 Section 90 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This sleep-revox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Josh Kibbey. The Milking Pale. The following is another version of the preceding Diddy, and is the one most commonly sung. Ye nymphs and sylvan gods, that love green fields and woods, when spring newly borne herself does adorn, with flowers and blooming buds. Some sing in the praise, while flocks do graze, on yonder pleasant veil, of those that choose to milk their ewes, and in cold dews with clouted shoes to carry the milking pale. You goddess of the morn with blushes you adorn, and take the fresh air whilst the linets prepare a concert on each green thorn. The blackbird and thrush on every bush, and the charming nightingale, and merry vain their throats do strain, to entertain the jolly train of those of the milking pale. When cold bleak winds do roar, and flowers will spring no more, the fields that were seen so pleasant and green, with winter all candidor, see now the town last with her white face, and her lips so deadly pale, but it is not so with those that go, through frost and snow, with cheeks that glow, and carry the milking pale. The country light is free, from fears and jealousy, whilst upon the green he oft is seen with his last upon his knee, with kisses most sweet he doth or so treat, and swears her charms won't fail, but the London lasts in every place, with brazen face despises the grace of those of the milking pale. Section 91 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the Public Domain. Recording by Linda Ray Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. THE SUMMERS MORNING. This is a very old ditty, and a favourite with the peasantry in every part of England, but more particularly in the mining districts of the North. The tune is pleasing but uncommon. R.W. Dixon, Esquire of Seton Carroll, Durham, by whom the song was communicated to his brother for publication, says, I have written down the above verbatim, as generally sung. It will be seen that the last lines of each verse are not of equal length. The senior, however, makes all right and smooth. The words underlined in each verse are sung five times. Thus, they advent seed, they advent seed, they advent seed, they advent seed, they advent seed, me some money, ten guineas, and a crown. The last line is the sung, will be married, as the word is usually pronounced. Will be married, will be married, will be married, will be married, will be married, when I return again. The tune is given in popular music. Since this song appeared in the volume issued by the Percy Society, we have met with a copy printed at Devon Port. The readings are in general not so good, but in one or two instances they are apparently more ancient and are consequently here adopted. The Devon Port copy contains two verses, not preserved in our traditional version. These we have incorporated in our present text, in which they form the third and last stanzas. It was one summer's morning, as I went o'er the moss. I had no thought of listing, till the soldiers did me cross. They kindly did invite me to a flowing bowl, and down. They advanced, they advanced, they advanced, they advanced me some money, ten guineas, and a crown. It's true my love has listed, he wears a white cockade. He is a handsome tall young man, besides a roving blade. He is a handsome young man, and he is gone to serve the king. O my very, O my very, O my very, O my very heart is breaking for the loss of him. My love is tall and handsome, and comely fore to see, and by a sad misfortune a soldier now is he. I hope the man that listed him may not prosper night nor day, for I wish that, for I wish that, for I wish that, for I wish that, for I wish that the haunders may sink him in the sea. O may he never prosper, O may he never thrive, nor anything he takes in hand so long as he's alive. May the very grass he treads upon, the ground refuse to grow, since he's been, since he's been, since he's been, since he's been, since he's been the only cause of my sorrow, grief, and woe. Then he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her flowing eyes, leave off those laminations, likewise those mournful cries, leave off your grief and sorrow, while I march o'er the plain. We'll be married, we'll be married, we'll be married, we'll be married, we'll be married when I return again. O now my love has listed, and I for him will rove. I'll write his name on every tree that grows in yonder grove, where the huntsman he does hollow and the hounds do sweetly cry, to remind me, to remind me, to remind me, to remind me of my plow-boy until the day I die. End of the summer's mourning. Section 92 of H. F. Porms and Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Larry Wilson. Old Adam. We have had considerable trouble in procuring a copy of this old song, which used in former days to be very popular with aged people resident in the north of England. It has been long out of print and handed down traditionally. By the kindness, however, of Mr. S. Swindells, printer Manchester, we have been