{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11236/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11236","id":"gutenberg_11236","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11236","summary":null,"tags":["Ballads, English","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Folk songs, English"],"text":"OLD BALLADS\n\n\n_Illustrated by\n\nJOHN EYRE R.B.A._\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nCOME, LASSES AND LADS\nCOMIN' THRO' THE RYE\nCHERRY-RIPE\nANNIE LAURIE\nROBIN ADAIR\nMOLLY BAWN\nGO, HAPPY ROSE!\nTHE ANCHOR'S WEIGH'D\nALICE GRAY\nHOME, SWEET HOME\nJOHN ANDERSON, MY JO\nMY PRETTY JANE\nROCK'D IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP\nTHE MINSTREL BOY\nON THE BANKS OF ALLAN WATER\nAULD LANG SYNE\nWITHIN A MILE OF EDINBURGH TOWN\nTHE NIGHT-PIECE TO JULIA\nTOM BOWLING\nMY LOVE IS LIKE THE RED RED ROSE\nWIDOW MALONE\nTHE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN\nCALLER HERRIN'\nA HUNTING WE WILL GO\nHEARTS OF OAK\nTHE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN\nTHE BAY OF BISCAY O!\nBLACK-EYED SUSAN\nDUNCAN GRAY\nTHE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON\nTHE MILLER OF DEE\nTHE ANGEL'S WHISPER\nSIMON THE CELLARER\nAULD ROBIN GRAY\nBONNIE DUNDEE\nSALLY IN OUR ALLEY\nKITTY OF COLERAINE\nHERE'S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN\nTHE LEATHER BOTTEL\nWOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE\nTHE TOKEN\nO WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST\nTHE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE\nLOVELY NAN\nTHE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL\nTELL ME NOT, SWEET\nSHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES\nO NANNY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME?\nD'YE KEN JOHN PEEL?\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nCOME, LASSES AND LADS.\n\n\nCome, lasses and lads,\n                 get leave of your dads,\n  And away to the Maypole hie,\nFor ev'ry fair has a sweetheart there,\n  And the fiddler's standing by;\n\nFor Willy shall dance with Jane,\n  And Johnny has got his Joan,\nTo trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it,\n  Trip it up and down!\n\n\"You're out,\" says Dick; \"not I,\" says Nick,\n  \"'Twas the fiddler play'd it wrong;\"\n\"'Tis true,\" says Hugh, and so says Sue,\n  And so says ev'ry one.\nThe fiddler than began\n  To play the tune again,\nAnd ev'ry girl did trip it, trip it,\n  Trip it to the men!\n\nThen, after an hour, they went to a bow'r,\n  And play'd for ale and cakes;\nAnd kisses too,--until they were due,\n  The lasses held the stakes.\nThe girls did then begin\n  To quarrel with the men,\nAnd bade them take their kisses back,\n  And give them their own again!\n\n\"Good-night,\" says Harry;\n                  \"good-night,\" says Mary;\n  \"Good-night,\" says Poll to John;\n\"Good-night,\" says Sue\n                  to her sweetheart Hugh;\n  \"Good-night,\" says ev'ry one.\nSome walk'd and some did run,\n  Some loiter'd on the way,\nAnd bound themselves by kisses twelve,\n  To meet the next holiday.\n\n         _Anon._\n\n\n\n\nCOMING THRO' THE RYE.\n\n\nGin a body meet a body\n  Comin' thro' the rye,\nGin a body kiss a body,\n  Need a body cry?\n\nIlka lassie has her laddie,\n  Nane, they say, hae I,\nYet a' the lads they smile at me\n  When comin' thro' the rye.\n\nGin a body meet a body\n  Comin' frae the town,\nGin a body meet a body,\n  Need a body frown?\n    Ilka lassie has, etc.\n\nAmang the train there is a swain\n  I dearly lo'e mysel';\nBut what his name, or whaur his hame,\n  I dinna care to tell.\n    Ilka lassie has, etc.\n\n               _Anon._\n\n\n\n\nCHERRY-RIPE.\n\n\nCherry-Ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,\n  Full and fair ones, come and buy;\nIf so be you ask me where\nThey do grow? I answer, There,\nWhere my Julia's lips do smile,\nThere's the land or cherry isle,\nWhose plantations fully show\nAll the year, where cherries grow.\n\n               _Herrick_.\n\n\n\n\nANNIE LAURIE.\n\n\nMaxwelton braes are bonnie,\n  Where early fa's the dew;\nAnd it's there that Annie Laurie\n  Gied me her promise true;\nGied me her promise true,\n  Which ne'er forgot will be;\nAnd for bonnie Annie Laurie\n  I'd lay me doun and dee.\n\nHer brow is like the snaw-drift,\n  Her throat is like the swan,\nHer face it is the fairest\n  That e'er the sun shone on;\nThat e'er the sun shone on,\n  And dark blue is her ee;\nAnd for bonnie Annie Laurie\n  I'd lay me doun and dee.\n\nLike dew on the gowan lying,\n  Is the fa' o' her fairy feet;\nAnd like winds in summer sighing,\n  Her voice is low and sweet;\nHer voice is low and sweet,\n  And she's all the world to me;\nAnd for bonnie Annie Laurie\n  I'd lay me doun and dee.\n\n               _Trad._\n\n\n\n\nROBIN ADAIR.\n\n\nWhat's this dull town to me?\n    Robin's not near.\nWhat was't I wish'd to see,\n    What wish'd to hear?\nWhere's all the joy and mirth\nMade this town a heav'n on earth?\nOh, they're all fled with thee,\n    Robin Adair.\n\nWhat made th' assembly shine?\n    Robin Adair.\nWhat made the ball so fine?\n    Robin was there.\nWhat when the play was o'er,\nWhat made my heart so sore?\nOh, it was parting with\n    Robin Adair.\n\nBut now thou'rt cold to me,\n    Robin Adair.\nBut now thou'rt cold to me,\n    Robin Adair.\nYet he I lov'd so well\nStill in my heart shall dwell;\nOh, I can ne'er forget\n    Robin Adair.\n\n     _Anon._\n\n\n\n\nMOLLY BAWN.\n\n\nOh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,\n  All lonely, waiting here for you?\nWhile the stars above are brightly shining,\n  Because they've nothing else to do.\nThe flowers late were open keeping,\n  To try a rival blush with you;\nBut their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,\n  With their rosy faces wash'd with dew.\nOh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,\n  All lonely, waiting here for you?\nNow the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,\n  And the pretty stars were made to shine;\nAnd the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,\n  And may be you were made for mine:\nThe wicked watch-dog here is snarling,\n  He takes me for a thief, you see;\nFor he knows I'd steal you, Molly, darling,\n  And then transported I should be.\nOh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,\n  All lonely, waiting here for you?\n\n        _Samuel Lover_.\n\n\n\n\nGO, HAPPY ROSE!\n\n\nGo, happy Rose! and interwove\n  With other flowers, bind my love.\nTell her, too, she must not be\nLonger flowing, longer free,\nThat so oft has fetter'd me.\n\nSay, it she's fretful, I have bands\nOf pearl and gold to bind her hands;\n  Tell her, if she struggle still,\n  I have myrtle rods at will,\n  For to tame though not to kill.\n\nTake thou my blessing thus, and go,\nAnd tell her this,--but do not so!\n  Lest a handsome anger fly\n  Like a lightning from her eye,\n  And burn thee up as well as I.\n\n        _Herrick._\n\n\n\n\nTHE ANCHOR'S WEIGH'D.\n\n\nThe tear fell gently from her eye,\n  When last we parted on the shore;\nMy bosom heav'd with many a sigh,\n  To think I ne'er might see her more.\n\"Dear youth,\" she cried,\n              \"and canst thou haste away?