You say we bushmen cannot love, Our lives are too prosaic: hence We lose or lack that finer sense That raises some few men above Their fellows, setting them apart As vessels of a finer make,...
I'm traveling down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station-hand, I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand, And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day,...
I pass a cobbler's shop along the street And pause a moment at the door-step, where, In nature's medley, piping cool and sweet, The songs that thrill the swamps when spring is near,...
Fly hence, pale care, no more remember Past sorrows with the fled December, But let each pleasant cheek appear Smooth as the childhood of the year, And sing a carol here....
Praise of the knights of old May sleep: their tale is told, And no man cares: The praise which fires our lips is A knight's whose fame eclipses All of theirs.
The mounting lark (day's herald) got on wing, Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing. The lofty treble sung the little wren; Robin the mean, that best of all loves men;...
Since Anna, whose bounty thy merits had fed, Ere her own was laid low, had exalted thy head: And since our good queen to the wise is so just, To raise heads for such as are humbled in dust,...
My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er, To dispatch in an hour some visits a score; Though, since first on the wheels, I've been every day...
Thrice, and above, blest, my soul's half, art thou, In thy both last and better vow; Could'st leave the city, for exchange, to see The country's sweet simplicity; And it to know and practise, with intent...
The Text.--The earliest complete text, here given, was printed by William Copland between 1548 and 1568: there are extant two printed fragments, one printed by John Byddell in 1536, and the other in a type older than Copland's....
If you in the village think that my work was a good one, Who closed the saloons and stopped all playing at cards, And haled old Daisy Fraser before Justice Arnett, In many a crusade to purge the people of sin;...
Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors; Lord grant mae duddie desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotland o' a life...
Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;...