There's Luck In Odd Numbers.

Sure The Shovel And Tongs To Each Other Belongs.

For A Ballad's A Thing You Expect To Find Lies In.

To Return After Long Years Of Painful Absence To Some Place Which Has Been The Scene Of Our Former Joys, And Whence The Force Of Circumstance, And Not Choice, Has Driven Us, Is Oppressive To The Heart.

A Baby Was Sleeping, Its Mother Was Weeping.

Sure My Love Is All Crostlike A Bud In The Frostand There's No Use At All In My Going To Bed,for 't Is Dhrames And Not Slape That Comes Into My Head!