Songs of the West. S. (Sabine) Baring-Gould

old man slipped off his old mare,

       And mounted the thief's horse astride,

       Clapp'd spur, and put him in a gallop,

       Saying "I, without teaching, can ride."

      11

      When he to his landlord's had come,

       That old man was almost a-spent,

       Says he, "Landlord, provide me a room.

       I be come for to pay up my rent."

      12

      He opened the thief, his portmantle

       And there was a sight to behold,

       There were five hundred pounds in silver,

       And five hundred pounds in gold.

      13

      And as he was on his way home,

       And riding along the same lane,

       He seed—his silly old mare,

       Tied up to the hedge by the mane.

      14

      He loosed his old mare from the hedge,

       As she of the grass there did crib,

       He gi'ed her a whack o' the broad o' the back,

       Saying "Follow me home, old Tib."

      15

      Aw! When to his home he were come

       His daughter he dress'd like a duchess,

       And his ol' woman kicked and she capered for joy,

       And at Christmas danced jigs on her crutches.

       Singing, Too-ra-la-loo-ra-loo.

      No 19 THE MONTHS OF THE YEAR

       Table of Contents

      C.J.S.

      [Listen] [XML] [Note]

      1

      First comes January

       When the sun lies very low;

       I see in the farmer's yard

       The cattle feed on stro';

       The weather being so cold

       While the snow lies on the ground,

       There will be another change of moon

       Before the year comes round.

      2

      Next is February,

       So early in the spring;

       The Farmer ploughs the fallows

       The rooks their nests begin.

       The little lambs appearing

       Now frisk in pretty play.

       I think upon the increase,

       And thank my God, to-day.

      3

      March it is the next month,

       So cold and hard and drear.

       Prepare we now for harvest,

       By brewing of strong beer.

       God grant that we who labour,

       May see the reaping come,

       And drink and dance and welcome

       The happy Harvest Home.

      4

      Next of Months is April,

       When early in the morn

       The cheery farmer soweth

       To right and left the corn.

       The gallant team come after,

       A-smoothing of the land.

       May Heaven the Farmer prosper

       Whate'er he takes in hand.

      5

      In May I go a walking

       To hear the linnets sing.

       The blackbird and the throstle

       A-praising God the King.

       It cheers the heart to hear them

       To see the leaves unfold,

       The meadows scattered over

       With buttercups of gold.

      6

      Full early in the morning

       Awakes the summer sun,

       The month of June arriving,

       The cold and night are done,

       The Cuckoo is a fine bird

       She whistles as she flies,

       And as she whistles, Cuckoo,

       The bluer grow the skies.

      7

      Six months I now have named,

       The seventh is July.

       Come lads and lasses gather

       The scented hay to dry,

       All full of mirth and gladness

       To turn it in the sun,

       And never cease till daylight sets

       And all the work is done.

      8

      August brings the harvest,

       The reapers now advance,

       Against their shining sickles

       The field stands little chance.

       Well done! exclaims the farmer.

       This day is all men's friend.

       We'll drink and feast in plenty

       When we the harvest end.

      9

      By middle of September,

       The rake is laid aside.

       The horses wear the breeching

       Rich dressing to provide,

       All things to do in season,

       Me-thinks is just and right.

       Now summer season's over

       The frosts begin at night.

      10

      October leads in winter.

       The leaves begin to fall.

       The trees will soon be naked

       No flowers left at all.

       The frosts will bite them sharply

       The Elm alone is green.

       In orchard piles of apples red

       For cyder press are seen.

      11

      The eleventh month, November,

       The nights are cold and long,

       By day we're felling timber,

       And spend the night in song.

       In cozy chimney corner

       We take our toast and ale,

       And kiss and tease the maidens,

       Or tell a merry tale.

      12

      Then comes dark December,

       The last of months in turn.

       With holly, box, and laurel,

       We house and Church adorn.