Fair Helen

I wish I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
Oh that I were where Helen lies
On fair Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

O think na but my heart was sair
When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!
I laid her down wi' meikle care
On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell lea;

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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When the French Band Plays

THERE'S a military band that plays, on Sunday afternoons,
In a certain nameless city's quaint old square.
It can rouse the blood to battle with its patriotic tunes,
And still render hymns as gentle as a prayer.
When it starts 'Ave Maria' there is no one in the throng
But would doff his cap, his heart to heaven raise;
And who would shrink from combat when, with brasses sounding strong,
There is flung out on the breeze 'La Marseillaise'?

When it starts to render 'Sambre et Meuse,' the march that won the day
At the battle of the Marne, one sees again
The grey-green hosts of Hundom melt before the stern array
Of our gallant sister-ally's blue-clad men.
And when it plays our Anthem, with rendition bold and clear--
While the khaki lads stand steady--then we feel
That, though tongues and ways may vary, we've found brothers over here,
Tried in war, and in allegiance true as steel.

For it's olive-drab, horizon-blue, packed closely side by side,
Till their colors set ablaze the grey old square;

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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St. Stephen And Herod

Seynt Stevene was a clerk in Kyng Herowd{.e}s halle,
And servyd him of bred and cloth, as every kyng befalle.

Stevyn out of kechone cam, wyth boris hed on honde;
He saw a sterre was fayr and bryght over Bedlem stonde.

He kyst adoun the boris hed and went in to the halle:
'I forsak the, Kyng Herowd{.e}s, and thi werkes all{.e}.'

'I forsak the, Kyng Herowd{.e}s, and thi werkes alle;
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle.'

'Quat eylyt the, Stevene? quat is the befall{.e}?
Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk in Kyng Herowdes halle?'

'Lakit me neyther mete ne drynk in Kyng Herowd{.e}s halle;
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle.'

'Quat eylyt the, Stevyn? Art thu wod, or thu gynnyst to brede?
Lakkyt the eyther gold or fe, or ony ryche wed{.e}?'

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Dying Soldier

Yes! raise me on your arm, Dick Dale,
My comrade old and true.
And let me of the glad earth take
One last and lingering view.
When yet a few brief moments more
Of this flittering hour have fled,
You’ll shed an old friend's tear, Dick Dale,
Above your comrade's head.

We fought together, side by side,
In many a bloody fray,
From Malvern Hill's dark hour of strife,
To fierce Antietam's day.
And when again the 'long roll' calls,
For battle to prepare,
You will not fail the flag, Dick Dale,
But I shall not be there.

You will not soon forget me, Dick!
I know it by that sigh;

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Lord Randall

"Oh where ha'e ye been, Lord Randall, my son!
And where ha'e ye been, my handsome young man!"
"I ha'e been to the wild wood: mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."

"An wha met ye there, Lord Randall, my son?
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?"
"I dined wi my true-love; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."

"And what did she give you, Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?"
"Eels fried in broo; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."

"And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randall, my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?"
"My hawks and my hounds; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Cat Parody on Poe's

The other night while we lay musing, and our weary brain confusing o'er the topics of the day,
Suddenly we heard a rattling, as of serious hosts a-battling, as they mingled in the fray.

'What is that?' we cried, upstarting, and into the darkness darting, slap! we ran against the door.
'Oh , 'tis nothing,' Edward grumbled, as o'er a huge armchair we stumbled, ''tis a bug and nothing more.'

Then said we, our anger rising (for we thought it so surprising that a bug should thus offend)—
'Do you think a small insect, sir, thus would all the air infect, sir? No, 'tis not a bug, my friend.

Now, becoming sorely frightened, round our waist our pants we tightened, and put on our coat and hat—
When into the darkness peering, we saw with trembling and much fearing, the glaring eyes of Thomas Cat.

With astonishment and wonder we gazed upon this son of thunder, as he sat upon the floor—
When resolution taking, and a rapid movement making, lo, we opened wide the door.

Now, clear out, we hoarsely shouted, as o'er head our boot was flouted. 'Take your presence from my floor.'
Then with air and mien majestic, this dear creature called domestic, made his exit through the door.

Made his exit without growling, neither was his voice howling, not a single word he said.
And with feelings much elated, to escape a doom so fated, we went back to bed.

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Waly, Waly.

O Waly, waly, up the bank,
O wary, waly, doun the brae,
And waly, waly, yon burn-side,
Where I and my love wer wont to gae!
I lean'd my back unto an aik,
I thocht it was a trustie tree,
But first it bow'd and syne it brak',-
Sae my true love did lichtlie me.
O waly, waly, but love be bonnie
A little time while it is new!
But when its auld it waxeth cauld,
And fadeth awa' like the morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my heid,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never lo'e me mair.

Noo Arthur's seat sall be my bed.
The sheets sall neir be press'd by me;
Saint Anton's well sall be my drink;

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Charge Of The Mule Brigade

Half a mile, half a mile,
Half a mile onward,
Right through the Georgia troops
Broke the two hundred.
'Forward the Mule Brigade!
Charge for the Rebs,' they neighed.
Straight for the Georgia troops
Broke the two hundred.

'Forward the Mule Brigade!'
Was there a mule dismayed?
Not when their long ears felt
All their ropes sundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to make Rebs fly.
On! to the Georgia troops
Broke the two hundred.

Mules to the right of them,

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Song Of A Brigadier

I wear a splendid uniform;
I ride a splendid nag;
I talk both loud and valiantly
Of Honor and the Flag;
But let the South be easy still,
Her soldiers need not fear.
Ne'er shot nor blow shall lay them low
While I'm a Brigadier.

I canter gaily through the streets,
Attended by my staff,
Unheeding vulgar little boys
Who hoot and stare and chaff;
And such a staff! all foreign names,
Quite wonderful to hear,
Plain Yankee boys aren't good enough
For such a Brigadier.

I've Baron This and Duke of That,
And Prince of 'Tother, too,

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Forsaken Bride

O waly waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn-side
Where I and my Love wont to gae!
I leant my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true Love did lichtly me.

O waly waly, but love be bonny
A little time while it is new;
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld
And fades awa' like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook,
And says he'll never lo'e me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me,

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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