Old Ballads eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 44 pages of information about Old Ballads.

Like dew on the gowan lying,
  Is the fa’ o’ her fairy feet;
And like winds in summer sighing,
  Her voice is low and sweet;
Her voice is low and sweet,
  And she’s all the world to me;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
  I’d lay me doun and dee.



What’s this dull town to me? 
    Robin’s not near. 
What was’t I wish’d to see,
    What wish’d to hear? 
Where’s all the joy and mirth
Made this town a heav’n on earth? 
Oh, they’re all fled with thee,
    Robin Adair.

What made th’ assembly shine? 
    Robin Adair. 
What made the ball so fine? 
    Robin was there. 
What when the play was o’er,
What made my heart so sore? 
Oh, it was parting with
    Robin Adair.

But now thou’rt cold to me,
    Robin Adair. 
But now thou’rt cold to me,
    Robin Adair. 
Yet he I lov’d so well
Still in my heart shall dwell;
Oh, I can ne’er forget
    Robin Adair.



Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
  All lonely, waiting here for you? 
While the stars above are brightly shining,
  Because they’ve nothing else to do. 
The flowers late were open keeping,
  To try a rival blush with you;
But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,
  With their rosy faces wash’d with dew. 
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
  All lonely, waiting here for you? 
Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
  And the pretty stars were made to shine;
And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
  And may be you were made for mine: 
The wicked watch-dog here is snarling,
  He takes me for a thief, you see;
For he knows I’d steal you, Molly, darling,
  And then transported I should be. 
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
  All lonely, waiting here for you?

        Samuel Lover.


Go, happy Rose! and interwove
  With other flowers, bind my love. 
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
That so oft has fetter’d me.

Say, it she’s fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands;
  Tell her, if she struggle still,
  I have myrtle rods at will,
  For to tame though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing thus, and go,
And tell her this,—­but do not so! 
  Lest a handsome anger fly
  Like a lightning from her eye,
  And burn thee up as well as I.



Project Gutenberg
Old Ballads from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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