HENRY CAREY Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. There's ne'er a lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage nets, And through the streets doth cry them; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy them: But sure such folk can have no part In such a girl as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes, like any Turk, And bangs me most severely: But let him bang, long as he will, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. Of all the days are in the week, I dearly love but one day, And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm dress'd, in all my best, To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. My master carries me to church, And often I am blamèd, Because I leave him in the lurch, Soon as the text is namèd: I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up and, box and all, I'll give unto my honey: I would it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. My master and the neighbours all, Make game of me and Sally, And but for she I'd better be A slave, and row a galley: But when my seven long years are out, O then I'll marry Sally, And then how happily we'll live-- But not in our alley. THE BRAES OF YARROW WILLIAM HAMILTON Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? Where gat ye that winsome marrow? I gat her where I daurna weel be seen, Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow; Nor let thy heart lament to leive Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her luver, luver dear, Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; And I hae slain the comliest swain That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.