1. Katy Cruel
traditional American, late 1700s
Katy's lament on her unspecified troubles uses some English lyrics but was written here as the Revolution got underway. Close your eyes and imagine her in a corner of the tavern with her English guitar, a lute-like instrument favored by women.
When I first came to town, they called me the roving jewel,
Now they've changed their tune -- they call me Katy Cruel, oh,
Little-lily-day, oh de-little-ee-oh-day.
Oh, that I was where I would be, then should I be where I am not,
Here am I, where I must be -- where I would be I cannot, oh
Little-lily-day, oh de-little-ee-oh-day.
When I first came to town they brought me the bottles plenty,
Now they've changed their tune, they bring me the bottles empty-o.
Eyes as black as coal, lips as red as a cherry,
And 'tis her delight to make the young folks merry-o.
Through the woods I'll go, and through the boggy mire,
Straightway down the road till I come to my heart's desire-o.
I know who I love, and I know who loves me,
I know where I'll go, and I know who'll go with me-o.
2. New England's Annoyances
Edward Johnson, 1643 / tune, In Peascod Times
Created as the colonies first swelled with immigrants, this ballad was part of the debate over the quality of the experience, which was oversold by promoters. In an amazing bit of historical sleuthing, J. A. Leo Lemay figured out the Johnson was the author, writing not to attract those in England but seeking to amuse the local audience of people already living in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Everyone in the small community knew it and sang it often, so even though there are no original copies it was preserved in oral tradition. The song's many complaints mark the advent of typical American humor. Clouts are patches.
I highly recommend Lemay's book, New England's Annoyances -- America's First Folk Song, along with my own book, Candace: Imagining the Life of a Woman Enslaved in 18th-Century New England. I have also made a YouTube video of this song.
New England's annoyances, ye that would know them,
Pray ponder these verses which briefly doth show them.
The Place where we live is a Wilderness Wood,
Where Grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good.
From the end of November till three Months are gone,
The Ground is all frozen as hard as a Stone.
Our Mountains and Hills and our Vallies below
Being commonly covered with Ice and with Snow.
And when the North-wester with Violence blows,
Then every Man pulls his Cap over his Nose.
If any's so hardy and will it withstand,
He forfeits a Finger, a Foot, or a Hand.
When the Ground opens we then take the Hoe,
And make the Ground ready to plant and to sow.
Our Corn being planted and Seed being sown,
The Worms destroy much before it is grown.
While it is growing much Spoil there is made
By Birds and by Squirrels that pluck up the Blade.
And when it is come to full Corn in the Ear,
It's apt to be spoil'd by Hogg, Racoon, and Deer.
Our Money's soon counted, for we have just none;
All that we brought with us is wasted and gone.
We buy and sell Nothing but upon Exchange,
Which makes all our Dealings uncertain and Strange.
And now our Garments begin to grow thin,
And Wool is much wanted to card and to spin.
If we get a Garment to cover without,
Our innermost Garment is Clout upon Clout.
Our Clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn,
They need to be clouted before they are worn.
But clouting our Garments doth injure us nothing;
Clouts double are warmer than single whole Clothing.
If flesh Meat be wanting to fill up our Dish,
W'eve Carrots and Pumpkins and Turnips and Fish.
And when we've a Mind for a delicate Dish,
We repair to the Clam banks and take what we wish.
'Stead of Pottage and Puddings and Custards and Pyes,
Our Turnips and Parsnips are common Supplies.
We have Pumpkin at morning and Pumpkin at noon,
If it was not for Pumpkins we should be undone.
If Barley be wanting to make into Malt,
We must be contented and think it no Fault.
For we can make Liquor to sweeten our Lips
Of Pumpkins and Parsnips and walnut-tree Chips.
And of our green Corn-stalks we make our best Beer.
We put it in Barrels to drink all the Year.
Yet I am as healthy, I verily think,
Who make the Spring-water my commonest Drink.
