#1878 #ABookOfMiscellaneousLyrics #EnglishWriters #VictorianWriters
TRUTH’S words are oft so very t… And always when my lips he uses, His foes, which let us hope, are f… Declare he but the truth abuses. Thus when he spake of Ella’s tong…
SHE is not fashioned to command, Nor once, for grace, in her is sho… A form that peers the lily-wand— An air the lily’s self might own; Not such her vaunt, tho’ such ench…
BEWILDERED by Life’s Gordian… Despair had flung her adamantine c… When thro’ the abyss of my spirit… A deep voice cried, and “Glory!”… “A spark eternal from the co-etern…
CAN this be her? Her dark eyes… Two planets in the midnight heaven… Her cheeks the blood-dyed rose—her… The snow upon the mountains driven… Her tongue’s a silver bell to hear…
‘YOU little like the sonnet? Yo… But what are you? a creaking wicke… A cricket in the grass, allow Me, slut! to say a very cricket!— ’A chatter-box, or at the best’—
WILTED is the leaf, and blown By the cold wind up and down, That beheld thy promise fair, Maiden with the dark brown hair! Shatter’d is this heart, and hurl’…
I LISTEN to the accents of the… And tho’ aweary of the darts at me… Allying goes life’s shuttle and af… A renovated soul I seek to renova… As the spring is to tire brooklet…
THE DITTY. O, BECKY SHARP, dear Becky S… So very clever and so witty; I’m half inclined your praise to h… In one, at least, well-worded ditt…
DIES not the soul when dust to d… Even as we are in earth-life are w… Save from the worn-out garment ren… That may have proved a fetter to t… Not unto demons void of good conve…
AWAY to the well lilted Annie; Away with her skiel to the well; Away to the well whistled Johnnie… The pride and delight of the dell. Sweet, sweet is the well; but ah,…
FROM all that I have seen or hea… This world, is but an empty show, And only can the heart afford What tends to bitter strife and wo… Nay in its clutch, do what we will…
ANNIE LEE is fair and sweet, Fair and sweet to look upon; But Annie’s heart is all deceit, Therefore Annie Lee, begone! Sweeter than a golden bell
My lad he is a Collier Lad, And a blithe, blithe soul is he, And when a holiday comes around, He’ll spend that day in glee; He’ll tell his tale o’er a pint o’…
MUST all the passion which I’ve… So long to hide be paid with scorn… And must a bosom framed for love, Be doomed a hopeless love to mourn… And must thou still its homage spu…
Mother wept, and father sigh’d; With delight a-glow Cried the lad, “To-morrow,” cried… “To the pit I go.” Up and down the place he sped,