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The Belfast Maid’s Lamentation.
Come all you fair maids a warning take by me,
And let not love affect you in any degree,
For I was cross’d in love and it was my pain,
By a hansome youth that has cross’d o’er the main.
O that I was a little bird or had I wings to fly,
I’d to the field of battle go and on him I would lie
With my little flittering wings his bleeding wounds I‘d clean,
And on his lovely bosom I’d ever there remain.
But now my love is gone I‘ll wander and I’ll roam
Through each lonesome valley making of my moan
The small bids of the bushes will join and pity me
Since I have lost my jewel him I’ll never see.
You maid’s all take pity on a poor wretched maid
Who is by love affected and by Cupid’s dart betrayed
Ye gods of love assist me my burning flame to quench
I’m wounded by a young man who’s gone to fight the French,
His lips are like the coral his cheeks like the rose
His skin is like the lilly and his eyes as black as sloes
He is proper tall and handsome in every degree,
He has cros’d the wide ocean to face his enemy.
If to the field of battle my dear darling he goes,
O guardian angel protect him from his daring foes,
May he be crown’d with laurels the boy that I adore
And may I live to see him in Belfast once more.
If by the cruel French by darling should be slain,
Then for ever single for his sake I will remain,
Unto no other man breathing will I give my hand,
Till I see my dear jewel in his own native land.
And let not love affect you in any degree,
For I was cross’d in love and it was my pain,
By a hansome youth that has cross’d o’er the main.
O that I was a little bird or had I wings to fly,
I’d to the field of battle go and on him I would lie
With my little flittering wings his bleeding wounds I‘d clean,
And on his lovely bosom I’d ever there remain.
But now my love is gone I‘ll wander and I’ll roam
Through each lonesome valley making of my moan
The small bids of the bushes will join and pity me
Since I have lost my jewel him I’ll never see.
You maid’s all take pity on a poor wretched maid
Who is by love affected and by Cupid’s dart betrayed
Ye gods of love assist me my burning flame to quench
I’m wounded by a young man who’s gone to fight the French,
His lips are like the coral his cheeks like the rose
His skin is like the lilly and his eyes as black as sloes
He is proper tall and handsome in every degree,
He has cros’d the wide ocean to face his enemy.
If to the field of battle my dear darling he goes,
O guardian angel protect him from his daring foes,
May he be crown’d with laurels the boy that I adore
And may I live to see him in Belfast once more.
If by the cruel French by darling should be slain,
Then for ever single for his sake I will remain,
Unto no other man breathing will I give my hand,
Till I see my dear jewel in his own native land.
