More Scarce Songs

Index:

Texts: Mostly Irish

At ZN787 in the broadside ballad index here you will see that the tune direction for "The Downfal of the Whiggs", c 1684, is "Patrick Flemmen he was a Valiant Souldier". We do not find the ballad of "Patrick Fleming" until about a century to a century and a quarter later, when it appears in the Madden collection without imprint. This is reprinted in Holloway and Black's 'Later English Broadside Ballads', I, #90. We see from the text below that this ballad has a number of traditional versions [Laws L13B (older form) and L13A, Roud# 533-4]. It's a version of the favourite Irish song McCollister/ The Irish Robber/ Whiskey in the Jar. Flemming was executed on Apr. 24, 1650 Patrick Flemming . This type of 'last goodnight' ballad was often written on the day of execution or very soon thereafter (and sometimes before, so it could be sold at the public execution). The Madden collection also contains an issue of the "Whiskey in the Jar" version, but I have no copy of it. For traditional versions of the older form see Helen Hartness Flanders, "McCollister", in 'Vermont Folk-Songs and Ballads', and "Lovel, the Robber" in 'The New Green Mountain Songster'.

Patrick Flemming

Patrick Flemming was a Vallient Soldier,
He carried his Blunderbuss upon his shouldier
He cockt his Pistol and drew his Rapier,
Stand and deliver for I am the taker fal, lal,

If you're Patrick Flemming as I do suppose you be,
We are three Pedlars a ganging so free sir,
We are three Pedlars a ganging to Dublin,
Nothing at all in ur Pockets but our loading.

Says Patrick Flemming prithe don't trifle,
For I am resolved Your packs for to rifle,
Here is a bank on which they must rest on,
To search tham all I have a Commission.

Loath they were to do as he commanded,
But knowing Patrick charg's double-handed,
Searching their packs most carefully round,
There did he find four Hundred pound.

Oh! I have two brothers they're both in the army
The one is at Cork and the other at Kilkenny,
If they were here both blyth and bonny,
I'd rather see them than any one dear honey.

As I was going over Ruberry mountain,
Gold and silver there was counting
He thought it little I thought it better,
I took the Gold from Colonel Pepper.

My Whore she proved false and that is the reason
Or else Patrick Flemming had never been taken,
When I was asleep and knew nothing of the matter
Then she loaded my arms with Water:

Oh Patrick Flemming how often have I told you
With Swords with Pistols we would surround You,
For kissing of other mens wives brisk and merry,
as You was going to Londonderry.

Now my dear brothers I must leave You,
For of my life they will bereave me
But when he set foot upon the Ladder
He briskly called for his hat and Feather.

Now You pretty Wives of fair London City
E'er it is long I sure shall be withe Ye,
So bold and so Gallan i'lle gane to ye
That halters not made that e'er can undo me.

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Mostly Scots

Wrong tune directions:

How can I Keep my Maidenhead; Tune - The Birks of Abergeldie:
   Wrong, and I think probably an error "The Braes of 
   Auchtertyre", a version of the tune noted as follows: Scots 
   tradition says the tune "Lenox Love to Blantyre" is of the 
   17th century, but it was first published in Scotland in 1757 
   (Bremner's Reels, Lib. of Congress). The Sinkler
   MS copy of 1710 has no title. The earliest copy of the tune 
   with a title is "How can I keep my maidenhead" in bk 2. of 
   Walsh's Caledonian Country Dances, c 1736. As 
   "Lenox Love to Blantyre" the tune, with directions for its 
   country dance, is in The Merry Medley, II, 1745. 
He till't and she till't; Tune - Maggie Lauder: Wrong, to its own 
   tune.
O Can Ye Labour Lee, Young Man; Tune - Sir Arch. Grant's 
   Strathspey: This has been identified as D. Dow's ever popular
   "Monymusk", originally "Sir Arch. Grant of Monymusk's
   Strathspey". But the tune direction is wrong. This should be 
   "Sir Alex Don's Strathspey" (modern "Auld Lang Syne"). An 
   Arch. Grant was a member of the Crochallan Fencibles (who
   probably compiled The Merry Muses), and this may have been an
   inside joke.

Our Jock's Brak Yestreen; Tune - Gramachree: This is an Irish
   name for the Scots tune "Will you go to Flanders". Oswald
   published the tune thirty one years before Ogle's "Gramachree
   Molly" appeared (1774), indeed, several years before Ogle was
   born.
Had I the Wyte she Bade me; Tune - Highland Hills: This is a late
   name for the tune "Had I the Wate she Bade me", see above.
I rede you beware o' the Ripples; Tune - The Taylor's faun thro'
   the bed, &c,: This is a late title for "Beware of the
   Ripples", CPC bk 11, p. 28, c 1760.
She gripet at the Girtest o't; Tune - East Nook of Fife; This is 
   a late title for "She griped at ye greatest on't", CPC bk. 4,
   p. 5, c 1752.
The Modiewark; Tune - O for ane an' twenty Tam: This title comes
   from Burns' song to the tune. The tune is "The mowdewart" in
   book 3 of Walsh's Caledonian Country Dances, 
   1740; untitled in CPC, bk. 4, p. 8-9, c 1752; and as 
   "Mowdewort" again in R. Bride's Twenty Four Country 
   Dances for the Year 1769 (in Lib. of Congress).

Below are several songs from The Merry Muses of Caledonia, for which the age of their tunes suggest that they were old songs in 1799, i.e., traditional songs.

The Mill, Mill - O.
 
As I came down yon water side,
  And by yon Shillin hill, O;
There I speir'd a bonny lass,
  A lass that  loed right weel, O.
The mill, mill, O, and the kill, kill, O,
An' the coggin' o' Pegy's wheel, O,
The sacks an' the sieve, a' she did leave,
An' danc'd the millars reel, O.

I spier'd at her, gin she cou'd play,
  But the lasie had nae skill, O;
An' yet she was nae a' to blame,
  She pat it in my will, O,
  The mill, #c.

Then she fell o'er, an' sae did I,
  An' danc'd the millars reel, O,
Whene'er that bonny lassie comes again,
  She shall hae her ma't ground weel, O.
  The mill, &c.

Play: MILLMILL, S2.ABC

I Rede You Beware of the Ripples.
Tune- The Taylor's faun thro' the bed, &c. [Scots Musical Museum, #212, where tune is "Beware of the Ripples"]

I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man,
I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man;
Tho' the saddle be saft, ye needna ride aft,
For fear that the girdin' beguile ye, young man.

I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man,
I rede you, &c.
Tho' music be pleasure, tak' music in measure;
Or ye may want win' i' your whistle, young man.

I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man,
I rede you, &c.
Whate'er ye bestow, do less than ye dow,
The mair will be thought o' your kindness young man.

I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man,
I rede you beware o' the ripples, young man;
Gif you wad be strang, and wish to live lang,
Dance less wi' your a--e to the kipples, young man.

Play: S2, BEWARRP1- Tak Tent to the Rippells Gudeman.
         BEWARRP2- The Rippells, 1736.
         BEWARRP3- Beware of the Ripples, c 1759. 

Tail Todle
[Merry Muses of Caledonia, 1799. No tune indicated, i.e., its own]

[Chorus]
Tail todle, tail todle;
Tammie gart my tail todle;
At my a--e wi' diddle doddle,
Tammie gart my tail todle.

Our gudewife held o'er to Fife,
For to buy a coal-riddle;
Lang or she came back again,
Tammie gart my tail todle.
Tail, &c.

When I'm dead I'm out o' date;
When I'm sick I'm fu' o' trouble;
When I'm weel I step about,
An' Tammie gars my tail todle.              
Tail, &c. 
 
Jenny Jack she gae a plack,
Helen Wallace gae a boddle;
Quo' the bride, its o'er little
For to mend a broken doddle.
Tail, &c.

Play: S2, TAILTDL1- Fiddle Faddle
         TAILTDL2- Lasses gar your tails toddle
         TAILTDL3- Taill Todle

The Modiewark

[The Merry Muses of Caledonia. Tune- O for ane an' twenty Tam.
Which is Burn's song to "The Modiewark"]

The modiewark has done me ill,
And below my apron has biggit a hill;
I maun consult some learned clark
About this wanton modiewark.

[Chorus]
An' O the wanton modiewark,
The weary wanton modiewark;
I maun consult some learned clark
About this wanton modiewark.

O first it gat between my taes,
Out o'er my garter niest it gaes;
At length it crap below my sark,
The weary wanton modiewark.
An' O, &c.

This modiewark, tho' it be blin';
If ance its nose you lat it in,
Then to the hilts, within a crack
It's out o sight, the modiewark.
An' O, &c.

When Marjorie was made a bride,
An' Willy lay down by her side,
Syne nocht was hard, when a' was dark
But kicking at then modiewark.
An' O, &c.

Play: S2, MODWARK1- Mowdewort, c 1740
         MODWARK2- Scotch Jig (Mowdiewort), c 1752

My Ain Kind Deary / The Lee Rig

Here's a song from David Herd's MSS, c 1776.

The Ley-Rigg

Will ye gang o'er the ley-rigg
Wi' me, my kind deary O,
And cudle there fu' kindly,
Myne ain kind dearie O?

[Chorus]
I'll row you east, I'll row you west,
I'll row you the way you like best,
An I'll row you o'er the ley-rig,
Mine ain kind deary O.

At thornie dyke and birken tree
We'll daff and ne'er be weary O,
They'll skug ill een frae you to me,
My ain kind dearie O.

Nae heard wi' kent or collie there
Shall e'er come near to feare ye O,
But lav'rocks, singing in the air,
Shall woo like me there dearie O.

While others herd their ewes and lambs
And boil for wardly gear, my jo,
Upon the ley my pleasure growns,
Wi' you, my kind dearie O.

Herd's MSS contains a related 4 line verse that seems to be the basis of the 8 line one that Burns quoted in the Interleaved Museum.

Here's another from 'The Merry Muses of Caledonia', 1799.

My Ain Kind Deary

I'll lay thee o'er the lea-rig,
Lovely Mary, dearie, O;
I'll lay thee o'er the lee-rig
My lovely Mary, deary, O.
Altho' the night were ne'er so wet
An' I were ne'er so weary O!
I'd lay thee o'er the lee-rig
My lovely Mary, deary, O.
[Cho] Altho' the night, &c.

Look down ye gods from yonder sky,
An' see how blest a man am I;
No envy my fond heart alarms,
Encircled in my Mary's arms.
Lyin' across the lee-rig,
Wi' lovely Mary, deary, O;
Lyin' across the lee-rig,
Wi' my aind kind deary, O!
[Cho] Altho' the night, &c.

The tune was known both as "My ain kind deary" and "The Lee Rig". 

Play: S2, KNDDEAR1- My Ain Kind Deary
         KNDDEAR2- The Lee Rigg

My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing.[Merry Muses, 1799]

My wife's a wanton wee thing,
My wife's a wanton wee thing,
My wife's a wanton wee thing,
She winna be guided by me.

She play'd the loon or she was maried,
She play'd the loon or she was maried,
She play'd the loon or she was maried,
She'll do it again or she die.

She sell'd her coat and she drank it,
She sell'd her coat and she drank it,
She row'd hersel in a blanket,
She winna be guided for me.

She mindit na when I forbad her,
She mindit na when I forbad her,
I took a rung and I claw'd her,
An' a braw good bairn was she.

Play: S2, WNTNTHG- My Wife's a wanton Wi Thing, 1731.

Dainty Davie

[First, Merry Muses version. Based on a tale of the Rev. David
Williamson and the daughter of the Lord and Lady Cherrytrees, in
Scotch Presbyterian Eloquence Display'd, 1692]

O leeze me on his curly pow,
Bonie Davie, dainty Davie;
Leeze me on his curly pow,
He was my dainty Davie.