And we have a Covenant one with another
Which makes a Division 'twixt Brother and Brother.
For some are rejected, and others made Saints,
Of those that are equal in Virtues and Wants.
For such like Annoyance we've many mad Fellows
Find Fault with our Apples before they are mellow.
And they are for England; they will not stay here,
But meet with a Lion in shunning a Bear.
Now while Some are going let Others be coming,
For while Liquor is boiling it must have a Scumming.
But we will not blame them, for Birds of a Feather
By seeking their Fellows are flocking together.
But You who the Lord intends hither to bring,
Forsake not the Honey for fear of the Sting.
But bring both a quiet and contented Mind,
And all needful blessings ye surely shall find.
3. The Lord to Me a Shepherd Is
The Bay Psalm Book, 1640 / tune, Canterbury
The Massachusetts Bay Colony's first printed book was a collection of psalms set to music. They used psalm texts exclusively for their hymns. However, the pslams are free verse and had to be adjusted to fit them to hymn melodies, which had names so they could be easily re-used for may sets of lyrics. The most famous psalm, the 23rd, The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, was given a galloping cadence to work with the rather quirky tune Canterbury.
The Lord to me a shepherd is,
Want therefore shall not I.
He in the folds of tender grass,
Doth cause me down to lie.
To waters calm he gently leads,
Restore my soul doth he.
He doth in paths of righteousness
For his name's sake lead me.
Yea though in valley of death's shade I walk,
None ill I'll fear.
Because thou art with me,
Thy rod and staff my comfort are.
Thou dost annoint my head with oil,
My cup it overflows.
Goodness and mercy surely shall
All my days follow me.
4. The Girl I Left Behind Me
traditional English and Irish, 1700s
A venerable song with a sprightly beat, good for marching off over the hill as your best lass weeps and waves farewell. There are many versions; this is one of the earliest.
All the dames of France are fond and free,
And Flemish lips are willing,
Very soft the maids of Italy, and Spanish eyes are so thrilling.
Although I bask beneath their smile,
Their charms will fail to bind me
As my heart falls back to Erin's isle and the girl I left behind me.
The hours sad I left a maid, a lingering farewell taking,
Whose sighs and tears my steps delayed;
I thought her heart was breaking.
In hurried words her name I blest,
I breathed the vows that bind me,
And to my heart in anguish pressed the girl I left behind me.
Many a name our banner bore, of former deeds of daring,
But they were of the days of yore, in which we had no sharing.
As to the east we bore away to win a name in glory,
May our bravery fly home to cheer the girl I left behind me.
The hope of final victory within my bosom burning,
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee and of my fond returning.
But should I ne'er return again, still with thy love I'll bind me.
Dishonor's breath shall never stain the name I leave behind me.
5. Blue Cap for Me
traditional Scots, early 1600s
A woman rejects finely dressed suitors from France, Ireland, and Spain, and even the German's mighty mustaches hold no appeal. She holds out for a Scotsman wearing his country's signature headgear. This melody is just delicious!
There lies a blithe lass in fair Falkland town
And she had some suitors, I wot not how many.
But her resolution she had set down,
That she'd have a Blue Cap if e're she had any.
An Englishman, when our good king was there,
Came often to her, and he lov-ed her dear.
But still she replied, "Sir, I pray, let me be.
If ever I have a man, Blue Cap for me!"
A Frenchman, who largely was booted and spurred,
Long-locked, with a ribbon, and long points and breeches,
He's ready to kiss her at every word,
And for further exercise his finger itches!
"You be pretty wench, Mistress, par ma foy,
Be gar, me do love you, then be not you coy!"
But still she replied, "Sir, I pray, let me be.
If ever I have a man, Blue Cap for me!"
An Irishman, with a long knife in his hose,
Did think to obtain her, it was no great matter.
Upstairs to her chamber so lightly he goes,
That she never heard him until he came at her!
Quoth he, "I do love you, by faith and by trow,
And if you will have me, experience shall show!"
