Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
How widely its agencies vary,- To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,- As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.
Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.
While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.
Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
Whoe'er has gone thro' London street, Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own; How he admires his halves And quarters--and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown.
The cowslip is a country wench.
Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
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