All lyrics in this database are verified public domain. Sources include Wikisource and Project Gutenberg.
Browse all 1,347 songs
Winter nights are long, you know,
And bitter cold the weather;
Then who's so fond to lie alone
When two may lie together?
And is't not brave when summer's robes
Have all the fields encowled
To have a green gown on the grass
And wear it uncontroul'd?
WHAT though Flora frowns on me?
'Tis but a chance of destiny.
The wisest I have heard to say,
'Tis dusk before the break of day.
Why should I curse that hour of night
That brings the day to light?
What is man that thou shouldst dread
To change with him a maidenhead?
At first all virgins fear to do it
And but trifle away their time,
And still unwilling to come to it
In foolish whining spend their time;
But when they once have found the way,
If then my soul you would confine
To prison, tie your heart to mine;
Your noble virtues, constant love,
The only pow'rful chains will prove
To bind me ever; such as those
The bands of death shall ne'er unloose,
Until I such a prisoner be
By Anonymous
4 'Nuh ke guh shuh gush ke tah goog
Na yaub ba mah de ze jig;
O! keen ba mah je e wa yun
Kah ge nig ash puh be yun,
Oo dah pe nun
E newh oo ge mah win un.
By Anonymous
3 Uh pe dush puh gum me uh yaug
Uh ke che nuh guh duh maung,
Uh pe an je nug ish pe ming
E zhe we zhe yun gid wah,
Mah noo moon zhug
Nin guh oo ge mah we min.
Since graves may not their dead containe,
Nor in their peacefull sleepes remaine,
But triumphes and great showes must use them,
And we unable to refuse them;
It joyes me that earle Robert Hood,
Fetcht from the forrest of merrie Shirwood,
With these my yeomen tight and tall,
Brave huntsmen and good archers all,
Must in this joviall day partake,
For Robin and his bow-men bold,
Religiously did ever holde,
Not emptie-handed to be seene,
Were’t but at feasting on a greene; {lxviii}
Much more then, when so high a day
Calls our attendance: all we may
Is all too little, tis your grace
Mersadage kinge of Barbarye
He did carye to his tente,
And beryed him by right of Sarsenye,
With brennynge fire riche oynemente ;
And songe the _dirige_ of ALKARON,
_That bibill is of here laye_ ;
And wayled his deth everychon,
Seven nyghtis and seven dayes.”
Richard he did lead it,
And Margery did tread it,
Francis followed them,
And after courteous Jane ;
Thus every one after another,
As if they had been sister and brother ;
That ’twas great joy to see
How well they did agree ;
And then they all did say,
Hay for Arthur of Bradley !
But Kister in cambrick ruffe,
He took that all in snuffe ;
For he against that day
Had made himself fine and gay,
His ruffe was whipt with blew, {364}
And he cried, A new dance, a new,
Then strike up a round-delay,
For the honour of Arthur of Bradley,
He’s ne mair learning,
Than tells his weekly earning,
Yet reet frae wrang discerning,
Tho’ brave, ne bruiser he;
Tho’ he no worth a plack is,
His awn coat on his back is,
And nane can say that black is
The gale blew stranger an’ stranger,
When they cam beside the Muck House,
The skipper cry’d out--“Jemmy Swinger,”
But still was as fear’d as a mouse;
P.D. ran to clear th’ anchor,
“It’s raffl’d!” right loudly he roar’d,--
They a’ said the gale wad sink her,
Though Nelson is dead, yet we ought not to mourn;
The laurels that deck his magnificent Urn,
Are sufficient for mortals that dwell here below;
Let Heaven’s great King other laurels bestow
On him we adore,
Who fought off the shore,
Ye fanciful folk, for whom Physic prescribes,
Whom bolus and potion have harrass’d to death!
Ye wretches, whom Law and her ill-looking tribes,
Have hunted about ’till you’re quite out of breath!
Here’s shelter and ease,
No craving for fees,
No danger--no doctor--no bailiff is near!
Your spirits this raises,
It cures your diseases,
There’s freedom and health in our Newcastle beer.
Fareweel, ma comely! aw mun gang,
The Gen’ral’s een to dazzle;
But, hinny! if the time seems lang,
And thou freets about me neet an’ day;
Then come away,
Seek out the yell-house where aw stay,
An’ we’ll kiss and cuddle;
An’ mony a fuddle
Sall drive the langsome hours away,
When sougering at Newcassel.
The liquor beginning to warm them,
In friendship the closer they knit,
And tell and hear jokes--and, to charm them,
Comes ROBIN, from Denton-Bourn pit;
An odd witty, comical fellow,
At either a jest or a tale,
Especially when he was mellow
With bousing, and laughing, and smoking,
The time slippeth swiftly away;
And while they are ranting and joking
The church-clock proclaims it mid-day;
And now for black-puddings, long measure,
They go to TIB TROLLIBAG’S stand,
And away bear the glossy rich treasure,
And now a choice house they agreed on,
Not far from the head of the Quay;
Where they their black puddings might feed on
And spend the remains of the day;
Where pipers and fiddlers resorted,
To pick up the straggling pence,
And where the pit lads often sported
How the warfaring companies parted,
The Muse chuseth not to proclaim;
But, ’tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted,
They quietly went--“toddling hame.”
Now ye Collier callants, so clever,
Residing ’tween Tyne and the Wear,
Beware, when you fuddle together,
Of making too free with strong beer.