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

It is cold winter's night,

       You and I must bide alone:

       Whilst my pretty lad is young

       And is growing.

      2

      In a garden as I walked,

       I heard them laugh and call;

       There were four and twenty playing there,

       They played with bat and ball.

       O the rain on the roof,

       Here and I must make my moan:

       Whilst my pretty lad is young

       And is growing.

      3

      I listened in the garden,

       I looked o'er the wall;

       Amidst five and twenty gallants there

       My love exceeded all.

       O the wind on the thatch,

       Here and I alone must weep:

       Whilst my pretty lad is young

       And is growing.

      4

      O father, father dear,

       Great wrong to me is done,

       That I should married be this day,

       Before the set of sun.

       At the huffle of the gale,

       Here I toss and cannot sleep:

       Whilst my pretty lad is young

       And is growing.

      54

      My daughter, daughter dear,

       If better be, more fit,

       I'll send him to the court awhile,

       To point his pretty wit.

       But the snow, snowflakes fall,

       O and I am chill as dead:

       Whilst my pretty lad is young

       And is growing.

      65

      To let the lovely ladies know

       They may not touch and taste,

       I'll bind a bunch of ribbons red

       About his little waist.

       But the raven hoarsely croaks,

       And I shiver in my bed;

       Whilst my pretty lad is young

       And is growing.

      7

      I married was, alas,

       A lady high to be,

       In court and stall and stately hall,

       And bower of tapestry,

       But the bell did only knell,

       And I shuddered as one cold:

       When I wed the pretty lad

       Not done growing.

      8

      At seventeen he wedded was,

       A father at eighteen,

       At nineteen his face was white as milk,

       And then his grave was green;

       And the daisies were outspread,

       And buttercups of gold,

       O'er my pretty lad so young

       Now ceased growing.

      No 5 PARSON HOGG

       Table of Contents

      C.J.S.

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      1

      Mess Parson Hogg shall now maintain,

       The burden of my song, Sir,

       A single life, perforce he led,

       Of constitution strong, Sir.

       Sing, tally-ho! sing, tally-ho!

       Sing, tally-ho! why zounds, Sir,

       He mounts his mare, to hunt the hare,

       Sing tally-ho! the hounds, Sir.

      2

      And every day he goes to Mass,

       He first draws on the boot, Sir,

       That should the beagles chance to pass,

       He might join in pursuit, Sir!

       Sing tally-ho! &c.

      3

      That Parson little loveth prayer,

       And Pater, night and morn, Sir,

       For bell and book, hath little care

       But dearly loves the horn, Sir.

       Sing tally-ho! &c.

      4

      S. Stephen's Day, this holy man

       He went a pair to wed, Sir,

       When as the Service he began

       Puss by the Church-yard sped, Sir.

       Sing tally-ho! &c.

      5

      He shut his book, Come on, he said,

       I'll pray and bless no more, Sir,

       He drew his surplice o'er his head

       And started for the door, Sir

       Sing tally-ho! &c.

      6

      In pulpit Parson Hogg was strong,

       He preached without a book, Sir,

       And to the point, and never long,

       And this the text he took, Sir,

       "O tally-ho! O tally-ho!

       Dearly beloved—zounds, Sir

       I mount my mare to hunt the hare,

       Singing tally-ho! the hounds, Sir!"

      No 6 “COLD BLOWS THE WIND, SWEET-HEART”

       Table of Contents

      C.J.S.

      [Listen] [XML] [Note]

      1

      "Cold blows the wind of night, sweet-heart,

       Cold are the drops of rain;

       The very first love that ever I had,

       In green-wood he was slain.

      2

      "I'll do as much for my true-love

       As any fair maiden may;

       I'll sit and mourn upon his grave

       A twelvemonth and a day."

      3

      A twelvemonth and a day being up,

       The ghost began to speak;

       "Why sit you here by my grave-side

       From dusk till dawning break?"

      4

      "O think upon the garden, love,