favoured with an ancient printer copy, which Mr. Swindells observes he had great difficulty in obtaining. Some improvements have been made in the present edition for the recital of Mr. Effingham Wilson, who was familiar with the song in his youth. Both sexes give ear to my fancy, while in praise of dear woman I sing, confined not to maul, Sue or Nancy, but mates from a beggar to king. When Old Adam first was created, and Lord of the universe crowned, his happiness was not completed, until that an helpmate was found. He'd all things and food that were wanting to keep and support him through life. He'd horses and foxes for hunting, which some men love better than wife. He'd a garden so planted by nature man cannot produce in this life. But yet the all-wise great-creature still saw that he wanted a wife. Then Adam he laid in a slumber, and there he lost part of his side, and when he awoke with a wonder beheld his most beautiful bride. In transport he gazed upon her, his happiness now was complete. He praised his bountiful donor, who thus had bestowed him a mate. She was not took out of his head, sir, to reign in triumph over man, nor was she took out of his feet, sir, by man to be trampled upon. But she was took out of his side, sir, his equal and partner to be. But as they're united in one, sir, the man is the top of the tree. Did not let the fair be despised by man as she's part of himself, for woman by Adam was prized, more than the whole globe full of wealth. Man without a woman's a beggar, suppose the whole world he possessed, and the beggar that's got a good woman with more than the world he's blessed. End of Old Adam. Section 93 of Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England This liberal arts recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elaine Conway, England Tobacco This song is a mere adaptation of Smoking Spiritualised. The earliest copy of the abridgment we have, being able to meet with, is published in D'Arfi's Pills de Peuge Melancholy, 1719. To whether we are indebted for it to the author of the original poem, or to that bright genius Tom D'Arfi, as Burns calls him, we are not able to determine. The song has always been popular, the tune is in popular music. Tobacco is but an Indian weed, grows green in the morn, cut down at Eve. It shows our decay, we are but clay. Think of this when you smoke tobacco, the pipe that is so lily-white, wherein so many take delight, it's broken with a touch, man's life is such. Think of this when you take tobacco. The pipe that is so foul within, it shows man's soul is stained with sin. It does require to be purred with fire. Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The dust that from the pipe does fall, shows you are nothing but dust at all. For we came from the dust, and return we must. Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The ashes that are left behind, do serve to put us all in mind, that unto dust return we must. Think of this when you take tobacco. The smoke that does so high ascend, shows that man's life must have an end. The vape is gone, man's life is done. Think of this when you take tobacco. End of Tobacco. Section number 94 of ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of England. This Librovolts recording is in the public domain, recording by Elaine Conway, England. The Spanish Ladies. This song is ancient, but we have no means of ascertaining at what period it was written. Captain Marriott, in his novel of Poor Jack, introduces it and said it is old. It is a general favourite, the air is plaintive, and in the minor key. Farewell and adieu to you Spanish Ladies. Farewell and adieu to you Ladies of Spain, for we have received orders for to sail, for old England. But we hope in a short time to see you again, we'll rant and we'll roar like true British heroes. We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas, until we strike soundings in the Channel of Old England, from Ashant to Silly, is 35 Leeds. Then we hove our ship too, with the wind at our west, boys. We hove our ship too, for to strike soundings clear. We got soundings in 95 Fathom, and boldly up the Channel of Old England, a course we did steer. The first land we made, it, was called the Dead Man. First ramshed of Plymouth, start Portland, and White, passed by Beachy, by Fairleigh, and Dungeonass, and hove our ship too, off the South Fallen Light. Then a signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor, all in the downs that night fall to sleep, then stood by your stoppers, let go your shank painters, haul all your clue garnets, stick out tax and sheets. So let every man toss off a full bumper, let every man toss off his full bowls. Well drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy, so here's a good health to all true hearted souls. End of the Spanish Ladies Section 95 of ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of England. This liberal arts recording is in the public domain, recording by Elaine Conway, England. Harry the tailor, traditional. The following song was taken down some years ago, from the recitation