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Poems about Lyrics
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Fifteen men on the Dead Man's Chest— Drink and the devil had done for the rest—
Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew Cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two
DOWN by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white
The sons of the Prophet are brave men and bold
And quite unaccustomed to fear,
I'm so frightfully unhappy, I feel, oh stars, I am dying!:
LIKE a serpent to the calling voice of flutes,
Glides my heart into thy fingers, O my Love!
I am not skilled to understand
What God hath willed, what God hath planned;
In darkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be,
The roof despair to bar all cheerful light from me,
So was their sanctuary violated,
So their fair college turned to hospital;
There was a great battle Saturday morning
From when the sun rose until it grew dark.
I ask my heart, "Do I love thee?"
But how can I e'er forget
Watcha gonna do when Memphis on fire,
Memphis on fire, Mistah Preachin' Man?
Come, heavy sleep, the image of true death;
And close up these my weary weeping eyes:
WHERE the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
Well meaning readers! you that come as freinds
And catch the pretious name this peice pretends;
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep.
Why run the crowd? What means the throng
That rushes fast the streets along?
HONEY, child, honey, child, whither are you going?
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing?
At a relic aul' croft upon the hill, Roon the neuk frae Sprottie's mill,
From groves of spice,
O'er fields of rice,
Come all Australia's sons to me --
A hero has been slain
Tell me, Ezekiel, oh tell me do you see
nailed Jehovah coming to deliver me?
I have a little doll;
I take care of her clothes;
Lanterns a-swingin',
An' a long freight leaves the yard;
Go forth, my hert, with my lady;
Loke that we spare no business
HER hands are cold; her face is white;
No more her pulses come and go;
None other Lamb, none other Name,
None other hope in Heav’n or earth or sea,
She bids the herds bound sportive o'er the meads,
And with glad songs awakes the joyous grove,
THE CRAB, the bullace, and the sloe,
They burgeon in the Spring;
WEAVERS, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
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