Old Ballads. Various

      Come, lasses and lads,

                       get leave of your dads,

        And away to the Maypole hie,

      For ev'ry fair has a sweetheart there,

        And the fiddler's standing by;

      For Willy shall dance with Jane,

        And Johnny has got his Joan,

      To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it,

        Trip it up and down!

      "You're out," says Dick; "not I," says Nick,

        "'Twas the fiddler play'd it wrong;"

      "'Tis true," says Hugh, and so says Sue,

        And so says ev'ry one.

      The fiddler than began

        To play the tune again,

      And ev'ry girl did trip it, trip it,

        Trip it to the men!

      Then, after an hour, they went to a bow'r,

        And play'd for ale and cakes;

      And kisses too,—until they were due,

        The lasses held the stakes.

      The girls did then begin

        To quarrel with the men,

      And bade them take their kisses back,

        And give them their own again!

      "Good-night," says Harry;

                        "good-night," says Mary;

        "Good-night," says Poll to John;

      "Good-night," says Sue

                        to her sweetheart Hugh;

        "Good-night," says ev'ry one.

      Some walk'd and some did run,

        Some loiter'd on the way,

      And bound themselves by kisses twelve,

        To meet the next holiday.

      Gin a body meet a body

        Comin' thro' the rye,

      Gin a body kiss a body,

        Need a body cry?

      Ilka lassie has her laddie,

        Nane, they say, hae I,

      Yet a' the lads they smile at me

        When comin' thro' the rye.

      Gin a body meet a body

        Comin' frae the town,

      Gin a body meet a body,

        Need a body frown?

          Ilka lassie has, etc.

      Amang the train there is a swain

        I dearly lo'e mysel';

      But what his name, or whaur his hame,

        I dinna care to tell.

          Ilka lassie has, etc.

      Cherry-Ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,

        Full and fair ones, come and buy;

      If so be you ask me where

      They do grow? I answer, There,

      Where my Julia's lips do smile,

      There's the land or cherry isle,

      Whose plantations fully show

      All the year, where cherries grow.

      Maxwelton braes are bonnie,

        Where early fa's the dew;

      And it's there that Annie Laurie

        Gied me her promise true;

      Gied me her promise true,

        Which ne'er forgot will be;

      And for bonnie Annie Laurie

        I'd lay me doun and dee.

      Her brow is like the snaw-drift,

        Her throat is like the swan,

      Her face it is the fairest

        That e'er the sun shone on;

      That e'er the sun shone on,

        And dark blue is her ee;

      And for bonnie Annie Laurie

        I'd lay me doun and dee.

      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