of a country curate, who said he had learned it from a very old inhabitant of Methly, near Pontifract, Yorkshire. We have never seen it in print. When Harry the tailor was twenty years old, he began for to look with courage so bold. He told his old mother he was not ingest, but he would have a wife as well as the rest. Then Harry next morning, before it was day, to the house of his fair maid took his way. He found his dear Dolly a making of cheese, says he, you must give me a bus if you please. She up with a bowl the buttermilk flew, and Harry the tailor looked wonderful blue. Oh Dolly my dear, what hast thou done? From my back to my breeks has thy buttermilk run. She gave him a push he stumbled and fouled, down from the dairy into the draw while. Then Harry the ploughboy ran amane, and soon brought him up in the bucket again. Then Harry went home like a drowned rat, and told his old mother what he had been at, with buttermilk, bowl, and a terrible fool. Oh, if this be called love, may the devil take all. End of Harry the tailor Section 96 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This Librivolts recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elaine Conway, England. Sir Arthur and Charming Moly Traditional. For this old Northumbrian song, we are indebted to Mr Robert Chambers. It was taken down from the recitation of a lady. The Sir Arthur is no less a personate than Sir Arthur Hazlerig, the governor of Tynmouth Castle, during the Protectorate of Cromwell. As noble Sir Arthur one morning did ride, with his hands at his feet, and his sword by his side. He saw a fair maid sitting under a tree. He asked her name, and she said, Twas Moly. Oh, Charming Moly, you my butler shall be, to draw the red wine. For yourself and for me, I'll make you a lady so high in degree. If you will but love me, my Charming Moly, I'll give you fine ribbons, I'll give you fine rings, I'll give you fine jewels, and many fine things. I'll give you a petticoat flanced to the knee, if you will but love me, my Charming Moly. I'll have none of your ribbons, and none of your rings, none of your jewels, and other fine things. And I've got a petticoat, suits my degree. And I'll near love a married man, till his wife, Dee. Oh Charming Moly, lend me then your pen knife, and I will go home, and I'll kill my own wife, I'll kill my own wife, and my bannies three, if you will but love me, my Charming Moly. Oh noble Sir Arthur, it must not be so. Go home to your wife, and let nobody know, for seven long years I will wait upon thee, but I'll near love a married man, till his wife, Dee. Now seven long years are gone, and are past, the old woman went to her long home at last. The old woman died, and Sir Arthur was free, and he soon came according to Charming Moly. Now Charming Moly in her carriage doth ride, with her hands at her feet, and her lord by her side. Now all ye fair maids, take a warning by me, and near love a married man, till his wife, Dee. End of Sir Arthur and Charming Moly, section 97 of ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of England. This liberal arts recording is in the public domain, recording by Elaine Conway, England. There was an old man who came over the Lee. This is a version of the Bailey of Barrick, which will be found in the local historians' table book. It was originally obtained from Warpath, and communicated by W. H. Longstaff, a squire of Darlington, who says, in many respects the Bailey of Barrick is the better addition. Still mine may furnish an extra stanza or two, and the Ha Ha Ha is better than Ha Ho, though the notes suit either version. There was an old man who came over the Lee Ha Ha Ha, but I won't have him. He came over the Lee, according to me, with his grey beard, newly shaven. My mother she bid me open the door, I opened the door, and he fell on the floor. My mother she bid me set him a stool, I set him a stool, and he looked like a fool. My mother she bid me give him some beer, I gave him some beer, and he thought it good cheer. My mother she bid me cut him some bread, I cut him some bread, and I threw it at his head. My mother she bid me light him to bed, I lit him to bed, and wished he were dead. My mother she bid me tell him to rise, I told him to rise, and he opened his eyes. My mother she bid me take him to church, I took him to church, and left him in the lurch, with his grey beard, newly shaven. End of There was an old man who came over the Lee. Section 98 of Ancient Poems Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England This Librivolts recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elaine Conway, England Why Should We Choral for Riches A version of this very favourite song may be found in Ramses Tea Table Miscellany. Though a sailor's song we question whether it is not a greater favourite with landsmen, the choruses become proverbial, and its philosophy has often been invoked to mitigate the evils and misfortunes of life. How pleasant a sailor's life passes, who roam over the watery main, no treasure he ever amasses, but cheerfully spends all his gain, were