Old Ballads Part 4

Wha'll buy caller herrin'?

They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; Buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the Forth.

When ye were sleeping on your pillows, Dreamt ye aught o' our puir fellows, Darkling as they face the billows, A' to fill our woven willows.

Buy my caller herrin', They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; Buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the Forth.

Caller herrin', caller herrin'.

An' when the creel o' herrin' pa.s.ses, Ladies clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Toss their heads and screw their faces; Buy my caller herrin', They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; Buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the Forth.

Noo neebor wives, come, tent my tellin', When the bonnie fish ye're sellin'

At a word be aye your dealin', Truth will stand when a' things failin'; Buy my caller herrin', They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; 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', Ye little ken their worth.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

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

Caller herrin', caller herrin'.

_Lady Nairne_.

A HUNTING WE WILL GO.

The dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn; The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn.

And a hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay: "My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; You cannot hunt to-day."

Yet a hunting we will go.

Away they fly to 'scape the rout, Their steeds they soundly switch; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, And some thrown in the ditch.

Yet a hunting we will go.

Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, And sweeps across the vale; And when the hounds too near he spies, He drops his bushy tail.

Then a hunting we will go.

Fond echo seems to like the sport, And join the jovial cry; The woods, the hills the sound retort, And music fills the sky.

When a hunting we do go.

At last his strength to faintness worn, Poor Reynard ceases flight; Then hungry, homeward we return, To feast away the night.

And a drinking we do go.

Ye jovial hunters, in the morn Prepare then for the chase; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace.

When a hunting we do go.

_Henry Fielding_.

HEARTS OF OAK.

Come, cheer up, my lads!

'tis to glory we steer, To add something more to this wonderful year: To honour we call you, not press you like slaves: For who are so free as the sons of the waves?

Hearts of oak are our ships, Gallant tars are our men; We always are ready: Steady, boys, steady!

We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.

We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay; They never see us but they wish us away; If they run, why, we follow, or run them ash.o.r.e; For if they won't fight us, we cannot do more.

Hearts of oak, etc.

Britannia triumphant, her ships sweep the sea; Her standard is Justice-- her watchword, "Be free!"

Then cheer up, my lads!

with one heart let us sing, "Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and king."

Hearts of oak, etc.

_David Garrick_.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

I'll sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman, Who had an old estate; And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate, With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate-- Like a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around With pikes, and guns, and bows, And swords and good old bucklers That had stood against old foes; 'Twas there "his worship" sat in state, In doublet and trunk hose, And quaff'd his cup of good old sack To warm his good old nose-- Like a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

When winter's cold brought frost and snow, He open'd his house to all; And though three-score and ten his years, He featly led the ball.

Nor was the houseless wanderer E'er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, He ne'er forgot the small-- Like a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

But time, though sweet, is strong in flight, And years roll swiftly by; And autumn's falling leaves proclaim'd The old man--he must die!

He laid him down quite tranquilly, Gave up his latest sigh; And mournful stillness reign'd around, And tears bedew'd each eye-- For this good old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

Now, surely this is better far Than all the new parade Of theatres and fancy b.a.l.l.s, "At home" and masquerade!

And much more economical, For all his bills were paid, Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade-- Of a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

_Anon_.

THE BAY OF BISCAY O!

Loud roared the dreadful thunder!

The rain a deluge showers!

The clouds were rent asunder By lightning's vivid powers!

The night, both drear and dark, Our poor devoted bark, Till next day, there she lay, In the Bay of Biscay O!