Old Ballads Part 7

Then awa' to the hills, to the lea, to the rocks: Ere I own an usurper I'll crouch wi' the fox; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee Ye hae no seen the last of my bonnets and me.

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, etc.

_Sir Walter Scott._

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

There is no lady in the land That's half so sweet as Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em.

But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work (I love her so sincerely), My master comes, like any Turk, And bangs me most severely.

But let him bang his belly full, I'll bear it all for Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week, I dearly love but one day; And that's the day that comes betwixt A Sat.u.r.day and Monday.

For then I'm dress'd all in my best, To walk abroad with Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named.

I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, Oh! then I shall have money; I'll h.o.a.rd it up, and box and all I'll give it to my honey.

I would it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbours all Make game of me and Sally; And (but for her) I'd better be A slave, and row a galley.

But when my seven long years are out, Oh! then I'll marry Sally: Oh! then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, But not in our alley.

_Henry Carey._

KITTY OF COLERAINE.

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet b.u.t.termilk water'd the plain.

"Oh, what shall I do now?

'Twas looking at you, now; Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again.

'Twas the pride of my dairy, O Barnay M'Leary, You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain.

A kiss then I gave her, before I did leave her, She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again.

'Twas haymaking season, I can't tell the reason-- Misfortunes will never come single, that's plain-- For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

_Edward Lysaght._

HERE'S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN.

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Now to the widow of fifty; Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty: Let the toast pa.s.s, Drink to the la.s.s-- I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the gla.s.s.

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the damsel with none, sir; Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And now to the nymph with but one, sir: Let the toast pa.s.s, Drink to the la.s.s-- I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the gla.s.s.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, Now to her that's as brown as a berry; Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that's merry: Let the toast pa.s.s, Drink to the la.s.s-- I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the gla.s.s.

For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill up a b.u.mper, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e'en toast 'em together: Let the toast pa.s.s, Drink to the la.s.s-- I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the gla.s.s.

_R. B. Sheridan._

THE LEATHER BOTTeL.

'Twas G.o.d above that made all things, The heav'ns, the earth, and all therein: The s.h.i.+ps that on the sea do swim To guard from foes that none come in; And let them all do what they can, 'Twas for one end--the use of man.

So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel.

Now, what do you say to these cans of wood?

Oh, no, in faith they cannot be good; For if the bearer fall by the way, Why, on the ground your liquor doth lay; But had it been in a leather bottel, Although he had fallen all had been well.

So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel.

Then what do you say to these gla.s.ses fine?

Oh, they shall have no praise of mine; For if you chance to touch the brim, Down falls the liquor and all therein.

But had it been in a leather bottel, And the stopple in, all had been well.

So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel.

Then what do you say to these black pots three?

If a man and his wife should not agree, Why, they'll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill; In a leather bottel they may tug their fill, And pull away till their hearts do ake, And yet their liquor no harm can take.

So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel.

Then what do you say to these flagons fine?

Oh, they shall have no praise of mine; For when a lord is about to dine, And sends them to be filled with wine, The man with the flagon doth run away, Because it is silver most gallant and gay So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel.

A leather bottel we know is good, Far better than gla.s.ses or cans of wood; For when a man's at work in the field Your gla.s.ses and pots no comfort will yield; But a good leather bottel standing by Will raise his spirits whenever he's dry.

So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottel.

At noon the haymakers sit them down, To drink from their bottles of ale nut-brown; In summer, too, when the weather is warm, A good bottle full will do them no harm.