\nMy heart will break; a little moment stay.\nAlas, I cannot, I cannot part from thee.\nThe anchor's weigh'd,\n              farewell! remember me.\"\n\n\"Weep not, my love,\" I trembling said,\n  \"Doubt not a constant heart like mine;\nI ne'er can meet another maid,\n  Whose charms can fix\n               that heart like thine!\"\n\n\"Go, then,\" she cried, \"but let thy constant mind\n  Oft think of her you leave in tears behind.\"\n\"Dear maid, this last embrace my pledge shall be!\nThe anchor's weigh'd!\n                farewell! remember me.\"\n\n               _S.J. Arnold._\n\n\n\n\nALICE GRAY.\n\n\nShe's all my fancy painted her,\n  She's lovely, she's divine;\nBut her heart it is another's,\n  She never can be mine;\nYet lov'd I as man never lov'd,\n  A love without decay,\nOh! my heart, my heart is breaking\n  For the love of Alice Gray!\n\nHer dark brown hair is braided\n  O'er a brow of spotless white;\nHer soft blue eye now languishes,\n  Now flashes with delight;\nHer hair is braided not for me,\n  The eye is turned away;\nYet, my heart, my heart is breaking\n  For the love of Alice Gray.\n\nI've sunk beneath the summer's sun,\n  And trembled in the blast;\nBut my pilgrimage is nearly done,\n  The weary conflict's past:\nAnd when the green sod wraps my grave,\n  May pity haply say,\nOh! his heart, his heart is broken\n  For the love of Alice Gray.\n\n        _William Mee_.\n\n\n\n\nHOME, SWEET HOME.\n\n\n'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,\nBe it ever so humble, there's no place like home!\nA charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,\nWhich, seek thro' the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.\n  Home! home! sweet, sweet home!\n  There's no place like home!\n  There's no place like home!\n\nAn exile from home splendour dazzles in vain,\nOh I give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again!\nThe birds singing gaily that came at my call,\nGive me them with the peace of mind dearer than all.\n  Home! home! sweet, sweet home!\n  There's no place like home!\n  There's no place like home!\n\n        _J. Howard Payne._\n\n\n\n\nJOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.\n\n\nJohn Anderson, my Jo, John,\n  When we were first acquent,\nYour locks were like the raven,\n  Your bonnie brow was brent;\nBut now your brow is beld, John,\n  Your locks are like the snaw;\nBut blessings on your frosty pow,\n  John Anderson, my Jo.\n\nJohn Anderson, my Jo, John,\n  We clamb the hill thegither;\nAnd monie a canty day, John,\n  We've had wi' ane anither:\nNow we maun totter down, John,\n  But hand in hand we'll go,\nAnd sleep thegither at the foot,\n  John Anderson, my Jo.\n\n        _Burns (New Version)_.\n\n\n\n\nMY PRETTY JANE.\n\n\nMy pretty Jane, my pretty Jane!\n  Ah! never, never look so shy;\nBut meet me in the evening,\n  While the bloom is on the rye.\nThe spring is waning fast, my love,\n  The corn is in the ear,\nThe summer nights are coming, love,\n  The moon shines bright and clear.\nThen, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane!\n  Ah! never look so shy,\nBut meet me in the evening,\n  While the bloom is on the rye.\nBut name the day, the wedding day,\n  And I will buy the ring;\nThe lads and maids in favours white\n  And village bells shall ring.\nThe spring is waning fast, my love,\n  The corn is in the ear,\nThe summer nights are coming, love,\n  The moon shines bright and clear.\nThen, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane!\n  Ah! never look so shy,\nBut meet me in the evening,\n  While the bloom is on the rye.\n\n        _Edward Fitzball_.\n\n\n\n\nROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP.\n\n\nRock'd in the cradle of the deep,\nI lay me down in peace to sleep;\nSecure, I rest upon the wave,\nFor Thou, O Lord, hast pow'r to save.\nI know Thou wilt not slight my call,\nFor Thou dost note the sparrow's fall,\nAnd calm and peaceful is my sleep,\nRock'd in the cradle of the deep.\n\nAnd such the trust that still were mine,\nTho' stormy winds swept o'er the brine;\nOr though the tempest's fiery breath\nRous'd me from sleep to wreck and death!\nIn ocean cave still safe with Thee,\nThe germ of immortality;\nAnd calm and peaceful is my sleep,\nRock'd in the cradle of the deep.\n\n        _Mrs. Willard._\n\n\n\n\nTHE MINSTREL BOY.\n\n\nThe Minstrel boy to the war is gone,\n  In the ranks of death you'll find him;\nHis father's sword he has girded on,\n  And his wild harp slung behind him.--\n\"Land of song!\" said the warrior-bard,\n  \"Though all the world betrays thee,\n_One_ sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,\n  _One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!\"\nThe Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain\n  Could not bring his proud soul under;\nThe harp he loved ne'er spoke again,\n  For he tore its cords asunder;\nAnd said, \"No chains shall sully thee,\n  Thou soul of love and bravery!\nThy songs were made for the brave and free,\n  They shall never sound in slavery!\"\n\n        _Thomas Moore_.\n\n\n\n\nON THE BANKS OF ALLAN WATER.\n\n\nOn the banks of Allan Water,\n  When the sweet Springtime did fall,\nWas the miller's lovely daughter,\n  The fairest of them all.\nFor his bride a soldier sought her,\n  And a winning tongue had he:\nOn the banks of Allan Water,\n  None so gay as she.\n\nOn the banks of Allan Water,\n  When brown Autumn spreads its store,\nThen I saw the miller's daughter,\n  But she smiled no more;\nFor the Summer grief had brought her,\n  And the soldier false was he;\nOn the banks of Allan Water,\n  None so sad as she.\n\nOn the banks of Allan Water,\n  When the Winter snow fell fast,\nStill was seen the miller's daughter,\n  Chilling blew the blast.\nBut the miller's lovely daughter,\n  Both from cold and care was free:\nOn the banks of Allan Water,\n  There a corpse lay she.\n\n        _M.G. Lewis._\n\n\n\n\nAULD LANG SYNE.\n\n\nShould auld acquaintance be forgot,\n  And never brought to min'?\nShould auld acquaintance be forgot,\n  And days o' auld lang syne?\n\n        CHORUS.\nFor auld lang syne, my dear,\n  For auld lang syne,\nWe'll tak' a cup' o' kindness yet,\n  For auld lang syne.\n\nWe twa hae run about the braes,\n  And pu'd the gowans fine;\nBut we've wandered mony a weary foot\n  Sin auld lang syne.\n        For auld, etc.\n\nWe twa hae paidl't i' the burn,\n  From mornin' sun till dine;\nBut seas between us braid hae roar'd\n  Sin auld lang syne.\n        For auld, etc.\n\nAnd here's a hand, my trusty frien',\n  And gie's a hand o' thine;\nAnd we'll tak a right guid-willie waught,\n  For auld lang syne.\n        For auld, etc.\n\nAnd surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,\n  And surely I'll be mine;\nAnd we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet\n  For auld lang syne.\n        For auld, etc.\n\n        _Burns._\n\n\n\n\nWITHIN A MILE OF EDINBURGH TOWN.\n\n\n'Twas within a mile of Edinburgh town,\n    In the rosy time of the year;\nSweet flowers bloom'd,\n          and the grass was down,\n  And each shepherd woo'd his dear.\n    Bonnie Jocky, blythe and gay,\n    Kiss'd sweet Jenny making hay:\nThe lassie blush'd, and frowning cried,\n      \"No, no, it will not do;\nI canna, canna, wonna, wonna,\n              manna buckle to.