Page:The Folk-Lore Journal Volume 7 1889.djvu/39

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Here's wringing of hands.
And bitter crying,
All on the salt-water sea.
Must I live on bread and water
Until I see my true love again?

The next has no title but its first line.


"Come along, come along, my pretty little miss.
Come along, come along," said he;
"And seat yourself by me."

"Neither will I come, and neither sit down.
For I have not a moment's time;
For I heard that you had a new sweetheart,
And your heart is no more mine."

"It never was, and it never shall be.
And it never was any such a thing;
For yonder she stands, in her own father's garden.
The garden of the vine,
Mourning for her own true love.
Just like I've mourned for mine."

I laid my head in a little closet door.
To hear what my true love had to say,
So that I might know a little of his mind
Before he went away.

I laid my head on the side of his bed.
My arms across his breast;
I made him believe, for the fall of the year,
The sun rose in the west.

"I'm going away, I'm coming back again,
If it is ten thousand miles;
It's who will shoe your pretty little feet,
And who will glove your hand.
And who will kiss your red, rosy lips.
While I'm in a foreign land? "

"My father will shoe my pretty little feet,
My mother glove my hand,
My babe will kiss my red, rosy lips.
While you're in a foreign land."