My Own Pretty Boy- Mrs. J. McKenney (MA) 1843 Barry H
[My title. First from: The Ballad of Lord Randal in New England by Phillips Barry; The Journal of American Folklore, Vol. 16, No. 63 (Oct. - Dec., 1903), pp. 258-264. Appears as No. 4.
Then from: Traditional Ballads in New England II by Phillips Barry. The Journal of American Folklore, Vol. 18, No. 70 (Jul. - Sep., 1905), pp. 191-214. Appears as version H and Barry reports:
"Mrs. J. McKenney, of Boston, Mass., who heard it sung over sixty years ago. The melody is not remembered."
With all the versions Barry collected it of Lord Randal would be easy to get confused- and he does. He prints the same version in 1905 and says, "Recited to me November, 1903, by J. M., Boston, Mass., who heard it over forty years ago in Ireland."
I've noticed that Barry in his enthusiasm tends to exaggerate- even though he usually backs up his assertions with facts. I'll give the date here as c.1843, with some misgivings.
R. Matteson 2014]
H. [MY OWN PRETTY BOY] Recited to me November, 1903, by Mrs. J. McKenney, Boston, Mass., who heard it over forty (sixty?) years ago in Ireland.
1. "Where were you all day, my own pretty boy,
Where were you all day, my comfort and joy?"
"Fishing and fowling, mother make the bed soon,
For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain would lay down."
2. "What will you leave your father, my own pretty boy?
What will you leave your father, my comfort and joy?"
"My hounds and my horns, mother make the bed soon,
For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain would lay down."
3. "What will you leave your sister, my own pretty boy?
What will you leave your sister, my comfort and joy?"
"My gold and my silver, mother make the bed soon,
For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain would lay down."
4. What will you leave your brother, my own pretty boy?
What will you leave your brother, my comfort and joy?"
"My coach and six horses, mother make the bed soon,
For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain would lay down."
5. "What will you leave your true-love, my own pretty boy?
What will you leave your true-love, my comfort and joy?"
"Three ropes for to hang her, mother make my bed soon,
For I 'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down."