Then he packed up his drudgery hose, And put on his holiday clothes;His coat was of scarlet so fine, Full trimmed with buttons behind;Two sleeves it had it is true, One yellow, the other was blue, And the cuffs and the capes were of green, And the longest that ever were seen;His hat, though greasy and tore, Cocked up with a feather before, And under his chin it was tied, With a strip from an old cow's hide;His breeches three times had been turned, And two holes through the left side were burned;Two boots he had, but not kin, One leather, the other was tin;And for stirrups he had two patten rings, Tied fast to the girth with two strings;Yet he wanted a good saddle cloth, Which long had been eat by the moth.
'Twas a sad misfortune, you'll say, But still he looked gallant and gay, And his name it was Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!
Thus accoutred, away he did ride, While Dolly she walked by his side;Till coming up to the church door, In the midst of five thousand or more, Then from the old mare he did alight, Which put the clerk in a fright;And the parson so fumbled and shook, That presently down dropped his book.
Then Arthur began for to sing, And made the whole church to ring;Crying, 'Dolly, my dear, come hither, And let us be tacked together;For the honour of Arthur O'Bradley!'
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!
Then the vicar discharged his duty, Without either reward or fee, Declaring no money he'd have;And poor Arthur he'd none to give:
So, to make him a little amends, He invited him home with his friends, To have a sweet kiss at the bride, And eat a good dinner beside.
The dishes, though few, were good, And the sweetest of animal food:
First, a roast guinea-pig and a bantam, A sheep's head stewed in a lanthorn, Two calves' feet, and a bull's trotter, The fore and hind leg of an otter, With craw-fish, cockles, and crabs, Lump-fish, limpets, and dabs, Red herrings and sprats, by dozens, To feast all their uncles and cousins;Who seemed well pleased with their treat, And heartily they did all eat, For the honour of Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!
Now, the guests being well satisfied, The fragments were laid on one side, When Arthur, to make their hearts merry, Brought ale, and parkin, and perry;When Timothy Twig stept in, With his pipe, and a pipkin of gin.
A lad that was pleasant and jolly, And scorned to meet melancholy;He would chant and pipe so well, No youth could him excel.
Not Pan the god of the swains, Could ever produce such strains;But Arthur, being first in the throng, He swore he would sing the first song, And one that was pleasant and jolly:
And that should be 'Hence, Melancholy!'
'Now give me a dance,' quoth Doll, 'Come, Jeffrery, play up Mad Moll, 'Tis time to be merry and frisky, -But first I must have some more whiskey.'
'Oh! you're right,' says Arthur, 'my love!
My daffy-down-dilly! my dove!
My everything! my wife!
I ne'er was so pleased in my life, Since my name it was Arthur O'Bradley!'
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!
Then the piper he screwed up his bags, And the girls began shaking their rags;First up jumped old Mother Crewe, Two stockings, and never a shoe.
Her nose was crooked and long, Which she could easily reach with her tongue;And a hump on her back she did not lack, But you should take no notice of that;And her mouth stood all awry, And she never was heard to lie, For she had been dumb from her birth;So she nodded consent to the mirth, For honour of Arthur O'Bradley.
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!
Then the parson led off at the top, Some danced, while others did hop;While some ran foul of the wall, And others down backwards did fall.
There was lead up and down, figure in, Four hands across, then back again.
So in dancing they spent the whole night, Till bright Phoebus appeared in their sight;When each had a kiss of the bride, And hopped home to his own fire-side:
Well pleased was Arthur O'Bradley!
O! rare Arthur O'Bradley! wonderful Arthur O'Bradley!
Sweet Arthur O'Bradley, O!
Ballad: THE PAINFUL PLOUGH.
[THIS is one of our oldest agricultural ditties, and maintains its popularity to the present hour. It is called for at merry-makings and feasts in every part of the country. The tune is in the minor key, and of a pleasing character.]
'COME, all you jolly ploughmen, of courage stout and bold, That labour all the winter in stormy winds, and cold;To clothe the fields with plenty, your farm-yards to renew, To crown them with contentment, behold the painful plough!'
'Hold! ploughman,' said the gardener, 'don't count your trade with ours, Walk through the garden, and view the early flowers;Also the curious border and pleasant walks go view, -There's none such peace and plenty performed by the plough!'
'Hold! gardener,' said the ploughman, 'my calling don't despise, Each man for his living upon his trade relies;Were it not for the ploughman, both rich and poor would rue, For we are all dependent upon the painful plough.
'Adam in the garden was sent to keep it right, But the length of time he stayed there, I believe it was one night;Yet of his own labour, I call it not his due, Soon he lost his garden, and went to hold the plough.
'For Adam was a ploughman when ploughing first begun, The next that did succeed him was Cain, the eldest son;Some of the generation this calling now pursue;That bread may not be wanting, remains the painful plough.
Samson was the strongest man, and Solomon was wise, Alexander for to conquer 'twas all his daily prise;King David was valiant, and many thousands slew, Yet none of these brave heroes could live without the plough!