Being pursu'd by the dragoons,
Within my bed he was laid down,
And weel I wat he was worth his room
My ain dear dainty Davie.
Leeze, &c

My minnie laid him at my back,
I trow he lay na lang at that,
But turn'd, and in a verra crack
Produc'd a dainty Davie.
Leeze, &c.

Then in the field amang the pease,
Behin' the house o' Cherrytrees,
Again he wan atweesh my thies,
And, splash! gaed out his gravy.
Leeze, &c.

But had I goud, or had I land,
It should be a' at his command;
I'll ne'er forget what he pat, i' my hand,
It was a dainty Davie.
Leeze, &c.

[Version in Herd's Scots Songs, 1776]
[Chorus first]
O leeze me on your curly pow,
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie;
Leeze me on your curly pow,
Mine ain dainty Davie.

It was in and through the window broads,
And a' the tirle wirlies o'd;
The sweetest kiss that e'er I got,
Was frae my dainty Davie.
O leeze me on your curly pow, &c.

It was down amang my dady's pease,
And underneath the cherry-trees;
O there he kist me as he pleas'd,
For he was mine ain dear Davie.
O leeze me on your curly pow, &c.

When he was chas'd by a dragoon,
Into my bed he was laid down;
I thought him wordy o' his room,
And he's ay my dainty Davie.
O leeze me on your curly pow, &c.

Play: S2, DANTDVY- Dainty Davie, 1701

He till't and she till't.

He till't and she till't
  An' a' to make a lad again;
The auld beld carl
  When he wan on to nod again

An' he dang, an' she flang,
  A' a' to mak a laddie o't,
But he bor'd and she roar'd,
  An' couldna mak a lassie o't

Play: S2, HETILLT, Oswald's CPC

Go to Index

Had I The Wyte She Bade Me

Had I the wyte, had I the wyte,
     Had I the wyte she bad me;
For she was steward in the house,
     And I was fit-man ladddie;
And when I wadna' do't again,
     A silly cow she ca'd me;
She straik't my head, and clapt my cheeks
     And lous'd my breeks and bad me.

Could I for shame, could I for shame,
     Could I for shame deny her;
Or in the bed was I to blame,
     She bad my lye beside her;
I pat six inches in her wame,
     A quarter wadna fly'd her;
For ay the man I ca'd it hame,
     Her ports they grew the wider.

My tartan plaid, when it was dark,
     Could I refuse to share it;
She lifted up her hollan-sark,
     And bad me fin' the gair o't:
Or how could I amang the garse,
     But gie her hilt and hair o't;
She clasp'd her houghs about my arse,
     And ay she glowr'd for mair o't.

Play: S2, HADIWAT, Oswald's CPC

Go to Index

[From The Merry Muses of Caledonia, 1799

Green Grow the Rashes

[Chorus first]

Green grow the rashes, O,
Green grow the rashes, O,
The lassies the hae wimble-bores,
The widows they hae gashes, O.

O wat ye ought o' fishe Meg,
And how she trow'd the webster, O,
She loot me see her carrot c--t,
And sell'd it for a labster, O.
Green, &c.

Mistress Mary cow'd her thing,
Because she wad be gentle, O,
And span the fleece upon a rock,
To waft a Highland mantle, O.
Green, &c.

An' heard ye o' the coat o' arms,
The Lyon brought our lady, O,
The crest was, couchant, sable c--t,
The motto ,"ready, ready, O,
Green, &c.

An' ken ye Leezie Lundie, O,
The godly Leezie Lundie, O,
She m--s like reek thro' a the week,
But finger f---s on Sunday, O.
Green, &c.

Play: S2 - GREENGRO

John Anderson, My Jo.

JOHN Anderson, my jo,               
   I wonder what you mean;                 
To rise so soon at morn,                
   And sit up so late at e'en:    
You'll blear out all your eyne,        
   John; and why will you do so?         
Gang sooner tull your bed at e'en,         
   John Anderson, my jo.

I wit it is a bonny thing         
   For to look o'er the dyke;         
But yet it is much bonnier,          
   John, to feel your hammer strike:       
To feel your hammer strike, John,
   And riggle to and fro;
So wall I like your chaunter-pipe,
   John Anderson, my jo.

I'm sided like a salmon,
   I'm breasted like a swan;
My wem is like a downy cod:
   Fye, John, gin ye come on.
Fro' my top-knot to my toe, [John,]
   Is like the driven snow;
'Tis aw for your conveniency,
   John Anderson, my jo.

When I begin to snort, John,
   See that you gird me fast;
When I begin to snort, John,
   See that you gird me fast:
See that you gird me fast, John
   Till I cry oh and oh;
Your back shall crack, e're I cry that  [error, slack]
   John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo,
   Is a right good honest man;
And had as good a tale-tree[,]
   As ony in the land:
But now it's waxen wain, John,
   And wollops to and fro;
There's twa go-ups, for ane go-down,
   John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
  I wonder what you mean,
To rise so soon in the morning,
   And sit up so late at e'en;
Ye'll bleur out a your eyn, John,
   And why will you do so?
Come sooner to your bed at e'en, 
   John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John  
   When first you did begin,
You had as good a tailtree 
   As ony ither man -
But now 'tis waxen weak, John,
   And wriggles to and fro;
I gi'e twa gae ups for ane gae down,
   John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson my jo,
   You're welcome when you please;
Either in the warm bed, John,
   Or else upon the claoths;
Or you shall have the horns, John,
   Upon your head to grow;
And thats the cuckold's malison,
     John Anderson, my jo.

When you come on before, John,
   See that you do your best,
When you begin to haud me,   
   See that ye gripe me fast:
See that ye gripe me fast, John,
   Until that I cry Oh!
Your back shall crack, e'er I cry slack
   John Anderson, my jo.

O! 'tis a fine thing
   To keek out o'er the dyke,
But 'tis a muckle finer thing
   To see your hurdies fike;
To see your hurdies fyke, John,
   And wriggle to and fro;
Tis then I like your chaunter pipe,
   John Anderson, my jo.

I'm backed like a salmon,
   I'm breasted like a swan,
My wyme is like a downcod,
   My middle you may span;
From top unto my toe, John,
   I'm like the new fawn snow;
 And 'tis a' for your convenciency,
   John Anderson, my jo.

First text above is from page 202, SONG CCI, of Philomel: Being a Small Collection of only the Best English Songs. London: Printed for M. Cooper, at the Globe in Pater-noster-Row. 1744. The song is without title or tune direction. With a few small spelling and punctuation changes, mostly for the worst, and considerable capitalization, it was reprinted by Cooper in Vol. I, p. 303, of The Comic Miscellany, 1756. The second text is that on p. 309 of the 2nd edition, 1768, of The Masque (the earliest dated edition among four total that I've been able to locate). John Stephen Farmer in Merry Songs and Ballads printed a text supposedly from p. 292 of this edition of The Masque, but his text is not from that source. Except for spelling and punctuation, the text (with music) on p. 306 of The Convivial Songster (1782) follows that in The Masque. The six verse version is also in The Humours of London, p. 79, n.d. [c 1770]

A traditional version of the last verse was collected by J. M. Carpenter from Mrs. Reid of Lochabers, Scotland, about 1928, and is preserved on the original disk of the Carpenter collection in the Folklore Archive of the Library of Congress. The disk is #14836, side B, entitled in the index "She Was Breisted Like the Swan". The phono record is in such poor condition that I could not transcribe the words or even ascertain if the tune is "John Anderson, my jo".

The tune appears in a mid-seventeenth century Scots manuscript known as the Skene MS, which I have seen. The tune there is printed from G. F. Graham's translation of the tablatue by William Dauney in Ancient Scottish Melodies, p. 219, 1838. Dauney, at the time, believed the manuscript to be much older than modern musical historians place its date. The tune seems to have first been printed in A. Stuart's Music for Allan Ramsay's Collection of Scots Songs, p. 114-5, Edinburgh, c 1726. It is in the ballad operas Achilles, 1733, and The Whim, 1734, and in book 4 of J. Oswald's Caledonian Pocket Companion, c 1752. The tune is also in The Musical Miscellany, VI, 1731, and The British Musical Miscellany, III, n.d. [1735].

C. M. Simpson reprints Dauney's tune in BBBM, p. 394, and also prints the later version of the tune from The Convivial Songster. Without mentioning what text is printed to the tune in the latter, he directs his readers to a late edition of The Merry Muses of Caledonia.

The first half of the third verse of the first version appeared in slightly different form in "Downe: sate the shepard" in the Percy Folio Manuscript, c 1640, reprinted in the supplementary volume Loose and Humorous Songs, p. 57. It is given more fully in John Aubrey's Brief Lives under John Overall, and is also in Choyce Drollery, 1656. John Wardroper in 'Love and Drollery' gives a text in modern form, and cites a manuscript copy in the Dyce collection in the Albert and Victoria Museum.

"The Shepheards Lamentation for His Love," Choyce Drollery

Down lay the Shepheard Swain,
     So sober and demure,
Wishing for his wench again,
     So bonny and so pure.
With his head on hillock low,
And his arms on kembow;
And all for the losse of her hy nonny nonny no.

His tears fell as thin,
     As water from a still,
His haire upon his chin,
     Grew like tyme upon a hill.
His cherry cheeks were pale as snow,
Testifying his mickle woe;
And all was for the loss of her hy nonny nonny no.

Sweet she was, as fond of love,
     As ever fettered Swain;
Never such a bonny one
     Shall I enjoy again.
Sit ten thousand on a row,
Ile forbod that any show
Ever the like of her hy nonny nonny no.

Fac'd she was of Filbard hew,   [See John Anderson, 
     And bosom'd like a Swanne:          [My Jo.
Basck'd she was of bended yew
     And wasted by a span.           [waisted]
Haire she had as black as Crowe,
From the head unto the toe,
Down, down, all over, hy nonny, nonny no.

With her Mantle tuck't up high,
     She foddered her Flocke,
So bucksome and alluringly,
     Her knee upheld her smock;
So nimbly did she use to goe,
So smooth she danc'd on tip-toe,
That all men were fond of her, hy nonny nonny no.

She simpred like a Holy-day,
     And smiled like the Spring,
She pratled like a popinjay,
     And like a swallow sing.
She tript it like a barren doe,
And strutted like a Gar-crow:
Which made me so fone of her, hy nonny nonny no.

To trip it on the merry Down,
     To dance the lively Hay,
To wrestle for a green Gown
     In heat of all the day,
Never would she say me no.
Yet me thought she had though
Never enough of her, hy nonny nonny no.

But gone she is, the blithest Lasse
     That ever trod on plain
What ever hath betided her,
     Blame not the Shepheard Swain.
For why, she was her own foe,
And gave her selfe the overthrowe,
By being too free of her hy nonny nonny no.

Go to Index

Annie Laurie.

She's backit like a peacock,
She's breastit like a swan,
She's jimp about the middle,
Her waist ye weill may span;
Her waist ye weil may span,
And she has a rolling eye,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd day down my head and die

Sir Robert Laurie, first baronet of the Maxwelton family (created 27th March, 1685), by his second wife, a daughter of Riddell of Minto, had three sons and four daughters, of whom Annie was much celebrated for her beauty, and made a conquest of Mr. Douglas of Fingal, who is said to have composed these verses- under an unlucky star, for the lady afterwards married Mr. Fergusson of Craigderroch.
--------------------------------
C. K. Sharpe, A Ballad Book, 1823.

For the second verse above see "Down lay the shepherd swain" and "John Anderson, My Jo".

Go to Index
Our Goodman

In David Herd's Scots Songs, 1776 (also in Herd's MSS, and as Child ballad #274). No earlier copy has yet been discovered, in spite of considerable effort to do so. Herd gave no music nor did he indicate a tune. David Clarke, musical editor of SMM, and Johnson the engraver and publisher didn't know the tune, but heard of a man in Edinburgh, a Mr. Geikie, who sang the song. They visited Mr. Geikie, and recovered the tune, and gave it as SMM #454 (1797). They also got some corrections to Herd's text, but from Geike's singing or Clarke's arranging? For that reason I give here the SMM text.

