No. 8. THE PEOPLE WHO WRITE IN SECRET WHAT IN PUBLIC THEY ALLEGE TO BE FOLK-SONGS

The night it was so cold, and the moon it was so clear, When I stood at the churchyard gate a-parting from my dear, A-parting from my dear, for to bid my dear good-bye! And I parted from my dear when the moon was in the sky. “I never shall forget,” said he, “wherever I may roam, The day that I parted from my own true love at home, My own true love at home that was always true to me, I never shall forget my love wherever I may be. But I must off to Barbary for good King George to fight, And it’s farewell to Bayswater and to the Isle of Wight, And it’s farewell to my true love, it’s farewell to you, It’s farewell to my own dear love, so faithful and so true.” He kissed me good-bye, and he gave me a ring, And he rode away to Lunnon for to fight for the King; Oh! lonely am I now, and sair, sair cold my pillow, And I must bind my head with O the green willow. For last night there came a white angel to my bed, And he told to me that my own dear love was dead; My own dear love is dead, and I am all alone (So it’s surely rather obtuse of you to ask me why I moan).