Brisk Young Sailor- David Savage (Suf) 1993 REC
[From the recording VTC10CD 'Stepping it out again!' 1993, recorded at the Blaxhall Ship Inn in 1993. Song transcription and song notes by John Howson follow.
R. Matteson 2017]
A widespread song in England, Ireland, Scotland and North America, with over two hundred different references in the Roud folk song database. Often called 'Bold /Brisk Young Farmer / Lover' /'The Alehouse' /'Tavern in the Town ' /'I Wish my Baby it was Born' or simply and probably most commonly 'Died for Love'. Often the song starts with verses about a father finding his daughter hanged and then continues with story we have here and a similar version published in Roy Palmer's 'Everyman's Book of Country Songs' (Dent 1979) continues with a final verse of: “I wish, I wish but it's all in vain, I wish I was a maid again, But a maid again I never will be, 'til an apple grows on an orange tree.” Another similar rendition to David's can be heard sung by his cousin Geoff Ling on TSCD660 'Who's that at my Bed Window?' In England this song was popular with the Gypsy community and in the West Country it is often called 'Over Yonder's Hill'. Versions in this form can be heard sung by Jean Orchard (who learned it from her mother Amy Birch) in Devon (VT151CD 'Holsworthy Fair') and Viv Legg, in Cornwall (VT152CD 'Romany Roots').
Brisk Young Sailor- sung by David Savage from Suffolk; recorded at the Blaxhall Ship (Inn) in 1993
A brisk young sailor courted me,
He stole away my liberty.
My liberty, with a free good will;
With all his faults I love him still.
There is an alehouse in this town,
Where my true love can sit himself down,
And take another girl on his knee,
And don't you think it's sad grief to me.
Sad grief, sad grief, I'll tell you for why,
Because she has got more gold than I.
The gold it will melt and the silver will fly,
And then she'll become a poor girl like I.
I wish to God my baby was born,
Lay smiling in his daddy's arms.
And I'm laid in my grave alone,
With green grass growing over me.
Sad grief, sad grief, I'll tell you for why,
Because she has got more gold than I.
The gold it will melt and the silver will fly,
And then she'll become a poor girl like I.
Oh dig me a grave most wide and deep,
Put tomb stones at my head and my feet,
And on my breast lay a turtle dove,
For all this world I died for love.