Anonymous

Kiss’d yestreen, and kiss’d yestreen, Up the Gallowgate, down the Green: I’ve woo’d wi’ lords, and woo’d wi’ lairds, I’ve mool’d wi carles and mell’d wi’ cairds, I’ve kiss’d wi’ priests— ‘twas done i’ the dark, Twice in my gown and thrice in my sark; But priest, nor lord, nor loon can gie Sic kindly kisses as he gae me.

When John Henry was a little tiny baby Sitting on his mama's knee, He picked up a hammer and a little piece of steel Saying, "Hammer's going to be the death of me, Lord, Lord, Hammer's going to be the death of me." John Henry was a man just six feet high, Nearly two feet and a half across his breast. He'd hammer with a nine-pound hammer all day And never get tired and want to rest, Lord, Lord, And never get tired and want to rest. John Henry went up on the mountain And he looked one eye straight up its side. The mountain was so tall and John Henry was so small, He laid down his hammer and he cried, "Lord, Lord," He laid down his hammer and he cried. John Henry said to his captain, "Captain, you go to town, Bring me back a TWELVE-pound hammer, please, And I'll beat that steam drill down, Lord, Lord, I'll beat that steam drill down." The captain said to John Henry, "I believe this mountain's sinking in." But John Henry said, "Captain, just you stand aside-- It's nothing but my hammer catching wind, Lord, Lord, It's nothing but my hammer catching wind." John Henry said to his shaker, "Shaker, boy, you better start to pray, 'Cause if my TWELVE-pound hammer miss that little piece of steel, Tomorrow'll be your burying day, Lord, Lord, Tomorrow'll be your burying day." John Henry said to his captain, "A man is nothing but a man, But before I let your steam drill beat me down, I'd die with a hammer in my hand, Lord, Lord, I'd die with a hammer in my hand." The man that invented the steam drill, He figured he was mighty high and fine, But John Henry sunk the steel down fourteen feet While the steam drill only made nine, Lord, Lord, The steam drill only made nine. John Henry hammered on the right-hand side. Steam drill kept driving on the left. John Henry beat that steam drill down. But he hammered his poor heart to death, Lord, Lord, He hammered his poor heart to death. Well, they carried John Henry down the tunnel And they laid his body in the sand. Now every woman riding on a C and O train Says, "There lies my steel-driving man, Lord, Lord, There lies my steel-driving man."

Jesu Christ, my lemmon swete, That diyedest on the Rode Tree, With all my might I thee beseche, For thy woundes two and three, That also faste mot thy love Into mine herte fitched be As was the spere into thine herte, Whon thou soffredest deth for me.

A baby is borne us blis to bring; A maidden, I hard, “Loullay,” sing: “Dere son, now leive thy wepping, Thy fadere is the King of Blis.” “Nay! Dere modere, for you weppe I noght, But for thinges that shall be wroght, Or that I have mankind iboght. Was ther never pain like it, iwis.” “Pes! dere sone, say thou me not so. Thou art my child, I have no mo. Alas! That I shuld see this wo: It were to me gret heivynis.” “My hondes, modere, that ye now see, Thay shall be nailed one a tree; My feit, also, fastned shall be: Full mony shall wepe that it shall see.” “Alas! dere son, sorrow now is my happe To see my child that soukes my pappe So ruthfully taken out of my lappe. It were to me gret heivynis.” “Also, modere, ther shall a speire My tendere hert all to-teire: The blud shall kevere my body there. Gret ruthe it shall be to see.” “A! dere sone, that is a heivy cas. When Gabrell knelled before my face And said, ‘Heille! Lady, full of grace,’ He never told me nothing of this. “Dere modere, pes! Nowe I you pray, And take no sorrow for that I say, But singe this song, ‘By, by, loullay,’ To drive away all heivynis.”

