The hours are passing slow, I hear their weary tread Clang from the tower, and go Back to their kinsfolk dead. Sleep! death’s twin brother dread!

(Clement Marot’s Frère Lubin, th… Some ten or twenty times a day, To bustle to the town with speed, To dabble in what dirt he may,— Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need…

Of all the maids of fair Scotland… The fairest was Marjorie; And young Benjie was her ae true… And a dear true love was he. And wow but they were lovers dear,

Now Liddisdale has ridden a raid, But I wat they had better staid a… For Mitchell o Winfield he is dea… And my son Johnie is prisner tane… With my fa ding diddle, la la dew…

The sacred keep of Ilion is rent By shaft and pit; foiled waters wa… Through plains where Simois and S… To war with Gods and heroes long… Not yet to tired Cassandra, lying…

I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow lo… An’ a cow low down in yon glen; Lang, lang will my young son greet… Or his mither bid him come ben. I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow lo…

O Rose the Red and White Lilly, Their mother dear was dead, And their father married an ill wo… Wishd them twa little guede. Yet she had twa as fu fair sons

“‘Dead and gone,’—a sorry burden o… Say, fair maids, maying In gardens green, In deep dells straying, What end hath been

Apollo left the golden Muse And shepherded a mortal’s sheep, Theocritus of Syracuse! To mock the giant swain that woo’s The sea-nymph in the sunny deep,

When Lent and Responsions are end… When May with fritillaries waits, When the flower of the chestnut is… When drags are at all of the gates (Those drags the philosopher 'slat…

We built a castle in the air, In summer weather, you and I, The wind and sun were in your hair… Gold hair against a sapphire sky: When Autumn came, with leaves tha…

‘O wha will shoe my fu’ fair foot? And wha will glove my hand? And wha will lace my middle jimp, Wi’ the new-made London band? ‘And wha will kaim my yellow hair,

Ah, listen through the music, from… The 'melancholy long-withdrawing r… Beneath the Minster, and the wind… The wide North Ocean, marshalling… Even so forlorn—in worlds beyond o…

Our youth began with tears and sig… With seeking what we could not fin… Our verses all were threnodies, In elegiacs still we whined; Our ears were deaf, our eyes were…

In torrid heats of late July, In March, beneath the bitter bise… He book-hunts while the loungers f… He book-hunts, though December fr… In breeches baggy at the knees,