The temple shall be built, the Holy One,
Such as the earth nor heavens have ever seen;
Nor shall the work by human hands be done,
But from the will of man it shall be clean;
Ages on ages shall the pile be wrought,
By Him whose will his children shall obey;
Till every son, by his own Father taught,
The chiseled stone he brought shall cast away;
Slowly the ancient temple is repaired,
While one by one as lively stones we grow;
By every son the work is to be shared,
Built on the corner stone in Christ laid low;

There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile:
He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

There was a certain assistant minister
who was in power while I lived in the capital.
When I left my position, his career was at its height;
but he devoted himself to all kinds of schemes and plots.
Late at night, he would go out begging;
he'd take bribes, afraid of future poverty.
In many ways, he took the crooked path,
not caring if people mocked him as he went.
But one day, his actions became public;
he was openly criticized and attacked.
His servants and secretaries ran away;
he was banished to the frontier.

There was a battle in the north,
And nobles there was many,
And they hae killd Sir Charlie Hay,
And they laid the wyte on Geordie.

O he has written a lang letter,
He sent it to his lady:
"Ye maun come up to Enbrugh town,
To see what word's o Geordie.'

When she first lookd the letter on,
She was baith red and rosy;
But she had na read a word but twa
Till she wallowt like a lily.

"Gar get to me my gude grey steed,
My menyie a' gae wi me,
For I shall neither eat nor drink
Till Enbrugh town shall see me.'

There they go marching all in step so gay!
Smooth-cheeked and golden, food for shells and guns.
Blithely they go as to a wedding day,
The mothers' sons.

The drab street stares to see them row on row
On the high tram-tops, singing like the lark.
Too careless-gay for courage, singing they go
Into the dark.

With tin whistles, mouth-organs, any noise,
They pipe the way to glory and the grave;
Foolish and young, the gay and golden boys
Love cannot save.

High heart! High courage! The poor girls they kissed

There stood an unsold captive in the mart,
A gray-haired and majestical old man,
Chained to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from the place had gone,
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
He had stood there since morning, and had borne
From every eye in Athens the cold gaze
Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him
For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came

There sits a bird on every tree;
———Sing heigh-ho!
There sits a bird on every tree,
And courts his love as I do thee;
———Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
——Young maids must marry.

There grows a flower on every bough;
———Sing heigh-ho!
There grows a flower on every bough,
Its petals kiss—I'll show you how:
———Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
——Young maids must marry.

From sea to stream the salmon roam;
———Sing heigh-ho!
From sea to stream the salmon roam;
Each finds a mate and leads her home;
———Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!

There should be no despair for you
While nightly stars are burning,
While evening sheds its silent dew*
Or sunshine gilds the morning.*

There should be no despair, though tears
May flow down like a river:
Are not the best beloved of years
Around your heart forever?

They weep—you weep—it must be so;
Winds sigh as you are sighing;
And Winter pours its grief in snow*
Where Autumn's leaves are lying.

Yet they revive, and from their fate*
Your fate cannot be parted,
Then journey onward, not elate,*
Butnever broken-hearted.*

THERE SAT TWO GLASSES filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim;
One was ruddy and red as blood,
And one as clear as the crystal flood.

Said the glass of wine to the paler brother:
" Let us tell the tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth,
And the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch as though struck by blight,
Where I was king, for I ruled in might;
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown,
From the heights of fame I have hurled men down:

There pipes the woodlark, and the song-thrush there
Scatters his loose notes in the waste of air.