Lyth and lystyn, gentilmen, All that nowe be here; Of Litell Johnn, that was the knighees man, Goode myrth ye shall here. It was upon a mery day That yonge men wolde go shete; Lytell Johnn fet his bowe anone, And sayde he wolde them mete. Thre tymes Litell Johnn shet aboute, And alwey he slet the wande; The proude sherif of Notingham By the markes can stande. The sherif swore a full greate othe: "By hym that dyede on a tre, This man is the best arschére That ever yet sawe I me. "Say me nowe, wight yonge man, What is nowe thy name? In what countre were thou borne, And where is thy wonynge wane?" "In Holdernes, sir, I was borne, I-wys al of my dame; Men cal me Reynolde Grenelef Whan I am at home." "Sey me, Reynolde Grenelefe, Wolde thou dwell with me? And every yere I woll the gyve Twenty marke to thy fee." "I have a maister," sayde Litell Johnn, "A curteys knight is he; May ye leve gete of hym, The better may it be." The sherif gate Litell John Twelve monethes of the knight; Therfore he gave him right anone A gode hors and a wight. Nowe is Litell John the sherifes man, God lende vs well to spede! But alwey thought Lytell John To quyte hym wele his mede. "Nowe so God me helpe," sayde Litell John, "And by my true leutye, I shall be the worst servaunt to hym That ever yet had he." It fell upon a Wednesday The sherif on huntynge was gone, And Litel John lay in his bed, And was foriete at home. Therfore he was fastinge Til it was past the none; "Gode sir stuarde, I pray to the, Gyve me my dynere," saide Litell John. "It is longe for Grenelefe Fastinge thus for to be; Therfor I pray the, sir stuarde, Mi dyner gif me." "Shalt thou never ete ne drynke," saide the stuarde, "Tyll my lorde be come to towne:" "I make myn avowe to God," saide Litell John, "I had lever to crake thy crowne." The boteler was full uncurteys, There he stode on flore; He start to the botery And shet fast the dore. Lytell Johnn gave the boteler suche a tap His backe went nere in two; Though he lived an hundred ier, The wors shuld he go. He sporned the dore with his fote; It went open wel and fyne; And there he made large lyveray, Bothe of ale and of wyne. "Sith ye wol nat dyne," sayde Litell John, "I shall gyve you to drinke; And though ye lyve an hundred wynter, On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke." Litell John ete, and Litel John drank, The while that he wolde; The sherife had in his kechyn a coke, A stoute man and a bolde. "I make myn avowe to God," saide the coke, "Thou arte a shrewde hynde In ani hous for to dwel, For to aske thus to dyne." And there he lent Litell John Gode strokis thre; "I make myn avowe to God," sayde Lytell John, "These strokis lyked well me. "Thou arte a bolde man and hardy, And so thinketh me; And or I pas fro this place Assayed better shalt thou be." Lytell Johnn drew a ful gode sworde, The coke toke another in hande; They thought no thynge for to fle, But stifly for to stande. There they faught sore togedere Two myle way and well more; Myght neyther other harme done, The mountnaunce of an owre. "I make myn avowe to God," sayde Litell Johnn, "And by my true lewté, Thou art one of the best sworde-men That ever yit sawe I me. "Cowdest thou shote as well in a bowe, To grene wode thou shuldest with me, And two times in the yere thy clothinge Chaunged shulde be; "And every yere of Robyn Hode Twenty merke to thy fe:" "Put up thy swerde," saide the coke, "And felowes woll we be." Thanne he fet to Lytell Johnn The nowmbles of a do, Gode brede, and full gode wyne, They ete and drank theretoo. And when they had dronkyn well, Theyre trouthes togeder they plight That they wolde be with Robyn That ylke same nyght. They dyd them to the tresoure-hows, As fast as they myght gone; The lokkes, that were of full gode stele, They brake them everichone. They toke away the silver vessell, And all that thei might get; Pecis, masars, ne sponis, Wolde thei not forget. Also they toke the gode pens, Thre hundred pounde and more, And did them streyte to Robyn Hode, Under the grene wode hore. "God the save, my dere mayster, And Criste the save and se!" And thanne sayde Robyn to Litel Johnn, Welcome myght thou be. "Also be that fayre yeman Thou bryngest there with the; What tydynges fro Notyngham? Lytill Johnn, tell thou me." "Well the gretith the proude sheryf, And sendeth the here by me His coke and his silver vessell, And thre hundred pounde and thre." "I make myne avowe to God," sayde Robyn, "And to the Trenyté, It was never by his gode wyll This gode is come to me." Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought On a shrewde wyle; Fyve myle in the forest he ran, Hym happed all his wyll. Than he met the proude sheref, Huntynge with houndes and horne; Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye, And knelyd hym beforne. "God the save, my dere mayster, And Criste the save and se!" "Reynolde Grenelefe," sayde the shryef, "Where hast thou nowe be?" "I have be in this forest; A fayre syght can I se; It was one of the fayrest syghtes That ever yet sawe I me. "Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte, His coloure is of grene; Seven score of dere upon a herde Be with hym all bydene. "Their tyndes are so sharpe, maister, Of sexty, and well mo, That I durst not shote for drede, Lest they wolde me slo." "I make myn avowe to God," sayde the shyref, "That syght wolde I fayne se:" "Buske you thyderwarde, mi dere mayster, Anone, and wende with me." The sherif rode, and Litell Johnn Of fote he was full smerte, And whane they came before Robyn, "Lo, sir, here is the mayster-herte." Still stode the proude sherief, A sory man was he; "Wo the worthe, Raynolde Grenelefe, Thou hast betrayed nowe me." "I make myn avowe to God," sayde Litell Johnn, "Mayster, ye be to blame; I was mysserved of my dynere Whan I was with you at home." Sone he was to souper sette, And served well with silver white, And whan the sherif sawe his vessell, For sorowe he myght nat ete. "Make glad chere," sayde Robyn Hode, "Sherif, for charité, And for the love of Litill Johnn Thy lyfe I graunt to the." Whan they had souped well, The day was al gone; Robyn commaunded Litell Johnn To drawe of his hosen and his shone; His kirtell and his cote of pie, That was fured well and fine, And toke hym a grene mantel, To lap his body therin. Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men, Under the grene-wode tree, They shulde lye in that same sute, That the sherif myght them see. All nyght lay the proude sherif In his breche and in his schert; No wonder it was, in grene wode, Though his sydes gan to smerte. "Makeglade chere," sayde Robyn Hode, "Sheref, for charité; For this is our ordre i-wys, Under the grene-wode tree." "This is harder order," sayde the sherief, "Than any ankir or frere; For all the golde in mery Englonde I wolde nat longe dwell her." "All this twelve monthes," sayde Robin, "Thou shalt dwell with me; I shall the teche, proude sherif, An outlawe for to be." "Or I be here another nyght," sayde the sherif, "Robyn, nowe pray I the, Smyte of mijn hede rather to-morowe, And I forgyve it the. "Lat me go," than sayde the sherif. "For saynte charité, And I woll be the beste frende That ever yet had ye." "Thou shalt swere me an othe," sayde Robyn, "On my bright bronde; Shalt thou never awayte me scathe, By water ne by lande. "And if thou fynde any of my men, By nyght or by day, Upon thyn othe thou shalt swere To helpe them that thou may." Nowe hathe the sherif sworne his othe, And home he began to gone; He was as full of grene wode As ever was hepe of stone.

