Nearly all the hundreds of songs I sing regularly were chosen because the lyrics moved me greatly, but picking just a few that come to mind right now:

contemporary:

Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir,
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook, like a night from some old-fashioned book,
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.

When I was a child, I spoke as a child.
Now I'm a grown woman, but my thoughts are still wild.
I thought I'd see London, or maybe Paree,
but I'm starin' at cornfields, that are starin' at me.

In the little dark engine room,
where the chill seeps in your soul,
how we huddled round that little pot stove
that burned oily rags and coal.

The beaches they sell to build their hotels, my fathers and I once knew.
The birds all along, the sunlight at dawn; singing Waimanalo blues.

Getting home and taking off his shoes, he settles down with the evening news,
while the kids do their homework with the TV in one ear.
While Superman, for the thousandth time, sells talking dolls and conquers crime,
dutifully they learn the date of birth of Paul Revere.
In the paper there's a piece about the mayor's middle name,
and he gets it read in time to watch the All-Star Bingo game.

I don't know much about much, and what I don't know I don't say.
And when I have nothing to say, I'm quiet.

They were creatures in a manner quite reptilian, in their unique and stylish way.
And their numbers could be reckoned in the millions;
but there are zero of these heroes in the world today.
They had music, art and fashion, there was dinosauric passion,
and I think they'd be enraged and mortified
that when they're mentioned today, it's only to say:
Their brains were small and they died.

traditional:

Vain, vain are the vows we have plighted.
I would that we never had met.
Love's a flower that blooms to be blighted
and a star that arose but to set.

Oh what a silly girl am I, to hang myself for a butcher's boy.

But I knew that with all my weeping, all the tears that I might shed
could not bring life back to Arthur, lying there so cold and dead.
So I took his lifeless body, cast it o'er the river side;
and I leave this world to wonder what became of Arthur Clyde.

For I was nothing to him,
Though he was the world to me.

It was on an autumn evening, an old man bent with age
strolled up to the village express, just off of a dusty stage.
"Is this the express office? I've come to get my son.
They told me that his train was due this place at half-past one."
"You've made a great mistake, sir, I would like for you to know.
This is the express office, not the town depot."
"You do not understand me, lad," with quivering lips he said.
"He's not coming as a passenger, he's coming to me dead."

My lover was a soldier, too. He fought at God's command.
A sabre pierced his gallant heart. You might have been the man.
He reeled and fell but was not dead. A horseman spurred his steed
and trampled on his dying brain. You might have done the deed.

I'll be all smiles tonight, love. I'll be all smiles tonight.
Though my heart may break tomorrow, I'll be all smiles tonight.

C'est l'aviron qui nous mène, qui nous mène.
C'est l'aviron qui nous mène en haut!