The first land we made it was callèd the Deadman,
Next, Ram’shead off Plymouth, Start, Portland, and Wight;
We passèd by Beachy, by Fairleigh, and Dungeness,
And hove our ship to, off the South Foreland light.
Then a signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor
All in the Downs, that night for to sleep;
Then stand by your stoppers, let go your shank-painters,
Haul all your clew-garnets, stick out tacks and sheets.
So let every man toss off a full bumper,
Let every man toss off his full bowls;
We’ll drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy,
So here’s a good health to all true-hearted souls!
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.