Yo ho my laddies, so hale, brave my laddies, heave to!
It's rum for a sailor, but soldiers crave ale,
Yo ho! my laddies, yo ho!

A bottle of rum and a mug of white ale,
Yo ho! my laddies, yo ho!
Of merrie old England I'll tell you a tale,
Yo ho! my laddies, yo ho!

The shepherd boy lean[s] idly by the stile
While suns look on him with their sweetest smile
Then on a Pond head slopeing lyeth down
On soft green beds more fit for prince then clown

Ive riches in plenty & if Id no fee
Id range the wide world & meet fortune in thee
For thy beauty would ever good greeting commend
& thy smiles win the whole world itself to thy friend
So talk not of nothing if love be thy dower
Give me that & all else shall be soon in thy power

Ploughmonday as an holiday
For clowns is nearly passd away
The vulgar tyrants of the soil
Deem them an hinderance of toil.

All glory to my God and King And to his place above
He shields me with his mighty wing And keeps me for his love.

Moon of the autumn sky!
Sentinel, silver and still!
Where are our dear ones who die?
Is it well? is it ill?

O God, we pray Thee for those who come after us, for our children, and the children of our friends, and for all the young lives that are marching up from the gates of birth, pure and eager, with the morning sunshine on their faces. We remember with a pang that these will live in the world we are making for them. We are wasting the resources of the earth in our headlong greed, and they will suffer want. We are building sunless houses and joyless cities for our profit, and they must dwell therein.

Llangollen's brown ale is with malt and hop rife;
'Tis good; but don't quaff it from evening till dawn;
For too much of that ale will incline you to strife;
Too much of that ale has caused knives to be drawn.

He who satire loves to sing,
On himself will satire bring.

Brodir, gnawd ynddi prydydd;
Heb ganu ni bu ni bydd.
A hospitable country, in which a poet is a thing of course. It has never been and will never be without song.