Rare Traditional English Folk Songs

My Johnny's gone a-mollying oh, across the raging sea,
My heart it is full sore because he'll not be back for tea,
My cludge it yearns for Johnny's fork, and more so for his string,
But my Johnny's gone a-mollying oh, and won't be back 'til Spring.

He'll molly here, he'll molly there, where they can't understand us,
My Johnny's gone to molly hard, the cludges o'er in Flanders,
Ere he returns, one distant day, his kith and kin to fettle,
Be sure, I'll bid him welcome home, and then put on the kettle.

Beneath a bough, somewhere in France, my Johnny mollies gaily,
I wish I were a foreign cludge, and then I'd see him daily,
To see my Johnny wield his fork is wond'rous to behold,
But my own dear cludge, though e'er so pale, is often thick with mould.

I wish I were a blackbird, and could to my sweetheart fly,
But how would dearest Johnny know that soaring bird was I?,
My cludge will wait, and so must I, despite the grief and pain,
For my Johnny's gone a-mollying oh, across the raging main.