Old Ballads

DUNCAN GRAY

Duncan Grey came here to woo,  Ha, ha, the wooing o't,On blythe yule night when we were fou,  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Maggie coost' her head fu' high,Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;  Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Meg was deaf' as Ailsa Craig,  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Time and chance are but a tide,  Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Slighted love is sair to bide,  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,For a haughty hizzie dee?She may gae to—France for me,  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.How it comes let doctors tell.  Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Meg grew sick—as he grew well,  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Something in her bosom wrings,For relief a sigh she brings;And O, her een, they spak sic things!  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan was a lad o' grace,  Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Maggie's was a piteous case,  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan couldna be her death,Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;Now they're crouse and cantie baith,  Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Burns.

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON

There was a youth, and a well-beloved youth,  And he was a squire's son;He loved the bailiff's daughter dear  That lived in Islington.Yet she was coy, and would not believe  That he did love her so.No; nor at any time would she  Any countenance to him show.But when his friends did understand  His fond and foolish mind,They sent him up to fair London  An apprentice for to bind.And when he had been seven long years,  And never his love could see:"Many a tear have I shed for her sake,  When she little thought of me."Then all the maids of Islington  Went forth to sport and play,All but the bailiff's daughter dear—  She secretly stole away.She pulled off her gown of green,  And put on ragged attire,And to fair London she would go,  Her true love to inquire.And as she went along the high road,  The weather being hot and dry,She sat her down upon a green bank,  And her true love came riding by.She started up, with a colour so red,  Catching hold of his bridle-rein;"One penny, one penny, kind sir," she said,  "Will ease me of much pain.""Before I give you one penny, sweetheart,  Pray tell me where you were born?""At Islington, kind sir," said she,  "Where I have had many a scorn.""I pr'ythee, sweetheart, then tell to me,  O tell me, whether you knowThe bailiff's daughter of Islington?"  "She is dead, sir, long ago.""If she be dead, then take my horse,  My saddle and bridle also;For I will into some far countrie,  Where no man shall me know."O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth,  She standeth by thy side:She is here alive, she is not dead—  And ready to be thy bride.O farewell grief, and welcome joy,  Ten thousand times therefore!For now I have found my own true love,  Whom I thought I should never see more.

THE MILLER OF DEE

There was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee,He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he;And this the burden of his song for ever used to be:"I care for nobody, no, not I, if nobody cares for me."I live by my mill, God bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife;I would not change my station for any other in life.No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor, e'er had a groat from me,I care for nobody, no, not I, if nobody cares for me."When spring begins his merry career, oh! how his heart grows gay;No summer's drought alarms his fears, nor winter's cold decay;No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say:"Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day."Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing,The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing;This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring,Let heart and voice and all agree to say, "Long live the King!"Isaac Bickerstaffe.

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER

A baby was sleeping,  Its mother was weeping,For her husband was far on the wild raging sea,  And the tempest was swellingRound the fisherman's dwelling,And she cried, "Dermot, darling,            oh come back to me."  Her beads while she numbered,  The baby still slumbered.And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee;  Oh! bless'd be that warning,  My child, thy sleep adorning,For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.  And while they are keeping  Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me,  And say thou would'st rather  They watch'd o'er thy father!For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.  The dawn of the morning  Saw Dermot returning,And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see,  And closely caressing  Her child with a blessing,Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."Samuel Lover.

SIMON THE CELLARER

Old Simon the Cellarer keeps a large storeOf Malmsey and Malvoisie,And Cyprus and who can say how many more?For a chary old soul is he,A chary old soul is he;Of Sack and Canary he never doth fail,And all the year round there is brewing of ale;Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day:But ho! ho! ho! his nose doth shewHow oft the black Jack to his lips doth go;But ho! ho! ho! his nose doth shewHow oft the black Jack to his lips doth go.Dame Margery sits in her own still-room.And a Matron sage is she;From thence oft at Curfew is wafted a fume,She says it is Rosemarie,She says it is Rosemarie;But there's a small cupboard behind the back stair,And the maids say they often see Margery there.Now, Margery says that she grows very oldAnd must take a something to keep out the cold!But ho! ho! ho! old Simon doth knowWhere many a flask of his best doth go;But ho! ho! ho! old Simon doth knowWhere many a flask of his best doth go.Old Simon reclines in his high-back'd chair,And talks about taking a wife;And Margery often is heard to declareShe ought to be settled in life,She ought to be settled in life;But Margery has (so the maids say) a tongue,And she's not very handsome, and not very young;So somehow it ends with a shake of the head,And Simon he brews him a tankard instead;While ho! ho! ho! he will chuckle and crow,What! marry old Margery? no no, no!While ho! ho! ho! he will chuckle and crow,What! marry old Margery? no, no, no!W. H. Bellamy.

