In this installment of the NWC Songbook, we focus on the soldiers' ladies: the sweethearts and wives left behind when Johnny (or Ivan, Giovanni, Juan, Jean-René, Jan, Abdul, Hiroki, or Johann) marches off to war. The British and Irish folk traditions have a rich collection of laments, sung from the lady's point of view, reminding us that not all the suffering of war is felt by those in uniform.
In our first selection, High Germany, young Willy appears to believe that war will be a jolly lark, a sort of tourism with a musket; he attempts to persuade his true Love to accompany him. Sensible Polly points out that the theater of war is no place for a tender-footed, pregnant lass. The reference to British troops campaigning in "High Germany," as opposed to their more familiar ground in the Low Countries, almost certainly dates these lyrics from the time of the War of the Spanish Succession (1701-1714), particularly the Duke of Marlborough's Blenheim Campaign of 1704.
O Polly dear, O Polly,
The rout has now begun,
And we must go a-marching
At the beating of the drum.
Go dress yourself all in your best
And come along with me,
I'll take you to the wars, my Love,
In High Germany.
O Willy, Love, O Willy,
Now list what I do say,
My feet they are so tender
I cannot march away,
And besides, my dearest Willy,
I am with child by thee;
Not fitted for the wars, my Love,
In High Germany.
I'll buy for you a horse, my Love,
And on it you shall ride,
And all of my delight shall be
In riding by your side;
We'll call at ev'ry ale house,
And drink when we are dry,
So quickly on the road, my Love,
We'll marry by and by.
My friends I do not value,
My foes I do not fear,
Now that my Love has left me
To wander far and near,
And when my baby it is born
And smiling on my knee,
I'll think on lovely Willy
In High Germany.
O cursèd be these cruel wars
That ever they should rise,
And out of merry England
Press many a lad likewise!
They press'd my true love Willy,
Likewise my brothers three,
And sent them to the cruel wars
In High Germany.
And so, Willy (or Johnny, or Harry) has marched off, and Polly (or Mary, or Colleen) is left to her lonely meditations, not knowing when, or if, her lad will return.
I trace these gardens o'er and o'er
Meditate on each sweet flow'r
Thinking of each happy hour,
Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.
Chorus:
Shool-a Shool-a Shule agrah,
Time can only heal my woe,
Since the lad of my heart from me did go,
Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.
Some say my love is gone to France
There his fortune to advance,
And if I find him it's but a chance,
Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.
(Chorus)
I'll sell my frock, I'll sell my wheel,
I'll buy my love a sword of steel,
So in the battle he may reel,
Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.
(Chorus)
I wish I was on yonder hill,
It's there I'd sit and cry my fill,
So ev'ry tear might turn a mill,
Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.
(Chorus)
I'll dye my dress all over red,
And o'er the world I'll beg my bread,
So all my friends may think me dead,
Oh, Johnny is gone for a soldier.
(Chorus)
Of course, the suffering of the soldier and his lass may not be ended when the lad returns home. In this heart-rending Irish lament, Johnny has been maimed almost beyond recognition, and he faces a bleak future, softened only by his faithful lover's care. The reference to the "island of Sulloon" (Ceylon, modern Sri Lanka) indicates that Irish Johnny may have been sent to South Asia sometime after the British occupation of Ceylon in 1795. The fact that his lass cannot even pronounce the name of Ceylon is symbolic: "Why," she asks, "has my Johnny's youth and health been squandered fighting for a distant land I neither know nor care about? Ye'll not take my son so; this I'm swearing to ye!"
While goin' the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin' the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin' the road to sweet Athy
A stick in me hand and a drop in me eye
A doleful damsel I heard cry,
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
With your drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo, hurroo
With your drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo, hurroo
With your drums and guns and drums and guns
The enemy nearly slew ye,
Oh my darling dear, Ye look so queer,
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your eyes that were so mild
When my heart you so beguiled,
Why did ye run from me and the child?
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your legs that used to run
When you went for to carry a gun?
Indeed your dancing days are done,
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
I'm happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo
I'm happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo
I'm happy for to see ye home
All from the island of Sulloon,
So low in flesh, so high in bone,
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg
Ye're a helpless shell of a man on a peg,
Ye'll have to put with a bowl out to beg,
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
They're rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo
They're rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo
They're rolling out the guns again
But they never will take our sons again,
No they never will take our sons again,
Johnny I'm swearing to ye.
With a peculiarly American style of optimism, the tune of Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye was played at a quicker tempo, and the words changed to portray the homecoming that every soldier and his loved ones would like to experience: Johnny marches home, hale, hearty, and victorious, honored by the entire population of his hometown. Ah, if only 'twere always so!
When Johnny comes marching home again, Hurrah! Hurrah!
We'll give him a hearty welcome then, Hurrah! Hurrah!
The men will cheer, the boys will shout
The ladies they will all turn out
And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home.
The old Church bell will peal with joy, Hurrah! Hurrah!
To welcome home our darling boy, Hurrah! Hurrah!
The village lads and lassies gay
With roses they will strew the way
And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home.
Get ready for the jubilee, Hurrah! Hurrah!
We'll give the heroes three times three, Hurrah! Hurrah!
The laurel wreath is ready now
To place upon his loyal brow
And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home.