| Author | Topic: Add: Sally Gray | |
| dmcg | Posted - 14 Oct 06 - 10:31 pm | |
Come, Deavie, I'll tell thee a secret, But tou mun lock't up i' thee breast, I wuddn't for aw Dalton parish It com to the ears o' the rest; Now I'll hod te a bit of a weager, A groat to thy tuppens I'll lay, Tou cannot guess whee I's on luive wi', And nobbut keep off Sally Gray. There's Cumwhitton, Cumwhinton, Cumranton, Cumrangen, Cumrew and Cumcatch, And mony mair cums i' the county But nin wi' Cumdivock can match; It's sae neyce to luik owre the black pasture, Wi' the fells abuin aw, far away - There is nee sic pleace, nit in England, For there lives the sweet Sally Gray. I was sebenteen last Collup-Monday, And she's just the varra same yage, For ae kiss o' the sweet lips o' Sally, I'd freely give up a year's wage; For in lang winter neets when she's spinnin' And singin' about Jemmy Gay, I keek by the hay-stack, and lissen, For wain wad I see Sally Gray [two stanzas omitted (by LEB)] O wad I but lword o' the manor, A nabob, or parliament man, What thousands on thousands I'd gi' her, Wad she nobbut gi' me her han'. A cwoach and six horses I'd but her, And gar fwolk stan' out o' the way, Then I'd loup up behint like a footman, O the worl' for my sweet Sally Gray. They may brag o' their feyne Carel lasses, Their feathers, their durtment, and leace; God help them! peer deeth-luikin' bodies, Widout a bit reed i' their feace. But Sally's just like allybaster, Her cheeks are twee rwose-buds in May - O lad! I cou'd stan' here for ever, And talk about sweet Sally Gray. Source: Broadwood, Lucy, 1893, English County Songs, Leadenhall Press, London Notes: Lucy Broadwood notes are:
Roud: 1365 (Search Roud index at VWML) | ||
| Malcolm Douglas |
Posted - 14 Oct 06 - 11:50 pm | |
Presumably Miss Broadwood took the words directly from Anderson's published text, which can be seen (for example) at � The Farne Archive. Anderson intended his song to be sung to 'The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre'. | ||
| Irene Shettle | Posted - 11 Oct 07 - 10:53 pm | |
It should, perhaps, be pointed out that "English County Songs" was actually edited by J A Fuller Maitland and Lucy Broadwood, and not by Lucy Broadwood (sole). No authorship is actually ascribed to the notes in "English County Songs" in the book itself, although the piano arrangement for the song is that of Lucy Broadwood. | ||
| masato sakurai | Posted - 12 Oct 07 - 12:25 am | |
From Ballads in the Cumberland dialect, chiefly by R. Anderson (1815, pp. 15-17): SALLY GRAY Tune.--"The mucking o' Gwordie's byre." COME, Deavie, I'll tell thee a secret, But tou mun lock't up i' thee breast, I wadden't for aw Dalton parish, It com to the ears o' the rest; Now I'll hod tee a bit of a weager, A groat to thy tuppens I'll lay, Tou cannot guess whee I's on luive wi', And nobbet keep off Sally Gray. There's Cumwhitton, Cumwhinton, Cumranton, Cumrangen, Cumrew, and Cumcatch, And monny mair cum's i' the county, But nin wi' Cumdivock can match; It's sae neyce to luik owre the black pasture, The fells abuin aw, far away-- There is nee sec pleace, nit in England, For there lives the sweet Sally Gray. I was sebenteen last Collop-Monday*, And she's just the varra same yage, For ae kiss o' the sweet lips o' Sally, I'd freely give up a year's wage; For in lang winter neets when she's spinnin, And singin' about Jemmy Gay, I keek by the hay-stack, and lissen, For fain wad I see Sally Gray. Had tou seen her at kurk, man, last Sunday**, Tou cou'dn't ha'e thought o' the text; But she sat neist to Tom o' the Lonnin, Tou may think that meade me quite vext; Then I pass'd her gawn owre the lang meedow, Says I, 'Here's a canny wet day!' I wad ha'e said mair, but how cou'd e, When luikin at sweet Sally Gray! I caw'd to sup cruds wi' Dick Miller, And hear aw his cracks and his jwokes, The dumb wife was tellin their fortunes***, What! I mud be like other fwokes: Wi' chalk on a pair of auld bellows, Twee letters she meade in her way, S means Sally the wide warl owre, And G stands for nought else but Gray. O was I but lword o' the manor, A nabob, or parliment man, What thousands on thousands I'd gi' her, Wad she nobbet gi' me her han! A cwoach and six horses I'd but her, And gar fwok stan' out o' the way, Then I'd lowp up behint like a footman-- Oh! the warl for my sweet Sally Gray. They may brag o' their feyne Carel lasses, Their feathers, their durtment, and leace; God help them! peer deeth-luikin bodies, Widout a bit reed o' their feace! But Sally's just like allybaster, Her cheeks are twee rwose-buds in May-- O lad! I cou'd stan' here for ever, And talk about sweet Sally Gray. July 24, 1802. ********************** *Note VIII. [I was sebenteen last Collop-Monday.] The first Monday before Lent is provincially called Collop-Monday; and the first Tuesday, Pancake-Tuesday;--because on these days collops and pancakes form the chief repast of the country people;--a custom derived from our ancestors, who gave full indulgence to their appetites a day or two before the arrival of that long and meagre season--the Quadragesimal Fast.] **Note IX. [Had tou seen her at kurk, &c.] From the levity of air, which distinguishes some of my fair countrywomen during the hours of public worship, it would not be uncharitable to suppose that they attend the church from the same view as they do fairs. What can we think of a young woman whose eye is continually roving from one part of the audience to another, observing every dress, and examining every countenance with the minuteness, if not with the penetration of a Lavator? What can we think, but that she is destitute of those soft, retiring graces, which so much adorn her sex, and give so much atteraction to beauty?] ***See Note X. [The dumb wife was tellin their fortunes.] A person born without the faculty of speech, is thought, by the illiterate part of the Cumbrian peasantry, to possess the gift of prescience; and this supposed extraordinary endowment gives him so much confidence and veneration with that class of the community, that, if he possess not common honesty, it becomes the means of drawing pence from their pockets. Fortune-telling (the most lucrative part of vaticination) is often professed by women, who, having no settled abode, travel from village to village, all of them really or pretendedly dumb; for the most voluble tongue among them can submit to a temporary restraint, when the credit of their prefession, and consequently their livelihood, depends upon its silence. As soon as one of these strolling sybils arrive at a village, she is immediately surrounded by a plebeian group, all of them anxious to know "the colour of their future fate;" and it is certainly something to her credit, that instead of adding cruelty to the crime of imposition, by darkening the perspective with a train of disasters, she scatters over it roses and sunshine. The laborious rustic, whose at present provides with difficulty for the wants of the day, beholds his future hours gliding amidst affluence, abundance, and pleasures: while the village-maid, blushing with health and love, is gratified by the near approach of an honourable and opulent marriage. Yet these kind prophetesses, who lighten the pressure of the present moment, by making the destinies smile upon the future, are threatened with gaols, stocks, and pillories!] Edited By masato sakurai - 12 Oct 07 - 12:30 am | ||