140 Folk-tunes: Rote Songs, Grades I, II and III, for School & Home

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Archibald Thompson Davison, Thomas Whitney Surette
E.C. Schirmer, 1921 - 99 pages

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Page 28 - My native country, thee — Land of the noble free — Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills; My heart with rapture thrills Like that above.
Page 4 - Boy and the Sheep * Lazy sheep, pray tell me why In the pleasant field you lie, Eating grass and daisies white, From the morning till the night: Everything can something do; But what kind of use are you...
Page 4 - True, it seems a pleasant thing Nipping daisies in the spring; But what chilly nights I pass On the cold and dewy grass, Or pick my scanty dinner where All the ground is brown and bare ! Then the farmer comes at last, When the merry spring is past, Cuts my woolly fleece away, For your coat in wintry day. Little master, this is why In the pleasant fields I lie.
Page 74 - THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.
Page 83 - SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min' ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne ? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.
Page 86 - Sire, he lives a good league hence, Underneath the mountain; Right against the forest fence, By Saint Agnes' fountain." "Bring me flesh, and bring me wine. Bring me pine logs hither; Thou and I will see him dine, When we bear them thither.
Page 30 - Elle fit un fromage, Et ron, ron, ron, petit patapon. Elle fit un fromage Du lait de ses moutons, Ron, ron, Du lait de ses moutons.
Page 53 - Sing, choirs of angels, Sing, in exultation. Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above, Glory to God In the highest ; O come, let us adore Him, etc.
Page 6 - Pour écrire un mot. Ma chandelle est morte Je n'ai plus de feu Ouvre-moi ta porte Pour l'amour de Dieu. Au clair de la lune Pierrot répondit : « Je n'ai pas de plume Je suis dans mon lit. Va chez la voisine Je crois qu'elle y est Car dans sa cuisine On bat le briquet.
Page 86 - In his master's steps he trod, Where the snow lay dinted; Heat was in the very sod Which the saint had printed.

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