‘MY sweetheart, come along! Don’t you hear the fond song, The sweet notes of the nightingale flow? Don’t you hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below? So be not afraid To walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below, Nor yet in those valleys below. ‘Pretty Betsy, don’t fail, For I’ll carry your pail, Safe home to your cot as we go; You shall hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below.’ But she was afraid To walk in the shade, To walk in those valleys below, To walk in those valleys below. ‘Pray let me alone, I have hands of my own; Along with you I will not go, To hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below; For I am afraid To walk in the shade, To walk in those valleys below, To walk in those valleys below.’ ‘Pray sit yourself down With me on the ground, On this bank where sweet primroses grow; You shall hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below; So be not afraid To walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below, Nor yet in those valleys below.’ This couple agreed; They were married with speed, And soon to the church they did go. She was no more afraid For to {249} walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below: Nor to hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sung in those valleys below, As she sung in those valleys below. THE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS. [THIS traditional ditty, founded upon the old ballad inserted _ante_, p. 124, is current as a nursery song in the North of England.] THERE was an old man, and sons he had three, {250} Wind well, Lion, good hunter. A friar he being one of the three, With pleasure he rangèd the north country, For he was a jovial hunter. As he went to the woods some pastime to see, Wind well, Lion, good hunter, He spied a fair lady under a tree, Sighing and moaning mournfully. He was a jovial hunter. ‘What are you doing, my fair lady!’ Wind well, Lion, good hunter. ‘I’m frightened, the wild boar he will kill me, He has worried my lord, and wounded thirty, As thou art a jovial hunter.’ Then the friar he put his horn to his mouth, Wind well, Lion, good hunter. And he blew a blast, east, west, north, and south, And the wild boar from his den he came forth Unto the jovial hunter. A BEGGING WE WILL GO.