Break forth in joy my soul the waves retire
And the dry land appears the promised land
Awake from sleep and strike the slumbering lyre
That long has lain forsaken by thy hand
Thou hast found grace the peace begins on earth
And thou e'en thou art called its joy to share
Awake thy notes are sweet an angel's birth
The trembling strings with joy unknown declare
Go on thy work shall grow with every day
The rising sun shall soon thy wishes greet
And thou from all defilement purged array
Thyself with robes the son to meet

There, where it was, we never noticed how,
Flirting its tail among the smoothed-off rocks,
The brook would spray the old, worm-eaten bough,
That squeaked and scratched like puppies in a box.

Whether the black, half-rotted branch leaned down,
Or seemed to lean, for love, or weariness
Of life too long lived out, or hoped to drown
Its litter of last year's leaves, we could not guess.

Perhaps the bough relaxed as though it meant
To give its leaves their one taste of depravity;
Or, being near the grave itself, it bent

There were two sisters, they went playing,
With a hie downe downe a downe-a

To see their father's ships come sayling in.
With a hy downe downe a downe-a

And when they came unto the sea-brym,
The elder did push the younger in.

‘O sister, O sister, take me by the gowne,
And drawe me up upon the dry ground.’

‘O sister, O sister, that may not bee,
Till salt and oatmeale grow both of a tree.’

Somtymes she sanke, somtymes she swam,
Until she came unto the mill-dam.

The miller runne hastily downe the cliffe.

There were three men came out of the west,
Their fortune for to try,
And these three men made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn should die.
They ploughed, they sowed, they harrowed him in,
Throwed clods upon his head,
And these three men made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn was dead.

Then they let him lie for a very long time
Till the rain from heaven did fall,
Then little Sir John sprung up his head,
And soon amazed them all.
They let him stand till midsummer
Till he looked both pale and wan,

There were three ladies lived in a bower,
Eh vow bonnie,
And they went out to pull a flower,
On the bonnie banks o' Fordie.

They hadna pu'ed a flower but ane,
When up started to them a banisht man.

He 's ta'en the first sister by her hand,
And he 's turned her round and made her stand.

Its whether will ye be a rank robber's wife,
Or will ye die by my wee pen knife?

Its I'll not be a rank robber's wife,
But I'll rather die by your wee pen knife.

He 's killed this may and he 's laid her by,

There were three in the meadow by the brook
Gathering up windrows, piling cocks of hay,
With an eye always lifted toward the west
Where an irregular sun-bordered cloud
Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger
Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly
One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,
Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.
The town-bred farmer failed to understand.

" What is there wrong? "

" Something you just now said. "

" What did I say? "

" About our taking pains. "

There were three gipsies a-come to my door,
And down-stairs ran this a-lady, O!
One sang high, and another sang low,
And the other sang Bonny, bonny, Biscay, O!

Then she pulled off her silk-finished gown
And put on hose of leather, O!
The ragged, ragged rags about our door--
She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!

It was late last night, when my lord came home,
Enquiring for his a-lady, O!
The servants said, on every hand:
"She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

"O saddle to me my milk-white steed,

There were three cherry trees once,
Grew in a garden all shady;
And there for delight of so gladsome a sight,
Walked a most beautiful lady,
Dreamed a most beautiful lady.

Birds in those branches did sing,
Blackbird and throstle and linnet,
But she walking there was by far the most fair —
Lovelier than all else within it,
Blackbird and throstle and linnet.

But blossoms to berries do come,
All hanging on stalks light and slender,
And one long summer's day charmed that lady away,
With vows sweet and merry and tender;

There were ninety and nine that safely lay
In the shelter of the fold,
But one was out on the hills away,
Far off from the gates of gold —
Away on the mountains wild and bare,
Away from the tender Shepherd's care,
Away from the tender Shepherd's care.

" Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine;
Are they not enough for thee? "
But the Shepherd made answer:
" This of mine has wandered away from me,
And although the road be rough and steep,
I go to the desert to find my sheep,
I go to the desert to find my sheep. "

There were ladies, they lived in a bower,
And oh but they were fair!
The youngesto them is to the king's court,
To learn some unco lair.

She hadna been in the king's court
A twelve month and a day,
Till of her they could get na wark,
For wantonness and play.

Word is to the kitchen gane,
And word is to the ha,
And word is up to Madame the Queen,
And that is warst of a',
That Mary Hamilton has born a bairn,
To the hichest Stewart of a'.

" O rise, O rise, Mary Hamilton,
O rise, and tell to me