The Beggar Girl.
Over the mountain, and over the moor,
hungry and barefoot I wander forlorn;
My father is dead, and my mother is poor,
and she grieves for the days that will never return.
Pity kind gentlemen, friends of humanity,
cold blows the wind and the night's coming on
Give me some food for my mother in charity,
give me some food and then I will begone.
THE SHEPHERD’S HOLIDAY.
AS I went forth one morning,
the fields and meadows so fresh and gay,
Flora the spangling beams adorning,
early by the break of day.
I went to pluck my love sweet posies.
the whitest blossom from the field,
Down by the banks of pinks end roses,
there sat Clymenia most mild.
Ye gentle Gods of silent slumber,
caus’d her youthful eyes to sleep,
Until the watchful shepherd call’d her,