AULD ROBIN GRAY

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,And a' the warld to sleep are gane,The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,When my gudeman lies sound by me.Young Jamie loo'd me wed, and socht me for his bride;But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside.To mak that croun a pund young Jamie gaed to sea,And the croun and the pund were baith for me.He hadna been awa a week but only twa,When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa;My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea,And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.My father couldna work and my mother couldna spin;I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win;Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,Said "Jennie, for their sakes, oh, marry me!"My heart it said nay, for I look'd for Jamie back;But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck;The ship it was a wreck—why didna Jamie dee?Or why do I live to say, Wae's me?My father argued sair, my mother didna speak,But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break;Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.I hadna been a wife a week but only four,When, sitting sae mournfully at the door,I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,Till he said, "I'm come back for to marry thee."Oh, sair did we greet and muckle did we say,We took but ae kiss and we tore ourselves away;I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;And why do I live to say, Wae's me?I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin.But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.Lady Anne Lindsay.

BONNIE DUNDEE

To the lords of Convention, 'twas Claverhouse spoke,Ere the king's crown go down there are crowns to be broke;Then each cavalier who loves honour and me,Let him follow the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.  Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,  Come saddle my horses and call out my men,  Unhook the west port, and let us gae free,  For it's up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,The bells they ring backward, the drums they are beat,But the Provost (douce man) said, "Just e'en let it be,For the town is well rid o' that deil o' Dundee."Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, etc.There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth;If there's lords in the south, there are chiefs in the north,There are brave Dunevassals, three thousand times three,Will cry hey! for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, etc.Then awa' to the hills, to the lea, to the rocks:Ere I own an usurper I'll crouch wi' the fox;And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your gleeYe hae no seen the last of my bonnets and me.Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, etc.Sir Walter Scott.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY

Of all the girls that are so smart,  There's none like pretty Sally;She is the darling of my heart,  And she lives in our alley.There is no lady in the land  That's half so sweet as Sally:She is the darling of my heart,  And she lives in our alley.Her father he makes cabbage-nets,  And through the streets does cry 'em;Her mother she sells laces long  To such as please to buy 'em.But sure such folks could ne'er beget  So sweet a girl as Sally:She is the darling of my heart,  And she lives in our alley.When she is by, I leave my work  (I love her so sincerely),My master comes, like any Turk,  And bangs me most severely.But let him bang his belly full,  I'll bear it all for Sally:She is the darling of my heart,  And she lives in our alley.Of all the days that's in the week,  I dearly love but one day;And that's the day that comes betwixt  A Saturday and Monday.For then I'm dress'd all in my best,  To walk abroad with Sally:She is the darling of my heart,  And she lives in our alley.My master carries me to church,  And often am I blamedBecause I leave him in the lurch  As soon as text is named.I leave the church in sermon time,  And slink away to Sally:She is the darling of my heart,  And she lives in our alley.When Christmas comes about again,  Oh! then I shall have money;I'll hoard it up, and box and all  I'll give it to my honey.I would it were ten thousand pounds,  I'd give it all to Sally:She is the darling of my heart,  And she lives in our alley.My master and the neighbours all  Make game of me and Sally;And (but for her) I'd better be  A slave, and row a galley.But when my seven long years are out,  Oh! then I'll marry Sally:Oh! then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,  But not in our alley.Henry Carey.

KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one    morning was trippingWith a pitcher of milk    from the fair of Coleraine,When she saw me she stumbled,    the pitcher it tumbled,And all the sweet buttermilk    water'd the plain."Oh, what shall I do now?    'Twas looking at you, now;Sure, sure, such a pitcher    I'll ne'er meet again.'Twas the pride of my dairy,    O Barnay M'Leary,You're sent as a plague    to the girls of Coleraine!I sat down beside her,    and gently did chide her,That such a misfortune    should give her such pain.

A kiss then I gave her, before I did leave her, She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas haymaking season, I can't tell the reason— Misfortunes will never come single, that's plain— For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

Edward Lysaght.

HERE'S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,  Now to the widow of fifty;Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,  And here's to the housewife that's thrifty:    Let the toast pass,    Drink to the lass—    I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,  Now to the damsel with none, sir;Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,  And now to the nymph with but one, sir:    Let the toast pass,    Drink to the lass—    I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,  Now to her that's as brown as a berry;Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,  And now to the damsel that's merry:    Let the toast pass,    Drink to the lass—    I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim,  Young or ancient, I care not a feather;So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim,  And let us e'en toast 'em together:    Let the toast pass,    Drink to the lass—    I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.R. B. Sheridan.

