English Songs and Ballads Part 38

Anonymous

As I came thro' Sandgate, Thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate, As I came thro' Sandgate I heard a la.s.sie sing, O weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row, O weel may the keel row, That my laddie's in.

O wha's like my Johnny, Sae leith, sae blythe, sae bonny?

He's foremost among the mony Keel lads o' coaly Tyne: He'll set and row so tightly, Or in the dance--so sprightly-- He'll cut and shuffle sightly; 'Tis true,--were he not mine.

He wears a blue bonnet, Blue bonnet, blue bonnet; He wears a blue bonnet,-- And a dimple in his chin: And weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row; And weel may the keel row, That my laddie's in.

THE BLUE BELL OF SCOTLAND

Anonymous

Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland laddie gone?

He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne; And it's oh, in my heart, how I wish him safe at home!

Oh where, and oh where, does your Highland laddie dwell?

He dwells in merry Scotland, at the sign of the Blue Bell; And it's oh, in my heart, that I love my laddie well.

In what clothes, in what clothes is your Highland laddie clad?

His bonnet's of the Saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid; And it's oh, in my heart, that I love my Highland lad.

Suppose, oh, suppose that your Highland lad should die?

The bagpipes shall play over him, and I'll lay me down and cry; And it's oh, in my heart, I wish he may not die.

THE LAIRD O' c.o.c.kPEN

Lady Nairne

The Laird o' c.o.c.kpen he's proud an' he's great, His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the State; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fas.h.i.+ous to seek.

Doon by the d.y.k.e-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thocht she'd look well; M'Cleish's ae dochter, o' Clavers-ha' Lee, A penniless la.s.s wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther'd, as gude as when new; His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; He put on a ring, a sword, an' c.o.c.ked hat, An' wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

He took the grey mare, he rade cannilie, An' rapped at the yett o' Clavers-ha' Lee; 'Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,-- She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' c.o.c.kpen.'

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flow'r wine; 'An' what brings the Laird at sic a like time?'

She put aff her ap.r.o.n, an' on her silk goon, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, an' gaed awa' doon.

An' when she cam' ben he bowed fu' low, An' what was his errand he soon let her know; Amazed was the Laird when the lady said 'Na!'

An' wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'!

Dumfounder'd was he, but nae sigh did he gi'e, He mounted his mare an' he rade cannilie; An' often he thocht, as he gaed through the glen, 'She's daft to refuse the Laird o' c.o.c.kpen!'

CALLER HERRIN'

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, Dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows, Darkling as they faced the billows, A' to fill the woven willows?

Buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

They're no brought here without brave darin'; Buy my caller herrin', Hauled thro' wind and rain.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?...

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; Wives and mithers, maist despairin', Ca' them lives o' men.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?...

When the creel o' herrin' pa.s.ses, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their heads, and screw their faces.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?...

Caller herrin's no got lightlie, Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', Gow has set you a' a-singin'.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?...

Neebour wives, now tent my tellin', When the bonnie fish ye're sellin', At ae word be in yer dealin'-- Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'

Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

TOM BOWLING

Charles Dibdin

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach'd him to.

His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful, below, he did his duty But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft!

But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands.