All lyrics in this database are verified public domain. Sources include Wikisource and Project Gutenberg.
Browse all 1,347 songs
By Unknown
There was a man in our town,
And he was wond'rous wise,
He jump'd into a bramble-bush,
And scratch'd out both his eyes;
And when he saw his eyes were out,
With all his might and main
He jump'd into another bush,
By Unknown
Pretty John Watts,
We are troubled with rats,
Will you drive them out of the house?
We have mice too in plenty,
That feast in the pantry,
But let them stay and nibble away,
What harm in a little brown mouse?
By Wilson, Thomas
“Dame, que vous plaist il de faire?
Nous sommes au plus près de Blois;
Se vous y voulez point retraire
Et reposer deux jours ou trois,
Pour savoir où sont les Anglois,
Aussi pour rafrachir vos gens,
Ou se vous aymez mieulx ainçois
Aller droict jusques à Orléans?”
By Wilson, Thomas
“Monseigneur, je suis bien contans
Que à Blois donques nous allons,
Pour noz gens la contre atmendans;
Ce pendant, aussi penserons
De noz affaires, et manderons
Es Anglais que devant Orléans
S’en voisent, ou combatuz seront,
En mon Dieu, de moy et mes gens.”
By Wilson, Thomas
Ambroise de Loré, Baron Beaumanoir, La Hire, 17
Joan of Arc, Gilles is captain of guard for, and in service with,
through France, ix., 9, 19, Appendix C, 189
Life of, at home in Brittany (1430–1439), 24–63
Life, pleasure, business, etc., of, 27
Magic, resorts to, in aid of his failing fortunes, 61–63
Maison de la Suze, expensive decoration of, 55
Marriage of, 6
First and second betrothals, fiancées both die, 5
Married to Catherine de Thouars, 5
Wife’s dot, 5
Marshal of France, 19
Music...
By Wilson, Thomas
Siege and capture of Orleans by, 19
Signature and rubric of, 22
Sixteen years old at commencement of civil war, 10, 13
Soldier (1420–1429), chap. ii., 19–23;
for France, 17
Spendthrift, 53
Submits to arrest, 86, 89, 100
Theatre, love for, and indulgence in, 33–50
Trial and execution of, x., chaps. v.–vii., 93–182
Before Ecclesiastical Tribunal, chap. v., 93–166
Before Civil Court, chap, v., 167
Depositions, Ecclesiastical Court, 105;
Civil Court, Appendix D, 195
Jean Blouyn, Vice-Inq...
Pretty John Watts,
We are troubled with rats,
Will you drive them out of the house?
We have mice, too, in plenty,
That feast in the pantry,
But let them stay
And nibble away,
What harm in a little brown mouse?
By Carryl, Guy Wetmore
But though she would lick him
And kick him,
It never had any effect;
He always was howling
And growling,
But goodness! What could you expect?
Colleys were never to flourish meant
'Less they had plenty of nourishment,
All that he had were the feathers she'd pluck
By Carryl, Guy Wetmore
"Lands sakes! but you give yourselves airs!
I'll take the law to you
And sue you."
The neighbors responded: "Who cares?
We none of us care if
The sheriff
Lock every man jack of us up;
We won't be repining
At fining
So long as we're rid of the pup!"
They then proceeded to mount a sign,
By Carryl, Guy Wetmore
A rivulet gabbled beside her and babbled,
As rivulets always are thought to do,
And dragon-flies sported around and cavorted,
As poets say dragon-flies ought to do;
When, glancing aside for a moment, she spied
A horrible sight that brought fear to her,
A hideous spider was sitting beside her
And most unavoidably near to her!
By Carryl, Guy Wetmore
She did not faint, she did not quail,
She did not cry out: "Scat!"
She simply took him by the tail
And gave him to the cat,
And, with a stern, triumphant look,
She watched him clawed and cleft,
And with some blotting paper took
By Carryl, Guy Wetmore
One day outside his shop he put
A pig he meant to stuff,
And carefully around each foot
He pinned a paper ruff,
But, while a watch he should have kept,
His habit conquered, and he slept,
And for a thief who was adept
By Carryl, Guy Wetmore
A Scottish piper dwelt near by,
Whose one ungracious son
Beheld that pig and murmured: "Why,
No sooner said than done!
It seems to me that this I need."
And grasping it, with all his speed
Across the Pont des Invalides
By Carryl, Guy Wetmore
"Sapristi! Accidente!
Perchance my speech is late,
But, be she two or twenty,
A nincompoop I hate!
What idiot said that woman's 'planned
To warn, to comfort, and command?'"
His words I quench. Excuse my French--
Je dis que tu m'embêtes!
By Carryl, Guy Wetmore
When thus for half an hour or more
He'd played his idle tricks,
And wounded something like a score
Of people with the bricks,
A man who kept a fuel shop
Across from where he sat
Remarked: "Well, this has got to stop."
Then, snatching up his hat,
By Carryl, Guy Wetmore
"I am not in a hurry for a waggonette or
surrey,"
She said. "In fact, I much prefer to ride."
And spite of all premonishment, to everyone's
astonishment,
The gay old lady did so--and astride!
Now this was most periculous, but, what was
more ridiculous,
The horse she bought had pulled a car,
and so,
The lazy steed to cheer up, she'd a bell upon
her stirrup,
And rang it twice to make the creature go!
By Carryl, Guy Wetmore
Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting
One night, as his wife let him in,
Produced as the fruit of his hunting
A cottontail's velvety skin,
Which, seeing young Bonaparte wriggle,
He gave him without a demur,
And the babe with an aqueous giggle
He swallowed the whole of the fur!
By Whittier, John Greenleaf
Have I not known thee well, and read
Thy mighty purpose long?
And watched the trials which have made
Thy human spirit strong?
And shall the slanderer's demon breath
Avail with one like me,
To dim the sunshine of my faith
And earnest trust in thee?
By Whittier, John Greenleaf
The white cecropia's silver rind
Relieved by deeper green behind,
The orange with its fruit of gold,
The lithe paullinia's verdant fold,
The passion-flower, with symbol holy,
Twining its tendrils long and lowly,
The rhexias dark, and cassia tall,
And proudly rising over all,
The kingly palm's imperial stem,
Crowned with its leafy diadem,
Star-like, beneath whose sombre shade,
The fiery-winged cucullo played!
By Whittier, John Greenleaf
For, by the dewy moonlight still,
He fed the weary-turning mill,
Or bent him in the chill morass,
To pluck the long and tangled grass,
And hear above his scar-worn back
The heavy slave-whip's frequent crack
While in his heart one evil thought
In solitary madness wrought,
One baleful fire surviving still
The quenching of the immortal mind,
One sterner passion of his kind,
Which even fetters could not kill,
The savage hope, to deal, erelong,
A vengeance bitterer than his wrong!