1. |
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A fine young girl all in the month of May,
She was gathering rushes just at the break of day.
But before she's come home she's born a little son,
She's bundled him up underneath her apron.
She hollered at the threshold as she's come in at the door,
She's bundled in her apron that little babe she bore.
Says her father, “Where've you been, my little daughter Jane,
And what's that you've got underneath your apron?”
“Oh father, dear father, it's nothing then,” said she.
“It's only my new gown and that's too long for me.
And I was afraid it would draggle in the dew,
So I rolled it up all underneath my apron.”
But in the first part of the night, when all were fast asleep,
This pretty little baby, oh, it began to weep.
Says her father, “What's that bird a-crying out so clear
In the bedrooms all among the pretty maidens?”
“Oh father, dear father, it's nothing then,” said she,
“It's just a little small bird that fluttered to my knee,
And I'll build for it a nest, and I'll warm it on my breast
So it won't wake you so early in the May morning.”
But in the last part of the night, when all were fast asleep,
This pretty little baby again began to weep.
Says her father, “What's that baby a-crying out so clear
In the bedrooms all among the pretty maidens?”
“Oh father, dear father, it's nothing then,” said she,
“It's just a little baby that someone gave to me.
Let it sleep, let it lie this night along o' me
So it won't wake you so early in the May morning.”
“Well, was it by a black man or was it by a brown,
Or was it by a ploughing lad a-ploughing up and down,
Who gave to you that stranger you wear with your new gown,
That woke us all so early in the May morning?”
“It wasn't by a black man nor was it by a brown,
Oh it was by a ploughing lad a-ploughing up and down.
He gave to me the stranger I wear with my new gown
That woke you all so early in the May morning.”
“Oh, was it in the kitchen got or was it in the hall?
Or was it in the cow-shed all up against the wall?
I wish I had a firebrand to burn the building down
Where you met with him on a May morning.”
“It wasn't in the kitchen got, it wasn't in the hall,
Nor neither in a cow-shed, nor neither in the stall.
It was down by yonder stream where the small birds they sing
Where I met my lover early in the May morning.”
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2. |
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Come all you fair and tender girls
That flourish in your prime,
Beware, beware, keep your garden fair
Let no man steal your thyme,
Let no man steal your thyme.
For when your thyme is gone and past
He'll care no more for you,
For every place that your thyme was waste
Will spread all o'er with rue,
Will spread all o'er with rue.
The gardener's son was standing by,
Three flowers he gave to me,
The pink, the blue and the violet too
Which I refused all three,
Which I refused all three.
The pink’s no colour at all,
For it fades away too soon.
The violet is too pale a hue,
I think I’ll wait ‘til June,
I think I’ll wait ‘til June.
And when in June the red rose blooms,
That's not the flower for me.
It's then I'll pick that red rose off
And plant a willow tree,
And plant a willow tree.
And how that willow tree will weave
And how that it will wind
That all the world will plainly see
How you proved so unkind,
How you proved so unkind.
For woman is a branchy tree
And man's a clinging vine,
And from her branches cruelly
He'll take what he can find,
He'll take what he can find.
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3. |
Felton Lonnin
02:08
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The kye come hame, but I see not my hinny,
The kye come hame, but I see not my bairn;
I'd rather loss all the kye than loss my hinny,
I'd rather loss all the kye than loss my dear.
Fair faced is my hinny, his blue eyes a-shining,
His hair in curled ringlets hang sweet to the sight;
So I mount the old pony, and I'm gan and seek after him,
And bring to his mammy her only delight.
He's always out roaming the lang summer days through,
He's always out roaming away from the farm;
Where there's hedges and ditches and valleys and fell sides,
I hope that my hinny has come to nae harm.
Well I've searched in the meadows and in the foreacre,
In stockyard and byre but nought can I find;
So its hard away Daddy and seek for your laddie,
Bring to his Mammy some peace to her mind.
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4. |
Three Drunken Maidens
02:20
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There were three drunken maidens
Came from the Isle of Wight,
They drunk from Monday morning
Nor stopped till Saturday night.
When Saturday night did come, me boys,
They wouldn't then go out.
These three drunken maidens,
They pushed the jug about.
Then in comes bouncing Sally,
Her cheeks as red as blooms.
Move up me jolly sisters,
And give young Sally some room.
For I will be your equal
Before the night is out.
These four drunken maidens,
They pushed the jug about.
There's woodcock and pheasant,
There's partridge and hare.
There's all sorts of dainties,
No scarcity was there.
There's forty quarts of beer, me boys,
They fairly drunk them out.
These four drunken maidens,
They pushed the jug about.
But up comes the landlord,
He's asking for his pay.
It's a forty pound bill, me boys
These girls have got to pay.
That's ten pounds apiece, me boys,
But still they wouldn't go out.
These four drunken maidens,
They pushed the jug about.
Oh where are your feathered hats,
Your mantles rich and fine?
They've all been swallowed up,
In tankards of good wine.
And where are your maidenheads,
You maidens frisk and gay?
We left them in the alehouse,
We drank them clean away
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Rosie Hodgson England, UK
Rosie is a folk singer/songwriter from Midhurst, West Sussex. Having grown up surrounded by traditional music, her voice
possesses a naturalness and maturity, bringing "a ruby-richness to lyrics new and old". (Folk Radio UK)
Rosie is currently touring with her trio, The Wilderness Yet.
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