Folk music is full of women dressing themselves
as boys, particularly cabin boys for some reason. Myself, I think
'tis only wishful thinking.
'Tis of a handsome female as you may understand
Her mind being being in rambling unto some foreign
land,
She dressed herself in sailor's clothes, or so
it does appear.
And hired with our captain to serve him for a
year.
The captain's wife she being on board, she seem-ed
in great joy,
To see her husband had engaged such a handsome
cabin boy,
And now and then she'd slip in a kiss and she
would have liked to toy
But it was the captain found out the secret of
the handsome cabin boy.
Her cheeks were red and rosy and her hair hung
in its curls,
The sailors often smiled and said he looks just
like a girl.
But eating the captain's biscuits, their color
didn't destroy,
And the waist did swell on pretty Nell, the handsome
cabin boy.
'Twas in the Bay of Biscay our gallant ship did
plow,
One night among the sailors was a fearful scurrying
row,
They tumbled from their hammocks for their sleep
it did destroy,
And swore about the groaning of the handsome
cabin boy.
Oh, doctor, dear doctor, the cabin boy did cry,
My time has come, I am undone and I must surely
die.
The doctor came a-running and smiled at the fun,
To think a sailor lad should have a daughter
or a son.
The sailors when they hard the joke, they all
did stand and stare
The child belonged to none of them they solemnly
did swear.
The captain's wife she looked at him and said
"I wish you joy,
"For it's either you or I betrayed the handsome
cabin boy."
Then each man took his tot of rum and drunk success
to trade,
And likewise to the cabin boy who was neither
man nor maid.
Here's hopin' the wars don't rise again, our
sailors to destroy,
And here's hoping for a jolly lot more like the
handsome cabin boy.
Young women, they run like hares on the mountain,
Young women, they run like hares on the mountain,
If I were a young man I'd soon go a hunting,
To my right fol-diddle-de-ro,
To my right fol-diddle-dee.
Young women, they sing like birds in the bushes,
Young women, they sing like birds in the bushes,
If I were a young man I'd go bang them bushes,
To my right fol-diddle-de-ro,
To my right fol-diddle-dee.
Young women, they swim like ducks on the water,
Young women, they swim like ducks on the water,
If I were but a young man I soon would swim after
To my right fol-diddle-de-ro,
To my right fol-diddle-dee.
Young women, they bloom like laurel in springtime,
Young women, they bloom like laurel in springtime,
If I were a young man I'd soon go and pluck some,
To my right fol-diddle-de-ro,
To my right fol-diddle-dee.
Young women, they run like hares on the mountain,
Young women, they run like hares on the mountain,
If I were a young man I soon would run after
To my right fol-diddle-de-ro,
To my right fol-diddle-dee.
What is a woman that you forsake her?
and the hearth fire, and the home-acre?
to go with the old, gray Widow-Maker?
She has no house to lay a guest in
but one chill bed for all to rest in
that the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in
She has no strong white arms to fold you
but the ten times fingering weeds to hold you
out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you
Yet, when the signs of Summer thicken
and the ice breaks and the birch-buds quicken
yearly you turn from our side and sicken
Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters
you steal away to the lapping waters
and look at your ship in her winter quarters
You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables
the kine in the shed and the horse in the stables
to pitch her sides and go over her cables...
Then you drive out where the storm clouds swallow
and the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow
is all we have left through the months to follow
Ah...but what is a woman that you forsake her?
and the hearth fire, and the home-acre?
to go with the old, gray Widow-maker?
Thomas Moore often set his lyrics to traditional
airs.
The harp that once thro' Tara's halls
The soul of music shed;
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As tho' that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes;
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart, indignant breaks,
To show that she still lives.
Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme
And lift up your voices in chorus with mine
Let us drink and be merry, all grief to refrain
For we may and might never all meet here again
Chorus: Here's a health to the company and one to my lass
Let us drink and be merry all out of one glass
Let us drink and be merry, all grief to refrain
For we may and might never all meet here again
Here's a health to the dear lass that I love so well
Her style and her beauty, sure none can excel
She smiles on my countenance and sits on me knee
Sure there's no one in Erin as happy as we
Our ship lies at harbor, she's ready to dock
I hope she's safe landed without any shock
If ever I meet you by land or by sea
I will always remember your kindness to me
Child felt that this ballad must have sprung "from the ashes
of Andrew Barton," a 15th Century sea officer who obtained letters authorizing
his sons to make reprisals against the Portuguese. The sons instead
turned to English merchant vessels, levying tolls.
