Hier though, here Sir you would not rest,
As a great Eagle higher build your nest.
Ye Raigne your heart up Hier wherein heaven seated
Eternally dwels He who you created.

For a season called to part,
Let us now ourselves commend
To the gracious eye and heart
Of our ever-present Friend.

When we move at duty's call,
He is with us by the way;
He is ever with us all,
Those who go, and those who stay.

Father, hear our humble prayer!
Tender Shepherd of thy sheep,
Let thy mercy and thy care
All our souls in safety keep;

In thy strength may we be strong;
Hallow every cross and pain;
Give us, if we live, ere long
Here to meet in peace again.

Softly the moonlight
Is shed on the lake,
Cool is the summer night, —
Wake! O awake!
Faintly the curfew
Is heard from afar,
List ye! O list!
To the lively guitar.

Trees cast a mellow shade
Over the vale,
Sweetly the serenade
Breathes in the gale,
Softly and tenderly
Over the lake,
Gayly and cheerily, —
Wake! O awake!

See the light pinnace
Draws nigh to the shore,
Swiftly it glides
At the heave of the oar,
Cheerily plays
On its buoyant car,
Nearer and nearer,
The lively guitar.

Fill the cup for me,
Fill the cup of pleasure;
Wake the fairy lyre
To its wildest measure.
Melancholy's gloom
Now is stealing on me,
But the cup and lyre
Can chase the demon from me.
Fill the cup for me,
Fill the cup of pleasure;
Wake the fairy lyre
To its wildest measure.

In the shades of night,
When every eye is closing,
On the moonlight bank
All in peace reposing,
There is naught so sweet
As the cup of pleasure,
And the lyre that breathes
In its wildest measure.
Fill the cup, &c.

Round the tall towers blow many mournful winds,
The morning sun shines on the northern woods
This man has gone ten thousand leagues away,
Rivers and lakes distant and deep between.
In a double boat how shall I travel there?
The thought of parting is very hard to endure
A lonely goose goes wandering, southward winging.
As it passes the house it gives a long, sad cry.
I think with yearning of my far-off love,
Would I could send some news to him this way.
But body and shadow suddenly vanish from sight;
Those beating wings have racked my heart with pain.