Old Ballads | Page 7

son; He loved the bailiff's daughter dear That lived in Islington.
Yet she was coy, and would not believe That he did love her so. No; nor at any time would she Any countenance to him show.
But when his friends did understand His fond and foolish mind, They sent him up to fair London An apprentice for to bind.
And when he had been seven long years, And never his love could see: "Many a tear have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of me."
Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and play, All but the bailiff's daughter dear-- She secretly stole away.
She pulled off her gown of green, And put on ragged attire, And to fair London she would go, Her true love to inquire.
And as she went along the high road, The weather being hot and dry, She sat her down upon a green bank, And her true love came riding by.
She started up, with a colour so red, Catching hold of his bridle-rein; "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she said, "Will ease me of much pain."
"Before I give you one penny, sweetheart, Pray tell me where you were born?" "At Islington, kind sir," said she, "Where I have had many a scorn."
"I pr'ythee, sweetheart, then tell to me, O tell me, whether you know The bailiff's daughter of Islington?" "She is dead, sir, long ago."
"If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will into some far countrie, Where no man shall me know."
O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth, She standeth by thy side: She is here alive, she is not dead-- And ready to be thy bride.
O farewell grief, and welcome joy, Ten thousand times therefore! For now I have found my own true love, Whom I thought I should never see more.

THE MILLER OF DEE.
There was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee, He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he; And this the burden of his song for ever used to be: "I care for nobody, no, not I, if nobody cares for me.
"I live by my mill, God bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife; I would not change my station for any other in life. No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor, e'er had a groat from me, I care for nobody, no, not I, if nobody cares for me."
When spring begins his merry career, oh! how his heart grows gay; No summer's drought alarms his fears, nor winter's cold decay; No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say: "Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day."
Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing, The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing; This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring, Let heart and voice and all agree to say, "Long live the King!"
_Isaac Bickerstaffe._

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.
A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea, And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling, And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come back to me."
Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered. And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee; Oh! bless'd be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me, And say thou would'st rather They watch'd o'er thy father! For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see, And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."
Samuel Lover.

SIMON THE CELLARER.
Old Simon the Cellarer keeps a large store Of Malmsey and Malvoisie, And Cyprus and who can say how many more? For a chary old soul is he, A chary old soul is he; Of Sack and Canary he never doth fail, And all the year round there is brewing of ale; Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say, While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day: But ho! ho! ho! his nose doth shew How oft the black Jack to his lips doth go; But ho! ho! ho! his nose doth shew How oft the black Jack to his lips doth go.
Dame Margery sits in her own still-room. And a Matron sage is she; From thence oft at Curfew is wafted a fume, She says it is Rosemarie, She says it is Rosemarie; But there's a small cupboard behind