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“By Friday soon, or Saturday noon, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter

Davy,

Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.”

Chorus - Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

III
Then Friday came and Saturday noon,

All along, down along, out along, lee.
But Tom Pearse's old mare hath not trotted home,
Wi’ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter

Davy,

Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

Chorus - Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

IV
So Tom Pearse he got up to the top o' the hill,

All along, down along, out along, lee.
And he sees his old mare down a-making her will,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter

Davy,

Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

Chorus - Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

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So Tom Pearse's old mare her took sick and her died,

All along, down along, out along, lee.

And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter

Davy,

Dan'ı Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

Chorus - Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

VI

But this is n't the end o this shocking affair,

All along, down along, out along, lee. Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career Of Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter

Davy,

Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

Chorus — Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

VII

When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night,

All along, down along, out along, lee. Tom Pearse's old mare doth appear, gashly white, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter

Davy,

Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

Chorus - Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

VIII

And all the long night be heard skirling and groans,

All along, down along, out along, lee.

From Tom Pearse's old mare in her rattling bones, And from Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy,

Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. Chorus - Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.

Old Ballad

A WISH

Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill.
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a. welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

SAMUEL ROGERS

THE QUIET LIFE

HAPPY the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air i

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, .

Quiet by day;

Sound sleep by night; study and ease

Together mix'd; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

ALEXANDER POPE

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

Oh, to be in England now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning,

unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England - now!

And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's

edgeThat's the wise thrush; he sings each song

C

twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower - Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

ROBERT BROWNING

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ON MAY MORNING

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her

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