The Flowers of Knaresborough Forest

But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning

The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

_Jane Elliot_ (1727-1805).

O! day-time is weary, an’ dark o’ dusk dreary

For t’ lasses i’ t’ mistal, or rakin’ ower t’ hay;

When t’ kye coom for strippin’, or t’ yowes for their clippin’,

We think on our sowdiers now gone reet away.

The courtin’-gate’s idle, nae lad flings his bridle

Ower t’ yak-stoup,[1] an’ sleely cooms seekin’ his may;

The trod by the river is green as a sliver,[2]

For the Flowers o’ the Forest have all stown away.

At Marti’mas hirin’s, nae ribbins, nae tirin’s,

When t’ godspenny’s[3] addled, an’ t’ time’s coom for play;

Nae Cheap-Jacks, nae dancin’, wi’ t’ teamster’ clogs prancin ,

The Flowers o’ the Forest are all flown a way.

When at neet church is lowsin’, an’ t’ owd ullet is rousin’

Hissel i’ our laithe,[4] wheer he’s slummered all t’ day,

Wae’s t’ heart! but we misses our lads’ saftest kisses,

Now the Flowers o’ the Forest are gone reet away.

Ploo-lads frae Pannal have crossed ower the Channel,

Shipperds frae Fewston have taen the King’s pay,

Thackrays frae Dacre have sold ivery acre;

Thou’ll finnd ne’er a delver[5] frae Haverah to Bray.

When t’ north wind is howlin’, an’ t’ west wind is yowlin’,

It’s for t’ farm lads at sea that us lasses mun pray;

Tassey-Will o’ t’ new biggin, keepin’ watch i’ his riggin ,

Lile Jock i’ his fo’c’sle, torpedoed i’ t’ bay.

Mony a lass now is weepin’ for her marrow that’s sleepin’,

Wi’ nae bield for his corp but the cowd Flanthers clay;

He’ll ne’er lift his limmers,[6] he’ll ne’er wean his gimmers[7]:

Ay, there’s Flowers o’ the Forest are withered away.

[1] Oak-post.

[2] Branch of a leafing tree.

[3] Earnest money.

[4] Barn.

[5] Quarryman.

[6] Wagon-shafts.

[7] Ewe lambs.

The Miller by the Shore

an East Coast Chanty

The miller by the shore am I,

A man o’ despert sense;

I’ve fotty different soorts o’ ways

O’ addlin’ honest pence.

Good wheat and wuts and barley-corns

My mill grinds all t’ day lang ;

Frae faave ’o t’ morn while seven o’ t’ neet

My days are varra thrang.

Songs of the Ridings · 第 25 / 40 题