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 Methley, near Pontefract, 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 in jest,
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 buss, if you please!’
She up with the bowl, the butter-milk flew,
And Harry the tailor looked wonderful blue.
‘O, Dolly, my dear, what hast thou done?
From my back to my breeks has thy butter-milk run.’
She gave him a push, he stumbled and fell
Down from the dairy into the drawwell.
Then Harry, the ploughboy, ran amain,
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 butter-milk, bowl, and a terrible fall,
O, if this be called love, may the devil take all!
SIR ARTHUR AND CHARMING MOLLEE.
(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 personage than Sir Arthur Haslerigg, the Governor of Tynemouth Castle during the Protectorate of Cromwell.]
As noble Sir Arthur one morning did ride,
With his hounds at his feet, and his sword by his side,
He saw a fair maid sitting under a tree,
He askèd her name, and she said ’twas Mollee.
‘Oh, charming Mollee, 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 Mollee!
‘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 flounced to the knee,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!’
‘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 ne’er love a married man till his wife dee.’
‘Oh, charming Mollee, lend me then your penknife,
And I will go home, and I’ll kill my own wife;
I’ll kill my own wife, and my bairnies three,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!’
‘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 ne’er 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 a-courting to charming Mollee.
Now charming Mollee in her carriage doth ride,
With her hounds at her feet, and her lord by her side:
Now all ye fair maids take a warning by me,
And ne’er love a married man till his wife dee.