he was a rich farmer's son
When first my tender heart he won
His love to me, oh, he did reveal,
But little thought of the nightingale.
His cruel parents contrived it so,
That my true love to the seas must go.
They bribed the press gang,
To press my love on the nightingale.
The nightingale was a vessel stout,
Well manned, well decked,
With thirty guns, oh, the truth I'll tell,
But mark the fate of the nightingale.
On the fourteenth day of November last,
The wind blew a bitter blast.
It blew my love in a dreadful gale,
And to the bottom went the nightingale.
The very night that my love got lost,
There appeared to me his deadly ghost.
In sailor's clothing his visage pale,
Oh lovely Marlene, I see surprise,
In Biscay Bay my body lies,
To become prey to some shark or whale,
It was my fate, I'm the nightingale.
4.8