Our goodman came hame at e'en,
   And hame came he;
And there he saw a saddle-horse,
   Where no horse should be.
O How came this horse here?
   Or how can it be
O how cam this horse here,
   Without the leave o' me?
     A horse quo' she;
     Ay a horse quo' he.
Ye auld blind dotard carl,
   And blinder mat ye be
'Tis but a dainty milk cow,
   My minny sent to me.
     A milk cow! quo he;
     Ay a milk cow, quo she.
O far hae I ridden,
   And meikle hae I seen,
But a saddle on a milk cow
   a_fore I ne'er saw nane.

Our goodman came hame at e'en
   And hame came he;
He spy'e a pair of jackboots,
   Where nae boots should be.
What's this goodwife?
   What's this I see?
How came these boots there
   Without the leave o' me!
     Boots. quo' she:
     Ay, boots quo' he.
Shame fa' your cuckold face,
   And ill mat ye see,
It's but a pair of water stoups
   The cooper sent to me.
     Water stoups, quo' he:
     Ay, water stoups, quo' she.
Far hae I ridden,
   And farer hae I gane,
But siller spurs on water stoups
   Saw I never nane.

Our goodman came hame at e'en,
   and hame came he;
And then he saw a (siller) sword,
   Where a sword should not be:
What's this now goodwife?
   What's this I see?
O how came this sword here,
   Without the leave o' me?
     A sword, quo' she:
     Ay, a sword, quo' he.
Shame fa' your cuckold face,
   And ill mat you see,
It's but a parridge spurtie
   My minnie sent to me.
     (A parridge spurtle! quo' he: [()missing in Herd
     Ay, a parridge spurtle quo' she.) [missing in Herd
Weil, far hae I ridden,
   And muckle hae I seen;
But siller banded (parridge) spurtles [() missing in Herd
   Saw I never nane.

Our goodman came hame at e'en,
   And hame came he;
There he spy'd a powder'd wig,
   Where nae wig should be.
What's this now goodwife?
   What's this I see?
How came this wig here
   Without the leave o' me.
     A wig! quo' she:
     Ay, a wig quo' he.
Shame fa' your cuckold face,
   And ill mat you see,
'Tis naething but a clocken hen
   My minnie sent to me.
     A clocken hen! quo' he:
     Ay, a clocken hen, quo' she.
Far hae I ridden,
   and muckle hae I seen,
But powder on a clocken-hen.
   Saw I never nane.

Our goodman came hame at e'en,
   And hame came he;
And there he saw a muckle coat,
   Where nae coat shou'd be.
O how came this coat here
   How can this be?
How came this coat here
   Without the leave o' me?
Ye auld blind dotard carl.
   Blind mat ye be,
It's but a pair of blankets
   My minnie sent to me.
     Blankets! quo' he:
     Ay, blankets, quo' she.
Far hae I ridden,
   And muckle hae I seen,
But buttons upon blankets
   Saw I never nane.

Ben went our goodman,
   And ben went he;
And there he spy'd a sturdy man,
   Where nae man should be.
How came this man here.
   How can this be?
How came this man here.
   Without the leave o' me?
     A man! quo' she:
     Ay, a man, quo' he.
Poor blind body,
   And blinder mat ye be,
It's a new milking maid,
   My mither sent to me.
     A maid! quo' he:
     Ay, a maid, quo' she,
Far hae I ridden,
   And muckle hae I seen,
But lang-bearded maidens
   Saw I never nane.

Play: S2, OURGOOD

Go to Index

The Wren, or, Lennox's Love to Blantyre.

 
The Wren scho lyes in care's bed,
   In care's bed, in care's bed;
The Wren scho lyes in care's bed,
   In meikle dule and pyne--O.

Quhen in came Robin Red-breast,
  Red-breast, Red-breast;
Quhen in came Robin Red-breast,
  Wi' succar-saps and wyne---).

Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this,
  Taste o' this, taste o' this;
Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this,
  It's succar-saps and wyne---O.
Na, ne'er a drap, Robin,
  Robin, Robin;
Na, ne'er a drap, Robin,
  Gin it was ne'er so fine---O.

************************* [i.e., incomplete]

And quhere's the ring I gied ze,
  That I gied ze, that I gied ze.
And quhere's the ring I gied ze,
  Ze little cutty quean---O
I gied it till a soger,
  A soger, a soger,
I gied it till a soger,
  A kynd sweet-heart o' myne---O

The earliest known printed copy of the tune is "How can I keep my maidenhead", see Scots tunes index

Merry Medley dance directions:

Hand a Cross quite round with the second couple, and cast off
Hands a Cross with the third couple, and cast off again
Foot it and cast up to the top 
Right Hand and Left into the second Couples Place
Foot it Corners and turn
Foot it the other Corners and turn
Hey contrary sides
Foot it to your Partner and turn

Holmain MS dance directions, modern terminology, thanks to Sylvia
Miskoe.

First cple cross over with right hands and cast off one place.
First & 3rd cples dance four hands across, half way.
First cple set twice.
First & 3rd cples dance half right and left and first cple end
facing first corners.
Set to and turn first, then second corners.
Reel of 3 on the sides, cross to own side at the end.

How can I keep my maidenhead

How can I keep my maidenhead,
  My maidenhead, my maidenhead;
How can I keep my maidenhead,
  Amang sae mony men, O.

The Captain bad a guinea for't,
  A guinea for't, a Guineas for't;
The Captain bad a guinea for't,
  The Colonel he bad ten, O.

But I'll do as my minnie did,
  My minnie did, my minnie did;
But I'll do as my minnie did,
  For siller I'll hae nane, O.

I'll gie it to a bonie lad,
  A bonie lad, a bonie lad;
I'll gie it to a bonie lad,
  For just as gude again, O.

An auld moulie maidenhead,
  A maidenhead, a maidenhead;
An auld moulie maidenhead,
  The weary wark I ken, O.

The stretchin' o't, the strivin' o't,
  The borin' o't, the rivin' o't,
And ay the double drivin' o't,
  The farther ye gang ben, O.
   
Play: S2, LNXLV1, LNXLV2

Go to Index
A rather different version is given in C. K. Sharpe's A Ballad Book, 1823:

My Mither Built a Wee, Wee House.

My mither built a wee, wee house,
Awee, wee house, awee, wee house,
My mither built a wee, wee house,
To keep mer frae the men, O!
The wa's fell in, and I fell out,
The wa's fell in, and I fell out,
The wa's fell in, and I fell out,
Amang the merry men, O!

How can I keep my maidenhead,
How can I keep my maidenhead,
How can I keep my maidenhead,
Amang sae mony men,O?
Ane auld mouldy maidenhead,
Ane auld mouldy maidenhead,
Ane auld mouldy maidenhead,
Seven years and ten, O!

The captain bad a guineas for 't,
A guinea for 't, a guinea for 't
The captain bad a guineas for 't,
The colonel he bad ten, O!
The sergeant he bad naething for 't,
Bad naething for 't, bad naething for 't,
The sergeant he bad naething for 't,
And he came farrest ben, O!

The Reel of Stumpie

A slee one, A wee one,
  I nee're saw sike a slee one;
The first night that I with him lay,
  Oh, then hee gott this wee one.

This wee one, This wee one,
  This bonny winking wee one;
I'de bin a Maide amongst the rest
  Were nor I gott this wee one.

    
    Wrap up, rowl up, rowl up the feetie on't
    Wrap up, rowl up, rowl up the feetie on't
    We never knew we had a bairnie till we
      heard the greetin on't

    Red-lipped rosy-cheeked just like the mother on't
    Blackhaired, knock-kneed, just like the father on't
    We never knew we had a bairnie till we heard
       the greetin on't

The tune has long been a favourite, under several titles. There is a tune "Stumpie" in a Scots manuscript of 1734, but this has not been printed or identified to the best of my knowledge. "Stumpie" was printed in Aird's Airs, II, (1782) and as "Stumpie Strathspey" in the first book of Gow's Strathspey Reels, (1784). The song is one of the Scots chorus first ones, and the chorus and first verse are in The Scots Musical Museum, #457, with the tune. John Glen in Early Scottish Melodies, (SMM #457), pointed out that the tune was entitled "Butter'd Pease" in Book 1 of Walsh's Caledonian Country Dances (c 1734), but there are earlier copies under this title. Wm. Stenhouse correctly pointed out the tune as "Jockey has gotten a Wife" in the ballad opera The Female Parson, 1730 (a rather poor version). As "Butter'd Peas" the "Stumpie" tune is also in The Fashionable Lady, 1730, The Boarding School, 1732, Achilles and The Decoy, 1733, and The Whim, 1734. [John Glen pointed out that "Jockey has gotten a Wife is an entirely different tune. As it turns out both Stenhouse and Glen were correct. The Female Parson also has a tune labeled "Butter'd Pease," which is a version of "Jockey has gotten a Wife" (in 6/4 rather than 9/8). Thus, the titles of the two tunes were switched around in that ballad opera. Correct 9/8 versions of this other tune are "Jockey has gotten a Wife" in the recently reprinted (1990) Dublin, c 1726, collection of the Neals, A Choice Collection of Country Dances, and "Jockey has got him a wife" in the score of a London stage dance production of 1772, The Irish Fair.]

In the Northumberland Vickers MS (ed. by Mat. Seattle, The Great Northern Tune Book, II, #202, 1987) our tune is entitled "Jack's be the Daddy On't - or- Butter'd Peas".

The Reel O' Stumpie.

Wap and row, wap and row,
  Wap and row the feetie o't
I thought I was a maiden fair,
  Till I heard the grettie o't

My daddie was a fiddler fine,
  My minnie she made mantie O,
And I mysel a thumpin quean,
  And try'd the reel of stumpie O.

Lang kail, pease and leeks,
  They were at the kirst'nin' o't,
Lang lads wanton breeks,
  They were at the getting o't.
    Wap and row, &c.

The Bailie he gaed farthest ben,
  Mess John was ripe and ready o't,
But the Sherra had a wanton fling,
  The Sherra was the daddie o't.
       Wap an' row, &c.

Play: S1, STMPIE1, Female Parson 
      S1, STMPIE2, Achilles   
      S1, STMPIE3, SMM #457

[From Herd's Scots Songs, 1776]

Jenny's Bawbie.

[Cho:] And a' that e'er my Jenny had,
My Jenny had, my Jenny had;
A' theat e'er my Jenny had,
Was ae bawbie.

There's your plack, and my plack,
And your plack, and my plack,
Any my plack and your plack,
And Jenny's bawbie.
&nbps;&nbps;&nbps;&nbps;And a' the e'er, &c.

We'll put it a' in the pint-stoup,
The pint-stoup, the pint-stoup,
We'll put in in the pint-stoup,
And birle't a' three.
&nbps;&nbps;&nbps;&nbps;And a' the e'er, &c.

[I don't have the tune from Joshua Campbell's collection of 1778. Song and tune are in 'The Scots Musical Museum', #496 (1797). See the Opies' 'The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes' (Polly put the kettle on) for more history.]

Play S2, Jenny's Babee [later, Polly put the kettle on], Aird's Airs, IV (1794)

Go to Index

["The Cutty Wren", untitled, from Herd's 'Scots Songs', 1776,
the earliest known text. Also in Herd's MSS, printed by Hans
Hecht, p. 200.] 

Will ze go to the wood? quo' FOZIE MOZIE;
Will ze go to the wood? quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE;
Will ze go to the wood? quo' FOSLIN'ene;
Will ze go to the wood? quo' brither and kin.

What to do there? quo' FOZIE MOZIE;
What to do there? quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE;
What to do there? quo' FOSLIN'ene;
What to do there? quo' brither and kin.

To slay the WREN, quo' FOZIE MOZIE:
To slay the WREN, quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE:
To slay the WREN, quo' FOSLIN'ene:
To slay the WREN, quo' brither and kin.

