Lyrics of 'The Abandoned Baby' by John Wesley Harding

When forth in my ramble, intending to roam
To an alehouse I ambled most free
Far from the town, I did spend near a pound
Until I became fuddled most really.

I sat down to sleep for an hour on the cheap
And I had me a dream worth the telling
Till I awoke, in my rib felt a poke
And the landlord was doing the yelling

I walked straight outside, and attempting to hide
On a dustpile did settle to rest
And on top of the mound, there I saw a white hound
Who suckled a child at her breast

'Hello and good day' I attempted to say
But the dog she growled at the moon
(She said 'I'm) not talking to a poor boy such as you
With none but a song as your fortune'

I have seen a ghost fly on the wings of the night
And a dead man return from the war
(I have) heard of a queen who gave birth to thirteen
But I ne'er heard a dog talk before

I kept far away while this canine did say
'(This) baby is mine for the giving
(I'm her) guardian here and I'll wait till appears
A lord with a very large living'

'Fate's in my paws and this baby's not yours
Abandoned by father and mother
Hear him softly weep while he's trying to sleep
We will patiently wait for another'

So we did wait on that lowly estate
(Till a) carriage arrived from the distance
(Which) stopped in its tracks as if chopped by an axe
With none but His Divine Assistance

(And she) Barked to be heard, the dog true to her word
Till the Lord heard this savage and wild
And got her to stop, as they offered a chop
To exchange for the innocent child

And into that carriage they handed the babe
And may nobody call me a liar
But the arms of the one on whom fortune had shone
Was the sign of the Rose and The Briar

And so they made hayste with that baby away
Yes off went that coach like the flyer
And the arms of the one on whom fortune had shone
Was the Bonny Red Rose and The Briar

And the dog too gone home as her work now was done
The hound who loved foundlings and orphans
(May this) country of ours care as much for the poor
As that hound on the outskirts of London

Good luck to that child who was born nearly wild
And pardon my common effrontery
Perhaps you have grown to be quite as unknown
Or perhaps you'll be King Of This Countrie

And when you do rule, please remember the cruel
Way that nature gave you your beginning
And think of the hound on the desolate mound
And please forgive singers their sinning
And please forgive sinners their singing.