A Baby Was Sleeping, Its Mother Was

When Once The Itch Of Literature Comes Over A Man, Nothing Can Cure It But The Scratching Of A Pen. But If You Have Not A Pen, I Suppose You Must Scratch Any Way You Can.

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

There Was A Place In Childhood That I Remember Well, And There A Voice Of Sweetest Tone Bright Fairy Tales Did Tell.

Where's The Snow That Fell The Year That's Fled--where's The Snow?

Better To Be Safe Than Sorry.