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;...
May the man who has cruelly murdered his sire-- A crime to be punished with death-- Be condemned to eat garlic till he shall expire Of his own foul and venomous breath!...
Dear, noble friend! a virgin cask Of wine solicits your attention; And roses fair, to deck your hair, And things too numerous to mention. So tear yourself awhile away...
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....
Full many a sinful notion Conceived of foreign powers Has come across the ocean To harm this land of ours; And heresies called fashions Have modesty effaced, And baleful, morbid passions...
Whenas ye plaisaunt Aperille shoures have washed and purged awaye Ye poysons and ye rheums of earth to make a merrie May, Ye shraddy boscage of ye woods ben full of birds that syng...
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,...
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...
Carol of the Christmas morn-- Carol of the Christ-child born-- Carol to the list'ning sky Till it echoes back again "Glory be to God on high, Peace on earth, good will tow'rd men!"
Oh, them days on Red Hoss Mountain, when the skies wuz fair 'nd blue, When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true! When the nights wuz crisp 'nd balmy, 'nd the camp wuz all astir,...
O mother-my-love, if you'll give me your hand, And go where I ask you to wander, I will lead you away to a beautiful land,-- The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder....
Chloris, my friend, I pray you your misconduct to forswear; The wife of poor old Ibycus should have more savoir faire. A woman at your time of life, and drawing near death's door,...
Sing, Christmas bells! Say to the earth this is the morn Whereon our Savior-King is born; Sing to all men,--the bond, the free, The rich, the poor, the high, the low,...
God rest you, Chrysten gentil men, Wherever you may be,-- God rest you all in fielde or hall, Or on ye stormy sea; For on this morn oure Chryst is born That saveth you and me. ...
In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there; That I take a delight on a Saturday night In walking that way and in viewing the sight....
Should painter attach to a fair human head The thick, turgid neck of a stallion, Or depict a spruce lass with the tail of a bass, I am sure you would guy the rapscallion. ...