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[SHE] Sing me your song, O!
[HE] It is sung to the moon By a love-lorn loon, Who fled from the mocking throng, O!
It's the song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye.
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me - lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
[SHE] I have a song to sing, O!
[HE] Sing me your song, O!
[SHE] It is sung with the ring Of the song maids sing Who love with a love life-long, O!
It's the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud, Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud At the moan of the merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me - lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
[HE] I have a song to sing, O!
[SHE] Sing me your song, O!
[HE] It is sung to the knell Of a churchyard bell, And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O!
It's a song of a popinjay, bravely born, Who turned up his n.o.ble nose with scorn At the humble merrymaid, peerly proud, Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloud At the moan of the merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me - lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
[SHE] I have a song to sing, O!
[HE] Sing me your song, O!
[SHE] It is sung with a sigh And a tear in the eye, For it tells of a righted wrong, O!
It's a song of a merrymaid, once so gay, Who turned on her heel and tripped away From the peac.o.c.k popinjay, bravely born, Who turned up his n.o.ble nose with scorn At the humble heart that he did not prize; And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes, For the love of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
[BOTH] Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me - lackadaydee!
His pains were o'er, and he sighed no more.
For he lived in the love of a ladye!
Ballad: The Susceptible Chancellor
The law is the true embodiment Of everything that's excellent.
It has no kind of fault or flaw, And I, my lords, embody the Law.
The const.i.tutional guardian I Of pretty young Wards in Chancery, All very agreeable girls - and none Is over the age of twenty-one.
A pleasant occupation for A rather susceptible Chancellor!
But though the compliment implied Inflates me with legitimate pride, It nevertheless can't be denied That it has its inconvenient side.
For I'm not so old, and not so plain, And I'm quite prepared to marry again, But there'd be the deuce to pay in the Lords If I fell in love with one of my Wards: Which rather tries my temper, for I'm SUCH a susceptible Chancellor!
And every one who'd marry a Ward Must come to me for my accord: So in my court I sit all day, Giving agreeable girls away, With one for him - and one for he - And one for you - and one for ye - And one for thou - and one for thee - But never, oh never a one for me!
Which is exasperating, for A highly susceptible Chancellor!
Ballad: When A Merry Maiden Marries
When a merry maiden marries, Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries; Every sound becomes a song, All is right and nothing's wrong!
From to-day and ever after Let your tears be tears of laughter - Every sigh that finds a vent Be a sigh of sweet content!
When you marry merry maiden, Then the air with love is laden; Every flower is a rose, Every goose becomes a swan, Every kind of trouble goes Where the last year's snows have gone; Sunlight takes the place of shade When you marry merry maid!
When a merry maiden marries Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries; Every sound becomes a song, All is right, and nothing's wrong.
Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow, Get ye gone until to-morrow; Jealousies in grim array, Ye are things of yesterday!
When you marry merry maiden, Then the air with joy is laden; All the corners of the earth Ring with music sweetly played, Worry is melodious mirth, Grief is joy in masquerade; Sullen night is laughing day - All the year is merry May!
Ballad: The British Tar
A British tar is a soaring soul, As free as a mountain bird, His energetic fist should be ready to resist A dictatorial word.
His nose should pant and his lip should curl, His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl, His bosom should heave and his heart should glow, And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow.
His eyes should flash with an inborn fire, His brow with scorn be rung; He never should bow down to a domineering frown, Or the tang of a tyrant tongue.
His foot should stamp and his throat should growl, His hair should twirl and his face should scowl; His eyes should flash and his breast protrude, And this should be his customary att.i.tude!
Ballad: A Man Who Would Woo A Fair Maid
A man who would woo a fair maid, Should 'prentice himself to the trade; And study all day, In methodical way, How to flatter, cajole, and persuade.
He should 'prentice himself at fourteen And practise from morning to e'en; And when he's of age, If he will, I'll engage, He may capture the heart of a queen!
It is purely a matter of skill, Which all may attain if they will: But every Jack He must study the knack If he wants to make sure of his Jill!
If he's made the best use of his time, His twig he'll so carefully lime That every bird Will come down at his word.
Whatever its plumage and clime.
He must learn that the thrill of a touch May mean little, or nothing, or much; It's an instrument rare, To be handled with care, And ought to be treated as such.
It is purely a matter of skill, Which all may attain if they will: But every Jack, He must study the knack If he wants to make sure of his Jill!
Then a glance may be timid or free; It will vary in mighty degree, From an impudent stare To a look of despair That no maid without pity can see.
And a glance of despair is no guide - It may have its ridiculous side; It may draw you a tear Or a box on the ear; You can never be sure till you've tried.
It is purely a matter of skill, Which all may attain if they will: But every Jack He must study the knack If he wants to make sure of his Jill!
Ballad: The Sorcerer's Song
