Kitobni o'qish: «Old Ballads»

COME, LASSES AND LADS

 
Come, lasses and lads,
                 get leave of your dads,
  And away to the Maypole hie,
For ev'ry fair has a sweetheart there,
  And the fiddler's standing by;
 
 
For Willy shall dance with Jane,
  And Johnny has got his Joan,
To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it,
  Trip it up and down!
 
 
"You're out," says Dick; "not I," says Nick,
  "'Twas the fiddler play'd it wrong;"
"'Tis true," says Hugh, and so says Sue,
  And so says ev'ry one.
The fiddler than began
  To play the tune again,
And ev'ry girl did trip it, trip it,
  Trip it to the men!
 
 
Then, after an hour, they went to a bow'r,
  And play'd for ale and cakes;
And kisses too,—until they were due,
  The lasses held the stakes.
The girls did then begin
  To quarrel with the men,
And bade them take their kisses back,
  And give them their own again!
 
 
"Good-night," says Harry;
                  "good-night," says Mary;
  "Good-night," says Poll to John;
"Good-night," says Sue
                  to her sweetheart Hugh;
  "Good-night," says ev'ry one.
Some walk'd and some did run,
  Some loiter'd on the way,
And bound themselves by kisses twelve,
  To meet the next holiday.
 

Anon.

COMING THRO' THE RYE

 
Gin a body meet a body
  Comin' thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
  Need a body cry?
 
 
Ilka lassie has her laddie,
  Nane, they say, hae I,
Yet a' the lads they smile at me
  When comin' thro' the rye.
 
 
Gin a body meet a body
  Comin' frae the town,
Gin a body meet a body,
  Need a body frown?
    Ilka lassie has, etc.
 
 
Amang the train there is a swain
  I dearly lo'e mysel';
But what his name, or whaur his hame,
  I dinna care to tell.
    Ilka lassie has, etc.
 

Anon.

CHERRY-RIPE

 
Cherry-Ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
  Full and fair ones, come and buy;
If so be you ask me where
They do grow? I answer, There,
Where my Julia's lips do smile,
There's the land or cherry isle,
Whose plantations fully show
All the year, where cherries grow.
 

Herrick.

ANNIE LAURIE

 
Maxwelton braes are bonnie,
  Where early fa's the dew;
And it's there that Annie Laurie
  Gied me her promise true;
Gied me her promise true,
  Which ne'er forgot will be;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
  I'd lay me doun and dee.
 
 
Her brow is like the snaw-drift,
  Her throat is like the swan,
Her face it is the fairest
  That e'er the sun shone on;
That e'er the sun shone on,
  And dark blue is her ee;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
  I'd lay me doun and dee.
 
 
Like dew on the gowan lying,
  Is the fa' o' her fairy feet;
And like winds in summer sighing,
  Her voice is low and sweet;
Her voice is low and sweet,
  And she's all the world to me;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
  I'd lay me doun and dee.
 

Trad.

ROBIN ADAIR

 
What's this dull town to me?
    Robin's not near.
What was't I wish'd to see,
    What wish'd to hear?
Where's all the joy and mirth
Made this town a heav'n on earth?
Oh, they're all fled with thee,
    Robin Adair.
 
 
What made th' assembly shine?
    Robin Adair.
What made the ball so fine?
    Robin was there.
What when the play was o'er,
What made my heart so sore?
Oh, it was parting with
    Robin Adair.
 
 
But now thou'rt cold to me,
    Robin Adair.
But now thou'rt cold to me,
    Robin Adair.
Yet he I lov'd so well
Still in my heart shall dwell;
Oh, I can ne'er forget
    Robin Adair.
 

Anon.

MOLLY BAWN

 
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
  All lonely, waiting here for you?
While the stars above are brightly shining,
  Because they've nothing else to do.
The flowers late were open keeping,
  To try a rival blush with you;
But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,
  With their rosy faces wash'd with dew.
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
  All lonely, waiting here for you?
Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
  And the pretty stars were made to shine;
And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
  And may be you were made for mine:
The wicked watch-dog here is snarling,
  He takes me for a thief, you see;
For he knows I'd steal you, Molly, darling,
  And then transported I should be.
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
  All lonely, waiting here for you?
 

Samuel Lover.

GO, HAPPY ROSE!

 
Go, happy Rose! and interwove
  With other flowers, bind my love.
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
That so oft has fetter'd me.
 
 
Say, it she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands;
  Tell her, if she struggle still,
  I have myrtle rods at will,
  For to tame though not to kill.
 
 
Take thou my blessing thus, and go,
And tell her this,—but do not so!
  Lest a handsome anger fly
  Like a lightning from her eye,
  And burn thee up as well as I.
 

Herrick.

THE ANCHOR'S WEIGH'D

 
The tear fell gently from her eye,
  When last we parted on the shore;
My bosom heav'd with many a sigh,
  To think I ne'er might see her more.
"Dear youth," she cried,
              "and canst thou haste away?
My heart will break; a little moment stay.
Alas, I cannot, I cannot part from thee.
The anchor's weigh'd,
              farewell! remember me."
 
 
"Weep not, my love," I trembling said,
  "Doubt not a constant heart like mine;
I ne'er can meet another maid,
  Whose charms can fix
               that heart like thine!"
 
 
"Go, then," she cried, "but let thy constant mind
  Oft think of her you leave in tears behind."
"Dear maid, this last embrace my pledge shall be!
The anchor's weigh'd!
                farewell! remember me."
 

S.J. Arnold.

ALICE GRAY

 
She's all my fancy painted her,
  She's lovely, she's divine;
But her heart it is another's,
  She never can be mine;
Yet lov'd I as man never lov'd,
  A love without decay,
Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking
  For the love of Alice Gray!
 
 
Her dark brown hair is braided
  O'er a brow of spotless white;
Her soft blue eye now languishes,
  Now flashes with delight;
Her hair is braided not for me,
  The eye is turned away;
Yet, my heart, my heart is breaking
  For the love of Alice Gray.
 
 
I've sunk beneath the summer's sun,
  And trembled in the blast;
But my pilgrimage is nearly done,
  The weary conflict's past:
And when the green sod wraps my grave,
  May pity haply say,
Oh! his heart, his heart is broken
  For the love of Alice Gray.
 

William Mee.