What way will ze get her hame? quo' FOZIE MOZIE;
What way will ze get her hame? quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE;
What way will ze get her hame? quo' FOSLIN'ene;
What way will ze get her hame? quo' brither and kin.

We'll hyre carts and horse, quo' FOZIE MOZIE:
We'll hyre carts and horse, quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE:
We'll hyre carts and horse, quo' FOSLIN'end:
We'll hyre carts and horse, quo' brither and kin.

What way will we get her in? quo' FOZIE MOZIE;
What way will we get her in? quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE;
What way will we get her in? quo' FOSLIN'ene;
What way will we get her in? quo' brither and kin.

We'll drive down the door-cheeks, quo' FOZIE MOZIE:
We'll drive down the door-cheeks, quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE:
We'll drive down the door-cheeks, quo' FOSLIN'ene:
We'll drive down the door-cheeks, quo' brither and kin.

I'll hae a wing, quo' FOZIE MOZIE:
I'll hae another, quo' JOHNIE REDNOZIE:
I'll hae a leg, quo' FOSLIN'ene:
And I'll hae anither, quo' brither and kin.
 

Bonny Dundee

O, fair maid, whase aught that bonny bairn,
O, fair maid, whase aught that bonny bairn?
It is a sodger's son, she said, that's lately gone to Spain,
Te dilly dan, te dilly dan, te dilly, dilly dan.

O, fair maid, what was the sodger's name?
O, fair, &c.
In troth a'tweel, I never speir'd__the mair I was to blame.
Te dilly dan, &c.

O, fair maid, what had that sodger on?
O, fair &c.
A scarlet coat laid o'er wi' gold, a waistcoat o' the same.
Te dilly dan, &c.

O, fair maid, what if he should be slain?
O, fair &c.
The king would lose a brave sodger, and I a pretty man.
Te dilly dan, &c.

O, fair maid, what if he should come hame?
O, fair &c.
The parish priest should marry us, the clerk should say amen.
Te dilly dan, &c.

O, fair maid, would ye that sodger ken?
O, fair &c.
In truth a'tweel, an' that I wad, among ten thousand men.
Te dilly dan, &c.

O, fair maid, what if I be the man?
O, fair &c.
In truth a'twell, it may be so; I'se haud ye for the same.
Te dilly dan, te dilly dan, te dilly, dilly dan. 

O have I burnt, or have I slain?
  Or have I done aught injury?
I've gotten a bonny young lassie wi' bairn,
 The bailie's daughter of bonny Dundee.
Bonny Dundee, and Bonny Dundass,
  Where shall I see sae bonny a lass?
Open your ports, and let me go free,
  I maun stay nae langer in bonny dundee.

 
O whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock?
O silly blind body, O dinna ye see;
I gat it frae a young brisk Sodger Laddie,
Between St. Johnston and bonny Dundee.

Fair may O rare May, fa is yere bairn tull,
It's tul a gallant soldier jist like yersel.

In the fragment C we have:

O fair maid, O rare maid, O what' you sodger's name?
They ca' him Rob Runawa' when he's nae at hame.

That Rob Runawa' looks a bit like a renamed Robin Rattle (formerly Jockey) in:

Jenny Nettles

O Saw ye Jenny Nettles;
Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles.
Saw ye Jenny Nettles,
Coming frae the market:
Wi' Bag and baggage on her back,
Her fee and and bountith in her lap,
wi' Bag and baggage on her back,
And a babie in her oxter

I met ayont the kairny
Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles;
Singing till her bairny,
Robin Rattles bastard:
To flee the dool upo' the stool,
And ilka ane that mocks her,
She round about seeks Robin out,
To stap it in his oxter.

Fy, fy, Robin Rattle
Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle,
Fy, fy, Robin Rattle [Drop this line?]
Use Jenny Nettles kindly;
Score out the blame, and shun the shame,
And without mair debate o't,
Tak hame your wean, make Jenny fain.
The leel and leesome gate o't.

Play S2:- JENNYN Jenny Nettles

[from Ritson's reprint of 'The North-Country Chorister', Durham, (1802) 1809, Song IV. Ritson's remark in aq foot note states that this was lately introduced on the stage by Mrs. Jordan.

The New Highland Lad

There was a Highland laddie courted a lawland lass
There was, &c.
He promis'd for to marry her, but he did not tell her when;
And 'twas all in her heart she lov'd her Highland man.
  
Oh where, and oh where does your Highland laddie dwell?
Oh where, &c.
He lives in merry Scotland, at the sign of the Blue Bell;
And I vow in my heart I love my laddie well.

What cloaths, O what cloaths does your Highland laddie wear?
What cloaths, &c.
His coat is of a Saxon green, his waistcoat of the plaid;
And it's all in my heart I love my Highland lad.

Oh where and oh where is your Highland laddie gone?
Oh where, &c.
He's gone to fight the French whilst George is on the throne,
And I vow in my heart I do wish him safe at home.

And if my highland laddie should chance to come no more,
And if, &c.
They'll call my chid a love-begot, myself a common whore;

And I vow in my heart I do wish him safe on shore.

And if my laddie should chance to dye,
And if, &c.
The bagpipes shall play over him, I'll lay me down and cry,
And I vow in my heart I love my Highland boy.

And if my Highland laddie should chance to come again,
And if, &c.
The parson he shall marry us, and the clerk shall say amen;
And I vow in my heart I love my Highland man.

The Blue Bells of Scotland

Oh! where, tell me where is your highland laddie gone?
Oh! where, tell me where is your highland laddie gone?
He's gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble, till he come safely home,
[repeat last two lines]

Oh! where, tell me where did your highland laddies stay?
Oh! where, tell me where did your highland laddies stay?
He dwelt among the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing followed him the day he went away,
[repeat last two lines]

Suppose, ah suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound
Should pierce your highland laddie, and all your hopes confound;
"The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
And for his king and country dear with pleasure would he die.
[repeat last two lines]

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds,
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds,
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our highland hills his warlike name
resounds."

['Sung by Mrs. Jordan' is "The Blue Bells of Scotland" in
Apollo's Budget, London, 1801.] 

I'm missing the text of another 'Blue Bell's of Scotland' by
Annie McVicar Grant, 1799, according to Helen Kendrick Johnson,
'Our Familiar Songs and those who made them',1881.]

Bonnie Dundee: or, Jockey's Deliverance.

To an Excellent Tune, called, Bonny Dundee. Licensed according to Order.

Where got'st thu that Haver mill Bonack,
 blind booby can'st thou not see,
Ise got it out of the Scots=man's wallet,
 as he lig Lousing him under a tree:
Come fill me my Cup, come fill me my Can,
Come saddle my Horse, and call up my Man,
 Come open the Gates and let me go free,
 And show me the way to Bonny Dundee.

For I have neither robbed nor Stole,
 nor have I done any Injury,
But I have gotten a Fair Maid with Child,
 the Minsister's Daughter of Bonny Dundee:
Come fill me my Cup, come fill me my Can,
Come saddle my Horse, and call up my Man,
 Come open the Gates and let me go free,
 And show me the way to Bonny Dundee.   

Although Ise have gotten her Maiden-head,
 gued faith Ise have left her mine own in lew,
For when at her Daddys Ise gone to Bed,    
 Ise Moad her without any more to do,
Ise cuddl'd her close, and gave her a Kiss,
Pray tell me now, where is the harm in this,
 Then open the Gates and let me go free,    
 For Ise gang no more unto Bonny Dundee.

All Scotland never afforded a Lass    
 so bonny and blith as Jenny my dear,
Ise gave her a Gown of greeen on the grass,
 yet now Ise no longer must tarry here:    
Then saddle my Nag, that's bonny and gay,
For now it is time to gan hence away;    
 Then open the Gates and let me go free,
 Shes ken me no more unto Bonny Dundee.

In liberty still I reckon to raign,    
 for why I have done no honest Man wrong,
The Parson may take his daughter again,
  for she'll be a Mammy before 'tis long,
And have a young Lad or Lass of my Breed;
Ise think I have done a generous deed:    
 Then open the Gates and let me go free,
 For Ise go no more unto Bonny Dundee.

Since Jenny, the fair, was willingly kind,
 and came to my Arms with ready good will,
A token of love Ise leave her behind,    
 thus have I requited her kindness still,
Though Jenny, the fair, I often have Moad,
Another may reap the Harvest I sow'd.    
 Then open the Gates and let me go free,
 For Ise go no more unto Bonny Dundee.   

Her Daddy would have me make her my Bride,
 but have, and to hold, I ne're could endure,
From Bonny Dundee this day I will Ride,
 It being a place not safe and secure,
Then Jenny farewel, my Joy and my Dear,
With Sweard in my hand, the Passage Ise clear, 
 Then open the Gates and let me go free,
 For Ise gan no more unto Bonny Dundee.

My father is a muckle good Leard,
 my Mother a Lady bonny and gay,
Then while I have skill to handle a sweard,
 the Parson's request Ise never obey,
Then Jenny Sanny my Man, be thou of my mind,
In Bonny Dundee we'se not be confin'd,
 The Gates we will force and set our selves free,
 And never come more unto Bonny Dundee.

Then Sawny reply'd: Ise never refuse
 to fight for a Leard so Valiant and Bold,
Whilst I have a drop of blood for to lose,
 e're any sick Loons shall keep us in hold;
This sweard in my hand Ise Valiantly weild,
And fight by your side to kill, or be kill'd,
 For forcing the Gates, and set our selves free,
 And so bid adieu to Bonny Dundee.

With Sweards ready drawn they rid to the gate
 where being deny'd they fought at that rate,
 that some ran away, and others they slew,
Thus Jockey, the Leard, and Sawny, his man,
The Valiantly fought, as High-Landers can,
 In spight of the Loons they set themselves free,
 And so bid adieu to Bonny Dundee.

[c 1690-96. Also with music in Pills to Purge Melancholy, V, 17, 1719. Also in Nigel Gatherer's Songs and Ballads of Dundee, #28, 1986. See also his #29.]

The first verse of the broadside here is obviously corrupt and belongs with Jenny's lamentation, not Jockey's escape from her father. It appears that an old Scots ballad sung by the bailie's or minister's daughter was reworked into the song in the Mansfield MS, that in turn reworked to 'The New Highand Lad', and that reworked into "The Blue Bells of Scotland".

The tune, "Adew Dundee", or "Bonny Dundee", is found in many places, see the Scots tune index, and Simpson's BBBM.

In Merry Muses of Caledonia, 1799, we find the 'hero' as a Cooper and named Sandie, and it's the Bailie's daughter as in Herd's text, and the tune is that for the broadside ballad.

The Cooper of Dundee
Tune - Bonny Dundee

Ye coopers and hoopers attend to my ditty,
    I sing o' a cooper wha dwelt in Dundee;
This young man he was baith am'rous and witty,
    He pleasld the fair maids wi' the blink o' his e'e.

He was nae a cooper, a common tub-hooper,
    The most o' his trade lay in pleasin' he fair;
He hoopt them, he coopt them, he bort them, he plugt them,
    An' a' sent for Sandie when out o' repair.

For a twelvemonth or sae this youth was respected,
    An' he was as bisie as weel he could be;
But his bis'ness increas'd so, that some were neglected,
    Which ruin'd trade in the town o' Dundee.

A baillie's fair daughter had wanted a coopin',
    An' Sandie was sent for, as oft time was he,
He yerkt her sae hard he she sprung an end-hoopin',
    Which banish'd poor Sandie frae bonny Dundee.

Play: B033, Bonny Dundee
S2, BLUBLLS

[The following may be related, as far as text goes. From Herd's Scots Songs, II, 1776]

Go to Index

Ranting Roving Lad

O he's a ranting roving laddie;
O he's a brisk and bonny laddie;
Betide what will, I'll get me ready,
And follow the lad wi' the Highland plaidie.