But still she replied, "Sir, I pray, let me be.
If ever I have a man, Blue Cap for me!"
A dainty, spruce Spaniard, with hair black as jet,
Long cloak with round cape, long rapier and poignard,
He told her if that she could Scotland forget,
He'd show her the vines as they grow in the vineyard.
"If thou wilt abandon this country so cold,
I'll show thee fair Spain and much Indian gold!"
But still she replied, "Sir, I pray, let me be.
If ever I have a man, Blue Cap for me!"
A haughty high German of Hamborough town,
A proper tall gallant, with mighty mustaches.
He weeps if the lass upon him do but frown,
Yet he's a great fencer that comes to o'er-match us.
Yet all his fine fencing could not get the lass;
She deny'd him so oft, that he wearied was.
For still she replied, "Sir, I pray, let me be.
If ever I have a man, Blue Cap for me!"
At last came a Scottish man, with a blue cap,
And he was the party for whom she had tarried.
To get this blithe bonny lass 'twas his good hap,
They gang'd to the church and were presently married.
I ken not well whether 'twere lord or laird;
They call-ed him some such-like name, as I heard.
To choose him from all, she did gladly agree,
And so she cried, "Blue Cap, thou'rt welcome to me!"
6. Nottingham Ale
traditional English, 1500s
This old tankard-waver, supposedly a favorite of Henry VIII, appeared in The London Magazine in 1772, taking aim at clergy, doctors, lawyers, and poets. "The nine" are divine Greek muses from Mount Olympus, considered the source of artistic inspiration, and a quantum sufficit is enough ale to help poetic words flow freely.
When Venus, the goddess of beauty and love,
Arose from the froth that swam on the sea,
Minerva sprang out of the cranium of Jove,
A coy, sullen dame as most authors agree.
Brave Bacchus, they tell us, that prince of good fellows,
Was Jupiter's son -- pray attend to my tale!
For they who thus chatter mistake quite the matter:
He sprang from a barrel of Nottingham ale!
Nottingham ale, boys, Nottingham ale!
No liquor on earth is like Nottingham ale!
And when he had emptied the cask whence he sprang,
For want of more liquor, disconsolate grew.
He mounted astride, set his arse on the bung,
And away to the gods and the goddesses flew.
But when he looked down and saw the fair town,
To pay it due honour not likely to fail,
He swore, on all earth, that the place of his birth
Was the best, for no liquor's like Nottingham ale!
Ye bishops and curates, priests, deacons and vicars,
When once you have tasted, you'll own it is true,
That Nottingham ale is the best of all liquors,
And who understands the good creature like you?
It expels every vapour, saves pen, ink and paper,
For when you've a mind in the pulpit to rail
Twill open your throats, you may preach without notes,
When inspired by a bumper of Nottingham ale!
Ye doctors, who more executions have done
With powder and potion and bolus and pill
Than hangman with halter or soldier with gun,
Or miser with famine or lawyer with quill.
To despatch us the quicker, you forbid us malt liquor
Till our bodies consume and our faces grow pale.
But mind them who pleases, what cures all disease is
A comforting glass of good Nottingham ale!
Ye poets, who talk of your Helicon brook,
Famed nectar of Gods, and the juice of the vine.
Who think none can write, but those who invoke
The friendly assistance of one of the nine.
Here liquor surpasses the streams of Parnassus,
Wine, nectar, and muses, on which gods regale;
Experience will show it, nought lightens a poet
Like a quantum sufficit of Nottingham ale!
7. The Anacreontic Song
Ralph Tomlinson, 1778 / music by John Stafford Smith
This familiar tune had many other sets of words before Francis Scott Key used it for the U.S. national anthem. The original was written for a London gentlemen's club that sought the protection of Anacreon, a Greek poet known for his odes to wine and love -- two things dear to the heart of English gents.
Here are the convoluted lyrics, stuffed with references to the Greek gods of Olympus, with explanations in italics.