\"\n\nJocky was a wag that never would wed,\n  Though long he had follow'd the lass:\nContented she earn'd\n          and eat her brown bread,\n  And merrily turn'd up the grass.\n    Bonnie Jocky, blythe and free,\n    Won her heart right merrily:\nYet still she blush'd, and frowning cried,\n      \"No, no, it will not do;\nI canna, canna, wonna, wonna,\n              manna buckle to.\"\n\nBut when he vow'd he would\n          make her his bride,\n  Though his flocks and herds\n                were not few,\nShe gave him her hand, and a kiss beside,\n  And vow'd she'd for ever be true.\n    Bonnie Jocky, blythe and free,\n    Won her heart right merrily:\nAt church she no more frowning cried,\n      \"No, no, it will not do;\nI canna, canna, wonna, wonna,\n              manna buckle to.\"\n\n        _Anon._\n\n\n\n\nTHE NIGHT-PIECE TO JULIA.\n\n\nHer eyes the glow-worm lend thee,\nThe shooting stars attend thee;\n  And the elves also,\n  Whose little eyes glow,\nLike the sparks of fire, befriend thee.\n\nNo Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee,\nNor snake or slow-worm bite thee;\n  But on, on thy way,\n  Not making a stay,\nSince ghost there's none to affright thee.\n\nLet not the dark thee cumber;\nWhat though the moon does slumber?\n  The stars of the night\n  Will lend thee their light,\nLike tapers clear, without number.\n\nThen, Julia, let me woo thee,\nThus, thus to come unto me;\n  And when I shall meet\n  Thy silv'ry feet,\nMy soul I'll pour into thee.\n\n        _Herrick_.\n\n\n\n\nTOM BOWLING.\n\n\nHere, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,\n  The darling of our crew;\nNo more he'll hear the tempest howling,\n  For death has broach'd him to.\nHis form was of the manliest beauty,\n  His heart was kind and soft;\nFaithful below he did his duty.\n  But now he's gone aloft.\n\nTom never from his word departed,\n  His virtues were so rare;\nHis friends were many and true-hearted,\n  His Poll was kind and fair:\nAnd then he'd sing so blithe and jolly;\n  Ah, many's the time and oft!\nBut mirth is turn'd to melancholy,\n  For Tom is gone aloft.\n\nYet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,\n  When He who all commands,\nShall give, to call life's crew together,\n  The word to pipe all hands.\nThus Death, who kings and tars dispatches,\n  In vain Tom's life has doff'd;\nFor though his body's under hatches,\n  His soul is gone aloft.\n\n        _Charles Dibdin._\n\n\n\n\nMY LOVE IS LIKE THE RED RED ROSE.\n\n\nMy love is like the red red rose\n  That's newly sprung in June;\nMy love is like the melody\n  That's sweetly played in tune.\n\nAs fair art thou, my bonnie lass,\n  So deep in love am I;\nAnd I will love thee still, my dear,\n  Till a' the seas gang dry.\n\nTill a' the seas gang dry, my dear,\n  And the rocks melt wi' the sun;\nAnd I will love thee still, my dear,\n  While the sands of life shall run.\n\nBut, fare thee weel, my only love,\n  And fare thee weel awhile;\nAnd I will come again, my dear,\n  Though 'twere ten thousand mile.\n\n        _Burns_.\n\n\n\n\nWIDOW MALONE.\n\n\nDid you hear of the Widow Malone,\n                        Ohone!\nWho lived in the town of Athlone!\n                        Ohone!\n  Oh, she melted the hearts\n  Of the swains in them parts,\nSo lovely the Widow Malone,\n                        Ohone!\nSo lovely the Widow Malone.\n\nOf lovers she had a full score,\n                        Or more,\nAnd fortunes they all had galore,\n                        In store;\n  From the minister down\n  To the clerk of the crown,\nAll were courting the Widow Malone,\n                        Ohone!\nAll were courting the Widow Malone.\n\nBut so modest was Mistress Malone,\n                        'Twas known,\nThat no one could see her alone,\n                        Ohone!\n  Let them ogle and sigh,\n  They could ne'er catch her eye,\nSo bashful the Widow Malone,\n                        Ohone!\nSo bashful the Widow Malone.\n\nTill one Mister O'Brien, from Clare,--\n                        How quare!\nIt's little for blushing they care\n                        Down there,\n  Put his arm round her waist--\n  Gave ten kisses at laste--\n\"Oh,\" says he, \"you're my Molly Malone,\n                        My own!\"\n\"Oh,\" says he, \"you're my Molly Malone.\"\n\nAnd the widow they all thought so shy,\n                        My eye!\nNe'er thought of a simper or sigh,\n                        For why?\n  But \"Lucius,\" says she,\n  \"Since you've now made so free,\nYou may marry your Mary Malone,\n                        Ohone!\nYou may marry your Mary Malone.\"\n\nThere's a moral contained in my song,\n                        Not wrong,\nAnd one comfort, it's not very long,\n                        But strong,--\n  If for widows you die,\n  Learn to kiss, not to sigh,\nFor they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,\n                        Ohone!\nOh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone.\n\n        _Charles Lever_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN.\n\n\nAnd did you ne'er hear of a jolly young waterman,\n  Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply?\nAnd he feathered his oars with such skill and dexterity,\n  Winning each heart and delighting each eye.\nHe look'd so neat, and he row'd so steadily,\n  The maidens all flock'd in his boat so readily;\nAnd he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air,\nThat this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.\n\nWhat sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry!\n  'Twas clean'd out so nice, and so painted withal;\nHe was always first oars when the fine city ladies\n  In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall.\nAnd oftentimes would they be giggling and leering,\nBut 'twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering;\nFor loving or liking he little did care,\nFor this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.\n\nAnd yet but to see how strangely things happen,\n  As he row'd along, thinking of nothing at all,\nHe was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming,\n  That she smil'd, and so straightway in love he did fall.\nAnd would this young damsel but banish his sorrow,\nHe'd wed her to-night, and not wait till to-morrow;\nAnd how should this waterman ever know care,\nWhen, married, was never in want of a _fair_.\n\n        _Charles Dibdin_.\n\n\n\n\nCALLER HERRIN'.\n\n\nWha'll buy caller herrin'?\n  They're bonnie fish and halesome farin';\nBuy my caller herrin',\n    new drawn frae the Forth.\nWhen ye were sleeping on your pillows,\nDreamt ye aught o' our puir fellows,\nDarkling as they face the billows,\nA' to fill our woven willows.\nBuy my caller herrin',\nThey're bonnie fish and halesome farin';\nBuy my caller herrin',\n    new drawn frae the Forth.\nCaller herrin', caller herrin'.\n\nAn' when the creel o' herrin' passes,\nLadies clad in silks and laces,\nGather in their braw pelisses,\nToss their heads and screw their faces;\nBuy my caller herrin',\nThey're bonnie fish and halesome farin';\nBuy my caller herrin',\n    new drawn frae the Forth.