

Transcribed from the 1913 Thomas J. Wise pamphlet by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org.  Many thanks to Norfolk and Norwich Millennium Library,
UK, for kindly supplying the images from which this transcription was
made.





                              MOLLIE CHARANE
                            AND OTHER BALLADS


                                    BY
                              GEORGE BORROW

                                 LONDON:
                     PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION
                                   1913

               _Copyright in the United States of America_
           _by Houghton_, _Mifflin & Co. for Clement Shorter_.




MOLLIE CHARANE {5}


"O, Mollie Charane, where got you your gold?"
   Lone, lone you have left me here.
"O not in the curragh, deep under the mould."
   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.

"O, Mollie Charane, where got you your stock?"
   Lone, lone you have left me here.
"O not in the curragh from under a block."
   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.

"O, Mollie Charane, where got you your goods?"
   Lone, lone you have left me here.
"O not in the curragh from under two sods."
   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.

Two pair of stockings, and one pair of shoes--
   Lone, lone you have left me here--
For twenty-six years old Mollie did use.
   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.

His stockings were white, but his sandals, alack!--
   Lone, lone you have left me here--
Were not of one colour, one white, t'other black.
   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.

One sandal was white and t'other dark brown--
   Lone, lone you have left me here;--
But he'd two of one colour for kirk and for town.
   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.

"O, father, I really can't walk by your side"--
   Lone, lone you have left me here--
"If you go to the church in those sandals of hide."
   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.

"O, daughter, my dear, if my brogues give you pain"--
   Lone, lone you have left me here--
"There's that in the coffer will make you look fain."
   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.

A million of curses on Mollie Charane--
   Lone, lone you have left me here--
The first who gave tocher to daughter in Man.
   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.




THE DANES OF YORE


Well we know from saga
   And from scaldic lore,
That heroic warriors
   Were the Danes of yore.
That the noble schildings,
   And the men they led,
Oft for Danish honour
   Stoutly fought and bled.

What a time for Athelings,
   What a time for thanes!
What a time for yeomen,
   True devoted Danes!
But I'll say with pleasure
   That, in ancient days,
Death did not annihilate
   All that noble race.

Frederic see, exalted
   On his father's throne,
Sits a splendid monarch,
   Brighter never shone.
Long to him be granted
   That of Grendel's kin
He may check the cruel
   Cursed deeds of sin.

And that long may flourish
   Round about the King,
They who love gold treasures
   All around to fling.
Lords, the first of heroes,
   With their trenchant swords;
Counsellors held in honour,
   For their golden words.

To the Lord of angels
   Praise devout I'll sing,
That from out the grave-hill
   'Twas my lot to bring
Golden dishes, goblets,
   Things of mighty worth,
Which for thousand winters
   Lay entombed in earth.

That men in gold smithery
   Cunning, might from them
For the grey haired hero
   Frame a diadem.
Under which his grey locks
   Might all glorious shine,
Whilst the sun, bright flaming,
   Seeks the western brine.

Until, tired of glory,
   Such as meets it here,
Soars the hero's spirit
   To a higher sphere;
Where, with souls united
   Of departed friends,
'Twill experience glory
   Such as never ends.




A SURVEY OF DEATH


My blood is freezing, my senses reel,
So horror stricken at heart I feel;
Thinking how like a fast stream we range
Nearer and nearer to that dread change,
When the body becomes so stark and cold,
And man doth crumble away to mould.

Boast not, proud maid, for the grave doth gape,
And strangely altered reflects thy shape;
No dainty charms it doth disclose,
Death will ravish thy beauty's rose;
And all the rest will leave to thee
When dug thy chilly grave shall be.

O, ye who are tripping the floor so light,
In delicate robes as the lily white,
Think of the fading funeral wreath,
The dying struggle, the sweat