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Strana 248 - O bury me not on the lone prairie." These words came low and mournfully From the pallid lips of a youth who lay On his dying bed at the close of day.
Strana 280 - Three hundred thousand Yankees Is stiff in Southern dust; We got three hundred thousand Before they conquered us. They died of Southern fever And Southern steel and shot; I wish it was three millions Instead of what we got. I can't take up my musket And fight 'em now no more, But I ain't agoin' to love 'em, Now that is sartin sure.
Strana 94 - IN Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwellin', Made every youth cry Well-a-way! Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swellin', Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen.
Strana 433 - MARY'S DREAM. THE moon had climbed the highest hill Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree ; When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea; When soft and low a voice was heard, Saying
Strana 135 - Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride ? Where gat ye that winsome marrow?' A. ' I gat her where I dare na weel be seen, Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.
Strana 95 - Barbara Allen. So slowly, slowly, she came up, And slowly she came nigh him; And all she said, when there she came, "Young man, I think y'are dying." He turned his face unto her straight, With deadly sorrow sighing; "O lovely maid, come pity me, I'm on my deathbed lying."— "If on your deathbed you do lie, What needs the tale you are tellin'; I cannot keep you from your death: Farewell,
Strana 96 - When he was dead, and laid in grave, Her heart was struck with sorrow, ' O mother, mother, make my bed, For I shall die to-morrow. ' Hard-hearted creature him to slight, Who loved me so dearly: O that I had been more kind to him, When he was alive and near me!
Strana 135 - Busk ye then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! Busk, ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow ! ' ' How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride ? How can I busk, a winsome marrow?
Strana 280 - I can't take up my musket and fight 'em now no more, But I ain't a-going to love 'em, now that is sartin sure. And I don't want no pardon for what I was and am. I won't be reconstructed and I don't care a damn.