“Halt by the headstone namingThe heart no longer stirred,And say the lad that loved youWas one that kept his word.”

“Because I liked you betterThan suits a man to say,It irked you, and I promisedI'd throw the thought away.To put the world between usWe parted stiff and dry:'Farewell,' said you, 'forget me.''Fare well, I will,' said I.If e'er, where clover whitensThe dead man's knoll, you pass,And no tall flower to meet youStarts in the trefoiled grass,Halt by the headstone shadingThe heart you have not stirred,And say the lad that loved youWas one that kept his word.”

“Along the field as we came byA year ago, my love and I,The aspen over stile and stoneWas talking to itself alone.'Oh who are these that kiss and pass?A country lover and his lass;Two lovers looking to be wed;And time shall put them both to bed,But she shall lie with earth above,And he beside another love.'And sure enough beneath the treeThere walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heavesIts rainy-sounding silver leaves;And I spell nothing in their stir,But now perhaps they speak to her,And plain for her to understandThey talk about a time at handWhen I shall sleep with clover clad,And she beside another lad.”

“June suns, you cannot store themTo warm the winter's cold,The lad that hopes for heavenShall fill his mouth with mould.”

“If it chance your eye offends you,Pluck it out lad, and be sound:'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you,And many a balsam grows on ground.And if your hand or foot offend you,Cut it off, lad, and be whole;But play the man, stand up and end you,When your sickness is your soul.”

“Up, lad: thews that lie and cumberSunlit pallets never thrive;Morns abed and daylight slumberWere not meant for man alive.”

“When I Was One-And-TwentyWhen I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say,“Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away;Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free.”But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me.When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again,“The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain;’Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue.”And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.”