The wire is as thin as a thread, Bloudie Jacke! The wire is as thin as a thread!— "Though slight be the chain, Again might and main Cannot rend it in twain—She is wed! She is wed! She is mine, be she living or dead! Haw! haw!!"—
Nay, laugh not, I pray thee, so loud, Bloudie Jacke! Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear! Though sweet is thy smile The heart to beguile, Yet thy laugh is quite shocking to hear, O dear! It makes the blood curdle with fear!
The Maiden is gone by the glen, Bloudie Jacke! She is gone by the glen and the wood— It's a very odd thing She should wear such a ring, While her tresses are bound with a snood. By the rood! It's a thing that's not well understood!
The Maiden is stately and tall, Bloudie Jacke! And stately she walks in her pride; But the Young Mary-Anne Runs as fast as she can, To o'ertake her, and walk by her side: Though she chide— She deems not her sister a bride!
But the Maiden is gone by the glen, Bloudie Jacke! Mary-Anne she is gone by the lea; She o'ertakes not her sister, It's clear she has miss'd her, And cannot think where she can be! Dear me! "Ho! ho!—We shall see—we shall see!"
Mary-Anne is gone over the lea, Bloudie Jacke! Mary-Anne, she is come to the Tower; But it makes her heart quail, For it looks like a jail, A deal more than a fair Lady's bower, So sour Its ugly grey walls seem to lour.
For the Barbican's massy and high, Bloudie Jacke! And the oak-door is heavy and brown, And with iron it's plated And machecollated, To pour boiling oil and lead down; How you'd frown Should a ladle-full fall on your crown!
The rock that it stands on is steep, Bloudie Jacke! To gain it one's forced for to creep; The Portcullis is strong, And the Drawbridge is long, And the water runs all round the Keep; At a peep You can see that the Moat's very deep!
The Drawbridge is long, but it's down, Bloudie Jacke! And the Portcullis hangs in the air; And no Warder is near With his horn and his spear, To give notice when people come there.— I declare Mary-Anne has run into the square!
The oak-door is heavy and brown, Bloudie Jacke! But the oak-door is standing ajar, And no one is there To say, "Pray take a chair, You seem tired, Miss, with running so far— So you are— With grown people you're scarce on a par!"