I'll sell my rock, my reel, my tow,
My gude grey mare and hacket cow,
To buy my love a tartan plaid,
Because he is a roving blade.

O he's a ranting roving laddie,
O he's a brisk and bonny laddie,
Betide what will I'll get me ready,
To follow the lad wi' the Highland plaidy.

[from The Scots Musical Museum, III, #272, 1790]

The White Cockade.

I'll sell my rock, my reel, my tow,
My gude gray mare and hawkit cow;
To buy mysel a tartan plaid,
To follow the boy wi' the White cockade.
Cho^S. O he's a ranting, roving lad,

Play: S2-WHTCOKD A-C

Go to Index

SHULE AROON

A Brigade Ballad

[The date of this ballad is not positively known, but it appears to be
early in the eighteenth century, when the flower of the Catholic youth
of Ireland were drawn away to recruit the ranks of the Brigade. The
inexpressible tenderness of the air, and the deep feeling and simplicity
of the words, have made the ballad a popular favourite, not withstanding
its meagreness and poverty.]

I would I were on yonder hill,
'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,
And every tear would turn a mill
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.
    Shuke, shule, shule aroon,
    Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin,
    Shule go den durrus augus eligh glum,
    Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
I'll sell my only spinnning wheel,
To buy for my love a sword of steel,
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.
[Chorus]

I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,
And round the world I'll beg my bread,
Until my parents shall wish me dead,
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.
[Chorus]

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I'd not complain,
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.
[Chorus]

But now my love has gone to France,
To try his fortune to advance;
If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance,
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.
[Chorus]

Above is the suggestion that the song was connected to the 'Wild Geese', but with no evidence for it. By inquiry to Joe Hickerson, formerly head of the Folklore Archive at the Library of Congress: Not only did he not know of any 18th centrury broadside version of the song at the Library of Congress, he was skeptical that it was sung in the U.S. prior to the Civil War.

Here's a poorly printed and unusual broadside version. I think the printer, Haly, was mostly active in the 2nd quarter of the 19th century.

                 Shula Agrah

Oft I roved my garden bowers;
    To gaze upon fast fading flowers,
And think upon past happy hours,
    That's fled like summer's bloom.
         Shul, Shule, Shule Arah
Time can only ease my woe
Since the lad of my heart did go
    Gudhe, Tough, guidhe tough slaun

No more am I that blooming maid
That used to rove the valley's shade
My youth, my bloom, are both decayed
    And every charm is gone
        Shuld, Shule, Shule, etc.

For now he's gone to other climes
To seek one more pleasing to his mind
But ah, the maid he left behind
    Shall love him best of all
        Shule, Shule, Shule etc

His eyes were black, his coat was blue
His hair was fair, his heart was true,
I wish in my heart I was with you
    Gudhe tough, gudhe tough slaun
        Shule, shuel, shule, etc

Time can only ease may woe
Since the lad of my heart from me did go
    Uska dhe, uske dhe, mavourneen slaun
I'll sell my rack, I'll sell my reel
When my flax is out I'll sell my wheel
    Gudhe tough, gudhe tough &c

I wish I was in younder hill
It's there I'd sit and cry my fill,
That every tear would turn a mill
    Gudhe tough, gudhe tough slaun
        Shule, Shule, Shule, &c,

Oft I sat on my love's knee
Many a fond story he told me
He said many things that ne'r will be
    Gudhe tough, gudhe tough, &c,

I'll dye my petticoat, I'll dye it red
That round the world I may be my bread
And then my parents would wish me dead
        Shule, shule, shule etc.

Time can only ease my woe
Since the lad of my heart from me did go
    Uske dhe, uska dhe, mavourneen slaun

    Haly, Printer, Cork

It would be nice to have some documentary evidence that some form of the song was earlier than the 19th century, but I haven't seen any yet.

Fragment from Perthshire, Scotland, in A Ballad Book, by C. K. Sharpe, 1823.

I went to the mill, but the miller was gone
I sat me down and cried ohone!
To think of the days that are past and gone,
Of Dickie Macphalion that's slain.
   Shoo, shoo shoolaroon
   To think on the days that are past and gone,
   Of Dickie Macphalion that's slain.

I sold my rock, I sold my reel,
And sae hae I my spinning wheel
And 'a to buy a cap of steel
    For Dickie Macphalion that's slain.
    Shule Aroon, Shule Agra

[From Lady John Scott's MSS, NLS, MS 839, late 1840's. Courtesy
of Jack Campin.]

   I wish I were on yonder hill
   Tis there I'd sit and mourn my fill
   Till every tear should turn a mill
   Escadil mavourneen shaun

   Since my love ceased [to] woo
   I have roamed the whole world through
   To heal the heart he broke in two
   Escadil mavourneen shaun

   I tracked his footsteps on the moor
   I watched his shadow from the door
   I prayed as I shall pray no more
   Escadil mavourneen shaun

   My wheel is stopped I'll set it by
   My tears within my eyes are dry
   I'll close their watery lids and die
   Escadil mavourneen shaun

Auld Langsyne [from Motherwell]

To its own proper tune.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
  An never thought upon,
The flames of love extinguised,
  And freely past and gone;
Is thy heart, now grown so cold,
  In that loving breast of thine,
That thou can'st never once reflect
  On auld langsyne?
 
Where are thy protestations--
  Thy vows and oaths, my dear,
Thou made to me, and I to thee,
  In register yet clear:
In faith and truth so violate
  To the immortal gods devine,
That thou can'st never once reflect
  On auld langsyne?

Is't Cupid's fears, or frostie cares,
  That makes thy sp'rits decay?
Or is't some object of more worth
  That's stolen thy heart away?
Or some desert makes thee neglect
  Her once so much was thine,
That thou can'st never oce reflect
  On auld langsyne?

Is't worldly cares so desperate
  That makes thee to despair?
Is't that makes thee exasperate,
  And makes thee to forbear?
If thou of that were free as I,
  Thou surely should be mine,
And then, of new, we would renew
  Kind auld langsyne.
 
But since that nothing can prevail,
  And all hope now is vain,
From these rejected eyes of mine,
  Still showers of tears shall reighn:
And though thou hast me now forgot,
  Yet I'll continue thine,
And though thou hast me now forgot,
 On auld langsyne

If ever I have a house my dear,
  That's trule called mine,
And can afford but country cheer,
  Or aught that's good therein:
Tho' thou were rebel to the King,
  And beat with wind and rain,
Thou'rt sure thyself of welcome, love,
  For auld langsyne.

This seems to have been supplanted by a song in Allan Ramsay's
'Scots Songs', 1720. It is this song that appears later as "Auld
Lang Syne". It is with the tune and called 'Auld Lang Syne' in
both editions of 'Orpheus Caledonius', c 1725 and 1733, and also
with the tune, and called 'The Soldier's Welcome Home' in Walsh's
'The British Musical Miscellany', III, n.d. (1735). James Dick,
'The Songs of Robert Burns', notes other 'Auld Lang Syne" songs.

Play: S2, Auld Lang. 
Play MIDI  Orpheus Caledonius tune
(old)br>    
Play MIDI  Scots Musical Museum tune
(old)br>       
   

Where wad bonnie Annie ly?

[From NLS MS 6299, 1740s. Almost the same is in in Herd's 'Scots Songs' II, p. 220, 1776, and 'Scots Musical Museum', #324, 1792.]

He: Where will bonny Annie ly
        alane nae mair she maun ly
        wad ye a Good man try
        is that the thing ye're lacking

She: Can a lass sae young as I
        venture on th' Brydal tie
        syn down with a good man ly
        I'm fleer'd he keep me wawking

He: Never Judge ye untill ye try
        make me your good man and I
        Shaunna hinder you to ly
        and sleep till you be weary

She: But what if I should wawking ly
        When the Hoboys are gawn by
        Will ye tent me when I cry
        My dear, I'm faint and iry

He: In my bosom thou shalt ly
        When thou wawkrife art or dry
        A healthy Cordial standing by
        shall presently relieve thee

She: To your will I then comply
        Join us, priest and let us try
        How I'll wi' a good man ly
        That can a cordial give me

Play: S2:HTM, WHRWAD1- Where wad bonny Annie ly
Play: S2:HTM, WHRWAD2- Red House

Go to Index
This song is in The Little Warbler, I, p. 133, Oliver: Netherbow, 1804, and a few later songbooks. The tune later appeared in Gow's 'Strathspey Reels', bk. 5 (1809).

Gow's Farewell to Whisky

You've surely heard o' famous Neil,
The man that played the fiddle weel,
I wat he was a canty chiel',
And dearly lo'ed the whiskey, O!
And ay sin' he wore tartan trews,
He dearly lo'ed the Athole brose;
And wae was he you may suppose,
To play fareweel to whiskey, O.

Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld,
And find my bluid grows unco cauld,
I think 'twad mak me blythe and bauld,
A wee drap highland whiskey, O
Yet the doctors they do agree,
That whiskey's no the drink for me:
Saul, quoth, 'twill spoil my glee,
Should they part me and whiskey, O.

Tho' I can get baith wine and ale,
And find my head and fingers hale,
I'll be content, tho' legs should fail,
To play fareweel to whiskey, O.
But still I think on auld lang syne,
When Paradise our friends did tyne,
Because something ran in their mind
Forbid, like highland whiskey, O.

Come, a' ye powers of music, come!
I find my heart grows unco glum;
My fiddle-strings will no play bum
To say fareweel to whiskey, O.
Yet I'll tak my fiddle in my hand,
And screw the pegs up while they'll stand,
To mak a lamentation grand,
On gude auld highland whiskey, O.

Play: S2, GOWFRWL

Go to Index

The Farmer's Daughter
[D'Urfey's song, 1688, from Pills to Purge Melancholy, II, 1719. Commonly known as "Cold and Raw". The broadside expansion (ZN499 in the broadside ballad index, which also lists 3 sequels) contains 2 more verses, which do little for the song. Cf. "Maulkin was a country Maid/ Within the North Country/ Farmer's Daughter of Merry Wakefield" in Scarce Songs 1.]

Cold and raw the north did blow,
Bleak in the morning early;
All the trees were hid in snow,
Dagl'd by winter yearly:
When come riding over a knough,
I met with a farmer's daughter;
Rosie cheeks and bonny brow,
Good faith made my mouth to water.

Down I vail'd my bonnet low,
Meaning to show my breeding;
She return'd a graceful bow,
A visage far exceeding:
I ask'd her where she went so soon,
And long'd to begin a parley;
She told me unto the next market town,
A purpose to sell her barly.

In this purse, sweet soul, said I,
Twenty pounds lie fairly;
Seek no further one to buy,
For I'se take all thy barly,
Twenty more shall buy my delight,
Thy person I love so dearly;
If thou wouldst stay with me all night,
And go home in the morning early.

If twenty pounds could buy the globe,
Quoth she, this I'd no do, sir;
O were my kin as poor as Job,
I wo'd not rise 'em so, sir:
For should I be to night your friend,
We'st get a young kid together;
And you'd be gone ere the nine months end,
And where should I find a father?

I told her I had wedded been,
Fourteen years and longer;
Or else I'd choose for her my Queen,
And tie the knot much stronger:
She bid me then no farther rome,
But manage my wedlock fairly;
And keep purse for poor spouse at home,
For some other shall have her barly.

Play: B450, Stingo from Dancing Master, 1651.
B451: Tune for D'Urfey's song in Comes Amores, 1688.

Go to Index

[From Porkington MS 10, via 'Ballads from Manuscripts', I, p. 29. Thorns are given as y, and so y^e is 'the'. yoghs are variously translated as y, g, or gh, and I've enclosed my translation in parenthesis.]

A Talk of Ten Wives on their Husbands' Ware. [c 1460]

Leve, lystynes to me
Two wordys or thre,
And herkenes to my songe;
And I schall tell (y)ow a tale,
How .x. wyffys satt at the nale,
And noman hem a-monge.

