Transcribed from the 1913 Thomas J. Wise pamphlet by David Price, email [email protected]. Many thanks to Norfolk and Norwich Millennium Library, UK, for kindly supplying the images from which this transcription was made.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION 1913
_Copyright in the United States of America_ _by Houghton_, _Mifflin & Co. for Clement Shorter_.
“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.
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.