A fair little girl sat under a tree A green silk frock her comely shoulders clad A lake and a fairy boat A widow bird sate mourning for her love Ah, county Guy, the hour is nigh All ye woods, and trees, and bowers. And are ye sure the news is true And when, its force expended Art thou the bird whom man loves best As it fell upon a day. At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears Ay, tear her tattered ensign down Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way Dame Nature ordered every bird and beast Darby dear, we are old and gray Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare For the tender beech and the sapling oak 386 6 224 12 342 Half a league, half a league Happy the man whose wish and care Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings Here she was wont to go, and here, and here Ho, sailor of the sea. I cannot heal thy green gold breast I had a dove, and the sweet dove died I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me I know a place where the sun is like gold I'll tell you how the sun rose I remember, I remember I saw him once before I've watch'd you now a full half hour I wandered lonely as a cloud In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes It was a summer evening. It was the charming month of May It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain Laid in my quiet bed in study as I were Little inmate, full of mirth Little lamb, who made thee? Lord Love! he stood at his castle gate Lo! where she comes along with portly pace. Monsieur the curé down the street My banks they are furnished with bees My fairest child, I have no song to give you My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here My Peggy is a young thing My tea is nearly ready, and the sun has left the sky No, the bugle sounds no more Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts from whom all glories are Now that the winter's gone the earth hath lost. Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger Now the glories of the year Now the golden morn aloft |