THE LEATHER BOTTÈL

'Twas God above that made all things,The heav'ns, the earth, and all therein:The ships that on the sea do swimTo guard from foes that none come in;And let them all do what they can,'Twas for one end—the use of man.  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell  That first found out the leather bottèl.Now, what do you say to these cans of wood?Oh, no, in faith they cannot be good;For if the bearer fall by the way,Why, on the ground your liquor doth lay;But had it been in a leather bottèl,Although he had fallen all had been well.  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell  That first found out the leather bottèl.Then what do you say to these glasses fine?Oh, they shall have no praise of mine;For if you chance to touch the brim,Down falls the liquor and all therein.But had it been in a leather bottèl,And the stopple in, all had been well.  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell  That first found out the leather bottèl.Then what do you say to these black pots three?If a man and his wife should not agree,Why, they'll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill;In a leather bottèl they may tug their fill,And pull away till their hearts do ake,And yet their liquor no harm can take.  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell  That first found out the leather bottèl.Then what do you say to these flagons fine?Oh, they shall have no praise of mine;For when a lord is about to dine,And sends them to be filled with wine,The man with the flagon doth run away,Because it is silver most gallant and gay    So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell    That first found out the leather bottèl.A leather bottèl we know is good,Far better than glasses or cans of wood;For when a man's at work in the fieldYour glasses and pots no comfort will yield;But a good leather bottèl standing byWill raise his spirits whenever he's dry.  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell  That first found out the leather bottèl.At noon the haymakers sit them down,To drink from their bottles of ale nut-brown;In summer, too, when the weather is warm,A good bottle full will do them no harm.Then the lads and the lasses begin to tottle,But what would they do without this bottle?  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell  That first found out the leather bottèl.There's never a lord, an earl, or knight,But in this bottle doth take delight;For when he's hunting of the deerHe oft doth wish for a bottle of beer.Likewise the man that works in the wood,A bottle of beer will oft do him good.  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell  That first found out the leather bottèl.And when the bottle at last grows old,And will good liquor no longer hold,Out of the side you may take a clout,To mend your shoes when they're worn out;Or take and hang it up on a pin,'Twill serve to put hinges and old things in.  So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell  That first found out the leather bottèl.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE

Woodman, spare that tree,  Touch not a single bough—In youth it shelter'd me,  And I'll protect it now.Twas my forefather's hand  That placed it near his cot.There, woodman, let it stand,  Thy axe shall harm it not.That old familiar tree,  Whose glory and renownAre spread o'er land and sea,  Say, wouldst thou hack it down?Woodman, forbear thy stroke,  Cut not its earth-bound ties—Oh, spare that aged oak,  Now, towering to the skies.Oft, when a careless child,  Beneath its shade I heardThe wood-notes sweet and wild,  Of many a forest bird.By mother kiss'd me here,  My father press'd my hand,I ask thee, with a tear,  Oh, let that old oak stand.My heart-strings round thee cling,  Close at thy bark, old friend—Here shall the wild bird sing,  And still thy branches bend.Old tree, the storm still brave,  And, woodman, leave the spot—While I've a hand to save  Thy axe shall harm it not.General G.P. Morris.

THE TOKEN

The breeze was fresh, the ship in stays,Each breaker hush'd, the shore a haze.When Jack no more on duty call'd,His true love's tokens overhaul'd;The broken gold, the braided hair,The tender motto, writ so fair,Upon his 'bacco-box he views,Nancy the poet, love the muse."If you loves I, as I loves you,No pair so happy as we two."The storm, that like a shapeless wreck,Had strew'd with rigging all the deck,That tars for sharks had giv'n a feast,And left the ship a hulk—had ceas'd:When Jack, as with his messmates dear,He shared the grog their hearts to cheer,Took from his 'bacco-box a quid,And spell'd for comfort on the lid"If you loves I, as I loves you,No pair so happy as we two."The voyage,—that had been long and hard,But that had yielded full reward,And brought each sailor to his friendHappy and rich—was at an end:When Jack, his toils and perils o'er,Beheld his Nancy on the shore:He then the 'bacco-box display'd,And cried, and seized the yielding maid,"If you loves I, as I loves you,No pair so happy as we two."C. Dibdin.

