Old Ballads Part 3

No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way, Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee c.u.mber; What though the moon does slumber?

The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear, without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Thy silv'ry feet, My soul I'll pour into thee.

_Herrick_.

TOM BOWLING.

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 turn'd 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.

Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches, In vain Tom's life has doff'd; For though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

_Charles Dibdin._

MY LOVE IS LIKE THE RED RED ROSE.

My love is like the red red rose That's newly sprung in June; My love is like the melody That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie la.s.s, So deep in love am I; And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands of life shall run.

But, fare thee weel, my only love, And fare thee weel awhile; And I will come again, my dear, Though 'twere ten thousand mile.

_Burns_.

WIDOW MALONE.

Did you hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone!

Ohone!

Oh, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone!

So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score, Or more, And fortunes they all had galore, In store; From the minister down To the clerk of the crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone!

All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mistress Malone, 'Twas known, That no one could see her alone, Ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone!

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Mister O'Brien, from Clare,-- How quare!

It's little for blushing they care Down there, Put his arm round her waist-- Gave ten kisses at laste-- "Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, My own!"

"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone."

And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye!

Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, For why?

But "Lucius," says she, "Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone!

You may marry your Mary Malone."

There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong, And one comfort, it's not very long, But strong,-- If for widows you die, Learn to kiss, not to sigh, For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone!

Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone.

_Charles Lever_.

THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN.

And did you ne'er hear of a jolly young waterman, Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply?

And he feathered his oars with such skill and dexterity, Winning each heart and delighting each eye.

He look'd so neat, and he row'd so steadily, The maidens all flock'd in his boat so readily; And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, That this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.

What sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry!

'Twas clean'd out so nice, and so painted withal; He was always first oars when the fine city ladies In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall.

And oftentimes would they be giggling and leering, But 'twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering; For loving or liking he little did care, For this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.

And yet but to see how strangely things happen, As he row'd along, thinking of nothing at all, He was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, That she smil'd, and so straightway in love he did fall.

And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow, He'd wed her to-night, and not wait till to-morrow; And how should this waterman ever know care, When, married, was never in want of a _fair_.

_Charles Dibdin_.

CALLER HERRIN'.