To Anacreon in heav'n, where he sat in full glee,
And a few Sons of Harmony sent a petition,
That he their inspirer and patron would be;
When this answer arrived from the jolly old Grecian:
"Voices, fiddle and flute should no longer be mute!
I'll lend ye my name, and inspire ye to boot!
And, besides, I'll instruct you, like me to entwine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus' vine."
The Sons of Harmony are club members and the jolly old Grecian is Anacreon. Myrtle was the symbolic plant of Venus, goddess of love, and Bacchus, the god of wine and revelry, was represented by a grapevine.
The news through Olympus immediately flew;
When Old Thunder pretended to give himself airs.
"If these mortals are suffer'd their scheme to pursue,
The devil, a goddess will stay above stairs!
Hark! already they cry, in transports of joy:
'A fig for Parnassus! To Rowley's we'll fly!
And there, with good fellows, we'll learn to entwine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus' vine.' "
Old Thunder is Jove, the king of the gods. He frets that the female residents of Olympus will abandon heaven to go party with the clubmen at Rowley's, a famous London tavern.
"The yellow-hair'd god and his nine lusty maids
From Helicon's banks will, incontinent, flee.
Idalia will boast but of tenantless shades,
And the bi-forked hill a mere desert will be.
My thunder, no fear on't, shall soon do its errand,
And, dam'me! I'll swinge the ringleaders, I warrant!
I'll trim the young dogs for thus daring to twine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus' vine!"
Jove worries that not only the goddesses but also Apollo (a blond) will abandon Olympus, along with the muses who inspired artists. The muses included Euterpe, in charge of music, Thalia, the muse of comedy, and Melpomene, in charge of tragedy. Terpsichore invented dance, Erato handled love poetry, and Polymnia was the muse of divine hymns, who also invented geometry and grammar. Ourania governed celestial objects and invented astronomy. Calliope was the top muse, accompanying rulers to impose justice and serenity.
Helicon and Idalia are geographical features of Mount Olympus, which Jove fears will be left unpopulated if the London gentlemen lure everyone down to have fun. Jove's weapon of choice is the thunderbolt and he swears to destroy the clubmen for their audacity.
Then Apollo rose up, and said, "Pr'ythee, ne'er quarrel,
Good king of the gods, with my vot'ries below.
Your thunder is useless!" Then, showing his laurel,
Cried, "Sic evitabile fulmen, you know!
Then over each head my laurels I'll spread
So my sons from your crackers no mischief shall dread,
Whilst snug in their club-room, they jovially entwine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus' vine."
Apollo tries to make peace and warns Jove that he will protect the clubmen with head wreaths of laurel, a lightning deterrent.Sic evitable fulmen means, in Latin, "this protects from lightning." His votaries, or followers, need not fear Jove's "crackers," deadly bolts from the blue.
Next, Momus got up, with his risible phiz,
And swore with Apollo he'd cheerfully join:
"The full tide of harmony still shall be his,
But the song, and the catch, and the laugh shall be mine!
Then, Jove, be not jealous of these honest fellows."
Cried Jove, "We relent, since the truth you now tell us;
And swear, by Old Styx, that they long shall entwine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus' vine!"
Momus was the god of jokes and mockery. His "phiz" is short for physiognomy and means that his face is risible, or laughable. He allies with Apollo against Jove, who decides that he can't fight everybody. Styx was the river that flowed through the underworld, and swearing by it was one of the most solemn things you could do.
Ye sons of Anacreon, join hand in hand;
Preserve unanimity, friendship, and love!
Tis yours to support what's so happily planned;
You've the sanction of gods and the fiat of Jove.
While thus we agree, our toast let it be:
"May our club flourish happy, united and free!"
And long may the Sons of Anacreon entwine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus' vine!