O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

O wert thou in the cauld blast,  On yonder lea,My plaidie to the angry airt,  I'd shelter thee.Or did misfortune's bitter storms  Around thee blaw,Thy bield should be my bosom,  To share it a'.Or were I in the wildest waste,  She bleak and bare,The desert were a paradise,  If thou wert there,Or were I monarch o' the globe,  Wi' thee to reign,The brightest jewel in my crown,  Wad be my queen.Burns.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Come live with me and be my love,And we will all the pleasures prove,That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,The woods or steepy mountains yields.And we will sit upon the rocks,Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.And I will make thee beds of roses,And a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider'd o'er with leaves of myrtle;A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull;Fair lined slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold;A belt of straw and ivy-buds,With coral clasps and amber studs,And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my love.The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning,If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my love.Christopher Marlowe.

LOVELY NAN

Sweet is the ship, that, under sailSpreads her white bosom to the gale;  Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can;Sweet to poise the lab'ring oarThat tugs us to our native shore,  When the boatswain pipes the barge to man;Sweet sailing with a fav'ring breeze;But oh! much sweeter than all these,  Is Jack's delight, his lovely Nan.The needle faithful to the north,To show of constancy the worth,  A curious lesson teaches man;The needle time may rust, a squall capsize the binnacle and all,Let seamanship do all it can;My love in worth shall higher rise!Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize,  My faith and truth to lovely Nan.I love my duty, love my friend,Love truth and merit to defend,  To moan their loss who hazard ran;I love to take an honest part.Love beauty with a spotless heart,  By manners love to show the man,To sail through life by honour's breeze;'Twas all along of loving these  First made me doat on lovely Nan.C. Dibdin.

THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass  More bright than May-day morn,Whose charms all other maids surpass—  A rose without a thorn.This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet.  Has won my right good-will;I'd crowns resign to call her mine—  Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air,  And wanton through the grove,Oh, whisper to my charming fair,  I'd die for her I love!How happy will the shepherd be  Who calls this nymph his own!Oh, may her choice be fix'd on me?  Mine's fix'd on her alone.James Upton.

TELL ME NOT, SWEET

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,  That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mind,  To war and arms I fly.True, a new mistress now I chase,  The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embrace  A sword, a horse, a shield.Yet this inconstancy is such,  As you, too, shall adore;I could not love thee, dear, so much,  Loved I not honour more.Richard Lovelace.

SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES

She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met,Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet;Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone,The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown.I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow.A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore,The expression of her features was more thoughtful than before,And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain,To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne'er might view again.I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow.And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there,The widow's sombre cap conceal'd her once luxuriant hair;She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near,To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear!I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now,In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow.Thomas Haynes Bayly.

O NANNY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME?

O Nanny, wilt thou go with me,  Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?Can silent glens have charms for thee,  The lowly cot and russet gown?No longer drest in silken sheen,  No longer deck'd with jewels rare,Say, can'st thou quit each courtly scene,  Where thou wert fairest of the fair?O Nanny, when thou'rt far away,  Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?Say, can'st thou face the parching ray,  Nor shrink before the wintry wind?Oh, can that soft and gentle mien  Extremes of hardship learn to bear,Nor sad regret each courtly scene,  Where thou wert fairest of the fair?O Nanny, can'st thou love so true,  Through perils keen with me go;Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,  To share with him the pang of woe?Say, should disease or pain befall,  Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,Nor wistful those gay scenes recall,  Where thou wert fairest of the fair?And when at last thy love shall die,  Wilt thou receive his parting breath,Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,  And cheer with smiles the bed of death?And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay  Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear,Nor then regret those scenes so gay,  Where thou wert fairest of the fair?Thomas Percy D.D.

D'YE KEN JOHN PEEL?

D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?D'ye ken John Peel at the break of the day?D'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away,With his hounds and his horn in the morning?  CHORUS.—D'ye ken, etc.'Twas the sound of his horn brought me from my bed,And the cry of his hounds has me ofttimes led;For Peel's view holloa would 'waken the dead,Or a fox from his lair in the morning.  CHORUS.—D'ye ken, etc.D'ye ken that hound whose voice is death?D'ye ken her sons of peerless faith?D'ye ken that a fox with his last breathCursed them all as he died in the morning!  CHORUS.—D'ye ken, etc.Yes, I ken John Peel and auld Ruby too,Ranter and Royal and Bellman so true;From the drag to the chase,From the chase to the view,From the view to the death in the morning.  CHORUS.—D'ye ken, etc.And I've follow'd John Peel both often and far.O'er the rasper-fence, the gate, and the bar,From Low Denton side up to Scratchmere Scar,When we vied for the brush in the morning.  CHORUS.—D'ye ken, etc.Then here's to John Peel with my heart and soul.Come fill, fill to him a brimming bowl:For we'll follow John Peel thro' fair or thro' foul,While we're wak'd by his horn in the morning.  CHORUS.—D'ye ken, etc.John Woodstock Graves.