\n\nNoo neebor wives, come, tent my tellin',\nWhen the bonnie fish ye're sellin'\nAt a word be aye your dealin',\nTruth will stand when a' things failin';\nBuy my caller herrin',\n  They're bonnie fish and halesome farin';\nBuy my caller herrin',\n    new drawn frae the Forth.\nWha'll buy my caller herrin'?\n  They're no brought here without brave darin',\nBuy my caller herrin',\n  Ye little ken their worth.\nWha'll buy my caller herrin'?\n  O ye may ca' them vulgar farin';\nWives and mithers maist despairin',\nCa' them lives o' men.\nCaller herrin', caller herrin'.\n\n        _Lady Nairne_.\n\n\n\n\nA HUNTING WE WILL GO.\n\n\nThe dusky night rides down the sky,\n  And ushers in the morn;\nThe hounds all join in glorious cry,\n  The huntsman winds his horn.\n    And a hunting we will go.\n\nThe wife around her husband throws\n  Her arms to make him stay:\n\"My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows;\n  You cannot hunt to-day.\"\n    Yet a hunting we will go.\n\nAway they fly to 'scape the rout,\n  Their steeds they soundly switch;\nSome are thrown in, and some thrown out,\n  And some thrown in the ditch.\n    Yet a hunting we will go.\n\nSly Reynard now like lightning flies,\n  And sweeps across the vale;\nAnd when the hounds too near he spies,\n  He drops his bushy tail.\n    Then a hunting we will go.\n\nFond echo seems to like the sport,\n  And join the jovial cry;\nThe woods, the hills the sound retort,\n  And music fills the sky.\n    When a hunting we do go.\n\nAt last his strength to faintness worn,\n  Poor Reynard ceases flight;\nThen hungry, homeward we return,\n  To feast away the night.\n    And a drinking we do go.\n\nYe jovial hunters, in the morn\n  Prepare then for the chase;\nRise at the sounding of the horn\n  And health with sport embrace.\n    When a hunting we do go.\n\n       _Henry Fielding_.\n\n\n\n\nHEARTS OF OAK.\n\n\nCome, cheer up, my lads!\n          'tis to glory we steer,\nTo add something more\n          to this wonderful year:\nTo honour we call you,\n          not press you like slaves:\nFor who are so free\n          as the sons of the waves?\n  Hearts of oak are our ships,\n  Gallant tars are our men;\n    We always are ready:\n    Steady, boys, steady!\nWe'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.\n\nWe ne'er see our foes\n          but we wish them to stay;\nThey never see us but\n          they wish us away;\nIf they run, why, we follow,\n          or run them ashore;\nFor if they won't fight us,\n          we cannot do more.\n    Hearts of oak, etc.\n\nBritannia triumphant,\n          her ships sweep the sea;\nHer standard is Justice--\n          her watchword, \"Be free!\"\nThen cheer up, my lads!\n          with one heart let us sing,\n\"Our soldiers, our sailors,\n          our statesmen, and king.\"\n    Hearts of oak, etc.\n\n        _David Garrick_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.\n\n\nI'll sing you a good old song,\n  Made by a good old pate,\nOf a fine old English gentleman,\n  Who had an old estate;\nAnd who kept up his old mansion\n  At a bountiful old rate,\nWith a good old porter to relieve\n  The old poor at his gate--\nLike a fine old English gentleman,\n  All of the olden time.\n\nHis hall so old was hung around\n  With pikes, and guns, and bows,\nAnd swords and good old bucklers\n  That had stood against old foes;\n'Twas there \"his worship\" sat in state,\n  In doublet and trunk hose,\nAnd quaff'd his cup of good old sack\n  To warm his good old nose--\nLike a fine old English gentleman,\n  All of the olden time.\n\nWhen winter's cold brought frost and snow,\n  He open'd his house to all;\nAnd though three-score and ten his years,\n  He featly led the ball.\nNor was the houseless wanderer\n  E'er driven from his hall;\nFor while he feasted all the great,\n  He ne'er forgot the small--\nLike a fine old English gentleman,\n  All of the olden time.\n\nBut time, though sweet, is strong in flight,\n  And years roll swiftly by;\nAnd autumn's falling leaves proclaim'd\n  The old man--he must die!\nHe laid him down quite tranquilly,\n  Gave up his latest sigh;\nAnd mournful stillness reign'd around,\n  And tears bedew'd each eye--\nFor this good old English gentleman,\n  All of the olden time.\n\nNow, surely this is better far\n  Than all the new parade\nOf theatres and fancy balls,\n  \"At home\" and masquerade!\nAnd much more economical,\n  For all his bills were paid,\nThen leave your new vagaries quite,\n  And take up the old trade--\nOf a fine old English gentleman,\n  All of the olden time.\n\n        _Anon_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BAY OF BISCAY O!\n\n\nLoud roared the dreadful thunder!\n   The rain a deluge showers!\nThe clouds were rent asunder\n  By lightning's vivid powers!\n     The night, both drear and dark,\n     Our poor devoted bark,\n       Till next day, there she lay,\n         In the Bay of Biscay O!\n\nNow dashed upon the billow,\n  Our op'ning timbers creak;\nEach fears a wat'ry pillow,\n  None stop the dreadful leak!\n    To cling to slipp'ry shrouds,\n    Each breathless seaman crowds,\n      As she lay, till the day,\n        In the Bay of Biscay O!\n\nAt length the wished-for morrow\n  Broke through the hazy sky;\nAbsorbed in silent sorrow,\n  Each heaved the bitter sigh;\n    The dismal wreck to view,\n    Struck horror to the crew,\n      As she lay, on that day,\n        In the Bay of Biscay O!\n\nHer yielding timbers sever,\n  Her pitchy seams are rent;\nWhen Heaven, all-bounteous ever,\n  Its boundless mercy sent!\nA sail in sight appears,\nWe hail her with three cheers!\n  Now we sail, with the gale,\n    From the Bay of Biscay O!\n\n        _Andrew Cherry._\n\n\n\n\nBLACK-EYED SUSAN.\n\n\nAll in the Downs the fleet was moored,\n  The streamers waving in the wind,\nWhen black-eyed Susan came on board:\n  \"Oh! where shall I my true love find?\nTell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,\nIf my sweet William sails among your crew?\"\n\nWilliam, who high upon the yard,\n  Rocked by the billows to and fro,\nSoon as her well-known voice he heard,\n  He sighed, and cast his eyes below:\nThe cord glides swiftly through his glowing hands,\nAnd, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands.\n\nSo the sweet lark, high poised in air,\n  Shuts close his pinions to his breast\n(If, chance, his mate's shrill call he hear),\n  And drops at once into her nest:\nThe noblest captain in the British fleet\nMight envy William's lips those kisses sweet.\n\nOh, Susan! Susan! lovely dear!\n  My vows shall ever true remain;\nLet me kiss off that falling tear,\n  We only part to meet again:\nChange as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be\nThe faithful compass that still points to thee.\n\nBelieve not what the landsmen say,\n  Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind;\nThey tell thee--sailors when away\n  In every port a mistress find!\nYes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,\nFor thou art present wheresoe'er I go.\n\nIf to fair India's coast we sail,\n  Thine eyes are seen in diamonds bright;\nThy breath in Afric's spicy gale,\n  Thy skin in ivory so white:\nThus every beauteous object that I view\nWakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.