The Fortunate Drummer

Cursed be the serjeant that prov?d my woe,
And forc?d me out of my country to go;
I?ll go to my Flora and tell her my tale,
Then perhaps she will pity a poor dying swain:
O it?s a hard fortune.

I?ll go to her window quite late in the night,
I?ll call her my jewel, my joy, and delight;
She first gave the wound, and sure she can cure,
And if she denies me I?ll die at her door.

She said, silly drummer, what is it you mean?
My father?s a captain of honour and fame,
And I am his daughter, he doats upon me,
DO you think I?ll bring myself to misery.

When he heard her say so, he bid her farewell,
My soul shall go quickly to Heaven or Hell;
I with my broad-sword will end the strife,
And there put an end to the thread of my life.

When she heard him say so, aloud she did cry,
To be guilty of murder, indeed, no not I;
Tis a pity your innocent blood you should spill,
So stay, silly drummer, I?m here at your will.

We?ll saddle our horses and to Plymouth we?ll go,
And there we?ll get marries in spite of our foe,
And when we are married, and all things done,
What can the world say if I follow the drum.

When her father heard of it, he stamp?d in a rage,
At his daughter?s actions he stood in amaze,
He sent for her lover, and to him did give,
Five hundred a year, as long as they live.