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Various
Old Ballads
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 glee
Ye 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 blamed
Because 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 tripping
With 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 swim
To 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 field
Your glasses and pots no comfort will yield;
But a good leather bottèl standing by
Will 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 deer
He 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.