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Seite 368 - Tu-whit, tu-who ! a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit, tu-who ! a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Seite 138 - There's fennel for you, and columbines; there's rue for you; and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.
Seite 297 - Now, all amid the rigours of the year, In the wild depth of Winter, while without The ceaseless winds blow ice, be my retreat, Between the groaning forest and the shore Beat by the boundless multitude of waves, A rural, shelter'd, solitary scene; Where ruddy fire and beaming tapers join, To cheer the gloom. There studious let me sit...
Seite 78 - Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea, I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, But oh ! could I love thee more deeply than now...
Seite 13 - The indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood ; The couch of time ; care's balm and bay ; The week were dark, but for thy light. Thy torch doth show the way.
Seite 1 - With covered face and upward earnest eye, Hail, Sabbath ! Thee I hail, the poor man's day : The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke; While wandering slowly up the...
Seite 330 - BRIGHT Chanticleer proclaims the dawn, And spangles deck the thorn, The lowing herds now quit the lawn, The lark springs from the corn; Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng, Fleet Towler leads the cry, Arise the burden of my song, This day a stag must die.
Seite 259 - THE dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn : The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn, And a hunting we will go. The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay ; " My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows ; You cannot hunt to-day.
Seite 252 - But gie me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie O; An' warly cares, an' warly men, May a