: Oliver Cromwell lay buried and dead, Hee-haw, buried and dead, There grew an old apple-tree over his head, Hee-haw, over his head. The apples were
breast, Or light the gloom of dark despair. The voice of joy no more can cheer, The look of love no more can warm Since mute for aye's that voice so dear
broken. Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Mem'ry brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so
: La belle est au jardin d'amour, La belle est au jardin d'amour. Il y a un mois ou sinq semaines. Laridondon, laridondaine. Son pere la cherche partout
bed, A sudden strange fancy came into her head. -Nor father nor mother shall make me false prove, I'll 'list as a soldier, and follow my love. So early