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I Rode My Little Horse / The London Rover

[ Roud 1045 ; G/D 7:1483 ; Ballad Index GrD71483 ; VWML SBG/1/1/471 , SBG/2/1/107 ; Bodleian Roud 1045 ; trad.]

Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould: Songs of the West. James Reeves: The Everlasting Circle

Mike Bosworth sang I Rode My Little Horse on his 2004 CD of songs from the Sabine Baring-Gould Collection, By Chance It Was. He noted:

F.W. Bussell took the words and music from Edmund Fry of Lydford [VWML SBG/2/1/107] , and from John Bennett of Chagford, and shepherd John Hext of Postbridge [VWML SBG/1/1/471] . Sabine suggests a comparison with Jolly Roger Twangdillo [Roud V18963], a ballad in d’Urfeys Pills to Purge Melancholy, 1719 and a broadside version printed by Jennings of Water Lane London c.1790, the Pepysian collection and the Roxburgh Ballads have entries with the same theme.

Lyrics

I Rode My Little Horse in Songs of the West

rode my little horse, from London town I came,
I rode into the country, to seek myself a dame,
And if I meet a pretty maid, be sure I’ll kiss her then,
And swear that I will marry her—but will not tell her when!

I found a buxom widow, with many tons of gold,
I lived upon her fortune, as long as it would hold.
Of pounds I took five hundred, bestrode my horse, and then,
I promised I would marry her—but never told her when!

A vintner had a daughter, the Golden Sun his sign,
I tarried at his tavern, I drank his choicest wine;
I drank out all his cellar, bestrode my horse, and then,
I said the maid I’d marry,—but never told him when!

The guineas are expended, the wine is also spent;
The widow and the maiden, they languish and lament.
And if they come to seek me, I’ll pack them back again,
With promises of marriage,—but never tell them when.

My little horse I mounted, the world that I might see,
I found a pretty maiden— as poor as poor could be.
My little horse neglected, to London ran away,
I asked if she would marry, and bade her name the day.

Mike Bosworth sings By Chance It Was

I rode my little horse, from London town I came,
I went into the country, to seek for me a dame,
And if that I should find me one, I’ll pack her back again;
I’ll promise that I’ll marry her—but will not tell her when!
But will not tell her when,
I’ll promise that I’ll marry her—but will not tell her when!

I found a buxom widow, with tons of gold in store,
I lived upon her fortune till it was nearly o’er.
I borrowed pounds five hundred, bestrode my horse, and then
I promised that I’d marry her—but would not tell her when!
But will not tell her when,
I swore that I would marry her—but would not tell her when!

A vintner had a daughter, the Golden Sun his sign,
I tarried at his alehouse and drank of all his wine;
I tapped his rigid hogshead, bestrode my horse, and then,
I swore the maid I’d marry—but would not tell her when!
But would not tell her when,
I swore the maid I’d marry—but would not tell her when!

The gold it is expended, the wine it is all spent;
The widow and the maiden, they languish and lament.
And if that they should seek me out, I’ll pack them back again,
I’ll promise that I’ll marry them—but will not tell them when!
But will not tell them when,
I’ll promise that I’ll marry them—but will not tell them when!