\n\nThough battle call me from thy arms,\n  Let not my pretty Susan mourn;\nThough cannons roar, yet free from harms,\n  William shall to his dear return:\nLove turns aside the balls that round me fly,\nLest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.\n\nThe boatswain gave the dreadful word,\n  The sails their swelling bosoms spread;\nNo longer must she stay on board:\n  They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head.\nHer lessening boat, unwilling, rows to land;\n\"Adieu!\" she cried, and waved her lily hand.\n\n        _J. Gay._\n\n\n\n\nDUNCAN GRAY.\n\n\nDuncan Grey came here to woo,\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't,\nOn blythe yule night when we were fou,\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.\nMaggie coost' her head fu' high,\nLook'd asklent and unco skeigh,\nGart poor Duncan stand abeigh;\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.\n\nDuncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't,\nMeg was deaf' as Ailsa Craig,\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.\nDuncan sigh'd baith out and in,\nGrat his een baith bleer't and blin',\nSpak o' lowpin o'er a linn;\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.\n\nTime and chance are but a tide,\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't,\nSlighted love is sair to bide,\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.\nShall I, like a fool, quoth he,\nFor a haughty hizzie dee?\nShe may gae to--France for me,\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.\n\nHow it comes let doctors tell.\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't,\nMeg grew sick--as he grew well,\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.\nSomething in her bosom wrings,\nFor relief a sigh she brings;\nAnd O, her een, they spak sic things!\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.\n\nDuncan was a lad o' grace,\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't,\nMaggie's was a piteous case,\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.\nDuncan couldna be her death,\nSwelling pity smoor'd his wrath;\nNow they're crouse and cantie baith,\n  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.\n\n        _Burns_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON.\n\n\nThere was a youth, and a well-beloved youth,\n  And he was a squire's son;\nHe loved the bailiff's daughter dear\n  That lived in Islington.\n\nYet she was coy, and would not believe\n  That he did love her so.\nNo; nor at any time would she\n  Any countenance to him show.\n\nBut when his friends did understand\n  His fond and foolish mind,\nThey sent him up to fair London\n  An apprentice for to bind.\n\nAnd when he had been seven long years,\n  And never his love could see:\n\"Many a tear have I shed for her sake,\n  When she little thought of me.\"\n\nThen all the maids of Islington\n  Went forth to sport and play,\nAll but the bailiff's daughter dear--\n  She secretly stole away.\n\nShe pulled off her gown of green,\n  And put on ragged attire,\nAnd to fair London she would go,\n  Her true love to inquire.\n\nAnd as she went along the high road,\n  The weather being hot and dry,\nShe sat her down upon a green bank,\n  And her true love came riding by.\n\nShe started up, with a colour so red,\n  Catching hold of his bridle-rein;\n\"One penny, one penny, kind sir,\" she said,\n  \"Will ease me of much pain.\"\n\n\"Before I give you one penny, sweetheart,\n  Pray tell me where you were born?\"\n\"At Islington, kind sir,\" said she,\n  \"Where I have had many a scorn.\"\n\n\"I pr'ythee, sweetheart, then tell to me,\n  O tell me, whether you know\nThe bailiff's daughter of Islington?\"\n  \"She is dead, sir, long ago.\"\n\n\"If she be dead, then take my horse,\n  My saddle and bridle also;\nFor I will into some far countrie,\n  Where no man shall me know.\"\n\nO stay, O stay, thou goodly youth,\n  She standeth by thy side:\nShe is here alive, she is not dead--\n  And ready to be thy bride.\n\nO farewell grief, and welcome joy,\n  Ten thousand times therefore!\nFor now I have found my own true love,\n  Whom I thought I should never see more.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MILLER OF DEE.\n\n\nThere was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee,\nHe danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he;\nAnd this the burden of his song for ever used to be:\n\"I care for nobody, no, not I, if nobody cares for me.\n\n\"I live by my mill, God bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife;\nI would not change my station for any other in life.\nNo lawyer, surgeon, or doctor, e'er had a groat from me,\nI care for nobody, no, not I, if nobody cares for me.\"\n\nWhen spring begins his merry career, oh! how his heart grows gay;\nNo summer's drought alarms his fears, nor winter's cold decay;\nNo foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say:\n\"Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day.\"\n\nThus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing,\nThe days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing;\nThis song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring,\nLet heart and voice and all agree to say, \"Long live the King!\"\n\n_Isaac Bickerstaffe._\n\n\n\n\nTHE ANGEL'S WHISPER.\n\n\nA baby was sleeping,\n  Its mother was weeping,\nFor her husband was far on the wild raging sea,\n  And the tempest was swelling\nRound the fisherman's dwelling,\nAnd she cried, \"Dermot, darling,\n            oh come back to me.\"\n\n  Her beads while she numbered,\n  The baby still slumbered.\nAnd smiled in her face, as she bended her knee;\n  Oh! bless'd be that warning,\n  My child, thy sleep adorning,\nFor I know that the angels are whispering with thee.\n  And while they are keeping\n  Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,\nOh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me,\n  And say thou would'st rather\n  They watch'd o'er thy father!\nFor I know that the angels are whispering with thee.\n  The dawn of the morning\n  Saw Dermot returning,\nAnd the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see,\n  And closely caressing\n  Her child with a blessing,\nSaid, \"I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.\"\n\n        _Samuel Lover_.\n\n\n\n\nSIMON THE CELLARER.\n\n\nOld Simon the Cellarer keeps a large store\nOf Malmsey and Malvoisie,\nAnd Cyprus and who can say how many more?\nFor a chary old soul is he,\nA chary old soul is he;\nOf Sack and Canary he never doth fail,\nAnd all the year round there is brewing of ale;\nYet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,\nWhile he keeps to his sober six flagons a day:\nBut ho! ho! ho! his nose doth shew\nHow oft the black Jack to his lips doth go;\nBut ho! ho! ho! his nose doth shew\nHow oft the black Jack to his lips doth go.\n\nDame Margery sits in her own still-room.\nAnd a Matron sage is she;\nFrom thence oft at Curfew is wafted a fume,\nShe says it is Rosemarie,\nShe says it is Rosemarie;\nBut there's a small cupboard behind the back stair,\nAnd the maids say they often see Margery there.\nNow, Margery says that she grows very old\nAnd must take a something to keep out the cold!