Tiranti, My Son
LORD RANDAL—I
[_]
a. Communicated by Mrs L. F. Wesselhoeft, of Boston,
as sung to her when a child by her grandmother, Elizabeth
Foster, born in Maine, who appears to have learned the ballad
of her mother about 1800. b. By a daughter of Elizabeth
Foster, as learned about 1820. c. By Miss Ellen Marston,
of New Bedford, as learned from her mother, born 1778.
d. By Mrs Cushing, of Cambridge, Mass., as learned in
1838 from a schoolmate, who is thought to have derived
it from an old nurse. e. By Mrs Augustus Lowell, of Boston.
f. By Mrs Edward Atkinson, of Boston, learned of
Mrs A. Lowell, in girlhood. g. By Mrs A. Lowell, as derived
from a friend.
1
‘O where have you been, Tiranti, my son?
O where have you been, my sweet little one?’
‘I have been to my grandmother's; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick to my heart, and I'm faint to lie down.’
2
‘What did you have for your supper, Tiranti, my son?
What did you have for your supper, my sweet little one?’
‘I had eels fried in butter; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick to my heart, and I'm faint to lie down.’
3
‘Where did the eels come from, Tiranti, my son?
Where did the eels come from, my sweet little one?’
‘From the corner of the haystack; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick to my heart, and I'm faint to lie down.’
4
‘What color were the eels, Tiranti, my son?
What color were the eels, my sweet little one?’
‘They were streakëd and stripëd; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick to my heart, and I'm faint to lie down.’
5
‘What'll you give to your father, Tiranti, my son?
What'll you give to your father, my sweet little one?’
‘All my gold and my silver; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick to my heart, and I'm faint to lie down.’
6
‘What'll you give to your mother, Tiranti, my son?
What'll you give to your mother, my sweet little one?’
‘A coach and six horses; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick to my heart, and I'm faint to lie down.’
7
‘What'll you give to your grandmother, Tiranti, my son?
What'll you give to your grandmother, my sweet little one?’
‘A halter to hang her; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick to my heart, and I'm faint to lie down.’
8
‘Where'll you have your bed made, Tiranti, my son?
Where'll you have your bed made, my sweet little one?’
‘In the corner of the churchyard; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick to my heart, and I'm faint to lie down.’
