o the stirrup, and Joris, and he
Is there for honest poverty
I tell thee, Dick, where I have been
It is an ancient Mariner
It is the miller's daughter
I travelled among unknown men
It was a blind beggar had long lost his sight
It was a friar of orders gray
It was a lover and his lass
It was a summer evening
It was the frog in the well
It was the time when lilies blow
I've seen the smiling
I wander'd by the brook-side

John Anderson, my jo, John
John Gilpin was a citizen

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King
King Death was a rare old fellow

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks
Lawn as white as driven snow
Lay a garland on my hearse
Let me the canakin clink, clink
Let the bells ring, and let the boys sing
Lithe and listen, gentlemen
Long the proud Spaniards had vaunted to conquer us
Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Love wakes and weeps

Maxwelltown braes are bonnie
Men of England who inherit
Mine be a cot beside the hill
Move eastward, happy earth, and leave
My banks they are furnished with bees
My heart is sair, I darena tell
My heart is wasted with my woe
My mind to me a kingdom is
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut

Napoleon's banners at Boulogne
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are
Now, now the mirth comes
Now ponder well, you parents dear
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white
Now the hungry lion roars

Of all the girls that are so smart
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
Of Nelson and the North
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray
Oft in the stilly night
Oh, call my brother back to me
Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home
Oh! the days are gone when Beauty bright
Oh, the sweet contentment
Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland laddie gone
O Jenny's a' weet, poor body
O listen, listen, ladies gay
O mistress mine, where are you roaming
O, my luve 's like a red red rose
O Nanny, wilt thou go with me
On either side the river lie
On Linden when the sun was low,
On that deep-retiring shore
On the banks of Allan Water
Orpheus with his lute made trees
O sing unto my roundelay
O swallow, swallow, flying south
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered
Over hill, over dale
O waly, waly up the bank
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms
O whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad
O world! O life! O time!
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West

Pack clouds, away, and welcome, day
Pibroch of