Whin: Six Songs

'Twixt Carrowbrough Edge and Settlingstones 
See old daddy Skinflint dance in his bones, 
Old Skinflint on the gallows-tree, 
Old daddy Skinflint, the father of me. 

"Why do you dance, do you dance so high? 
Why do you dance in the windy sky?
Why do you dance in your naked bones 
'Twixt Carrowbrough Edge and Settlingstones? 

Old daddy Skinflint, the father of me, 
Why do you dance on the gallows-tree, 
Who never tripped on a dancing floor 
Or flung your heels in a reel before? 

You taught me many a cunning thing 
But never taught me to dance and sing, 
Yet I must do whatever you do, 
So when you dance I must dance too." 

'Twixt Carrowbrough Edge and Settlingstones 
See old daddy Skinflint dance in his bones, 
Old Skinflint on the gallows-tree 
Old daddy Skinflint, the father of me. 

As I came down by Pity Me, 
Pity Me, Pity Me, 
As I came down by Pity Me, 
I heard a lassie sing : 
"I'd give the very heart of me 
To have a golden ring." 

As I came down by Pity Me, 
Pity Me, Pity Me, 
As I came down by Pity Me 
I heard a grey wife sing : 
"I'd give the very heart of me 
To lose a golden ring."

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I met an old man at Stow-on-the-Wold, 
Who shook and shivered as though with cold. 

And he said to me : " Six sons I had, 
And each was a tall and a lively lad. 

"But all of them went to France with the guns, 
They went together, my six tall sons. 

" Six sons I had, six sons I had 
And each was a tall and a lively lad."

As I came by Blaweary
I heard a young wife sing
Hush-a-low, Hush-a-low,
Hush-a-low, my dearie,
Hush-a-low, my little lamb,
Hush-a-low and sleep.

As I came by Blaweary
I heard a young wife sing
Hush-a-low, Hush-a-low,
Hush-a-low, my dearie,
Daddy's coming home again
To find his lamb asleep.

Driving up the Mallerstang
The mugger cracked his whip and sang
And all his crocks went rattle, rattle -
"The road runs fair and smooth and even
From Appleby to Kirkby Stephen
And womenfolk are kittle cattle.

And Kirkby Stephen's fair to see
And inns are good in Appleby,"
And all his crocks went rattle, rattle.
"But what care I for Kirkby Stephen,
Or whether roads are rough or even,
And womenfolk are kittle cattle?

And what care I for Appleby, 
Since Bess of the Blue Bell jilted me?"
And all his crocks went rattle, rattle -
"And wed today in Kirkby Stephen,
A sweep whose legs are odd and even?
And womenfolk are kittle cattle."