strangers to party and faction, to honour and honesty true, and would not commit a bad action, for power or profit in view. Then why should we quarrel for riches or any such glittering toys? A light heart and a thin pair of breeches will go through the world, my brave boys. The world is a beautiful garden, enriched with the blessings of life. The toiler with plenty rewarding, which plenty too often breeds strife, when terrible tempests assail us, and mountainous billows of fright, no grandeur or wealth can avail us. But skillful industry steers right, then why should we quarrel for riches or any such glittering toys? A light heart and a thin pair of breeches will go through the world, my brave boys. The courtier's more subject to dangers, who rules at the helm of the state, then we that, to politics strangers, escape the snares laid for the great, the various blessings of nature, in various nations we try, no mortals than us can be greater, who merrily live till we die. Then why should we quarrel for riches or any such glittering toys? A light heart and a thin pair of breeches will go through the world, my brave boys. End of Why Should We Quarrel For Riches? In 1999 of ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of England, this Librivolts recording is in the public domain, recording by Elaine Conway, England. Though merry fellows, all he that will not merry, merry be. The popularity of this old lyric, of which ours is the ballad printer's version, has been increased by the lively and appropriate music recently adapted to it by Mr Holderness. The date of this song is about the era of Charles II. Now, since we're met, let's merry, merry be. In spite of all our foes, and he that will not merry be, will pull him by the nose. Let him be merry, merry there, while we're all merry, merry here. For who can know where he shall go, to be merry another year? He that will not merry, merry be. With a generous bowl and a toast, may he in bride-well be shut up, and fast bound to a post. Let him be merry, merry there, while we're all merry, merry here. For who can know where he shall go, to be merry another year? He that will not merry, merry be. And to take his glass in course, may he be obliged to drink small beer, near a penny in his purse. Let him be merry, merry there, while we're all merry, merry here. For who can know where he shall go, to be merry another year? He that will not merry, merry be. With a company of jolly boys, may he be plagued with a scolding-wife, to confound him with her noise. Let him be merry, merry there, while we're all merry, merry here. For who can know where he shall go, to be merry another year? He that will not merry, merry be, with his sweet heart by his side. Let him be laid in the cold churchyard, with a headstone for his bride. Let him be merry, merry there, while we're all merry, merry here. For who can know where he shall go, to be merry another year? And of the merry fellows, all he that will not merry, merry be. Section 100 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and the Songs of the Peasantry of England This diddy still occasionally heard in the county districts seems to be the original of the very beautiful song, The Downhill of Life. The Old Man's Song may be found in Playford's Theatre of Music, 1685, but we are inclined to refer it to an earlier period. The song is also published by D. Irfy, accompanied by two objectionable parodies. If I live to grow old, for I find I go down, let this be my fate in a country town. May I have a warm house with a stone at the gate, and a cleanly young girl to rub my bald paint. May I govern my passions with absolute sway, and grow wiser and better as strength wears away, without gout or stone by a gentle decay, in a country town by a murmuring brook, with the ocean at distance on which I may look, with a spacious plain without hedge or style, and an easy pad neg to ride out a mile. May I govern my passions with absolute sway, and grow wiser and better as strength wears away, without gout or stone by a gentle decay, with hoarse and blue-tarch and one or two more of the best wits that lived in the age before, with a dish of roast mutton not venison or teal, and clean through coarse linen at every meal. May I govern my passions with absolute sway, and grow wiser and better as strength wears away, without gout or stone by a gentle decay, with a pudding on Sunday and stout humming liquor and remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar, with a hidden reserve of good burgundy wine to drink the king's health in as oft as I dine. May I govern my passions with absolute sway, and grow wiser and better as strength wears away, without gout or stone by a gentle decay. When the days are grown short, it freezes and snows, may I have a qual fire as high as my nose, a fire which once stirred up with a prong will keep the room temperate all the night long. May I govern my passions with absolute sway, and grow wiser and better as strength wears away, without gout or stone by a gentle decay, with a courage undaunted may I face my last day and when I am