8. O, What Pain It Is to Part
John Gay, London, 1728 / tune Scots, Gin thou wert mine awn thing
One of 60 popular tunes given new words in The Beggar's Opera, a highly popular sendup of the hypocrisy of those in power. This is sung by the character Polly, who bewails that her lover, Captain MacHeath (Mac the Knife), may wind up in the "fatal cart," the wagon that bore condemned prisoners to the scaffold for hanging.
O what pain it is to part!
Can I leave thee, can I leave thee?
O what pain it is to part,
Can thy Polly ever leave thee?
But lest death my love should thwart,
And bring thee to the fatal cart.
Thus I tear thee from my bleeding heart!
Fly hence, and let me leave thee.
9. The Little Barley-Corne
traditional English, 1700s / tune, Stingo
A song praising the many benefits of alcoholic spirits. People of all ages drank fermented beverages at every meal in the days before water could be trusted not to kill you.
Come and do not musing stand, if thou the truth discern,
But take a full cup in thy hand and thus begin to learn
It is a cunning alchemist, such wonder to perform
Yes, I the virtues do proclaim of the little barley-corne.
It lends more years unto old age than e'er was lent by nature
It makes the poet's fancy rage more than Castalian water
'Twill make the huntsman chase a fox and never wind his horn
'Twill cheer a tinker in the stocks, this little barley-corne.
It is the neatest serving-man to entertain a friend
It will do more than money can all jarring suits to end
There's life in it, and it is here, 'tis here within this cup
So take your liquor, do not spare, but clear carouse it up!
'Twill make a weeping widow laugh and soon incline to pleasure,
'Twill make an old man leave his staff and dance a youthful measure
And though your clothes be ne'er so bad, all ragged, rent and torn,
Against the cold you may be clad with a little barley-corne.
'Twill make a coward not to shrink, but be a stout as may be,
'Twill make a man that he shall think that Joan's as good as my Lady.
It will enrich the palest face and with rubies it adorn.
Yet you shall think it no disgrace, this little barley-corne.
Thus the barley-corne hath power e'en for to change our nature
And make a miser in an hour prove a kind-hearted creature
And therefore here I say again, let no man take 't in scorn
That I the virtues do proclaim of the little barley-corne.
10. Cold and Raw
traditional English, 1700s / tune, Stingo
The same tune, but with a very different mood and story. In most songs of this type the accosted woman does not fare well, but here she stands firm and sends a straying man back to his wife.
Cold and raw the North did blow, bleak in the morning early;
All the trees were hid in snow, daggled by winter yearly.
When I come riding over a knough, I met with a farmer's daughter;
Rosie cheeks and bonny brow,
Good faith made my mouth to water!
Down I vailed my bonnet low, meaning to show my breeding;
She returned a graceful bow, a visage far exceeding.
I asked her where she went so soon, and longed to begin a parley.
She told me, to the next market town,
A-purpose to sell her barley.
"In this purse, sweet soul," said I, "twenty pounds lie fairly.
Seek no farther one to buy, for I'll take all thy barley.
Twenty more shall buy delight: thy person I love so dearly!
If thou wouldst stay with me all night
And go home in the morning early."
"If twenty pound could buy the globe," quoth she, "this I'd not do, Sir.
Or were my kin as poor as Job, I would not raise 'em so, Sir.
For should I be tonight your friend, we'd get a young kid together,
And you'd be gone 'ere the nine months end,
And where should I find a father?"
I told her I had wedded been for 14 years and longer.
Or else I'd choose her for my queen and tie the knot much stronger.
She bid me then no longer roam, but manage my wedlock fairly.
And keep my purse for poor spouse at home,
For some other shall have her barley.
11. Hedger and Ditcher
trad. English, 1700s
Back when you needed a dowry to get married, a lack of funds was a serious problem.
Me father's a hedger and ditcher,
Me mother does nothing but spin,
They say I'm a pretty young girl,
But the money comes slowly in.
Oh, dear, what's to become of me, oh, dear, what shall I do?
There's nobody comin' to marry me, nobody comin' to woo.
The dog, he began to bark,
And I looked out to see,
I saw two young men out a-hunting,
But nobody's hunting for me.