Itsy bitsy spider Climbed up the waterspout; Down came the rain And washed the spider out; Out came the sun And dried up all the rain; And the itsy bitsy spider Climbed up the spout again.

Veiled in velvet, is she here? Leave off, leave off: You shall not enter, you shall not emerge. It is neither yours nor your share. Return...Return: The sea is swelling; its waves are calling. I hold to the holy portion— I am held in the holiness of the King.

I syng of a mayden That is makeles; Kyng of alle kynges To here Sone sche ches. He cam also stylle There his moder was As dew in Aprylle That fallyt on the gras; He cam also stylle To his moderes bowr As dew in Aprille That fallyt on the flour; He cam also stylle There his moder lay As dew in Aprille That fallyt on the spray; Moder and maydyn Was never non but sche; Wel may swych a lady Godes moder be.

As I was walking one morning in spring, I heard a fair maiden most charmingly sing, All under her cow, as she sat a-milking, Saying, I shall be married, next Monday morning. You fairest of all creatures, my eyes e’er beheld, Oh! Where do you live love, or where do you dwell, I dwell at the top of yon bonny brown hill, I shall be fifteen years old next Monday morning. Fifteen years old love, is too young to marry, The other five years love, I’d have you to tarry, And perhaps in the meantime love you might be sorry, So put back your wedding, next Monday morning. You talk like a man without reason or skill, Five years I’ve been waiting against my will, Now, I am resolved my mind to fulfil, I wish that tomorrow was Monday morning. On Saturday night it is all my care, To powder my locks and curl my hair, And my two pretty maidens to wait on me there, To dance at my wedding next Monday morning. My husband will buy me a guinea gold ring, And at night he’ll give me a far better thing, With two precious jewels he’ll be me adorning, When I am his bride, on Monday morning.

I saw my Lady weep, And Sorrow proud to be advanced so In those fair eyes, where all perfections keep; Her face was full of woe, But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than mirth can do, with her enticing parts. Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing; Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare; She made her sighs to sing, And all things with so sweet a sadness move; As made my heart both grieve and love. O Fairer than aught else The world can shew, leave off, in time, to grieve, Enough, enough! Your joyful look excels; Tears kill the heart, believe, O strive not to be excellent in woe, Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow.