Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/A New English Ballad

A New English Ballad.

It was merry once in England, Many years ago,Before all this ill-blood was bred Betwixt the high and low;Was room enough to live and die For every sort of men:It was merry of old in England— Shall it never be so again?

There were none too many to plough then, There were none too many to sow;And every man that would work Had work enough to do;Was beef enough and beer enough For every person then:It was merry of old in England— Shall it never be so again?

English then were cheerful men, As cheerful might they be,And took their fill with right goodwill, Of love and jollity;Wives were thought the better of For bearing children then:'Till some of us are dead, I think; It will not be so again.

Our fathers then paid their own debts, And none beside their own,Nor ever left the children's sweat In pledge for any loan;

They never dreamed of taxes To raise the price of grain,But bought their bread at market-price— Shall it never be so again?

You know the rare old song, sirs, They sang of Robin Hood,And many a jolly yeoman That hunted in Sherwood;In spite of baron, earl, or king, Those men were all free men;And merry it was in the forest green— Shall it never be so again?

Stand to it, noble English, And look you round about,And ready have your hearts and hands To keep your enemies out;No battle yet for freedom Was ever fought in vain,In the bosom of merry England, Nor shall it be again.

Be mindful what your fathers did, Be steady of cheer, and bold,For you and yours shall live yet Like Englishmen of old;There's air, earth, water, and fire yet, There's flesh, and blood, and brain;It was merry of old in England— And it shall be so again!