"Sen we haue no othere songe
[Forto singen vs amonge,]
Talys lett vs tell
Off owre hosbondes ware,
Wych of hem most worthy are
To-day to bere the bell.

And I schall nowe begyn att myne:
I knowe the mett well & fyne,
The length of a snayle,
And euer he warse is from day to day.
To grete god euer I pray
To gyve hym evyle hayle."

The secund wyffe sett her nere,
And seyd, "by the rode, I haue a ware
That is two so mene:
I mett hym in the morrow tyde,
When he was in his moste pryde,
The length of .iii. bene.

"How schuld I be served with that?
I wold gybbe, owre gray catt,
Were cord there on!
By sayn[t]e peter owte of rome,
I se neuer a wars lome
Stondyng opon mone."

The .iij. wyfe was full woo,
And seyd that "I haue one of thoo
That no(gh)te is at nede; [nought
Owre syre breche, when hit is torn,
Hys pentyll pepyth owte be-forn
Lyke a warbrede; [worm

"Hit growethe all with-in the here:
Sychon se I neuer ere,
Stondyng opon schare.
yett the schrewe is hodles,
And all thynges goodless!
There cryste gyve hym care!"

The .iiij. wyffe of the floke
Seyd, "owre syre fydecoke
ffayn wold I skyfte:
He is longe, and he is smalle,
And yett hathe the fydefalle;
God gyve hym sory thryfte!"

"The leste fyngere on my honde
Is more than he, whan he dothe stonde:
Alasse that I am lorn!
Sory mowntyng com there-on!
He schold a be a womon
Had he be eere born"

The .v. wyffe was full fayn
When sche hard her fellowys playn,
And vp shee gan stond:
"Now (y)e speke of a tarse!
In all the warld is not a warse
Than hathe my hosbond.

"Owre syre bradys lyke a dere,
He pysses his tarse euery yere,
Ryghte as dothe a boke:
When men speke of archery,
He mon stond faste there-by,
Or ellys hys schote woll troke."

The .vj. wyffe hy(gh)te sare;
Sche seyd: "my hosbondys ware
Is of good a-syse;
He is whyte as ony mylke,
He is softe as ony sylke,
yett sertis he may not ryse.

I lyrke hym vp with my hond,
And pray hym that he woll stond,
And (y)ett he lythe styll.
When I se that all is noghte, [nought
I thynke mony a a thro thoghte; [fierce
Bot cryste wote my wyll."

The .vij. wyffe sat on the bynch,
nd sche caste her legge on wrynch,
And bad fyll the wyne:
"By seynt Iame of galys,
In englond ne in walys
Is not a wars than myne!

Whon owre syre comys In,
And lokes after that sory pyne
That schuld hengge bytwen his leggis,
He is lyke, by the rode,
A sory lauerock satt on brode
Opon two adyll eggis."

The .viij. wyffe was well I-ta(gh)te,
And seyd, "seldom am I sa(gh)te,
And so I well may:
When the froste fresys.
Owre syris tarse lesys,
And all-way gose a-way.

When the (g)eke gynnys to synge, [cuckoo
Then the schrewe begynnys to sprynge,
Lyke a humbulbe;
He cowres vp on othere two,-
I knos\w not the warse of thos,
I schrew hem all thre!"

The .ix. wyffe seet hem nyghe,
And held a mett vp on hyghe
The len(gh)te of a fote:
"Here is a pyntell of a fayre len(gh)te,
But he berys a sory stren(gh)te, -
God may do boote;-

'I bow hym, I bend hym,
I stroke hym, I wend hym;
The deuell mot hym sterve!
Be he hote, be he cold,
Tho I torn hym two fold,
yett he may not serve."

The .x. wyffe be-gan her tale,
And seyd, "I haue on of the smale,
Was wyndowed a-way.
Of all no(gh)tes it is no(gh)te: [of less, the least
Sertis, and hit schuld be bo(gh)te,
He is not worth a nay.": Amen.

Go to Index

The number was pared a bit in a song of like content:

The Seven Merry Wives of London:
or, The Gossips Complaint against Their Husbands, For their Neglect,
As they met together in a Tavern, over half a dozen Bottles of Canary.

To the tune of, Fond Boy,    Licensed according to Order.

There's seven young Wives met together of late,
In a Tavern, not far from the Bell-savage-gate,
Where they call'd for the bet of Canary with speed,
And in pleasant Discourse they began to proceed:
    Quoth the Waterman's Wife, I must drink and then run,
     For a Woman's work, Sisters, you know is ne'er done.

I was to the Temple and next Inns of Court,
And the lively young Lawyers, they yield pretty sport,
When I go to their Chambers each morning or night,
They my Heart is transported with joy and delight:
    When the pleasure is over, dear Sisters, I run,
    For at home, I must tell you, my work is ne'er done.

The Shoe-maker's Wife fill'd a bowl to the brim,
Crying out, Here's a Bumper sweet Sisters, to him,
That is able to please a young Wife to the heart,
But, alas, to my sorrow, the truth I'll impart;
    I'm afraid I shall ne'er have a Daughter or Son;
    Tho' I labour a Woman's work never is done.

My husband is lusty, young, proper and tall,
Yet I think he has but a short Peging-aul,
Which does nothing to purpose, dear Friends, as I live,
All the shooes in my shop I would willingly give
    To enjoy a young beautiful Daughter or Son;
    But my work I must tell is never well done.

The Pewterer's Wife then spoke up with a grace,
Loving Sisters, believe me, I pity thy case,
There is no greater grief in the World I declare
Then to have a dull soul, for I solemnly swear
    Seven Years I've been foolishly baffl'd with one;
    For my work, loving Sisters, is never well done.

A Man of much mettle I took him to be,
Or else, faith, he had never been marry'd to me,
But alas, to my sorrow, I find I am fool'd,
For he seldom cast into the mould that he should;
    Which has caus'd my eyes like fair fountains to run;
    For to think that my work it was never well done.

A Chyrurgeon's Wife them immediaely swore,
The she now had been marry'd a Twelvemonth and more
Yet he hever had enter'd nor found the right Vein,
Therefore surely, said she, I have cause to complain:
    If he don't mend his manners, astray I shall run;
    For 'tis fit that a Woman's work should be well done.

The Wife of a Fidler, cry'd, Hear me I Pray
My unnatural Husband he seldom will play
His kind Wife a sweet Lesson, but once in a Moon,
He complains that his Fiddle is still out of Tune:
    If he don't mend his manners, astray I shall run,
    For you know that a Woman's work must be well done.

The Wife of a Pavier, cry'd out it was true,
And I have as much reason as any of you
To complain of my Pavier, who has but one Stone,
And besides, the worst Rammer as ever was known:
     To a Neighbour for help I am forced to run,
     For you know that a Woman's work must be well done.

The Wife of a young Vulcan she took off her bowl,
And declar'd that her Husband he was a boon Soul,
She had no kind of cause to complain of these wrongs,
For he follow'd his labour with hammer and tongs,
    Having five or six Daughers besides a young Son;
    Therefore her work had been very well done.

London: Printed for J. Blare, at the Looking-glass on London- bridge.

Play: B143- Fond Boy

Go to Index
I live not where I love.

[From Morley's 'First Book of Ayres', 1600. These are Robert Southwell's verses 5, 4, and 3 from "Marie Magdalens complaynte at Christes death", in 'Saint Peter's Complaint, With other Poems', 1595.]

With my loue my life was nestled,
In the some of happines,
From my loue my life was wrested,
To a world of heauines,
O let loue my life remoue,
Sith I liue not wher I loue.

Where the truth once was and is not,
Shadows are but vanities,
Shewing want that helpe they cannot,
Painted meate no hunger feedes,
Dying life each death exceedes.

O true loue since thou hast left me,
Mortall life is tedious,
Death it is to liue without thee,
Death of all most odious,
Turne againe and take me with thee,
Let me die, or liue thou in me.

Play: B212- Morley's tune; later ones, B213, B214

Go to Index

[Broadside ballad, Entered Jan. 8, 1638]

The Constant Lover,
Who his affection will not move,
Theough he live not where he love.

To a Northerne Tune Called Shall the absense of my Mistresse.

You loyall Lovers that are distent
    from your Sweet-hearts many a mile,
Pray come helpe me at this instant
    in mirth to spend away the while
In singing sweetly, and compleately,
    in commendation of my love;
Resolving ever to part never,
    though I live not where I love.

My love shee's faire and also vertuous;
    God grant to me she may prove true!
Then there is naught but death shall part us,
    and Ile ne're change her for a new:
And though the fates my fortunes hates,
    and me from her doe farre remove,
Yet I doe vow still to be true,
     though, &c.

My constancy shall ne're be failing,
    whatsoe're betide me here:
Of her vertue Ile be telling,
    be my bidding farre or neere.
And though blind fortune prove uncertaine
    from her presence me to remove,
Yet Ile be constant every instant,
     though, &c.

Though our bodies thus are parted,
    and asunder many a mile,
Yet I vow to be true-hearted,
    and be faithful all the while:
Though with mine eye I cannot spye,
    for distance great, my dearest Love,
My heart is with her altogether,
     though, &c.

When I sleepe I doe dream on her,
    when I wake I take no rest:
but euery moment thinke upon her:
    she's so fixed in my brest:
And though farre distance may be assistance
    from my mind her loue to moue,
Yet I will neuer our loue disseuer,
     though, &c.

To thinke upon the amrous glances
    that haue beene betwixt us twaine,
My constancy and love aduances,
    though from her presence I remaine,
And makes the teares, with groanes and feares,
    from watery eyes and heart to moue,
And, sighing, say, both night and day,
    Alas! I liue, &c.

I, to her, will be like Leander
    if Hero-like shee'le prove to me;
For her sake through the world Ile wander,
    no desperate danger I will flee;
And into the seas, with little ease,
    the mountains great themselves shal move,
Ere faith I breake, let me ne're speake,
     though, &c.

Penelope shal be unconstant,
    and Diana prove unchaste,
Venus to Vulcan shall be constant,
    and Mars farre from her shall be plac't,-
The blinded boy no more shal ioy
    with arrowes keen lovers to move,
Ere false I be, sweet-heart to thee,
     though, &c.

The Birds shall leave their airy region;
    the fishes in the aire shall fly;
All the world shall be at one religion;
    all living things shall cease to dye;
Al[l] things shal[l] change to shapes most strange
    before that I disloyall proue,
Or any way my loue decay,
     though, &c.

If you doe come before her,
    or doe deigne to touch her hand,
Tell her that I doe adore her
    aboue all maidens in the land;
Remaining still at her good will,
    and alwayes to her loyall proue,
T[i]ll death with dart doe strike my heart,
     though, &c.

And tell my mistresse that a louer
    that Loue's perfect image beares,
As true as loue it selfe doe loue her,
    witnesse his farre-fetcht sighes and teares,
Which forth he groanes with bitter moanes,
    and from his troubled breast he moues,
And day nor night takes no delight,
    because, &c.

So with my duty to her commended,
    her loyall seruent Ile be still,
Desiring I may be befriended
    with loue againe for my good will;
And wish that she as true may be,
    as I to her will constant proue,
And night and day I still will pray
    and wish I may liue where I loue.

       FINIS         P[eter]. L[owberry].

London, Printed for Henry Gosson.

[Reeves, 'The Everlasting Circle', #70, from Hammond's MSS, collected in 1905, but without tune. Same, Frank Purlsow, 'Marrow Bones', p. 43, with tune.]

I Live Not Where I Love.

Come all you maids that live at a distance
many a mile from off your swain,
Come and assist me this very moment
For to pass away some time,
Singing sweetly and completely
Songs of pleasure and of love.
My heart is with you altogether
Though I lives not where I love.

Oh when I sleep I dreams about you,
When I wake I take no rest,
For every instant thinking on you
My heart e'er fixed in your breast,
O this cold absence seems at a distance
And many a mile from my ture love,
But my heart is with her altogether
Though I live not where I love.

