Anonymous

There was a young lady of Lynn, Who was so uncommonly thin That when she essayed To drink lemonade She slipped through the straw and fell in.

A woman’s looks Are barbed hooks, That catch by art The strongest heart, When yet they spend no breath. But let them speak, And sighing break Forth into tears, Their words are spears That wound our souls to death. The rarest wit Is made forget, And like a child Is oft beguiled With Love’s sweet-seeming bait. Love with his rod So like a god Commands the mind We cannot find, Fair shows hide foul deceit. Time, that all things In order brings, Hath taught me now To be more slow In giving faith to speech: Since women’s words No truth affords, And when they kiss They think by this Us men to overreach.

The wheels on the bus go round and round, Round and round, round and round. The wheels on the bus go round and round, All day long. The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish ... The horn on the bus goes beep!   beep!   beep! ... The people on the bus go chat, chat, chat ... The children on the bus bump up and down ...

Weep you no more, sad fountains; What need you flow so fast? Look how the snowy mountains Heaven’s sun doth gently waste. But my sun’s heavenly eyes View not your weeping, That now lie sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping. Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets. Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at even he sets? Rest you then, rest, sad eyes, Melt not in weeping While she lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.

“The wind doth blow today, my love, And a few small drops of rain; I never had but one true-love, In cold grave she was lain. “I’ll do as much for my true-love As any young man may; I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave For a twelvemonth and a day.” The twelvemonth and a day being up, The dead began to speak: “Oh who sits weeping on my grave, And will not let me sleep?” “’T is I, my love, sits on your grave, And will not let you sleep; For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips, And that is all I seek.” “You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips, But my breath smells earthy strong; If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips, Your time will not be long. “’T is down in yonder garden green, Love, where we used to walk, The finest flower that e’re was seen Is withered to a stalk. “The stalk is withered dry, my love, So will our hearts decay; So make yourself content, my love, Till God calls you away.”

Were beeth they biforen us weren, Houndes ledden and hawkes beren, And hadden feeld and wode? The riche ladies in hir bowr, That wereden gold in hir tressour, With hir brighte rode, Eten and drunken, and maden hem glad; Hir lif was al with gamen ylad, Men kneeleden hem biforen; They beren hem wel swithe hye. And in a twinkling of an ye Hir soules weren forloren. Where is that laughing and that song, That trailing and that proude gong, Tho hawkes and tho houndes? Al that joye is went away, That wele is comen to weylaway, To manye harde stoundes. Here paradis hy nomen here, And now they lien in helle ifere; The fuir hit brennes evere: Long is “ah!” and long is “oh!” Long is “wy!” and long is “wo!” Thennes ne cometh they nevere. Drey here, man, thenne, if thou wilt, A litel pine that me thee bit; Withdraw thine eyses ofte. They thy pine be unrede, And thou thenke on thy mede, It shall thee thinken softe. If that fend, that foule thing, Thorou wikke roun, thorou fals egging, Nethere thee haveth icast, down Up, and be good chaunpioun! Stond, ne fall namore adoun For a litel blast. Thou tak the rode to thy staf, And thenk on him that thereonne gaf His lif that wes so lef. He hit gaf for thee; thou yelde it him; Agein his fo that staf thou nim, And wrek him of that thef. Of righte bileve thou nim that sheld, The whiles that thou best in that feld, Thin hond to strengthen fonde, And kep thy fo with staves ord, And do that traitre seyen that word. Biget that murie londe. Thereinne is day withouten night, Withouten ende strengthe and might, And wreche of everich fo; Mid God himselven eche lif, And pes and rest withoute strif, Wele withouten wo. Mayden moder, hevene quene, Thou might and const and owest to bene Oure sheld agein the fende: Help us sunne for to flen, That we moten they sone iseen, In joye withouten ende.

Two little dickie birds sitting on a wall, One named Peter, one named Paul. Fly away, Peter!   Fly away, Paul! Come back, Peter!   Come back, Paul!

The first day of Christmas, My true love sent to me A partridge in a pear tree. The second day of Christmas, My true love sent to me Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree. The third day of Christmas, My true love sent to me Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree. The fourth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree. The fifth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me Five gold rings, Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree. The sixth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me Six geese a-laying, Five gold rings, Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree. The seventh day of Christmas, My true love sent to me Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying, Five gold rings, Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree. The eighth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying, Five gold rings, Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree. The ninth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me Nine drummers drumming, Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying, Five gold rings, Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree. The tenth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me Ten pipers piping, Nine drummers drumming, Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying, Five gold rings, Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree. The eleventh day of Christmas My true love sent to me Eleven ladies dancing, Ten pipers piping, Nine drummers drumming, Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying, Five gold rings, Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree. The twelfth day of Christmas My true love sent to me Twelve fiddlers fiddling, Eleven ladies dancing, Ten pipers piping, Nine drummers drumming, Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying, Five gold rings, Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree.

The voice that beautifies the land! The voice above, The voice of thunder Within the dark cloud Again and again it sounds, The voice that beautifies the land. The voice that beautifies the land! The voice below, The voice of the grasshopper Among the plants Again and again it sounds, The voice that beautifies the land.

Sing, cuccu, nu. Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu, nu. Sumer is i-cumin in— Lhude sing, cuccu! Groweth sed and bloweth med And springth the wude nu. Sing, cuccu! Awe bleteth after lomb, Lhouth after calve cu, Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth— Murie sing, cuccu! Cuccu, cuccu, Wel singes thu, cuccu. Ne swik thu naver nu!