dead may the better sort say. When the morning went sober in the evening when mellow he's gone and he leaves not behind him his fellow, may I govern my passions with absolute sway, and grow wiser and better as strength wears away, without gout or stone by a gentle decay. RITSEN speaks of a Robin Hood's hill near Gloucestershire, and of a foolish song about it, whether this is the song to which he alludes we cannot determine. We find it in notes and queries, where it is stated to be printed from a manuscript of the latter part of the last century, and described as a song well known in the district to which it refers. Ye bards who extol the gay valleys and glades, that jesmine bowers and amorous shades, who prospects so rural can boast at your will, yet never once mentioned sweet Robin Hood's hill. The spot which of nature displays every smile, from famed Gloucestershire city is distance to mile, of which you of you may obtain at your will, from the sweet rural summit of Robin Hood's hill, where a clear crystal spring does incessantly flow, to supply and refresh the fair valley below. No dog-stars brisk heat or diminished the rail, which sweetly doth prattle on Robin Hood's hill. Here gazing around, you find objects still new, of Severn's sweet windings, how pleasing the view, who stream with the fruits of blessed commerce doth fill, the sweet-smelling veil beneath Robin Hood's hill. This hill, though so lofty, yet fertile and rare, few valleys can with it for herbage compare, some far greater bard should as Lear, and his quill, direct to the praise of sweet Robin Hood's hill. Here lads and gay lasses in couples' resort, for sweet rural pastime an innocent sport, sure pleasures near flowed from gay nature or skill, like those that are found on sweet Robin Hood's hill. Had I all the riches of matchless Peru to revel in splendor as emperors do, I'd forfeit the whole with a hearty goodwill, to dwell in a cottage on Robin Hood's hill. Then poets, record my love theme in your laze, first view, then you'll own that disworthy of praise, nay Envy herself must acknowledge it still, that no spot so delightful as Robin Hood's hill. section 102 of ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Be gone, dull care. We cannot trace this popular ditty beyond the reign of James II. But we believe it to be older. The origin is to be found in an early French chanson. The present version has been taken down from the singing of an old Yorkshire yeoman. The third verse we have never seen in print, but it is always sung in the west of Yorkshire. Be gone, dull care. I prithee be gone from me. Be gone, dull care. Thou and I can never agree. Long while thou hast been tearing here, and feign thou wouldest may kill. But I faith, dull care. Thou never shall have thy will. Too much care will make a young man gray. Too much care will turn an old man to clay. My wife shall dance, and I shall sing, so merrily pass the day. For I hold it is the wisest thing to drive dull care away. Hence, dull care, all none of thy company. Hence, dull care, though art no pair for me, will hunt the wild boar through the wood, so merrily pass the day, and then at night, or a cheerful boar, will drive dull care away. End of Be Gone, dull care. Section 103 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Full Merrily Sings the Cuckoo. The earliest copy of this playful song is one contained in a manuscript of the reign of James I, preserved amongst the registers of the stationaire's company, but the song can be traced back to 1566. Full Merrily Sings the Cuckoo. Upon the Beech and Tree. Your wives you well should look too, if you take advice of me. Cuckoo, cuckoo, alack the morn. When of married men, full nine in ten, must be content to wear the horn. Full Merrily Sings the Cuckoo. Upon the Oaken Tree. Your wives you well should look too, if you take advice of me. Cuckoo, cuckoo, alack the day. For married men, but now and then, can't escape to bear the horn away. Full Merrily Sings the Cuckoo. Upon the Ashen Tree. Your wives you well should look too, if you take advice of me. Cuckoo, cuckoo, alack the noon. When married men, must watch the hen, or some strange fox will steal her soon. Full Merrily Sings the Cuckoo. Upon the Older Tree. Your wives you well should look too, if you take advice of me. Cuckoo, cuckoo, alack the eve. When married men, must bid good then, to such as horns to them to give. Full Merrily Sings the Cuckoo. Upon the Aspen Tree. Your wives you well should look too, if you take advice of me. Cuckoo, cuckoo, alack the night. When married men, again and again, must hide their horns in their despite. End of Full Merrily Sings the Cuckoo. Section 104 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Lynda M. R. Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Jockey to the Fair A version of this song, not quite so accurate as the following, was published from an old broadside in Notes and Queries, Vol. 7, page 49, where it is described as a very celebrated Gloucestershire ballad. But Gloucestershire is not exclusively entitled to the honour of this genuine old country song, which is well known in Westmoreland and other counties. Jockey songs constitute a distinct and numerous class, and belong for the most part to the middle of the last century, when Jockey and Jenny were formable rivals to the Strepons and Chloe's of the Artificial School of Pastoral Poetry. The author of this song, Whoever He Was, drew upon real rural life and not upon its fashionable masquerade. We have been unable to trace the exact date of this Dickie, which still enjoys in some districts a wide popularity. It is not to be found in any of several large collections of Ranla and Vauxhall songs, and other anthologies which we have examined. From the Christian names of the Lovers it might be supposed to be of Scotch or border origin, but Jockey to the Fair is not confined to the North, indeed it is much better known and more frequently sung in the South and West. T'was on the mourn of Sweet May Day, when nature painted all things gay, taught birds to sing and lambs to play, and gilled the meadows fair. Young Jockey, early in the dawn, arose and tripped it o'er the lawn. His Sunday clothes, the youth put on, for Jenny had vowed a way to run, with Jockey to the Fair. For Jenny had vowed a way to run, with Jockey to the Fair. The cheerful parish bells had rung, with eager steps he trudged along. While flowery garlands round him hung, which shepherds used to wear. He tapped the window, haste, my dear! Jenny impatient cried, who's there? Tis I, my love, and no one near. Step gently down, you've not to fear, with Jockey to the Fair. Step gently down, you've not to fear, with Jockey to the Fair. My dad and ma'am are fast asleep, my brother's up and with the sheep, and will you still your promise keep, which I have heard you swear? And will you ever, constant prove, I will, by all the powers above, and near deceive my charming dove, dispel these doubts, and haste my love, with Jockey to the Fair. Dispel these doubts, and haste my love, with Jockey to the Fair. Behold the ring, the shepherd cried, will Jenny be my charming bride, that Cupid be our happy guide, and Hyman meet us there. Then Jockey did his vows renew. He would be constant, would be true. His word was pledged, away she flew, or Cowslips tipped, with Balmy do, with Jockey to the Fair, or Cowslips tipped, with Balmy do, with Jockey to the Fair. In raptures meet the joyful throng, their gay companions, blithe and young. Each join the dance, each raise the song, to hail the happy pair. In turns there's none so loud as they. They bless the kind, promptitious day. The smiling morn of Blooming May, when lovely Jenny ran away, with Jockey to the Fair, when lovely Jenny ran away, with Jockey to the Fair. In of Jockey to the Fair Section 105 Of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England This LibriVox recording is in the Public Domain. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Long Preston Peg. Mr. Birkbeck of Three Planned House, Lintondale, in Craven, has favored us with the following fragment. The tune is well known in the North, but all attempts on the part of Mr. Birkbeck to obtain the remaining verses have been unsuccessful. The song is evidently of the date of the First Rebellion, 1715. Long Preston Peg, too proud Preston went, to see the Scotch rebels, it was her intent. A noble Scotch lord, as he passed by, on this Yorkshire damsel, did soon cast an eye. He called to a servant, which on him did wait, go down to young girl, who stands in the gate. That sings with a voice so soft and sweet, and in my name do her lovingly greet. End of Long Preston Peg Section 106 Of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. The Sweet Nightingale, or, down in those valleys below, an ancient Cornish song. This curious ditty, which may be confidently assigned to the 17th century, is said to be a translation from the ancient Cornish tongue. We first heard it in Germany, in the pleasure gardens of the Marienburg, on the Moselle. The singers were four Cornish miners, who were at that time, 1854, employed at some lead mines near the town of Zell. The leader or captain, John Stocker, said that the song was an established favourite with the lead miners of Cornwall and Devonshire, and was always sung on the pay days, and at the wakes, and that his grandfather, who died thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing the song and say that it was very old. Stocker promised to make a copy of it, but there was no opportunity of procuring it before we left Germany. The following version has been supplied by a gentleman in Plymouth, who writes, I have had a great deal of trouble about the valley below. It is not in print. I first met with one person who knew one part, then with another person who knew another part, but nobody could sing the whole. At last Chance directed me to an old man at work on the roads, and he sung and recited it throughout, not exactly, however, as I sent it, for I was obliged to supply a little here and there, but only where a bad rhyme, or rather none at all, made it evident what the real rhyme was. I have read