полная версия
Various
Old Ballads
HOME, SWEET HOME
'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek thro' the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home!
There's no place like home!
An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain,
Oh I give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that came at my call,
Give me them with the peace of mind dearer than all.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home!
There's no place like home!
J. Howard Payne.
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO
John Anderson, my Jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my Jo.
John Anderson, my Jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my Jo.
Burns (New Version).
MY PRETTY JANE
My pretty Jane, my pretty Jane!
Ah! never, never look so shy;
But meet me in the evening,
While the bloom is on the rye.
The spring is waning fast, my love,
The corn is in the ear,
The summer nights are coming, love,
The moon shines bright and clear.
Then, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane!
Ah! never look so shy,
But meet me in the evening,
While the bloom is on the rye.
But name the day, the wedding day,
And I will buy the ring;
The lads and maids in favours white
And village bells shall ring.
The spring is waning fast, my love,
The corn is in the ear,
The summer nights are coming, love,
The moon shines bright and clear.
Then, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane!
Ah! never look so shy,
But meet me in the evening,
While the bloom is on the rye.
Edward Fitzball.
ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep,
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure, I rest upon the wave,
For Thou, O Lord, hast pow'r to save.
I know Thou wilt not slight my call,
For Thou dost note the sparrow's fall,
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.
And such the trust that still were mine,
Tho' stormy winds swept o'er the brine;
Or though the tempest's fiery breath
Rous'd me from sleep to wreck and death!
In ocean cave still safe with Thee,
The germ of immortality;
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.
Mrs. Willard.
THE MINSTREL BOY
The Minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.—
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its cords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!"
Thomas Moore.
ON THE BANKS OF ALLAN WATER
On the banks of Allan Water,
When the sweet Springtime did fall,
Was the miller's lovely daughter,
The fairest of them all.
For his bride a soldier sought her,
And a winning tongue had he:
On the banks of Allan Water,
None so gay as she.
On the banks of Allan Water,
When brown Autumn spreads its store,
Then I saw the miller's daughter,
But she smiled no more;
For the Summer grief had brought her,
And the soldier false was he;
On the banks of Allan Water,
None so sad as she.
On the banks of Allan Water,
When the Winter snow fell fast,
Still was seen the miller's daughter,
Chilling blew the blast.
But the miller's lovely daughter,
Both from cold and care was free:
On the banks of Allan Water,
There a corpse lay she.
M.G. Lewis.
AULD LANG SYNE
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' auld lang syne?
CHORUS.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak' a cup' o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wandered mony a weary foot
Sin auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.
We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,
From mornin' sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.
And here's a hand, my trusty frien',
And gie's a hand o' thine;
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,
And surely I'll be mine;
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.
Burns.
WITHIN A MILE OF EDINBURGH TOWN
'Twas within a mile of Edinburgh town,
In the rosy time of the year;
Sweet flowers bloom'd,
and the grass was down,
And each shepherd woo'd his dear.
Bonnie Jocky, blythe and gay,
Kiss'd sweet Jenny making hay:
The lassie blush'd, and frowning cried,
"No, no, it will not do;
I canna, canna, wonna, wonna,
manna buckle to."
Jocky was a wag that never would wed,
Though long he had follow'd the lass:
Contented she earn'd
and eat her brown bread,
And merrily turn'd up the grass.
Bonnie Jocky, blythe and free,
Won her heart right merrily:
Yet still she blush'd, and frowning cried,
"No, no, it will not do;
I canna, canna, wonna, wonna,
manna buckle to."
But when he vow'd he would
make her his bride,
Though his flocks and herds
were not few,
She gave him her hand, and a kiss beside,
And vow'd she'd for ever be true.
Bonnie Jocky, blythe and free,
Won her heart right merrily:
At church she no more frowning cried,
"No, no, it will not do;
I canna, canna, wonna, wonna,
manna buckle to."
Anon.
THE NIGHT-PIECE TO JULIA
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow,
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there's none to affright thee.
Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear, without number.
Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet
Thy silv'ry feet,
My soul I'll pour into thee.
Herrick.