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Oh came you by yon water-side ?

Pou'd you the rose or lily?
Or came you by yon meadow green?

Or saw you my sweet Willy ?”

She sought him east, she sought him west,

She sought him braid and narrow;
Syne in the cleaving of a craig,
She found him drowned in Yarrow.




My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,

And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
My youth is past, and yet I am but young,

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen.
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought for death and found it in the wombe,

I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade,
I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe,

And now I die, and now I am but made.
The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!


The Ballad of Agincourt.

Fair stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marched toward Agincourt

In happy hour-
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French general lay

With all his power,

Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide

To the king sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet, with an angry smile,

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then:
Though they be one to ten,

Be not amazed;
Yet have we well begun-
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

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Which did the signal aim

To our hid forces;
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Struck the French horses,

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the wether;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy:
Arms were from shoulders sent;
Scalps to the teeth were rent;
Down the French peasants went;

Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,

As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother



Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade;
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,

Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon St. Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay

To England to carry ;
Oh, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry ?


Take thy Old Cloake about thee.

This winter weather, it waxeth cold,

And frost doth freese on every hill; And Boreas blows his blastes so cold

That all our cattell are like to spill. Bell, my wife, who loves no strife,

Shee sayd unto me quietlye, "Rise


and save cowe Crumbocke's lifeMan, put thy old cloake about thee.”

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“O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne?

Thou kenst my cloake is very thin;

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