Oh ! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain,
It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain,
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win;
They hardly know how labor is the penalty of sin;
Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;
In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share;
They walk among life's pleasant ways, and never know a care

"O Polly, my dear Polly, the war has now begun
And I must march away by the beating of the drum.
Go dress yourself in your best and come along with me,
I'll take you to the war, my love, in the Isle of Germany.'

"O Billy, my dear Billy, listen to what I say.
My feet they are so very sore I cannot march away.
Besides, my dearest Billy, I am with child by thee;
I'm not fitting for the war, my love, in the Isle of Germany.'

"I'll buy you a horse, my love, my Polly, you shall ride
And all my delight shall be a-walking by your side.

Oh, Peterkin Pout and Gregory Grout
—Are two little goblins black.
Full oft from my house I've driven them out,
—But somehow they still come back,
—And pull the corners down;
They perch aloft on the baby's brow,
—And twist it into a frown.

And one says “Must!” and t'other says “Can't”
And one says “Shall!” and t'other says “Shan't.”
Oh, Peterkin Pout and Gregory Grout,
I pray you now from my house keep out!

But Samuel Smile and Lemuel Laugh
—Are two little fairies bright;
They're always ready for fun and chaff,

Oh, passer-by, should you inquire
About my name or my desire
Then know that buried 'neath this sod
Halt Pegasus awaits his God.
Learn his request now you've his name
And then you'll satisfy the same:
Whene'er a willing boy you'd lay,
Oh, screw him on my tomb, I pray.
'Tis not incense but coition
Eases souls in their perdition,
Such requiems a ghost desires
As sweetest respite 'midst Hell's fires.
Our ancestors on this truth seized:
Achilles Chiron's ghost appeased
When blond Patroclus' bottom knew

Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!
Give back my book and take my kiss instead.
Was it my enemy or my friend I heard,
" What a big book for such a little head! "
Come, I will show you now my newest hat,
And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink!
Oh, I shall love you still, and all of that.
I never again shall tell you what I think.
I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly;
You will not catch me reading any more:
I shall be called a wife to pattern by;
And some day when you knock and push the door,

Oh! ninna and anninia!
Sleep, baby boy;
Oh! ninna and anninia!
God give thee joy.
Oh! ninna and anninia!
Sweet joy be thine;
Oh! ninna and anninia!
Sleep, brother, mine.

Oh never weep for love that's dead
Since love is seldom true
But changes his fashion from blue to red,
From brightest red to blue,
And love was born to an early death
And is so seldom true.

Then harbour no smile on your bonny face
To win the deepest sigh.
The fairest words on truest lips
Pass on and surely die,
And you will stand alone, my dear,
When wintry winds draw nigh.

Sweet, never weep for what cannot be,
For this God has not given.
If the merest dream of love were true
Then, sweet, we should be in heaven,

“Oh, Nancy, my heart,”
Don't you hear the sweet lark?
Don't you hear the sweet nightingale sing?
Don't you hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
How she sings in the valley below,
How she sings in the valley below?

‘Oh, Nancy, don't fail!
May I carry thy pail?
May I carry thy pail to the cow?’
But the maid she replied,
‘I'll not walk by thy side,
To milk in the valley below,
To milk in the valley below.’

‘Now sit yourself down
All on this cold ground,
I'll do you no harm, I avow.’

— — O H , my laddie, my laddie,
— — I lo'e your very plaidie,
— — I lo'e your very bonnet
— — Wi' the silver buckle on it,
— — I lo'e your collie Harry,
— — I lo'e the kent ye carry;
But oh! it's past my power to tell
How much, how much I lo'e yoursel!

— — Oh, my dearie, my dearie,
— — I could luik an' never weary
— — At your een sae blue an' laughin',
— — That a heart o' stane wad saften,
— — While your mouth sae proud an' curly
— — Gars my heart gang tirlie-wirlie;
But oh! yoursel, your very sel,

Oh my fine, my honey-colored Duke of Marmalade!
Where are your crocodiles in the far-off village on the Pongo,
and the round blue shadow of your African baobabs,
and your fifteen wives smelling of mud and the jungle?

No longer will you eat the succulent roast child,
nor will the family monkey kill your lice at siesta,
nor your fond eye trail the effeminate giraffe
across the hot flat silence of the plains.

Gone are your nights with their flowing hair of bonfire
and their drowsy, steady dripping of drums,