\nBut ho! ho! ho! old Simon doth know\nWhere many a flask of his best doth go;\nBut ho! ho! ho! old Simon doth know\nWhere many a flask of his best doth go.\n\nOld Simon reclines in his high-back'd chair,\nAnd talks about taking a wife;\nAnd Margery often is heard to declare\nShe ought to be settled in life,\nShe ought to be settled in life;\nBut Margery has (so the maids say) a tongue,\nAnd she's not very handsome, and not very young;\nSo somehow it ends with a shake of the head,\nAnd Simon he brews him a tankard instead;\nWhile ho! ho! ho! he will chuckle and crow,\nWhat! marry old Margery? no no, no!\nWhile ho! ho! ho! he will chuckle and crow,\nWhat! marry old Margery? no, no, no!\n\n        _W. H. Bellamy_.\n\n\n\n\nAULD ROBIN GRAY.\n\n\nWhen the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,\nAnd a' the warld to sleep are gane,\nThe waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,\nWhen my gudeman lies sound by me.\n\nYoung Jamie loo'd me wed, and socht me for his bride;\nBut, saving a croun, he had naething else beside.\nTo mak that croun a pund young Jamie gaed to sea,\nAnd the croun and the pund were baith for me.\n\nHe hadna been awa a week but only twa,\nWhen my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa;\nMy father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea,\nAnd auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.\n\nMy father couldna work and my mother couldna spin;\nI toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win;\nAuld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,\nSaid \"Jennie, for their sakes, oh, marry me!\"\n\nMy heart it said nay, for I look'd for Jamie back;\nBut the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck;\nThe ship it was a wreck--why didna Jamie dee?\nOr why do I live to say, Wae's me?\n\nMy father argued sair, my mother didna speak,\nBut she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break;\nSae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;\nAnd auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.\n\nI hadna been a wife a week but only four,\nWhen, sitting sae mournfully at the door,\nI saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,\nTill he said, \"I'm come back for to marry thee.\"\n\nOh, sair did we greet and muckle did we say,\nWe took but ae kiss and we tore ourselves away;\nI wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;\nAnd why do I live to say, Wae's me?\n\nI gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;\nI daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin.\nBut I'll do my best a gude wife to be,\nFor auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.\n\n        _Lady Anne Lindsay._\n\n\n\n\nBONNIE DUNDEE.\n\n\nTo the lords of Convention, 'twas Claverhouse spoke,\nEre the king's crown go down there are crowns to be broke;\nThen each cavalier who loves honour and me,\nLet him follow the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.\n\n  Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,\n  Come saddle my horses and call out my men,\n  Unhook the west port, and let us gae free,\n  For it's up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.\n\nDundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,\nThe bells they ring backward, the drums they are beat,\nBut the Provost (douce man) said, \"Just e'en let it be,\nFor the town is well rid o' that deil o' Dundee.\"\n\n  Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, etc.\n\nThere are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth;\nIf there's lords in the south, there are chiefs in the north,\nThere are brave Dunevassals, three thousand times three,\nWill cry hey! for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.\n\n  Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, etc.\n\nThen awa' to the hills, to the lea, to the rocks:\nEre I own an usurper I'll crouch wi' the fox;\nAnd tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee\nYe hae no seen the last of my bonnets and me.\n\n  Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, etc.\n\n        _Sir Walter Scott._\n\n\n\n\nSALLY IN OUR ALLEY.\n\n\nOf all the girls that are so smart,\n  There's none like pretty Sally;\nShe is the darling of my heart,\n  And she lives in our alley.\nThere is no lady in the land\n  That's half so sweet as Sally:\nShe is the darling of my heart,\n  And she lives in our alley.\n\nHer father he makes cabbage-nets,\n  And through the streets does cry 'em;\nHer mother she sells laces long\n  To such as please to buy 'em.\nBut sure such folks could ne'er beget\n  So sweet a girl as Sally:\nShe is the darling of my heart,\n  And she lives in our alley.\n\nWhen she is by, I leave my work\n  (I love her so sincerely),\nMy master comes, like any Turk,\n  And bangs me most severely.\nBut let him bang his belly full,\n  I'll bear it all for Sally:\nShe is the darling of my heart,\n  And she lives in our alley.\n\nOf all the days that's in the week,\n  I dearly love but one day;\nAnd that's the day that comes betwixt\n  A Saturday and Monday.\nFor then I'm dress'd all in my best,\n  To walk abroad with Sally:\nShe is the darling of my heart,\n  And she lives in our alley.\n\nMy master carries me to church,\n  And often am I blamed\nBecause I leave him in the lurch\n  As soon as text is named.\nI leave the church in sermon time,\n  And slink away to Sally:\nShe is the darling of my heart,\n  And she lives in our alley.\n\nWhen Christmas comes about again,\n  Oh! then I shall have money;\nI'll hoard it up, and box and all\n  I'll give it to my honey.\nI would it were ten thousand pounds,\n  I'd give it all to Sally:\nShe is the darling of my heart,\n  And she lives in our alley.\n\nMy master and the neighbours all\n  Make game of me and Sally;\nAnd (but for her) I'd better be\n  A slave, and row a galley.\nBut when my seven long years are out,\n  Oh! then I'll marry Sally:\nOh! then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,\n  But not in our alley.\n\n        _Henry Carey._\n\n\n\n\nKITTY OF COLERAINE.\n\n\nAs beautiful Kitty one\n    morning was tripping\nWith a pitcher of milk\n    from the fair of Coleraine,\nWhen she saw me she stumbled,\n    the pitcher it tumbled,\nAnd all the sweet buttermilk\n    water'd the plain.\n\n\"Oh, what shall I do now?\n    'Twas looking at you, now;\nSure, sure, such a pitcher\n    I'll ne'er meet again.\n'Twas the pride of my dairy,\n    O Barnay M'Leary,\nYou're sent as a plague\n    to the girls of Coleraine!\n\nI sat down beside her,\n    and gently did chide her,\nThat such a misfortune\n    should give her such pain.\n\nA kiss then I gave her,\n    before I did leave her,\nShe vow'd for such pleasure\n    she'd break it again.\n'Twas haymaking season,\n    I can't tell the reason--\nMisfortunes will never come single,\n    that's plain--\nFor very soon after poor Kitty's disaster\nThe devil a pitcher\n    was whole in Coleraine.\n\n        _Edward Lysaght._\n\n\n\n\nHERE'S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN.\n\n\nHere's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,\n  Now to the widow of fifty;\nHere's to the flaunting extravagant quean,\n  And here's to the housewife that's thrifty:\n    Let the toast pass,\n    Drink to the lass--\n    I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.