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Various
Old Ballads
TOM BOWLING
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty.
But now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly;
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.
Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches,
In vain Tom's life has doff'd;
For though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.
Charles Dibdin.
MY LOVE IS LIKE THE RED RED ROSE
My love is like the red red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
My love is like the melody
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands of life shall run.
But, fare thee weel, my only love,
And fare thee weel awhile;
And I will come again, my dear,
Though 'twere ten thousand mile.
Burns.
WIDOW MALONE
Did you hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
Who lived in the town of Athlone!
Ohone!
Oh, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts,
So lovely the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more,
And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;
From the minister down
To the clerk of the crown,
All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mistress Malone,
'Twas known,
That no one could see her alone,
Ohone!
Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Mister O'Brien, from Clare,—
How quare!
It's little for blushing they care
Down there,
Put his arm round her waist—
Gave ten kisses at laste—
"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,
My own!"
"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone."
And the widow they all thought so shy,
My eye!
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,
For why?
But "Lucius," says she,
"Since you've now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone,
Ohone!
You may marry your Mary Malone."
There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong,
And one comfort, it's not very long,
But strong,—
If for widows you die,
Learn to kiss, not to sigh,
For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,
Ohone!
Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone.
Charles Lever.
THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN
And did you ne'er hear of a jolly young waterman,
Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply?
And he feathered his oars with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each heart and delighting each eye.
He look'd so neat, and he row'd so steadily,
The maidens all flock'd in his boat so readily;
And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air,
That this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.
What sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry!
'Twas clean'd out so nice, and so painted withal;
He was always first oars when the fine city ladies
In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall.
And oftentimes would they be giggling and leering,
But 'twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering;
For loving or liking he little did care,
For this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.
And yet but to see how strangely things happen,
As he row'd along, thinking of nothing at all,
He was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming,
That she smil'd, and so straightway in love he did fall.
And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow,
He'd wed her to-night, and not wait till to-morrow;
And how should this waterman ever know care,
When, married, was never in want of a fair.
Charles Dibdin.
CALLER HERRIN'
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're bonnie fish and halesome farin';
Buy my caller herrin',
new drawn frae the Forth.
When ye were sleeping on your pillows,
Dreamt ye aught o' our puir fellows,
Darkling as they face the billows,
A' to fill our woven willows.
Buy my caller herrin',
They're bonnie fish and halesome farin';
Buy my caller herrin',
new drawn frae the Forth.
Caller herrin', caller herrin'.
An' when the creel o' herrin' passes,
Ladies clad in silks and laces,
Gather in their braw pelisses,
Toss their heads and screw their faces;
Buy my caller herrin',
They're bonnie fish and halesome farin';
Buy my caller herrin',
new drawn frae the Forth.
Noo neebor wives, come, tent my tellin',
When the bonnie fish ye're sellin'
At a word be aye your dealin',
Truth will stand when a' things failin';
Buy my caller herrin',
They're bonnie fish and halesome farin';
Buy my caller herrin',
new drawn frae the Forth.
Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?
They're no brought here without brave darin',
Buy my caller herrin',
Ye little ken their worth.
Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?
O ye may ca' them vulgar farin';
Wives and mithers maist despairin',
Ca' them lives o' men.
Caller herrin', caller herrin'.
Lady Nairne.
A HUNTING WE WILL GO
The dusky night rides down the sky,
And ushers in the morn;
The hounds all join in glorious cry,
The huntsman winds his horn.
And a hunting we will go.
The wife around her husband throws
Her arms to make him stay:
"My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows;
You cannot hunt to-day."
Yet a hunting we will go.
Away they fly to 'scape the rout,
Their steeds they soundly switch;
Some are thrown in, and some thrown out,
And some thrown in the ditch.
Yet a hunting we will go.
Sly Reynard now like lightning flies,
And sweeps across the vale;
And when the hounds too near he spies,
He drops his bushy tail.
Then a hunting we will go.
Fond echo seems to like the sport,
And join the jovial cry;
The woods, the hills the sound retort,
And music fills the sky.
When a hunting we do go.
At last his strength to faintness worn,
Poor Reynard ceases flight;
Then hungry, homeward we return,
To feast away the night.
And a drinking we do go.
Ye jovial hunters, in the morn
Prepare then for the chase;
Rise at the sounding of the horn
And health with sport embrace.
When a hunting we do go.
Henry Fielding.