O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed! To be young once more and bite my thumb At the world and all its cares with you, I'd Give no inconsiderable sum.

I can not sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low; 'T is that I can't remember how They go.

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, That wholly consisted of lines l…

I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.