‘Oh, you must answer my questions… Sing ninety-nine and ninety, Or you’re not God’s, you’re one o… And you are the weaver’s bonny.’ ‘What is whiter than the milk?

I WISH I were where Helen lies,    Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies,    On fair Kirconnell lea! Curst be the heart that thought th…

Frankie and Johnnie were lovers, O, my Gawd, how they could love, They swore to be true to each othe… As true as the stars above; He was her man, but he done her wr…

‘O WHA will shoe my bonny foot?    And wha will glove my hand? And wha will bind my middle jimp    Wi’ a lang, lang linen band? ‘O wha will kame my yellow hair,

SISTER, awake! close not your e…    The day her light discloses, And the bright morning doth arise    Out of her bed of roses. See the clear sun, the world’s bri…

BYTUENE Mershe ant Averil    When spray biginneth to spring, The lutel foul hath hire wyl    On hyre lud to synge: Ich libbe in love-longinge

IN a valley of this restles mind I sought in mountain and in mead, Trusting a true love for to find. Upon an hill then took I heed; A voice I heard (and near I yede)

YET if His Majesty, our sovereig… Should of his own accord Friendly himself invite, And say 'I’ll be your guest to-mo… How should we stir ourselves, call…

IN Scarlet town, where I was bor…    There was a fair maid dwellin’, Made every youth cry Well-a-way!    Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merry month of May,

Phyllida. CORYDON, arise, my C…    Titan shineth clear. Corydon. Who is it that calleth C…    Who is it that I hear? Phyl. Phyllida, thy true love, ca…

To the Red River Valley we are g… For to get us some trains and some… But if I had my say so about it, I’d still be at home in the sack. Come and sit by my side at the bri…

The key to friendship Is not in the hand you hold But how you hold the hand. It’s not in the tears you dry But all the reasons why.

O Burr, O Burr, what hast though… Thou hast shooted dead great Hami… You hid behind a bunch of thistle, And shooted him dead with a great… Caption on a wax tableau of Vice…

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,