So farewll lads anmd farewell lasses,
Now I think I've got my choice,
I will away to yonder mountains
Where I think I hear his voice.
And if he holloa I will follow
Around the world that is so wide
For young Thomas he did me promise
I shall be his lawfull bride.

Now if all the world was of one religion
Every living thing should die.
Or if I prove false unto my jewel
Or any way my love deny,
The world shall change and be most strange
If ever I my mind remove.
My heart is with her altogether
Though I live not where I love.

Go to Index

The Maunding Souldier;

To the tune of Permit me, Friends. [unknown]

Good your worship, cast your eyes
Upon a souldier's miseries!
Let not my leane cheekes, I pray,Your bounty from a souldier stay.
    But, like a noble friend,
    Some silver lend,
And Jove shall pay you in the end:
    And I will pray that Fate
    May make you fortunate
In heavenly, and in earth's estate.

To beg I was not borne, sweet Sir,
And therefore blush to make this stirre;
I never went from place to place
For to divulge my wofull case:
    For I am none of those
    That roguing goes,
That, maunding, shewes their drunken blowes,
    Which they have onely got
    While they have bang'd the pot
In wrangling who should pay the debt.

I scorne to make comparison
With those of Kent-street garrison,
That in their lives nere crost the seas,
But still at home have lived at ease;
    Yet will they lye and sweare,
    As though they were
Men that had travel'd farre and neere;
    True souldiers' company
    Doth teach them how to lye;
They can discourse most perfectly.

But I doe scorne such counterfaits
That get their means by base deceits:
They learne of others to speake Dutch;
Of Holland they'll tell you as much
    As those that have bin there
    Full many a yeere,
And name the townes all farre and neere;
    Yet they never went
    Beyond Graves-end in Kent,
But in Kent-street their dayes are spent.

They in Olympicke games have beene,
Whereas brave battels I have seene;
And where the cannon use to roare
My proper spheare was evermore:
    The danger I have past,
    Both first and last,
Would make your worship's selfe agast;
    A thousand time I have
    Been ready for the grave;
Three times I have been made a slave.

Twice through the bulke I have been shot;
My braines have boyled like a pot:
I have at lest these dozen times
Been blowne up by those roguish mines
    Under a barracado,
    In a bravado,
Throwing of a hand-grenado:
    Oh! death was very neere,
    For it tooke away my eare,
And yet, thank God! ch'am here, ch'am here.

The second Part

To the same tune.

I have uppon the seas been tane By th' Dunkerks, for the King of Spaine, And stript out of my garments quite, Exchanging all for canvis white;     And in that poore aray     For many a day I have been kept, till friends did pay     A ransome for release;     And having bought my peace, My woes againe did fresh increase.

There's no land-service as you can name
But I have been actor in the same;
In th' Palatinate and Bohemia
I served many a wofull day;
    At Frankendale I have,
    Like a souldier brave
Receiv'd what welcomes canons gave;
    For the honour of England
    Most stoutly did I stand
'Gainst the Emperour's and Spinolae's band.

At push of pike I lost my eye;
At Bergen siege I broke my thigh;
At Ostend, though I were a lad,
I laid about me as I were mad.
    Oh, you would little ween
    That I had been
An old, old souldier to the Queene; [Scarce Songs 1
    But if Sir Francis Vere
    Were living now and here,
Hee'd tell you how I slasht it there.

Since that, I have been in Breda
Besieg'd by Marquesse Spinola;
And, since that, made a warlike dance
Both into Spaine and into France;
    And there I lost a flood
    Of noble blood,
And did but little good:
    And now I home am come,
    With ragges about my bumme,
God bless you, Sir, from this poore summe!

And now my case you understand,
Good Sir, will you lend your helping hand?
A little thing will pleasure me,
And keepe in use your charity:
    It is not bread nor cheese,
    Nor barrell lees,
Nor any scraps of meat, like these;
    But I doe beg of you
    A shilling or two,
Sweet Sir, your purse's strings undoe.

I pray your worship, thinke on me,
That am what I doe seeme to be-
No rooking rascall, nor no cheat,
But a souldier every way compleat;
    I have wounds to show
    That prove 'tis so;
Then, courteous good Sir, ease my woe;
    And I for you will pray
    Both night and day
That your substance never may decay.

        FINIS.   ;      M[artin]. P[arker].

Printed a London for F. Grove on Snow-hill.

[This ballad is probably 1628-29. A ballad entered in the Stationers' Register on June 20, 1629, is to the tune of "The Maunding Souldier". Parker's ballad, here, was reworked in the 1690's when the English were again fighting in Flanders. The latter version is "The Low-country Soldier", ZN1068]

Go to Index

The Farmer's Son of Devonshire:

Tune of, [Let] Mary live long.

Licensed according to Order.

Well met, Brother Jack, I have been in Flanders,
With valiant Commanders, and am return'd back
        To England again' Where a while I shall stay, and shall then march away;
        I'm an Officer now;
Go with me, dear Brother, go with me, dear Brother,
        And lay by the Plow.

I tell thee, old boy, the son of a farmer,
In glittering armour, may kill and destroy,
        A many proud French.
As a Squire or Knight, having courage to fight,
        Then Valiantly go
In arms like a Soldier, in arms like a Soldier,
        To face the proud foe.

But, dear Brother Will, you are a vine vellow,
And talk mighty mellow, but what if they kill
        Thy poor brother Jack,
By the pounce of a gun? If they shou'd I'm undone,
        And ruin'd quite:
You know that I never, you know that I never,
        Had courage to fight.

If you will advance in arms like a Soldier,
The Nation's upholder, a fortunate chance
        Your portion my be:
All that goes are not slain, you may return again,
        With Victory here.
There's no men but cowards, there's no men but cowards,
        Are subject to fear.

Each timorous soul, when trumpets are sounding,
And cannons rebounding, he fears no controul,
        Nor death in the least;
When the smoke do' arise, and darkens the skies,
        We fall on amain;
That trophies of honour, that trophies of honour,
        In Field we may gain.

King William you know in the heat of the battel,
When guns they do rattle, he enters also;
        Then what shall we fear?
When an army is lead, by a Crown'd Royal head,
        It baffles all fear,
And makes soldiers fire, and makes soldiers fire,
        From the front to the rear.

        Jack's Answer

The King I confess, he labours by power,
The French to devour; let Providence bless
        His conquering arms:
I wou'd do the same thing, if I were to be King,
        And make the French groan.
Till then, loving Brother, till then, loving Brother,
        Pray let me alone.

The enemies' men with horror will fill me,
Perhaps they may kill me, and where am I then?
        This runs in my mind;
Should I chance to be lame, will the trophies of Fame,
        Keep me from sad groans?
A fig for that honour, a fig for that honour,
        Which brings broken bones.

Such honour I scorn, I'd rather be mowing,
Nay, plowing or sowing, or threshing of corn,
        At home in a barn,
Then to leave Joan my wife, and to loose my sweet life.
        In peace let me dwell;
I am not for fighting, I am not for fighting,
        So, Brother, Farewell.

Printed for J. Deacon, at the Angel in Gilt-spur-Street, without Newgate.

Play: B279

Go to Index
[From Herd's 'Scots Songs', II, 23, 1776]

Will ye go to Flanders, my Mally-O?
Will ye go to Flanders, my bonnie Mally-O?
  There we'll get wine and brandy,
  And sack and sugar candy;
Will ye go to Flanders, my Mally-O?

Will ye go to Flanders, my Mally-O?
And see the chief commanders, my Mally-O?
You'll see the bullets fly,
and the soldiers how they die,
And the ladies loudly cry, my Mally-O

Play: S2, FLANDERS

Go to Index
When the King enjoyes his rights againe.
[1643, Bishop Percy's Folio MS, II, p. 24, 1868]

What Booker can prognosticate,
consider[i]ng now the kingdomes state?
I thinke myselfe to be as wise
as he tht gaseth on the skyes;
my skill goes beyond the depth of Pond
    or Riuers in the greatest raine,
wherby I can tell that all thinges will goe well
    when the King enioyes his rights againe.

There is neither swallow, doue nor dade,
can sore more high, or deeper wade
to shew a reason from the starres,
what causeth these our ciuill warres.
the man in the moone may weare out his shoo[ne]
    in running after Charles his wayne;
but all is to noe end, for the times will not me[nd]
    till the King enioyes his rights againe.

full 40 yeeres his royall crowne
hath been his fathers and his owne,
& is there any more nor hee
that in the same shold sharrers bee,
or who better may the scepter sway
    then he that hath such rights to raine?
there is noe hopes of a peace, or the war to ce[ase],
    till the King enioyes his rights againe.

Although for a time you see Whitehall
with cobwebbs hanging on the wall
insteed of silkes & siluer braue
which formerly was wont [to] haue,
with a sweete perfume in euerye roome
    delightfull to that princely traine;
which againe shalbe when the times you see
that the King enioyes his right againe.
        Finis.

[Ebsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, VII, p. 633-4, gave what he said was the original version, with title "Upon the defacing of Whitehall", but didn't say where he found it. The first four verses are nearly the same as those above, except his burden line is "till the King enjoyes his Own again", and he adds a fifth verse as follows:]

Till then upon Ararat's hill my Hope shall cast her anchor still,
Until I see some peacefull dove bring home the branch she dearly loved;
Then will I wait till the waters abate, which now disturb my troubled brain,
Else never rejoice, till I hear the voice that the King enjoyes his Own again.

[For the expanded broadside ballad version see ZN2787 in the broadside ballad index.]

Play: B511, When the King enjoys his own again.
B511B, The Restoration of King Charles (When the King enjoys..)

Play: T1-T048

Go to Index

The World Is Turned Upside Down.

Listen to me and you shall hear,
News hath not been this thousand year:
Since Heros, Caesar, and many more,
You never heard the like before.
    Holy-days are despis'd,
    New fashions are devis'd.
Old Christmas is kickt out of Town.
    Yet let's be content, and the times lament,
    You see the world turn'd upside down.

The wise men did rejoyce to see
Our Saviour Christs Nativity:
The Angels did good tidings bring,
The Sheepheards did rejoyce and sing.
    Let all honest men,
    Take example by them.
Why should we from good Laws be bound.
     Yet let's be content, &c.

Command is given, we must obey,
And quite forget old Christmas day:
Kill a thousand men, or a Town regain,
We will give thanks and praise amain
    The wine pot shall clinke,
    We will feast and drinke.
And then strange motions will abound.
     Yet let's be content, &c.

Our Lords and Knights, and Gentry too,
Doe mean old fashion to forgoe:
They set a porter at the gate,
That none must enter in thereat.
    They count it a sin,
    When poor people come in.
Hospitality it selfe is drown'd.
     Yet let's be content, &c.

The serving men doe sit and whine,
And thinke it long ere dinner time:
The Butler's still out of the way,
Or else my Lady keeps the key,
    The poor old cook,
    In the larder doth look,
Where is no goodnesse to be found.
    Yet let's be content, &c.

To conclude, I'll tell you news that's right,
Christmas was kil'd at Nasbie fight:
Charity was slain at that same time,
Jack Tell troth too, a friend of mine,
    Like wise did die,
    Rost beef and shred pie,
Pig, Goose and Capon no quarter found.
    Yet let's be content, and the times lament,
    You see the world turn'd upside down.

Play: B511, B511B, as above

[Above, 1646, from BL Thomason collection via Rollins' 'Cavalier and Puritan', 1923.]

There have been many suggestions as to what tune the British played as "The World Turned Upside Down" at the surrender at Yorktown, 1781, but a title alone is too little to identify it. A song, "The World turn'd upside down", commencing "When I was a young man in my prime" is in 'The Scots Nighingale', 2nd ed., 1779. S. P. Bayard, Dance to the Fiddle, March to the Fife, #538, 1982, gives the first half of a tune (rest forgotten) called "The world turned upside down", with the comment that the title is a floater, and adds: "Our half-air simply adds one more to the list of pieces called The World Turned Upside Down."

