My Peggy sings sae saftly When on my pipe I play, By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest, that she sings best; My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld With innocence the wale of sense, At wauking of the fauld.

The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And ay the ale was growing better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' secret favours, sweet and precious; The souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

It was assumed that, because the British soldier sang "Tipperary," moved in an atmosphere of homely fun, indulged in no heroics, never talked of "glory," rarely of patriotism or the Fatherland, and only joked about "the flag," there was no great passion in him.

She used to take her sewing out upon the cliff; she would be demure and busy; she would finish the selvage seam; but the sun blazed, the sea shone, the birds sang, all the world was at play,what could it matter about selvage seams?

And Sir Tristram, as he ofttimes did nowadays, sang of the Lady Belle Isoult, and of how her face was like to a rose for fairness, and of how her soul was like to a nightingale in that it uplifted the spirit of whosoever was near her even though the darkness of sorrow as of night might envelop him.

And whilst Sir Tristram sang thus, King Mark listened to him, and as he listened a thought entered his heart and therewith he smiled.

Then they who slept were awakened by the multitudinous voicing of the birds; for at that hour the small fowl sang so joyous a roundelay that all the early morning was full of the sweet jargon of their chanting.

And he played upon the harp, and he sang to the music thereof so wonderfully that they who sat there listened in silence as though they were without breath.

For not one of them had ever heard such singing as that music which Sir Tristram sang; for it was as though some angel were singing to those who sat there harkening to his chanting.

And after they were through eating and drinking, Sir Tristram took his harp in hand and sang several excellent ballads and rondels which he had made in honor of Belle Isoult, and Sir Lamorack listened and made great applause at each song that Sir Tristram sang.

And after they were through eating and drinking, Sir Tristram took his harp in hand and sang several excellent ballads and rondels which he had made in honor of Belle Isoult, and Sir Lamorack listened and made great applause at each song that Sir Tristram sang.

And as Sir Tristram rode he sang several songs in praise of the Lady Belle Isoult, chanting in a voice that was both clear and loud and very sweet, and that sounded to a great distance through the deep, silent aisles of the forest.

And Sir Tristram took the harp and set it before him and tuned it and played upon it, and sang so sweetly that they of the castle said: "Certes, this is no knight-errant who sings, but an angel from Paradise who hath come among us.

And the lady sang very sweetly a ballad that she knew Sir Tristram loved.

And the lady led Sir Tristram that way until she had brought him to a fair room, and there she gave him the harp, and Sir Tristram took it very eagerly into his hands and struck upon it and played and sang most sweetly and with great joy and pleasure.

Towards the end of the meal several ladies came forward and sang, and one or two part-songs were also given by some of the guests staying at the Hall.

" She sang it in a low, hushed voice, just over her breath.

"I've been to seek a wife, She's the joy of my life; She's a young thing, and cannot leave her mother" Only Billy sang it "father," just as they used to do.

And then they sang it through, did Margaret and Billysang of the dimple in her chin and the ringlets in her hair, and of the cherry pies she achieved with such celeritysang as they sat in the spring-decked meadow every word of that inane old song that is so utterly senseless and so utterly unforgettable.

Now Margaret has gone into Selwoode, flame-faced and quite unconscious that she is humming under her breath the words of a certain inane old song: "Oh, she sat for me a chair; She has ringlets in her hair; She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother" Only she sang it "father."

But mair nor that, except George Warton and James Steward, there was never ane o' my sangs prentit till ye prentit them

The work is dedicated to Mallarmé, "Père et seigneur des ors, des pierreries, et des poissons," and other works are to follow:the six tomes of "Légendes de Rêves et de Sangs," the innumerable tomes of "La Glose," and the single tome of "La Loi.

o' me and ma sangs!

'Twas the way ma mither wad sing the sangs o' Bobby Burns made me sure, when I was a bit laddie, that I must, if God was gude tae me, do what I could to carry on the work o' that great poet.

Frae twenty-four to five-and-forty, My muse was neither sweer nor dorty, My Pegasus would break his tether, E'en at the shagging of a feather, And through ideas scour like drift, Streaking his wings up to the lift; Then, then my soul was in a low, That gart my members safely row; But eild and judgment 'gin to say, Let be your sangs, and learn to pray.