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7
The mournful dirge, ascending high,
Bewails the fate of Sally Roy.
Bewails the fate of Sally Roy.
STAY, TRAVELLER, TARRY.
Stay, traveller, tary here to-night,
The rain yet bents, the wind is loud,
The moon too has withdrawn her light,
And gone to sleep behind a cloud.
'Tis seven long miles across the moor,
And should you from our cottage stray,
You'll meet, I fear, no friendly door,
No soul to tell the ready way.
The rain yet bents, the wind is loud,
The moon too has withdrawn her light,
And gone to sleep behind a cloud.
'Tis seven long miles across the moor,
And should you from our cottage stray,
You'll meet, I fear, no friendly door,
No soul to tell the ready way.
Come, dearest Kate, the meal prepare,
This stranger shall partake our best;
A cake and rasher be his fare,
With ale that makes the weary blest.
Approach the hearth, there take a place,
And, till the hour of rest draws nigh,
Of Robin Hood, and Chevy Chace,
We'll sing, then to our pallets hie.
Had I the means I'd use you well;
'Tis little I have got to boast;
This stranger shall partake our best;
A cake and rasher be his fare,
With ale that makes the weary blest.
Approach the hearth, there take a place,
And, till the hour of rest draws nigh,
Of Robin Hood, and Chevy Chace,
We'll sing, then to our pallets hie.
Had I the means I'd use you well;
'Tis little I have got to boast;
