Oh, when shall I see Jesus,
And reign with him above?
And from the flowing fountain,
Drink everlasting love.

When shall I be delivered
From this vain world of sin?
And with my blessed Jesus,
Drink endless pleasures in.

Oh! had I wings I would fly away and be at rest,
And I'd praise God in his bright abode.

Oh promise me that some day you and
I will take our love together to some sky, Where
we can be alone and faith renew, and find the hollows where those flowers
grew, those first sweet violets of early spring, Which
come in whispers, thrill us both, and sing of love unspeakable that
is to be; Oh promise me, oh promise me!
Oh promise me, that you will take my
hand, the most unworthy in this lonely
land, and let me sit beside you, in your eyes
Seeing the vision of our paradise, Hearing God's message while the
organ rolls, its mighty music to our

"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 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 , if the world were mine, Love,
I'd give the world for thee!
Alas! there is no sign, Love,
Of that contingency.

Were I a king, — which isn't
To be considered now, —
A diadem had glistened
Upon that lovely brow.

Had fame with laurels crowned me, —
She hasn't, up to date, —
Nor time nor change had found me
To love and thee ingrate.

If Death threw down his gage, Love,
Though life is dear to me,
I'd die, e'ndash of old age, Love,
To win a smile from thee.

But being poor, we part, dear,

Oh , hush, my heart, and take thine ease,
For here is April weather!
The daffodils beneath the trees
Are all a-row together.

The thrush is back with his old note;
The scarlet tulip blowing;
And white — ay, white as my love's throat —
The dogwood boughs are growing.

The lilac bush is sweet again;
Down every wind that passes,
Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane;
The bees are in the grasses.

And Grief goes out, and Joy comes in,
And care is but a feather;
And every lad his love can win,
For here is April weather.

Oh, hark the dogs are barking, love,
I can no longer stay.
The men are all gone mustering
And it is nearly day.
And I must off by the morning light
Before the sun doth shine,
To meet the Sydney shearers
On the banks of the Condamine.

Oh Willie, dearest Willie,
I'll go along with you,
I'll cut off all my auburn fringe
And be a shearer, too,
I'll cook and count your tally, love,
While ringer-o you shine,
And I'll wash your greasy moleskins
On the banks of the Condamine.

Oh, Nancy, dearest Nancy,

Oh , for an hour when the day is breaking,
Down by the shore where the tide is making,
Fair as a white cloud, thou, love, near me,
None but the waves and thyself tOhear me!
Oh, to my breast how these arms would press thee!
Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee!
Oh, how the soul thou has won would woo thee,
Girl of the snow neck, closer to me!

Oh, for an hour as the day advances,
Out where the breeze on the broom-bush dances,
Watching the lark, with the sun-ray o'er us,
Winging the notes of his Heaven-taught chorus!

Off with sleep, love, up from bed,
This fair morn;
See, for our eyes the rosy red
New dawn is born;
Now that skies are glad and gay
In this gracious month of May,
Love me, sweet;
Fill my joy in brimming measure;
In this world he hath no pleasure
That will none of it.

Come, love, through the woods of spring,
Come walk with me;
Listen, the sweet birds jargoning
From tree to tree.
List and listen, over all
Nightingale most musical
That ceases never;
Grief begone, and let us be
For a space as glad as he;

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Odd rot it what a shame it is
 That love should puzzles grow
That we the one we seek should miss
 And change from top to toe
  The Gilafers a Gilafer
And nature owns the plan
And strange a thing it is to me
A man cant be a man

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I traced the woods and mountains brow
And felt as feels a man
Love pleased me then that puzzles now
 E'en do the best I can
Nature her same green mantle spread
 And boundless is her span
The same bright sun is o'er my head
 But I can't be a man

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