Early English Poetry, Ballads, and Popular Literature of the Middle Ages: Specimens of lyric poetry, composed in England in the reign of Edward the FirstPercy Society, 1841 |
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Стр. 24
... sore ben fered on folde , Lest he to harmes helde , ant happes hente un - holde . Hom un - holdest her is on , with - outen helle , ase ich hit holde , So fele bueth founden monnes fon , the furst of hem biforen y tolde , Ther after ...
... sore ben fered on folde , Lest he to harmes helde , ant happes hente un - holde . Hom un - holdest her is on , with - outen helle , ase ich hit holde , So fele bueth founden monnes fon , the furst of hem biforen y tolde , Ther after ...
Стр. 28
... hendy , etc. Icham for wowyng al for - wake , wery so water in wore ; Lest eny reve me my make , ychabbe y - 3yrned zore . Betere is tholien whyle sore , Then mournen evermore . Geynest under gore , herkne to 28 SPECIMENS OF.
... hendy , etc. Icham for wowyng al for - wake , wery so water in wore ; Lest eny reve me my make , ychabbe y - 3yrned zore . Betere is tholien whyle sore , Then mournen evermore . Geynest under gore , herkne to 28 SPECIMENS OF.
Стр. 49
... lyf ich have lad fol 3ore , Merci , loverd ! y nul namore , bowen ichulle to bete ; Syker hit siweth me ful sore , Gabbes les ant luthere lore , sunnes bueth un - sete . E Godes heste ne huld y noht , Bote ever azeyn LYRIC POETRY . 49.
... lyf ich have lad fol 3ore , Merci , loverd ! y nul namore , bowen ichulle to bete ; Syker hit siweth me ful sore , Gabbes les ant luthere lore , sunnes bueth un - sete . E Godes heste ne huld y noht , Bote ever azeyn LYRIC POETRY . 49.
Стр. 50
... stounde ! That 30kkyn hath y - zyrned zore , Nou hit sereweth him ful sore , ant bringeth him to grounde . To grounde hit haveth him y - broht : whet ys the beste bote ? Bote heryen him that haht us boht , Ure Lord 50 " SPECIMENS OF.
... stounde ! That 30kkyn hath y - zyrned zore , Nou hit sereweth him ful sore , ant bringeth him to grounde . To grounde hit haveth him y - broht : whet ys the beste bote ? Bote heryen him that haht us boht , Ure Lord 50 " SPECIMENS OF.
Стр. 53
... eke thoht me thrat to slo , with maistry 3ef he myhte ; Ant serewe sore in balful bende , That he wolde for this hende Me lede to my lyves ende , unlahfulliche in lyhte . Hire love me lustnede uch word , Ant beh him LYRIC POETRY . 53.
... eke thoht me thrat to slo , with maistry 3ef he myhte ; Ant serewe sore in balful bende , That he wolde for this hende Me lede to my lyves ende , unlahfulliche in lyhte . Hire love me lustnede uch word , Ant beh him LYRIC POETRY . 53.
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bien blisse blod bote brede bryht bryng carrion crow Catskin chyld Crist cuer dame dance deth Dieu drynke femme fere feyr ffor fust Godes grete hath haveth hevene heze hire honde huerte Jack Horner JAMES ORCHARD HALLIWELL Jhesu John John Crowder joie king kyng lady levedy loke thou londe lord lordys Lucy Locket lyht maid Mary mede merry Mès mete molt myht namore noht nout nowell nyht old woman Percy Society Quar Richard to Robin Robin to Bobbin rode ryzt sauntz says Richard says Robin schalle shal shalbe shulde sing sone song sore speke stonde suete Suete Jhesu sunne syng thah ther thoht thou art thow thre thyng tiel trewe tyme wife WILLIAM CHAPPELL withouten Wolcum wolde wylle yf thou
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Стр. 179 - OLD King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three.
Стр. 84 - Hey, diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon. The little dog laughed to see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon!
Стр. 132 - One, two, Buckle my shoe; Three, four, Shut the door; Five, six, Pick up sticks; Seven, eight, Lay them straight; Nine, ten, A good fat hen; Eleven, twelve, Who will delve?
Стр. 27 - The boar's head in hand bear I, Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; And I pray you, my masters, be merry Quot estis in convivio. Caput apri defero, Reddens laudes domino.
Стр. 63 - SO now is come our joyful'st feast; Let every man be jolly, Each room with ivy leaves is drest, And every post with holly. Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your foreheads garlands twine, Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, And let us all be merry. Now, all our neighbours...
Стр. 5 - Then came the Holy One, blessed be He ! And killed the Angel of Death, That killed the butcher, That slew the ox, That drank the water, That quenched the fire, That burned the staff, That beat the dog, That bit the cat, That ate the kid That my father bought For two pieces of money: A kid, a kid.
Стр. 95 - As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives, Every wife had seven sacks, Every sack had seven cats, Every cat had seven kits— Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, How many were going to St. Ives?
Стр. 46 - Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye; Four and twenty blackbirds Baked in a pie. When the pie was opened, The birds began to sing; Wasn't that a dainty dish To set before the king?
Стр. 64 - Young men and maids, and girls and boys, Give life to one another's joys; And you anon shall by their noise Perceive that they are merry.
Стр. 9 - Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? I've been to London to look at the queen. Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there?