Roger Quilter - When Daffodils Begin to Peer
With heigh! The doxy over the dale -
Why, then comes the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale
The white sheet bleaching on the hedge -
With heigh! The sweet birds, O how they sing!
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king
The lark, that tirra-lirra chants
With heigh! with heigh! The thrush and the jay
Are summer songs for me and my aunts
While we lie tumbling in thе hay
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Roger Quilter - Dream Valley
Memory, hither come And tune your merry notes; And while upon the wind Your music floats I'll pore upon the stream Where sighing lovers dream And fish for
Roger Quilter - The Wild Flower's Song
As I wander'd the forest The green leaves among I heard a wild flower Singing a song: "I slept in the dark In the silent night I murmur'd my fears
Roger Quilter - Daybreak
To find the Western path Right thro' the Gates of Wrath I urge my way; Sweet Mercy leads me on With soft repentant moan: I see the break of day The war of
Roger Quilter - A Coronal
Violets and leaves of vine Into a frail, fair wreath We gather and entwine: A wreath for Love to wear Fragrant as his own breath To crown his brow divine All day till
Roger Quilter - A Land of Silence
What land of Silence Where pale stars shine On apple-blossom And dew-drenched vine Is yours and mine? The silent valley That we will find Where all the
Roger Quilter - In Spring
See how the trees and the osiers lithe Are green bedecked and the woods are blithe The meadows have donned their cape of flowers The air is soft with the sweet May showers And the
Roger Quilter - Cupid
Love, like a beggar came to me With hose and doublet torn; His shirt bedangling from his knee With hat and shoes outworn He asked an alms; I gave him bread And meat too
Roger Quilter - I will go with my father a‑ploughing
I will go with my father a-ploughing To the green field by the sea And the rooks and the crows and the seagulls Will come flocking after me I will sing to the patient horses
Roger Quilter - Cherry Valley
In Cherry Valley the cherries blow: The valley paths are white as snow And in their time with clusters red The heavy boughs are crimsonèd Now the low moon is looking
Roger Quilter - I wish and I wish
I wish and I wish And I wish I were A golden bee In the blue of the air Winging my way At the mouth of day To the honey-marges Of Loch-ciuin-ban; Or a little