Go to Index
Desdemona's Song in Othello.

In 'Othello' Shakespeare gives part of the Willow song, a fuller text of which, with the music, from BL MS Add'l 15117, is given by John Cutts in JAMS X 14 (1957). Simpson's tune in BBBM, B524 is the same in more modern notation. Here is the broadside ballad version:

A Louers complaint being forsaken of his Loue.

A poore soul sat sighing under a Sicamore tree,
    O willow, willow, willow
With his hand on his bosome, his head on his knee,
    O willow, willow, willow
    O willow, willow, willow
Sing O the greene willow shall be my garland.

He sigh'd in his singing, and after each grone,
    Come willow, &c.
I am dead to all pleasure, my true love is gone,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

My Loue she is turned, untrue she doth proue,
    O Willow, &c.
She renders me nothing but hate for my loue,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene willow, &c.

O pitty me (cried he) you Louers each one,
    O Willow, &c.
Her heart's hard as marble, she rues not my mone,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

The cold streames ran by him, his eyes wept apace,
    O Willow, &c.
The salt tears fel[l] from him, which drowned his face
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

The mute birds sat by him, made tame by his mone
    O willow, willow, willo, &c.
The salt tears fell from him, which softned the stone
    O willow, willow, willo, &c.
Sing O the greene willow shall be my Garland.

Let no body blame me, her scornes I do proue
    O Willow, &c.
She was borne to be faire, and I die for her loue,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

O that beauty should harbour a heart that's so hard,
    O Willow, &c.
My true loue rejecting without all regard,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

Let Loue no more boast him, in Palace or Bower,
    O Willow, &c.
For women are trothles, and fle[e]te in an houre,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

But what helps my complaining in vaine I complaine,
    O Willow, &c.
I must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine,
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

Come all you forsaken, and sit downe by me,
    O Willow, &c.
He that plaineth of his false loue, mine's falser then she
    O Willow, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow, &c.

The Willow wreath weare I since my loue did fleet
    O willow, willow, willo, &c.
A Garland for Louers forsaken most meete,
    O willow, willow, willo, &c.
Sing O the greene Willow shall be my Garland.

        Printed at London for I. W[right].

Play: B524

Go to Index

The Black's Lamentation. A New Song

Ye Gods in Nature great, to die I had rather,
Unless you pity show, make me a white Creature
For love I'm confin'd in Chains, while my Love distains
Oh! come Death & ease my pain, now in new Bedlam.

Why do I here complain, my Chains I'll read them,
My Passion so great, I can't I can't contain them,
I'll fly unto my Dear, unless they'll bring her here,
That she may ease my Care, now in new Beldam.

I'll make a Ring of Straw, none shall be neater,
I'll send it to my Dear, for to compleat her,
Who knows she may be kind, & ease my troubl'd Mind,
And with that if may be joyn'd, to that fair Creature.

Hark how the Birds do sing, their pleasant Ditty,
Me thinks in my Behalf, to make her pitty,
Their pretty fluttering Wings, y^t joyful Tydings brings,
She'll free me from these Chains, now in new Bedlam.

Venus the Queen of Love, infuse into her,
And make her for to know it, It is in thy Power,
To wound y^t unkind Heart, That sets this tragick Part,
That she may know y^e Smart, Of her poor Lover.

How happy are young Men, The keep their Freedom
And ne'er in Love do trust, A perjur'd Woman,
For if they find you prize, Their handsome Shape & Eyes,
Oh! how they'll tyranize, Young Men ne'er heed them.

The Answer

George Sighous I wonder y^t you, should be so silly,
To fall in Love with me, or that I should so pity,
For your Suit it is in vain, In Bedlam you may remain,
My Consent you will never gain, there fore believe me.

[5 more anti-black verses]

Play: S2, BEDLAM Go to Index

The Maid in Bedlam.

Oh! cruel were his parents, who sent my love to sea;
And cruel, cruel, was the ship that bore my love from me,
Yet I love his parents, since they're his, although they've ruin'd me;
        For I love my love, &c.

Oh should it please the pitying pow'rs, to call me to the sky,
I'd claim a guardian angel's charge, around my love to fly,
For to guard him from all dangers, how happy should I be!
        For I love my love, &c.

I'll make a strawy garland, I'll make it wonderous fine,
With roses, lilies, daisies, I'll mix with eglantine:
And I'll present it to my love, when he returns from sea:
        For I love my love, &c.

O if I were a little bird, to build upon his breast;
Or if I were a nightingale, to sing my love to rest;
To gaze upon his lovely eyes, all my reward should be;
        For I love my love, &c.

O if I were an eagle, to soar into the sky,
I'd gaze around, with piercing eyes, where I my love might spy;
But ah! unhappy maiden, that love you ne'er shall see;
        For I love my love, &c.

Play: S2, FLANDERS

The tune to the song was cited as "Gramachree" in 'The Scots Nightingale', 2nd ed., 1779, 'Wilson's Musical Miscellany/ St. Cecelia', 1779, and in 'St. Cecelia, or the British Songster', 1782. No specific tune is cited in Vol. II of 'The Charmer', 1782. "Gramachree" takes its name from a song by George Ogle, commencing "As down on Banna's Banks I strayed" that appeared with its tune (Will you go to Flanders) in 'the London Magazine', Sept. 1774, and without the tune in the following year in 'The Bull Finch'.

Go to Index

Tom o' Bedlam

From the hag and hungry goblin,
That into rags would rend ye,
And the spirit that stands by the naked man
In the book of moons, defend ye,
That of your five sound senses
You never be forsaken
Nor wander from yourselves with Tom,
Abroad to beg your bacon.
While I do sing: Any food
Any feeling, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

Of thirty bare years have I
Twice twenty been engaged,
And of forty been three times fifteen
In durance soundly caged
On the lordly lofts of Bedlam,
With stubble soft and dainty,
Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips, ding dong,
With wholesome hunger plenty.
And now I sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

With a thought I took for Maudlin,
And a cruse of cockle pottage,
With a thing thus tall, sky bless you all.
I befell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest,
Till then I never waked,
Till the rougish boy of love where I lay
Me found and stripp'd me naked.
And now I sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

When I short have shorn my sour-face,
And swigg'd my horny barrel
In an oaken inn I pound my skin,
As a suit of gilt apparrel
The moon's my constant mistress,
And the lowly owl my morrow;
The flaming drake and the night-crow make
Me music to my sorrow.
While I do sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The palsy plagues my pulses,
When I prig your pigs or pullen,
Your culvers take, or matchless make
Your chanticlere or sullen.
When I want provant, with Humphrey
I sup, and when benighted
I repose in Powles with waking souls,
Yet never am affrighted.
But I do sing: Any food,
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

I know more than Apollo,
For oft when he lies sleeping,
I see the stars at bloody wars
In the wounded welkin weeping,
The moon embrace her shepherd,
And the queen of love her warrior,
While the first doth horn the star of morn,
And the next the heavenly Farrier.
While I do sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The Gipsy snap and Pedro
Are none of Tom's comrados.
The punk I scorn, and the cutpurse sworn,
And the roaring boys bravados.
The meek, the white, the gentle,
Me handle, touch, and spare not;
But those that cross Tom Rhinoceross
Do what the Panther dare not.
Although I sing; Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

With an host of furious fancies
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air
To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summon'd am to tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end,
Methinks it is no journey.
Yet will I sing: Any food,
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

Go to Index

Here is the copy that Hales and Furnival gave from the Percy Folio MS, of what is called on broadside ballads "New Mad Tom o Bedlam", where the tune direction is "Grays Inn Masque".

Darksome Cell:

Fforth ffrom my sadd & darksome cell,
ffrom the deepe abisse of hell,
madd Tom is come into the world againe
to see if hee can ease his distempered braine.

ffeare & dispayre pursue my soule!
harke how the angry ffuryes howle!
Pluto laughes, proserpine is gladd
to see poor naked Tom of Bedlam madd.

through woods I wander night and day
to seeke my stragling sences;
In an angrye mood I ffound out time
with his Pentarchye of tenses.

when mee he spyes, away hee fflyes;
time will stay ffor no man;
In vaine with cryes hee rends the skyes,
pitty is not common.

Cold & comfortlesse I lye.
helpe, oh helpe! or else I dye.

harke! I heere Appolloes teeme,
the Carman 'gins to whistle;
Chast Dyana bends her browe,
the bore begins to bristle.

Come, vulcan with tooles & with takells,
& knocke of my troublesome shakells!
bid Charles make ready his waine
to ffeitch my ffiue sences againe.

Last night I heard the dogstar barke,
Mars mett venus in the darke;
Limping vulcan heates an Iron barr,
& furyouslye runs att the god of warr.

Mars with his weapons layd about,
but vulcans temples had they gout,
ffor his broad hornes did hang soe in his light
that hee cold not see to aime arright.

Mercurye, the nimble post of heauen,
stayd to see this quarrell,
gorreld-bellyed Bacchus, gyant-like
bestryds a strong beere barrell:

to me he dranke, I did him thanke,
but I cold gett now Cyder;
hee dranke whole butts till hee burst his gutts;
but mine were neere the wyder.

poore naked Tom is verry drye;
a litle drinke, ffor charitye!

hearke! I heare Acteons hounds.
the huntsman woopp and hallowe;
Ringwood, Royster, Bowman, Iowler,
all the chase doe ffollowe.

the man in the moone drinkes Clarett,
eates pouthered beefe, turnipp & Carrett;
a cup of old Maligo sacke
will fire the bush att his backe.

Play: B165, Grays Inn Masque

Go to Index

Some songs are a little on the long side, e.g., Q 37 in Laws' American Balladry from British Broadsides, but traditional versions don't have this many verses.

The Factor's Garland

Tune of, The Wand'ring Lady. [see next song]

Behold here's a ditty, 'tis true and no jest,
Concerning a young Gentleman in the East,
Who by his great gaming came to poverty,
And afterwards went many Voyages to Sea.

Being well educated and one of great Wit,
Three Merchants of London they all thought it fit,
To make him their Captain and Factor also,
And for them to Turkey a Voyage he did go.

And walking along in the Streets there he found,
A poor Man's dead Carcass lying on the ground.
He asked the reason what made him there lye;
When one of the natives made him this reply,

That man was a Christian, Sir, when he drew Breath,
The Duties not being paid he lies above Earth.
Why, what is your Duty, the Factor he cry'd?
It is fifty pound, Sir, the Turk he reply'd.

That is a great Sum, said the Factor, indeed;
To see him here makes my Heart for to bleed;
So then by this Factor the Money was paid,
And then by this Factor his dead Carcass was laid.

When having gone further he chanc'd to espy
A beautiful Creature just going to die,
A young Waiting-Maiden who strangled must be,
For nothing but striking a Turkish Lady.

To think of her dying with dread she was fill'd;
And Rivers of Tears then like Water distill'd,
Like a Stream or Fountain from her Eyes flow'd down
Her red Rosy Cheeks and from thence to the Ground.

Hearing what the crime was, he to end the Srife,
Said, What must I give for this young Creature's Life?
The answer returned was a Hundred pound,
The which for her Pardon he freely laid down.

He said come fair Creature, thy weeping refrain,
And be of good comfort thou shalt not be slain;
Behold I have purchas'd thy Pardon, Wilt thee
Be willing to go into England with me?

She cry'd Sir, I thank you who freed me from Death,
I am bound to pray for you as long as I've Breath,
And if you are willing to England I'll go,
And due respects to you until Death I will show.

He brought her to London where, as it was said,
He set up House-keeping, and she was his Maid,
For to wait upon him; and finding her just,
With the Keys of his Riches he did her intrust.

At length this young Factor was hired once more
To cross the proud Waves and Billows which roar,
And into that Country his course wa