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The Bells of Hell

The Bells of Hell
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you but not for me:
And the little devils how they sing-a-ling-a-ling
For you but not for me.
O death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,
O Grave, thy victor-ee?
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,
For you but not for me.
193

Sir Patrick Spence

Sir Patrick Spence
The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
"O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?"
Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the se."
The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
"O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se!
"Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne:"
"O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.
"Late late yestreen I saw the new moone,
Wi the auld moone in hir arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will cum to harme."
O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.
Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip,


And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.
297

Spring

Spring
Lenten ys come with love to toun{.e},
With blosmen and with bridd{.e}s roun{.e},
That al this bliss{.e} bryngeth;
Dayes-ey{.e}s in this dal{.e}s;
Not{.e}s suete of nyht{.e}gal{.e}s;
Uch foul song singeth.
The threstelcoc him threteth oo;
Away is huer{.e} wynter woo,
When woderov{.e} springeth.
This foul{.e}s singeth ferly fel{.e},
And wlyteth on huere wynter wel{.e},
That al the wod{.e} ryngeth.
The ros{.e} rayleth hir{.e} rode;
The lev{.e}s on the lyht{.e} wod{.e}
Waxen al with will{.e}.
The mon{.e} mandeth hir{.e} bleo;
The lili{.e} is lossom to seo,
The fenyl and the fill{.e}.
Wow{.e}s this wild{.e} drak{.e}s;
Mil{.e}s murgeth huer{.e} mak{.e}s;
Ase strem that striketh still{.e},
Mody meneth, so doth mo;
Ichot ycham on of tho,
For love that lik{.e}s ill{.e}.
The mon{.e} mandeth hir{.e} lyht,
So doth the semly sonn{.e} bryht,
When bridd{.e}s singeth brem{.e}.
Deaw{.e}s donketh the doun{.e}s;
Deor{.e}s with huere dern{.e} roun{.e}s,
Dom{.e}s fort{.e} dem{.e};
Worm{.e}s woweth under cloud{.e};
Wymmen waxeth wounder proud{.e},
So wel hit wol hem sem{.e}.
Yef me shal wont{.e} wille of on,
This wunn{.e} weole y wole forgon,
Ant wyht in wode be flem{.e}.
204

Riddle

Riddle
A moth, I thogh, munching a word.
How marvellously weird! a worm
Digesting a mans sayings -
A sneakthief nibbling in the shadows
At the shape of a poet`s thunderous phrases -
How unutterably strange!
And the pilfering parasite none the wiser
For the words he has swallowed.
259

She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain

She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain
She'll be comin' round the mountain,
When she comes.
She'll be comin' round the mountain,
When she comes.
She'll be comin' round the mountain,
She'll be comin' round the mountain,
She'll be comin' round the mountain,
When she comes.
She'll be drivin' six white horses,
When she comes.
She'll be drivin' six white horses,
When she comes.
She'll be drivin' six white horses,
She'll be drivin' six white horses,
She'll be drivin' six white horses,
When she comes.
Oh we'll all go to meet her,
When she comes.
Oh we'll all go to meet her,
When she comes.
We will kill the old red rooster,
We will kill the old red rooster,
And we'll all have chicken and dumplin',
When she comes.
220

O Death, O Death, Rock Me Asleep

O Death, O Death, Rock Me Asleep
O Death, O Death, rock me asleep,
Bring me to quiet rest;
Let pass my weary guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Thy sound my death abroad will tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy.
My pains, my pains, who can express?
Alas, they are so strong!
My dolours will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Thy sound my death abroad will tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy.
Alone, alone in prison strong
I wail my destiny:
Woe worth this cruel hap that I
Must taste this misery!
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Thy sound my death abroad will tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy.
Farewell, farewell, my pleasures past!
Welcome, my present pain!
I feel my torment so increase
That life cannot remain.
Cease now, thou passing bell,
Ring out my doleful knoll,
For thou my death dost tell:
Lord, pity thou my soul!
Death doth draw nigh,
Sound dolefully:
For now I die,
I die, I die.
270

My Friend Judge Not Me

My Friend Judge Not Me
My friend iudge not me,
Thou seest I iudge not thee:
Betwixt the stirrop and the ground,
Mercy I askt, mercy I found.
248

Lully, Lulley

Lully, Lulley
Lully, lulley, lully, lulley,
The faucon hath borne my make away.
He bare him up, he bare him down,
He bare him into an orchard brown.
In that orchard there was an halle
That hanged with purpill and pall.
And in that hall there was a bede;
It was hanged with gold so rede.
And in that bed there lithe a knight,
His woundes bleding day and night.
By that bede side kneleth a may,
And she wepeth both night and day.
And by that bede side there stondeth a stone,
Corpus Christi wreten there on.
269

If All the World Were Paper

If All the World Were Paper
"If all the world were paper
And all the sea were ink,
If all the trees were bread and cheese
What would we do for drink?
If all the world were sand O,
Oh then what should we lack O,
if as they say there were no clay
How should we take Tobacco?
If all our vessels ran-a,
If none but had a crack-a,
If Spanish apes ate all the grapes
How should we do for sack-a?
If all the world were men
And men lived all in trenches,
And there were none but we alone,
How should we do for wenches?
If friars had no bald pates
Nor nuns had no dark cloisters,
If all the seas were beans and peas
How should we do for oysters?
If there had been no projects
Nor none that did great wrongs,
If fiddlers shall turn players all
How should we do for songs?
If all things were eternal
And nothing their end bringing,
If this should be, then how should we
Here make an end of singing?
230

I Don't Want to Die

I Don't Want to Die
I WANT to go home,
I want to go home,
I don't want to go in the trenches no more,
Where whizz-bangs and shrapnel they whistle and roar.
Take me over the sea
Where the Alleyman can't get at me.
Oh my,
I don't want to die,
I want to go home.
247

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