A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
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THE BLACKSMITH
O a blacksmith courted me nine months and better.
He fairly won my heart, he wrote me a letter.
With his hammer in his hand, he looked so clever,
And if I were with my love, I’d live forever.
O where has my love gone, with his cheeks like roses?
He’s gone across the sea, gathering primroses.
I’m afraid the shining sun might burn and scorch his beauty,
And if I were with my love, I’d do my duty.
Strange news has come to town, strange news is carried.
Strange news flies up and down, that my love is married.
O I wish them both much joy, though they don’t hear me,
And if I were with my love, I’d do my duty.
What did you promise me when you lay beside me?
You said you’d marry me, and not deny me.
If I said I’d marry you, it was only to try you,
So bring a witness love, and I’ll not deny you.
O witness have I none, save God almighty,
And may he reward you well for the slighting of me.
Her cheeks grew pale and wan, which made her poor heart tremble,
For to think she loved one who had proved deceitful.
Traditional English
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