Songs from the Novelists: From Elizabeth to Victoria

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William Davenport Adams
Ward and Downey, 1885 - 156 Seiten

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Seite 16 - When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray ; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom — is to die.
Seite 9 - Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast, My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest — Ah, wanton, will ye?
Seite 100 - Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee!
Seite xviii - Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content ; The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ; The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown : Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes 6ft do miss.
Seite 36 - Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day ; All the jolly chase is here, With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; Hounds are in their couples yelling. Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily merrily mingle they: Waken, lords and ladies gay...
Seite 4 - Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
Seite 36 - Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green; Now we come to chant our lay 'Waken, lords and ladies gay.
Seite 40 - A PLACE in thy memory, dearest. Is all that I claim: To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name. Another may woo thee, nearer. Another may win and wear; I care not though he be dearer, If I am remembered there.
Seite 33 - The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings high-born Cavalier.
Seite 104 - When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away; Young blood must have its course lad, And every dog his day. When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down; Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among; God grant you find one face there, You loved when all was young.

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