American Ballads and Songs

Complete Text & Lyrics - online book

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For danger he's no starter at,
But Townsend wasn't living then,
He wasn't born till arter that.
So then they put poor Guy to death
For ages to remember; And now they kill him every year
In dreary dark November; That is, his effigy, I mean,
For truth is strange and steady, They cannot put poor Guy to death
For he is dead already.
'Twas on a pleasant morning all in the bloom of spring When as the cheerful songsters in concert sweet did sing,
The primrose and the daisy bespangled every dawn In an arbor I espied my dear Coolen Bawn.
I stood awhile amazed, quite struck with surprise, On her with rapture gazed while from her bright eyes
She shot such killing glances my heart away was drawn. She ravished all my senses, my fair Coolen Bawn.
I tremblingly addressed her: "Hail, matchless fair maid! You have with grief oppressed me and I am much afraid.