Oh dear, must I die an old maid?
Oh dear, how shocking the thought!
There's nobody comin' to marry me,
Surely it's not me own fault!
12. Ye Boundless Realms of Joy
William Billings, 1770
Billings was a self-taught Boston composer who published several books of his hymns. I could not resist this one with its delightful reference to "dreadful whales." It appeared in The Singing-Master's Assistant of 1778. Billings' hymn Chester lifted spirits during the darkest days of the conflict; you can hear all four parts on my album Songs of the Revolution.
Ye boundless realms of joy, exalt your maker's fame:
His praise your song employ above the starry frame.
Your voices raise, ye cherubim and seraphim,
To sing his praise.
Let them adore the Lord, and praise his holy name.
By whose almighty word they all from nothing came.
And all shall last, from changes free,
His firm decree stands ever fast.
Let earth her tribute pay; praise him ye dreadful whales.
And fish that through the sea glide swift with glitt'ring scales.
Fire, hail, and snow, and misty air,
And winds that where he bids them blow.
By hills and mountains, all in grateful consort joined,
By cedars stately tall, and trees for fruit designed.
By every beast and creeping thing,
And fowl of wing, his name be blessed.
United zeal be shown, his wondrous fame to raise,
Whose glorious name alone deserves our endless praise.
Earth's utmost ends his power obey,
His glorious sway the sky transcends.
His chosen saints to grace, he sets them up on high,
And favors Israel's race, who still to him are nigh.
O therefore raise your grateful voice,
And still rejoice the Lord to praise.
13. Banish Sorrow
Francis Hopkinson, writing as Andrew Barton, 1767 /
tune, The Jolly Bacchanalian
Hopkinson's The Disappointment, a sly comedy, was the first play written in the colonies. He used a fake name, something he liked to do, sometimes taking both sides of an issue and debating with himself in serial essays.
Banish sorrow, welcome joy, let's strike up the sprightly dance.
Mirth abound without alloy, tune your lutes, your pipes advance.
Sound your notes in lofty strings, join, ye nymphs and jovial swains.
Banish care and be at rest; of a bad bargain make the best.
Room for joy, how blessed and I, in a husband and a friend.
Virtuous joy shall never die, though our lives will surely end.
Virgins, all example take; value love for virtue's sake.
Constant be as turtledove. Let your theme be virtuous love.
14. Begone, Sweet Night
traditional Scots, early 1600s
Just the sort of thing one would enjoy at an evening's entertainment, a tale of a lover in a hurry.
Begone, sweet night, and I will call thee kind.
Where does thou dwell, since not upon mine eyes?
It's not the time when I my way should find.
Begone! And when thou comes again, come twice.
Away, away, for I must go and meet my love at the peep of day.
But thou to Death are too, too near of kin<,br>
To come and go as thy desire hath been.
Arise, bright day, it's time to claim thy right.
Disperse the clouds, and with thy golden beams
Both comfort me and strike the churlish night
That would not go nor yield me pleasant dreams.
Arise, arise, and with thy golden finger point me to where she lies.
Teach me but once and set me in her sight
That I may know who yields the greater light.
Stay, gentle night, lest thou be more unkind
To leave us languish, who enjoys our love!
Go not away, but keep us here confined
Nor part us from those pleasures which we prove.
But stay, ah, stay, for I must go and leave my love at the peep of day.
But if thou do, return so soon again
That our desires feel not the day's disdain.
But if thou wilt to day resign thy due.
And so divorce me from my dearest dear.
In secret silence, ah my heart go rue.
Wishing the day were done and I were there.
Where she, where she and I might spend the silent night where we want to be,
Where prattling day dare never more appear
Nor yet presume to wrong my dearest dear.