There were three brothers in merry Scotland,
In merry Scotland there were three,
And they did cast lots which of them should go,
should go, should go
For to turn robber all on the salt sea.
The lot it fell upon Henry Martin,
The youngest of all the three,
That he should turn robber all on the salt sea,
salt sea, salt sea
For to maintain his two brothers and he.
As were gone sailing five cold frosty nights,
Five cold frosty nights and four days,
It was there we espied a lofty tall ship,
tall ship, tall ship,
She came bearing down on us, brave boys.
"Where are you going you lofty tall ship?
How dare you to venture so nigh?
For I have turned robber all on the salt sea,
salt sea, salt sea
For to maintain my two brothers and I."
"Now come heave up you courses and let go of your mainsheets
And let her come under your lee;
And I will take from you your rich merchant's goods
merchant's goods, merchant's goods
And I'll point your bow guns to the salt sea."
"I shall not heave up my courses nor let go my mainsheets,
Nor let her come under my lee;
Nor shall you take from me my rich merchant's goods,
merchant's goods, merchant's goods,
Nor you'll point my bow guns to the salt sea."
Now broadside to broadside these vessels did lay,
There were fighting four hours or more;
Till at length Henry Martin gave her a broadside
a broadside, a broadside
And she sank and she never rose more.
Sad news I've to tell you, sad news I've to tell,
Sad news for fair London town,
Of a lofty tall ship lost on the salt sea,
salt sea, salt sea
And all her merry mariners drowned.
They brought the news a moment past, my King in
battle slain,
And I, your herald, left behind with those who
must remain,
Yes, I who ever went ahead to make your presence
known,
Now cannot even follow to the place where you
have gone.
Since you were crowned, I was your voice, In times
both good and ill,
Before this battle I, it was, who told them of
your will.
I spoke your words to friend and foe upon this
bloody plain,
And now they bring me bitter news, my King in
battle slain.
And when you come to judgment now who will announce
your name?
Who will proclaim your titles there and all your
deeds of fame?
In court and hall and far off lands, in rites
and peace and war,
This is the first time of them all I have not
gone before.
Perhaps this one last service is naught but a
waste of breath,
They say the honors of this life mean nothing
after death.
But I on earth will raise a shout to make the
heavens ring,
And let God know he comes before the presence
of my King.
I remember reading this poem in my 4th or 5th grade reader and
falling in love with it then. Maybe I'm a sucker for tragedy.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding, riding, riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn yard
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and
barred;
He whistled a tune to the window and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter
Plaiting a red love-knot into her long black hair.
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight,
I will come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching, marching, marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn door.
They tied her up to attention, with many a sickening jest,
And they bound a musket beside her, with the barrel to her breast.
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man
say,
"Look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight,
I will come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
"Look for me by moonlight." The hoof-beats ringing clear.
"Watch for me by moonlight." Were they deaf they did not hear?
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, her musket shattered the moonlight
Shattered her breast in the moonlight, and warned him - with her death.
He turned, he spurred him westward; he did not know who stood
Bowed with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood.
Not 'til the dawn he heard it; his face grew gray to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love by moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet
coat,
When they shot him down on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his
throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the
trees
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding, riding, riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn door.
She said, "Recall when first we met beneath the greenwood tree,
"You promised that I'd have your trust, now once you've doubted me.
"I swear by water, wood and stone
"The babe you see here is my own."
The huntsman then in anger cried, "Where is it that you've gone,
"Those nights when you would slip away and not return till dawn?
"What manner of man was it you met
"That such a changeling child could get?"
The huntsman's wife grew pale and said, "That's twice you've doubted
me.
"I did but go into the woods, my kinsmen for to see.
"I swear by sun and silver moon
"The babe was sired by none but you."
The huntsman said. "My wife, you lie, I'm sure it cannot be,
"That such a changeling child could come from folk like you and me."
The huntsman's wife, would he or no,
Took up the child and turned to go.
"Three times you've doubted me," she said, "My days with you are done.
"And if the babe's a faerie child, he is his mother's son!
"I swear to you, in all your life,
"You'll never again see child or wife."
I prithee, an thou hast enjoyed rest and merriment whilst pausing at
the Gallery, scribe thy thoughts to the good gentle below.
songsmith@oocities.com
Scribed this 28th day of October, 1998
Except for where otherwise noted, all works and
character concepts are Copyrighted 1997
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