Lie in my arms, Ailsie, my bairn,-- Lie in my arms and dinna greit; Long time been past syn I kenned you last, But my harte been allwais the same, my swete.
Krinken was a little child-- It was summer when he smiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to him, Calling: "Sun-Child, come to me, Let me warm my heart with thee"--...
Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding....
One asketh: "Tell me, Myrson, tell me true: What's the season pleaseth you? Is it summer suits you best, When from harvest toil we rest? Is it autumn with its glory Of all surfeited desires?...
What gods or heroes, whose brave deeds none can dispute, Will you record, O Clio, on the harp and flute? What lofty names shall sportive Echo grant a place On Pindus' crown or Helicon's cool, shadowy space? ...
A little boy whose name was Tim Once ate some jelly-cake for tea-- Which cake did not agree with him, As by the sequel you shall see. "My darling child," his mother said,...
Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate Hid away in an oaken chest, And a Franklin platter of ancient date Beareth Amandy Baker's crest; What times soever I've been their guest,...
There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called, Who lived way off in Germany a many years ago, And he was very fortunate in being very bald And so was very happy he was so. He warbled all the day...
As I was going to Bethlehem-town, Upon the earth I cast me down All underneath a little tree That whispered in this wise to me: "Oh, I shall stand on Calvary And bear what burthen saveth thee!" ...
On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap, And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap, In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face,...
There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend, Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: But feast to-day while yet you may,-- Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!
Misery is my lot, Poverty and pain; Ill was I begot, Ill must I remain; Yet the wretched days One sweet comfort bring, When God whispering says, "Sing, O singer, sing!" ...
When, to despoil my native France, With flaming torch and cruel sword And boisterous drums her foeman comes, I curse him and his vandal horde! Yet, what avail accrues to her,...
Still serve me in my age, I pray, As in my youth, O faithful one; For years I've brushed thee every day-- Could Socrates have better done? What though the fates would wreak on thee...
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart When birds are on the wing, When bee and bud and babbling flood Bespeak the birth of spring, Come, sweetheart, be my sweetheart And wear this posy-ring! ...
I like the Anglo-Saxon speech With its direct revealings; It takes a hold, and seems to reach 'Way down into your feelings; That some folk deem it rude, I know, And therefore they abuse it;...