15. The Battle of the Kegs
Francis Hopkinson, 1778
Francis is back, poking fun at the British panic when colonists floated powder-filled kegs down the Delaware. They failed to blow up any ships but for days the Brits kept up a steady firing of cannons and muskets, obliterating many innocent bits of flotsam. Rumor had it that Betsy Loring was the mistress of General William Howe, head of British land forces. He was criticized for supposedly tarrying with her in Philadelphia rather than taking the fight to the rebels. Her Boston-based husband did not seem to mind the arrangement as long as he kept his lucrative appointment as commissioner of prisoners. Many say this rumor was false and that Hopkinson smeared Betsy's good name for no reason except to add drama.
Hopkinson was a lawyer, poet, inventor, and painter. He signed the Declaration of Independence for New Jersey and helped design the American flag. He served as judge of the Pennsylvania Admiralty courts and was later a judge for the District Court in Eastern Pennsylvania.
I had such a good time finding sound effects. Many thanks to Pixabay, where I could not believe my luck in finding the sound of a cannonball plopping into the sea! I have made a YouTube video of this one, as well.
Gallants attend, and hear a friend, trill forth harmonious ditty.
Strange things I'll tell, which late befell in Philadelphia City.
'Twas early day, as poets say, just when the sun was rising.
A soldier stood on a log of wood, and saw a sight surprising.
As in a maze, he stood to gaze, the truth can't be denied, sir,
He spied a score of kegs, or more, come floating down the tide, sir!
A sailor too, in jerkin blue, the strange appearance viewing,
First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise,
Then said, "Some mischief's brewing!"
"These kegs now hold the rebels bold, packed up like pickled herring!
And they're come down to attack the town in this new way of ferrying!"
The soldier flew, the sailor too, and, scared almost to death, sir,
Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, & ran 'til out of breath, sir.
Now up and down throughout the town most frantic scenes were acted.
Some ran here and some ran there like men almost distracted.
Some "Fire!" cried, which some denied, but said the earth had quak-ed.
And girls and boys with hideous noise ran through the town half-naked!
Sir William, he, snug as a flea, lay all this time a-snoring,
Nor dreamed of harm, as he lay warm, in bed with Mrs. Loring.
In a fright he starts upright, wakened by the clatter;
He rubs his eyes & boldly cries, "For God's sake, what's the matter?"
At his bedside, he then espied Sir Erskine in command, sir,
Upon one foot he had one boot, and t'other in his hand, sir.
"Arise! Arise!" Sir Erskine cries, "The rebels, more's the pity,
Without a boat, are all on float, and ranged before the city!"
"Motley crews, in vessels new, with Satan for their guide, sir,
Packed up in bags or wooden kegs, come driving down the tide, sir!
Therefore prepare for bloody war; these kegs must all be routed!
Or surely we despised shall be, and British courage doubted!"
The royal band now ready stand, all ranged in dread array, sir,
With stomach stout to see it out and make a bloody day, sir.
The cannons roar, from shore to shore, the small arms make a rattle.
Since wars began I'm sure no man, e'er saw so strange a battle.
The fish below swam to and fro, attacked from every quarter.
"Why sure," thought they, "the devil's to pay, 'mongst folk above the water!"
Morn to night, these men of might displayed amazing courage,
And when the sun was fairly down retired to sup their porridge.
A hundred men with each a pen, or more upon my word, sir,
It is most true, should be too few, their valor to record sir!
Such feats did they perform that day upon these wicked kegs, sir,
For years to come, if they get home, they'll make their boasts and brags, sir!
16. The Gloucestershire Wassail
traditional English, ages ago
John Yannis leads us through one of many ancient songs shouted on doorsteps in hopes of a handout. Such Solstice traditions that persisted at Christmas made Bay Colony leaders so nervous they banned the holiday in the 1600s. People just could not be persuaded to forgo making merry, frequently fueled by a bowlful of mixed liquors set on fire to carmelize the sugars within. These revelers will drink to anything!
Wassail! wassail! all over the town,
Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown.
Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree.
With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.
Here's to our horse, and to his right ear,
May God send our master a happy new year.