\n\nHere's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,\n  Now to the damsel with none, sir;\nHere's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,\n  And now to the nymph with but one, sir:\n    Let the toast pass,\n    Drink to the lass--\n    I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.\n\nHere's to the maid with a bosom of snow,\n  Now to her that's as brown as a berry;\nHere's to the wife with a face full of woe,\n  And now to the damsel that's merry:\n    Let the toast pass,\n    Drink to the lass--\n    I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.\n\nFor let her be clumsy, or let her be slim,\n  Young or ancient, I care not a feather;\nSo fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim,\n  And let us e'en toast 'em together:\n    Let the toast pass,\n    Drink to the lass--\n    I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.\n\n        _R. B. Sheridan._\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEATHER BOTT\u00c8L.\n\n\n'Twas God above that made all things,\nThe heav'ns, the earth, and all therein:\nThe ships that on the sea do swim\nTo guard from foes that none come in;\nAnd let them all do what they can,\n'Twas for one end--the use of man.\n  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell\n  That first found out the leather bott\u00e8l.\n\nNow, what do you say to these cans of wood?\nOh, no, in faith they cannot be good;\nFor if the bearer fall by the way,\nWhy, on the ground your liquor doth lay;\nBut had it been in a leather bott\u00e8l,\nAlthough he had fallen all had been well.\n  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell\n  That first found out the leather bott\u00e8l.\n\nThen what do you say to these glasses fine?\nOh, they shall have no praise of mine;\nFor if you chance to touch the brim,\nDown falls the liquor and all therein.\nBut had it been in a leather bott\u00e8l,\nAnd the stopple in, all had been well.\n  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell\n  That first found out the leather bott\u00e8l.\n\nThen what do you say to these black pots three?\nIf a man and his wife should not agree,\nWhy, they'll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill;\nIn a leather bott\u00e8l they may tug their fill,\nAnd pull away till their hearts do ake,\nAnd yet their liquor no harm can take.\n  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell\n  That first found out the leather bott\u00e8l.\n\nThen what do you say to these flagons fine?\nOh, they shall have no praise of mine;\nFor when a lord is about to dine,\nAnd sends them to be filled with wine,\nThe man with the flagon doth run away,\nBecause it is silver most gallant and gay\n    So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell\n    That first found out the leather bott\u00e8l.\n\nA leather bott\u00e8l we know is good,\nFar better than glasses or cans of wood;\nFor when a man's at work in the field\nYour glasses and pots no comfort will yield;\nBut a good leather bott\u00e8l standing by\nWill raise his spirits whenever he's dry.\n  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell\n  That first found out the leather bott\u00e8l.\n\nAt noon the haymakers sit them down,\nTo drink from their bottles of ale nut-brown;\nIn summer, too, when the weather is warm,\nA good bottle full will do them no harm.\nThen the lads and the lasses begin to tottle,\nBut what would they do without this bottle?\n  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell\n  That first found out the leather bott\u00e8l.\n\nThere's never a lord, an earl, or knight,\nBut in this bottle doth take delight;\nFor when he's hunting of the deer\nHe oft doth wish for a bottle of beer.\nLikewise the man that works in the wood,\nA bottle of beer will oft do him good.\n  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell\n  That first found out the leather bott\u00e8l.\n\nAnd when the bottle at last grows old,\nAnd will good liquor no longer hold,\nOut of the side you may take a clout,\nTo mend your shoes when they're worn out;\nOr take and hang it up on a pin,\n'Twill serve to put hinges and old things in.\n  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell\n  That first found out the leather bott\u00e8l.\n\n\n\n\nWOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.\n\n\nWoodman, spare that tree,\n  Touch not a single bough--\nIn youth it shelter'd me,\n  And I'll protect it now.\nTwas my forefather's hand\n  That placed it near his cot.\nThere, woodman, let it stand,\n  Thy axe shall harm it not.\nThat old familiar tree,\n  Whose glory and renown\nAre spread o'er land and sea,\n  Say, wouldst thou hack it down?\n\nWoodman, forbear thy stroke,\n  Cut not its earth-bound ties--\nOh, spare that aged oak,\n  Now, towering to the skies.\nOft, when a careless child,\n  Beneath its shade I heard\nThe wood-notes sweet and wild,\n  Of many a forest bird.\nBy mother kiss'd me here,\n  My father press'd my hand,\nI ask thee, with a tear,\n  Oh, let that old oak stand.\n\nMy heart-strings round thee cling,\n  Close at thy bark, old friend--\nHere shall the wild bird sing,\n  And still thy branches bend.\nOld tree, the storm still brave,\n  And, woodman, leave the spot--\nWhile I've a hand to save\n  Thy axe shall harm it not.\n\n        _General G.P. Morris._\n\n\n\n\nTHE TOKEN\n\n\nThe breeze was fresh, the ship in stays,\nEach breaker hush'd, the shore a haze.\nWhen Jack no more on duty call'd,\nHis true love's tokens overhaul'd;\nThe broken gold, the braided hair,\nThe tender motto, writ so fair,\nUpon his 'bacco-box he views,\nNancy the poet, love the muse.\n\"If you loves I, as I loves you,\nNo pair so happy as we two.\"\n\nThe storm, that like a shapeless wreck,\nHad strew'd with rigging all the deck,\nThat tars for sharks had giv'n a feast,\nAnd left the ship a hulk--had ceas'd:\nWhen Jack, as with his messmates dear,\nHe shared the grog their hearts to cheer,\nTook from his 'bacco-box a quid,\nAnd spell'd for comfort on the lid\n\"If you loves I, as I loves you,\nNo pair so happy as we two.\"\n\nThe voyage,--that had been long and hard,\nBut that had yielded full reward,\nAnd brought each sailor to his friend\nHappy and rich--was at an end:\nWhen Jack, his toils and perils o'er,\nBeheld his Nancy on the shore:\nHe then the 'bacco-box display'd,\nAnd cried, and seized the yielding maid,\n\"If you loves I, as I loves you,\nNo pair so happy as we two.\"\n\n        _C. Dibdin._\n\n\n\n\nO, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.\n\n\nO wert thou in the cauld blast,\n  On yonder lea,\nMy plaidie to the angry airt,\n  I'd shelter thee.\nOr did misfortune's bitter storms\n  Around thee blaw,\nThy bield should be my bosom,\n  To share it a'.\nOr were I in the wildest waste,\n  She bleak and bare,\nThe desert were a paradise,\n  If thou wert there,\nOr were I monarch o' the globe,\n  Wi' thee to reign,\nThe brightest jewel in my crown,\n  Wad be my queen.\n\n        _Burns._\n\n\n\n\nTHE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.\n\n\nCome live with me and be my love,\nAnd we will all the pleasures prove,\nThat valleys, groves, and hills and fields,\nThe woods or steepy mountains yields.