it over to a mining gentleman at Churro, and he says, it is pretty near the way we sing it. The tune is plaintive and original. My sweetheart come along, don't you hear the fawn song, the sweet notes of the nightingale flow, don't you hear the fawn tale of the sweet nightingale, as she sings in those valleys below, so be not afraid to walk in the shade, nor yet in those valleys below, nor yet in those valleys below. Pretty Betsy, don't fail, for I'll carry your pail, save home to your cot as we go, you shall hear the fawn tale of the sweet nightingale, as she sings in those valleys below, but she was afraid to walk in the shade, to walk in those valleys below, to walk in those valleys below. Pray let me alone, I have hands of my own, along with you I will not go, to hear the fawn tale of the sweet nightingale, as she sings in those valleys below, for I am afraid to walk in the shade, to walk in those valleys below, to walk in those valleys below. Pray sit yourself down, with me on the ground, on this bank where sweet prim roses grow, you shall hear the fawn tale of the sweet nightingale, as she sings in those valleys below, so be not afraid to walk in the shade, nor yet in those valleys below, nor yet in those valleys below. This couple agreed they were married with speed, and soon to the church they did go, she was no more afraid for to walk in the shade, nor yet in those valleys below, nor to hear the fawn tale of the sweet nightingale, as she sung in those valleys below, as she sung in those valleys below. End of The Sweet Nightingale. Section 107 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Ray Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The Old Man and His Three Sons. This traditional diddy founded upon the old ballad inserted ante page 124 is current as a nursery song in the north of England. There was an old man and sons he had three. Windwell Lion Good Hunter, a friar he being one of the three, with pleasure he ranged the north country, for he was a jovial hunter. As he went to the woods some pastime to see, Windwell Lion Good Hunter, he spied a fair lady under a tree, sighing and moaning mournfully, he was a jovial hunter. What are you doing, my fair lady? Windwell Lion Good Hunter, I am frightened the wild boar he will kill me. He has worried my lord and wounded thirty, as thou art a jovial hunter. Then the friar he put his horn to his mouth, Windwell Lion Good Hunter, and he blew a blast east-west, north and south, and the wild boar from his den he came forth, unto the jovial hunter. In Of The Old Man and His Three Sons Section 108 of Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England, this Liber-Vox recording is in the public domain, recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. A Bigging We Will Go The authorship of this song is attributed to Richard Broome, he who once performed a servant's faithful part for Ben Johnson, in a black letter copy in the Bagford Collection, where it is entitled The Beggar's Chorus in the Jovial Crew, to an excellent new tune. No such chorus, however, appears in the play, which was produced at the cockpit in 1641, and the probability is, as Mr. Chappell conjectures, that it was only interpolated in the performance. It is sometimes called the Jovial Beggar. The tune has been from time to time introduced into several ballad operas, and the song says Mr. Chappell, who publishes the air in his popular music, is the prototype of many others, such as a bowling we will go, a fishing we will go, a hawking we will go, and a fishing we will go. The last named is still popular with those who take delight in hunting, and the air is now scarcely known by any other title. There was a Jovial Beggar, he had a wooden leg, lain from his cradle, and forced four to beg, and a begging we will go, will go, will go, and a begging we will go, a beg for his oatmeal, another for his salt, and a pair of crutches to show that he can halt, and a begging we will go, will go, will go, and a begging we will go, a beg for his wheat, another for his rye, a little bottle by his side to drink when he's a dry, and a begging we will go, will go, will go, and a begging we will go. Seven years I begged for my old master wild, he taught me to beg when I was but a child, and a begging we will go, will go, will go, and a begging we will go. I begged for my master and got him store of pelf, but now Jovial be praised, I'm begging for myself, and a begging we will go, will go, and a begging we will go. In a hollow tree I live and pay no rent, providence provides for me, and I am well content, and a begging we will go, will go, will go, and a begging we will go. Of all the occupations a beggar's life the best, for when er he's weary, he'll lay him down and rest, and a begging we will go, will go, will go, and a begging we will go. I fear no plots against me, I live in open cell, then who would be a king when beggars live so well, and a begging we will go, will go, will go, and a begging we will go. End of A Begging We Will Go. End of Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England