A fair little girl sat under a tree

A green silk frock her comely shoulders clad

A lake and a fairy boat

A widow bird sate mourning for her love
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
About the sweet bag of a bee .
Adieu, adieu! my native shore.

Ah, county Guy, the hour is nigh
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers.

And are ye sure the news is true

And when, its force expended

Art thou the bird whom man loves best

As it fell upon a day.

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way

Dame Nature ordered every bird and beast

Darby dear, we are old and gray

Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly

Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove.

For the tender beech and the sapling oak
Full fathom five thy father lies.

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12

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Half a league, half a league
Happy insect, what can be

Happy the man whose wish and care

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings
Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers.
Her chariot straight is ready made

Here she was wont to go, and here, and here
Hey, the dusty miller

Ho, sailor of the sea.

I cannot heal thy green gold breast
I come from haunts of coot and hern
I fell asleep and slept an hour or two

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me

I know a place where the sun is like gold

I'll tell you how the sun rose

I remember, I remember

I saw him once before

I've watch'd you now a full half hour

I wandered lonely as a cloud

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes

It was a summer evening.

It was the charming month of May

It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain

Laid in my quiet bed in study as I were
Little Ellie sits alone

Little inmate, full of mirth

Little lamb, who made thee?

Lord Love! he stood at his castle gate

Lo! where she comes along with portly pace.

Monsieur the curé down the street

My banks they are furnished with bees

My fairest child, I have no song to give you

My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here
My heart leaps up when I behold

My Peggy is a young thing

My tea is nearly ready, and the sun has left the sky

No, the bugle sounds no more

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts from whom all glories are

Now that the winter's gone the earth hath lost.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger

Now the glories of the year

Now the golden morn aloft
Now the hungry lion roars