A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
There was a wealthy merchant, in London he did dwell,
And he had a beautiful daughter, the truth to you I’ll tell.
Oh, the truth to you I’ll tell.
She had sweethearts a-plenty, and men of high degree,
But none but Jack the Sailor her true love there could be.
Oh, her true love there could be.
Jack has gone a-sailing with trouble on his mind.
He’s left his native country and his darling girl behind.
Oh, his darling girl behind.
She’s gone down to a tailor shop and dressed in man’s array.
She’s climbed on board a vessel to convey herself away.
Oh, convey herself away.
Before you get on board, sir, your name we’d like to know.
She smiled all in her countenance, they call me Jack-a-Roe.
Oh, they call me Jack-a-Roe.
I see your waist is slender, your fingers they are small,
Your cheeks too red and rosy to face the cannonball.
Oh, to face the cannonball.
I know my waist is slender, my fingers they are small,
But it would not make me tremble to see ten thousand fall.
Oh, to see ten thousand fall.
The war soon being over, she went and looked around,
And among the dead and wounded, her darling boy she found.
Oh, her darling boy she found.
She picked him up all in her arms and carried him to the town.
She called for a physician to quickly heal his wounds.
Oh, to quickly heal his wounds.
This couple they got married, so well they did agree.
This couple they got married, so why not you and me?
Oh, why not you and me?