A happy new year as e'er he did see,
With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.
So here is to Cherry and to his right cheek,
Pray God send our master a good piece of beef.
And a good piece of beef, that may we all see,
With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.
Here's to our mare, and to her right eye,
May God send our mistress a good Christmas pie.
A good Christmas pie, as e'er I did see,
With my wassailing bowl we'll drink to thee.
So here's to Broad Mary and to her wide horn.
May God send our master a good crop of corn.
And a good crop of corn, that may we all see,
With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.
And here is to Fillpail and to her left ear
Pray God send our master a happy New Year.
And a happy New Year as e'er he did see
With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.
Come butler, come fill us a bowl of the best,
Then we hope that your soul in heaven may rest.
But if you do draw us a bowl of the small,
Then down shall go butler, bowl and all.
Be here any maids? I suppose here be some;
Sure they will not let young men stand on cold stone!
Sing, hey, O, maidens, come pull back the pin,
And let the fairest maid in the house let us in.
And here's to the maid in the lily-white smock
Who tripped to the door and slipped back the lock.
Who tripped to the door and pulled back the pin,
For to let these jolly wassailers come in.
Wassail! wassail! all over the town,
Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown.
Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree.
With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.
17. The Ballad of Deborah Samson
© 2008 Diane Taraz, Raisin Pie Music (BMI)
Samson (others added the p to her name to evoke the Biblical strongman) joined the Continental Army after the British surrender at Yorktown. The army was desperate for soldiers to quell an ongoing insurgency mounted by loyalists. Governor John Hancock granted her a military pension, urged on by Paul Revere. In later life she went on tour, marching on stage in her uniform and recounting her experiences, one of the first women to speak in public in the new nation.
Opinions differ as to whether Deborah tended her own wounds; it's more likely that she was taken care of by friends.
Oh, Deborah Gannett is my name, but my maiden name was Samson.
'Tis among the poor that I was born, of luxuries we had none.
And when I was eight, my old dad ran off, leaving too many mouths for feeding;
I was sent to work on a Middleborough farm, where ten children needed keeping.
Endless work in the house and plot, not a single girl in the whole wild lot!
I was tall, I was tall as an oaken tree, I was tall, and as strong as can be.
Bold as the spark in my blue blue eyes, lookin' sharp for to fight for liberty.
Well I grew up fast and I grew up strong, made those boys walk a narrow line.
When they came from school, sure I was no fool, all their lessons soon were mine.
And at age 18 when I left the farm I was workin' at the school,
And I wove and spun all around the town after teaching the Golden Rule.
It was two long years since the war began and I longed to fight just like any man.
How we all did cheer when we heard the news that at Yorktown we had won,
But the blasted Tories, they would not quit, and the fighting lingered on.
Oh they cried for men faithful to the end, and I felt my heart a-stirring.
Why should I stay home when my country needed its newborn rights securing?
I put off my skirts, made myself a pack, signed a madeup name, and I ne'er looked back.
Well in '82 I marched off to fight, Robert Shurtliff became my name,
I was known as a brave and a faithful lad, as we tried the foe to tame.
Then near Tarrytown I was wounded sore, my head cut by a sabre,
And a musket ball lodging in my thigh, awaiting bloody labor.
Wn the cut was stitched I away did come, did the rest myself with a knife and rum.
Well they found me out and I went back home, though they mourned to lose such a soldier.
They sent me off with a rousing cheer and a discharge filed with honor.
I put on my skirts, settled down to wed, had three babes, plus one a foundling.
We were very poor, but old Paul Revere gave the governor a hounding.
He said as a vet I should have my due; Hancock signed my pension in '92.
Oh I traveled 'round when my babes were grown for to earn some ready money;
Wore my soldier duds, told my soldier tale, oh they came like flies to honey.
And my story spread all across the land, though the lies they told were many;
I was just a brand new American fury-bound to do her duty.
And as I grow old, how I oft recall, the adventures I'd ne'er trade at all!