All under the stars, and beneath the green tree, All over the sward, and along the cold lea, A little blue flame A fluttering came, It came from the churchyard for you or for me. 2 I sit by the cradle, my baby's asleep, And rocking the cradle, I wonder and weep. O little blue light, In the dead of the night, O prithee, O prithee no nearer to creep. 3 Why follow the church path, why steal you this way? Why halt in your journey, on threshold why stay? With flicker and flare, Why dance up my stair! O I would, O I would, it were dawning of day. 4 All under the stars, and along the green lane, Unslaked by the dew, and unquenched by the rain, Of little flames blue To the churchyard steal two, The soul of my baby! now from me is ta'en. No. 68 STRAWBERRY FAIR H.F.S. [Music] 1 As I was going to Strawberry Fair, Singing, singing, Butter-cups and Daisies I met a maiden taking her ware, Fol-de-dee! Her eyes were blue and golden her hair, As she went on to Strawberry Fair, Ri-fol, Ri-fol, Tol-de-riddle-li-do, Ri-fol, Ri-fol, Tol-de-riddle-dee. 2 "Kind Sir, pray pick of my basket!" she said, Singing, &c. "My cherries ripe, or my roses red, Fol-de-dee! My strawberries sweet, I can of them spare, As I go on to Strawberry Fair." Ri-fol &c. 3 Your cherries soon will be wasted away, Singing, &c. Your roses wither and never stay, Tol-de-dee! 'Tis not to seek such perishing ware, That I am tramping to Strawberry Fair. Ri-fol &c. 4 I want to purchase a generous heart, Singing, &c. A tongue that neither is nimble nor tart. Tol-de-dee! An honest mind, but such trifles are rare I doubt if they're found at Strawberry Fair. Ri-fol &c. 5 The price I offer, my sweet pretty maid Singing, &c. A ring of gold on your finger displayed, Tol-de-dee! So come make over to me your ware, In church today at Strawberry Fair. Ri-fol &c. No. 69 THE COUNTRY FARMER'S SON H.F.S. [Music] 1 I would not be a monarch great; With crown upon my head, And Earls to wait upon my state, In broidered robes of red. For he must bear full many a care, His toil is never done, 'Tis better I trow behind the plough, A Country Farmer's Son. 2[22] I would not be the Pope of Rome, And sit in Peter's chair; With priests to bow and kiss my toe, No wife my throne to share. And never know what 'tis to go, With beagles for a run; 'Tis better for me at liberty A Country Farmer's Son. 3