It was the frog lived in the well, Heigh-ho! says Rowley; And the merry mouse under the mill, With a Rowley, Powley, Gammon, and Spinach, Heigh-ho! says Anthony Rowley.
Coomb-Firtrees say that Life is a moan, And Clyffe-hill Clump says "Yea!" But Yell'ham says a thing of its own: It's not "Gray, gray Is Life alway!" That Yell'ham says,...
1. Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket fall of rye; Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie; When the pie was open the birds began to sing, Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?
Yes, the weary earth shall brighten - Brighten in the perfect day, And the fields that now but whiten, Golden glow beneath the ray! Slowly swelling in her bosom, Long the precious seed has lain, -...
Yonder see the morning blink: The sun is up, and up must I, To wash and dress and eat and drink And look at things and talk and think And work, and God knows why. ...
You mustn't show weakness and you've got to have a tan. But sometimes I feel like the thin veils of Jewish women who faint at weddings and on Yom Kippur.
But, Song, arise thee on a greater wing, Nor twitter robin-like of love, nor sing A pretty dalliance with grief - but try Some metre like a sky, Wherein to set Stars that may linger yet...
Yea, let me be 'thy bachelere,' 'Tis sweeter than thy lord; How should I envy him, my dear, The lamp upon his board. Still make his little circle bright With boon of dear domestic light,...
Why did she marry him? Ah, say why! How was her fancy caught? What was the dream that he drew her by, Or was she only bought? Gave she her gold for a girlish whim, A freak of a foolish mood?...
Yea, love, I know, and I would have it thus, I know that not for us Is springtide Passion with his fire and flowers, I know this love of ours Lives not, nor yet may live,...
Young men and women, strong and sound, Adorn with beautiful excess Of play and song and flower-dress Our fatherland's ancestral ground. They dream great deeds of ages older,...
With a look and a laugh where the stream was flowing, September led me along the land; Where the golden-rod and lobelia, glowing, Seemed burning torches within her hand....
You played and sang a snatch of song, A song that all-too well we knew; But whither had flown the ancient wrong; And was it really I and you? O, since the end of life's to live...