\n\nAnd we will sit upon the rocks,\nSeeing the shepherds feed their flocks,\nBy shallow rivers, to whose falls\nMelodious birds sing madrigals.\n\nAnd I will make thee beds of roses,\nAnd a thousand fragrant posies;\nA cap of flowers, and a kirtle\nEmbroider'd o'er with leaves of myrtle;\n\nA gown made of the finest wool,\nWhich from our pretty lambs we pull;\nFair lined slippers for the cold,\nWith buckles of the purest gold;\n\nA belt of straw and ivy-buds,\nWith coral clasps and amber studs,\nAnd if these pleasures may thee move,\nCome live with me and be my love.\n\nThe shepherd swains shall dance and sing\nFor thy delight each May morning,\nIf these delights thy mind may move,\nThen live with me and be my love.\n\n        _Christopher Marlowe._\n\n\n\nLOVELY NAN.\n\n\nSweet is the ship, that, under sail\nSpreads her white bosom to the gale;\n  Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can;\nSweet to poise the lab'ring oar\nThat tugs us to our native shore,\n  When the boatswain pipes the barge to man;\nSweet sailing with a fav'ring breeze;\nBut oh! much sweeter than all these,\n  Is Jack's delight, his lovely Nan.\n\nThe needle faithful to the north,\nTo show of constancy the worth,\n  A curious lesson teaches man;\nThe needle time may rust, a squall capsize the binnacle and all,\nLet seamanship do all it can;\nMy love in worth shall higher rise!\nNor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize,\n  My faith and truth to lovely Nan.\n\nI love my duty, love my friend,\nLove truth and merit to defend,\n  To moan their loss who hazard ran;\nI love to take an honest part.\nLove beauty with a spotless heart,\n  By manners love to show the man,\nTo sail through life by honour's breeze;\n'Twas all along of loving these\n  First made me doat on lovely Nan.\n\n        _C. Dibdin._\n\n\n\n\nTHE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.\n\n\nOn Richmond Hill there lives a lass\n  More bright than May-day morn,\nWhose charms all other maids surpass--\n  A rose without a thorn.\n\nThis lass so neat, with smiles so sweet.\n  Has won my right good-will;\nI'd crowns resign to call her mine--\n  Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.\n\nYe zephyrs gay, that fan the air,\n  And wanton through the grove,\nOh, whisper to my charming fair,\n  I'd die for her I love!\n\nHow happy will the shepherd be\n  Who calls this nymph his own!\nOh, may her choice be fix'd on me?\n  Mine's fix'd on her alone.\n\n        _James Upton._\n\n\n\n\nTELL ME NOT, SWEET.\n\n\nTell me not, sweet, I am unkind,\n  That from the nunnery\nOf thy chaste breast and quiet mind,\n  To war and arms I fly.\n\nTrue, a new mistress now I chase,\n  The first foe in the field;\nAnd with a stronger faith embrace\n  A sword, a horse, a shield.\n\nYet this inconstancy is such,\n  As you, too, shall adore;\nI could not love thee, dear, so much,\n  Loved I not honour more.\n\n        _Richard Lovelace._\n\n\n\n\nSHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES.\n\n\nShe wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met,\nHer lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet;\nHer footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone,\nThe tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown.\nI saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,\nWith a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow.\n\nA wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore,\nThe expression of her features was more thoughtful than before,\nAnd standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain,\nTo soothe her leaving that dear home she ne'er might view again.\nI saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,\nWith a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow.\n\nAnd once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there,\nThe widow's sombre cap conceal'd her once luxuriant hair;\nShe weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near,\nTo press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear!\nI see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now,\nIn the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow.\n\n        _Thomas Haynes Bayly._\n\n\n\n\nO NANNY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME?\n\n\nO Nanny, wilt thou go with me,\n  Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?\nCan silent glens have charms for thee,\n  The lowly cot and russet gown?\nNo longer drest in silken sheen,\n  No longer deck'd with jewels rare,\nSay, can'st thou quit each courtly scene,\n  Where thou wert fairest of the fair?\n\nO Nanny, when thou'rt far away,\n  Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?\nSay, can'st thou face the parching ray,\n  Nor shrink before the wintry wind?\nOh, can that soft and gentle mien\n  Extremes of hardship learn to bear,\nNor sad regret each courtly scene,\n  Where thou wert fairest of the fair?\n\nO Nanny, can'st thou love so true,\n  Through perils keen with me go;\nOr when thy swain mishap shall rue,\n  To share with him the pang of woe?\nSay, should disease or pain befall,\n  Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,\nNor wistful those gay scenes recall,\n  Where thou wert fairest of the fair?\n\nAnd when at last thy love shall die,\n  Wilt thou receive his parting breath,\nWilt thou repress each struggling sigh,\n  And cheer with smiles the bed of death?\nAnd wilt thou o'er his breathless clay\n  Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear,\nNor then regret those scenes so gay,\n  Where thou wert fairest of the fair?\n\n        _Thomas Percy D.D._\n\n\n\n\nD'YE KEN JOHN PEEL?\n\n\nD'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?\nD'ye ken John Peel at the break of the day?\nD'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away,\nWith his hounds and his horn in the morning?\n  CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.\n\n'Twas the sound of his horn brought me from my bed,\nAnd the cry of his hounds has me ofttimes led;\nFor Peel's view holloa would 'waken the dead,\nOr a fox from his lair in the morning.\n  CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.\n\n\nD'ye ken that hound whose voice is death?\nD'ye ken her sons of peerless faith?\nD'ye ken that a fox with his last breath\nCursed them all as he died in the morning!\n  CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.\n\nYes, I ken John Peel and auld Ruby too,\nRanter and Royal and Bellman so true;\nFrom the drag to the chase,\nFrom the chase to the view,\nFrom the view to the death in the morning.\n  CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.\n\nAnd I've follow'd John Peel both often and far.\nO'er the rasper-fence, the gate, and the bar,\nFrom Low Denton side up to Scratchmere Scar,\nWhen we vied for the brush in the morning.\n  CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.\n\nThen here's to John Peel with my heart and soul.\nCome fill, fill to him a brimming bowl:\nFor we'll follow John Peel thro' fair or thro' foul,\nWhile we're wak'd by his horn in the morning.\n  CHORUS.--D'ye ken, etc.\n\n        _John Woodstock Graves._","title":"Old Ballads","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":9437}