I gave him some beer, And he thought it good cheer.
My mother she bid me cut him some bread:
I cut him some bread, And I threw't at his head.
My mother she bid me light him to bed.
I lit him to bed, And wished he were dead.
My mother she bid me tell him to rise:
I told him to rise, And he opened his eyes.
My mother she bid me take him to church:
I took him to church, And left him in the lurch;With his grey beard newly-shaven.
Ballad: WHY SHOULD WE QUARREL FOR RICHES.
[A VERSION of this very favourite song may be found in Ramsay's TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Though a sailor's song, we question whether it is not a greater favourite with landsmen. The chorus is become proverbial, and its philosophy has often been invoked to mitigate the evils and misfortunes of life.]
HOW pleasant a sailor's life passes, Who roams o'er the watery main!
No treasure he ever amasses, But cheerfully spends all his gain.
We're strangers to party and faction, To honour and honesty true;And would not commit a bad action For power or profit in view.
Then why should we quarrel for riches, Or any such glittering toys;A light heart, and a thin pair of breeches, Will go through the world, my brave boys!
The world is a beautiful garden, Enriched with the blessings of life, The toiler with plenty rewarding, Which plenty too often breeds strife.
When terrible tempests assail us, And mountainous billows affright, No grandeur or wealth can avail us, But skilful industry steers right.
Then why, &c.
The courtier's more subject to dangers, Who rules at the helm of the state, Than we that, to politics strangers, Escape the snares laid for the great.
The various blessings of nature, In various nations we try;No mortals than us can be greater, Who merrily live till we die.
Then why should, &c.
Ballad: THE MERRY FELLOWS; OR, HE THAT WILL NOT MERRY, MERRY BE.
[THE popularity of this old lyric, of which ours is the ballad-printer's version, has been increased by the lively and appropriate music recently adapted to it by Mr. Holderness. The date of this song is about the era of Charles II.]
NOW, since we're met, let's merry, merry be, In spite of all our foes;And he that will not merry be, We'll pull him by the nose.
CHO. Let him be merry, merry there, While we're all merry, merry here, For who can know where he shall go, To be merry another year.
He that will not merry, merry be, With a generous bowl and a toast, May he in Bridewell be shut up, And fast bound to a post.
Let him, &c.
He that will not merry, merry be, And take his glass in course, May he be obliged to drink small beer, Ne'er a penny in his purse.
Let him, &c.
He that will not merry, merry be, With a company of jolly boys;May he be plagued with a scolding wife, To confound him with her noise.
Let him, &c.
[He that will not merry, merry be, With his sweetheart by his side, Let him be laid in the cold churchyard, With a head-stone for his bride.
Let him, &c.]
Ballad: THE OLD MAN'S SONG.
[THIS ditty, still occasionally heard in the country districts, seems to be the original of the very beautiful song, THE DOWNHILLOF LIFE. THE OLD MAN'S SONG may be found in Playford's THEATRE OFMUSIC, 1685; but we are inclined to refer it to an earlier period.
The song is also published by D'Urfey, accompanied by two objectionable parodies.]
IF I live to grow old, for I find I go down, Let this be my fate in a country town:-May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate, And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate;May I govern my passions with absolute sway, And grow wiser and better as strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.
In a country town, by a murmuring brook, With the ocean at distance on which I may look;With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile, And an easy pad nag to ride out a mile.
May I govern, &c.
With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more Of the best wits that lived in the age before;With a dish of roast mutton, not venison or teal, And clean, though coarse, linen at every meal.
May I govern, &c.
With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor, And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar;With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine, To drink the king's health in as oft as I dine.
May I govern, &c.
When the days are grown short, and it freezes and snows, May I have a coal fire as high as my nose;A fire (which once stirred up with a prong), Will keep the room temperate all the night long.
May I govern, &c.
With a courage undaunted may I face my last day;And when I am dead may the better sort say -'In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow, He's gone, and he leaves not behind him his fellow!'
May I govern, &c.
Ballad: ROBIN HOOD'S HILL.
[RITSON speaks of a Robin Hood's Hill near Gloucester, and of a 'foolish song' about it. Whether this is the song to which he alludes we cannot determine. We find it in NOTES AND QUERIES, where it is stated to be printed from a MS. of the latter part of the last century, and described as a song well known in the district to which it refers.]
YE bards who extol the gay valleys and glades, The jessamine bowers, and amorous shades, Who prospects so rural can boast at your will, Yet never once mentioned sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
This spot, which of nature displays every smile, From famed Glo'ster city is distanced two mile, Of which you a view may obtain at your will, From the sweet rural summit of 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
Where a clear crystal spring does incessantly flow, To supply and refresh the fair valley below;No dog-star's brisk heat e'er diminished the rill Which sweetly doth prattle on 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
Here, gazing around, you find objects still new, Of Severn's sweet windings, how pleasing the view, Whose stream with the fruits of blessed commerce doth fill The sweet-smelling vale beneath 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
This hill, though so lofty, yet fertile and rare, Few valleys can with it for herbage compare;Some far greater bard should his lyre and his quill Direct to the praise of sweet 'Robin Hood's Hill.'
