Could man be drunk for ever With liquor, love, or fights, Lief should I rouse at morning And lief lie down of nights. But men at whiles are sober

“Clunton and Clunbury, Clungunford and Clun, Are the quietest places Under the sun.” In valleys of springs and rivers,

Shot? so quick, so clean an ending… Oh that was right, lad, that was b… Yours was not an ill for mending, 'Twas best to take it to the grave… Oh you had forethought, you could…

‘Tis five years since, ’An end,'… 'I’ll march no further, time to di… All’s lost; no worse has heaven to… Worse has it given, and yet I liv… I shall not die to-day, no fear:

Wake not for the world-heard thund… Nor the chimes that earthquakes to… Stars may plot in heaven with plan… Lightning rive the rock of granite… Tempest tread the oakwood under,

Here dead we lie Because we did not choose To live and shame the land From which we sprung. Life, to be sure,

If truth in hearts that perish Could move the powers on high, I think the love I bear you Should make you not to die. Sure, sure, if stedfast meaning,

This time of year a twelvemonth pa… When Fred and I would meet, We needs must jangle, till at last We fought and I was beat. So then the summer fields about,

The star-filled seas are smooth to… From France to England strown; Black towers above the Portland l… The felon-quarried stone. On yonder island, not to rise,

There pass the careless people That call their souls their own: Here by the road I loiter, How idle and alone. Ah, past the plunge of plummet,

Leave your home behind, lad, And reach your friends your hand, And go, and luck go with you While Ludlow tower shall stand. Oh, come you home of Sunday

The chestnut casts his flambeaux,… Stream from the hawthorn on the wi… The doors clap to, the pane is bli… Pass me the can, lad; there’s an e… There’s one spoilt spring to scant…

On your midnight pallet lying, Listen, and undo the door: Lads that waste the light in sighi… In the dark should sigh no more; Night should ease a lover’s sorrow…

ow dreary dawns the eastern light, And fall of eve is drear, And cold the poor man lies at nigh… And so goes out the year. Little is the luck I’ve had,

Twice a week the winter thorough Here stood I to keep the goal: Football then was fighting sorrow For the young man’s soul. Now in Maytime to the wicket