Billy Hill , 1936

You've got to give
A little,
Take
A little,
And let your poor heart break
A little.
That's the story of,
That's the glory of love.
You've got to laugh
A little,
Cry
A little,
Before the clouds roll by
A little.
That's the story of,
That's the glory of love.
As long as there's the two of us,
We've got the world and all its charms.
And when the world is through with us,
We've got each other's arms.
You've got to win
A little,
Lose

O whare hae ye been, my dearest dear,
These seven lang years and more?
O I am come to seek my former vows
That ye promis'd me before.

Awa wi' your former vows, she says,
Or else ye will breed strife;
Awa wi' your former vows, she says,
For I'm become a wife.

I am married to a ship-carpenter,
A ship-carpenter he 's bound;
I wadna he ken'd my mind this nicht
For twice five hundred pound.

[I have seven ships upon the sea
Laden with the finest gold,
And mariners to wait us upon;
All these you may behold.

O waly, waly, up the bank,
And waly, waly, down the brae,
And waly, waly, yon burn side,
Where I and my love were wont to gae.

I leant my back upon an oak
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bent, and then it broke,
Just as my love proved false to me.

O waly, waly, love is bonny,
A little while when it is new;
But when it's old, it waxes cold,
And fades away like morning dew.

O wherefore should I busk my head?
O wherefore should I comb my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,

Sam H. Stept (with Bud Green) , 1928

VERSE 1

Love, love, love, love,
What did you do to me?
The things I never missed
Are things I can't resist.
Love, love, love, love,
Isn't it plain to see?
I just had a change of heart,
What can it be?

REFRAIN 1

She's got eyes of blue,
I never cared for eyes of blue,
But she's got eyes of blue,
And that's my weakness now.
She's got dimpled cheeks,
I never cared for dimpled cheeks,

O Thou who camest from above,
The pure, celestial fire t' impart,
Kindle a flame of sacred love
On the mean altar of my heart;
There let it for thy glory burn
With inextinguishable blaze,
And trembling to it's Source return,
In humble prayer, and fervent praise.

Jesus, confirm my heart's desire
To work, and speak, and think for thee,
Still let me guard the holy fire,
And still stir up thy gift in me,
Ready for all thy perfect will
My acts of faith and love repeat,
'Till death thy endless mercies seal,

O thou Most High who rulest all
And hear'st the prayers of thine,
O hearken, Lord, unto my suit
And my petition sign.

Into Thy everlasting arms Of mercy
I commend Thy servant, Lord.
Keep and preserve My husband,
my dear friend.

At Thy command, O Lord, he went,
Nor nought could keep him back.
Then let Thy promise joy his heart,
O help and be not slack.

Uphold my heart in Thee, O God.
Thou art my strength and stay,
Thou see'st how weak and frail I am,
Hide not Thy face away.

I in obedience to Thy will

O Love , who all this while hast urged me on,
Shaking the reins, with never any rest,—
Slacken for pity somewhat of thy haste;
I am oppress'd with languor and foredone,—
Having outrun the power of sufferance,—
Having much more endured than who, through faith
That his heart holds, makes no account of death.
Love is assuredly a fair mischance,
And well may it be called a happy ill:
Yet thou, my lady, on this constant sting,
So sharp a thing, have thou some pity still,—
Howbeit a sweet thing too, unless it kill.

O, LOVE is not a summer mood,
— — — Nor flying phantom of the brain,
Nor youthful fever of the blood,
Nor dream, nor fate, nor circumstance.
Love is not born of blinded chance,
Nor bred in simple ignorance.

Love is the flower of maidenhood;
— — — Love is the fruit of mortal pain;
And she hath winter in her blood.
True love is steadfast as the skies,
And once alight, she never flies;
And love is strong, and love is wise.

O love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!
Thou art a tree whereon all poets clime;
And from thy branches every one takes some
Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon.
But now thy tree is left so bare and poor,
That they can scarcely gather one plumb more.

O Love, how strangely sweet
Are thy weak passions,
That love and joye should meet
In self-same fashions!
Oh, who can tell
The cause why this should move?
But onely this,
No reason aske of Love.

O Love, how strangely sweet
Are thy weak passions,
That love and joye should meet
In self-same fashions!
Oh, who can tell
The cause why this should move?
But onely this,
No reason aske of Love.