English Songs and Ballads Part 30

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin, I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin, But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'.

ALEXANDER ROSS

The bride cam' out o' the byre, And, oh, as she dighted her cheeks: 'Sirs, I'm to be married the night, And have neither blankets nor sheets; Have neither blankets nor sheets, Nor scarce a coverlet too; The bride that has a' thing to borrow, Has e'en right muckle ado.'

Woo'd, and married, and a', Married, and woo'd, and a'!

And was she nae very weel off, That was woo'd, and married, and a'?

Out spake the bride's father, As he cam' in frae the pleugh: 'Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether, And our braw bawsint yaud, Will carry ye hame your corn-- What wad ye be at, ye jaud?'

Out spake the bride's mither: 'What deil needs a' this pride?

I hadna a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride; My gown was linsey-woolsey, And ne'er a sark ava; And ye hae ribbons and buskins, Mae than ane or twa.'

Out spake the bride's brither, As he cam' in wi' the kye: 'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, Had he kent ye as weel as I; For ye're baith proud and saucy, And no for a poor man's wife; Gin I canna get a better, I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.'

THE BRITISH GRENADIERS

ANONYMOUS

Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these, But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadier!

Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!

Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades, We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, The townsmen cry, 'Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier!

Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!'

Then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!

Then let us fill a b.u.mper, and drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the louped clothes, May they and their commanders live happy all their years, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!

HERE'S TO THE MAIDEN

ANONYMOUS

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'll 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.

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.

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'll warrant she'll prove An excuse for the gla.s.s.

BRISTOW TRAGEDY

THOMAS CHATTERTON

The feathered songster chanticleer Had wound his bugle-horn, And told the early villager The coming of the morn:

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks Of light eclipse the gray, And heard the raven's croaking throat, Proclaim the fated day.

'Thou 'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the G.o.d That sits enthroned on high!

Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain, To-day shall surely die.'

Then with a jug of nappy ale His knights did on him wait; 'Go tell the traitor, that to-day He leaves this mortal state.'

Sir Canterlone then bended low, With heart brimful of woe; He journeyed to the castle-gate, And to Sir Charles did go.

But when he came, his children twain, And eke his loving wife, With briny tears did wet the floor, For good Sir Charles's life.

'O good Sir Charles,' said Canterlone, 'Bad tidings I do bring.'

'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles, 'What says the traitor-king?'

'I grieve to tell: before yon sun Does from the welkin fly, He hath upon his honour sworn, That thou shalt surely die.'

'We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles; 'Of that I'm not afraid; What boots to live a little s.p.a.ce?

Thank Jesus, I'm prepared.

'But tell thy king, for mine he's not, I'd sooner die to-day, Than live his slave, as many are, Though I should live for aye.'

Then Canterlone he did go out, To tell the mayor straight To get all things in readiness For good Sir Charles's fate.

Then Mr. Canynge sought the king, And fell down on his knee; 'I'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your grace, To move your clemency.'

'Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out, You have been much our friend: Whatever your request may be, We will to it attend.'

'My n.o.ble liege, all my request Is for a n.o.ble knight, Who, though mayhap he has done wrong, He thought it still was right.

'He has a spouse and children twain; All ruined are for aye, If that you are resolved to let Charles Bawdin die to-day.'

'Speak not of such a traitor vile,'