The House Carpenter- Smith (TX) 1938 Owens
[From Owens, Texas Folk Songs, 1950. Randolph collected a version with a similar last stanza in Missouri. This is attributed by Owen to his mother and also appears in Tell Me a Story, Sing Me a Song: A Texas Chronicle, also by William A. Owens.
Owens notes: When as an undergraduate in college I came across a copy of "The Daemon Lover" as written by Sir Walter Scott, the song seemed so familiar that I asked my mother about it. She sang "The House Carpenter" for me and I remembered then that she had often sung it when I was a child. It is essentially the same song that Scott published in 1812 except that the lover has lost the name "James Harris" and is no longer a demon, his demonic nature having no doubt been rationalized out as the superstition of congress between men and demons became fainter. In the last stanza, however, the "dark and dreary eye" may still possibly refer to a person with supernatural qualities. In the British versions the lovers both drown when their ship goes down in a storm. The version presented here is the only one I know in which the woman commits suicide. This ballad is widely known in the United States. About 1860 it appeared on the streets of New York as a penny song sheet.
R. Matteson 2013]
THE HOUSE CARPENTER- Sung by Mrs. Jessie Ann Chennault Smith, Blossom, Texas, 1938.
[music upcoming]
"We've met, we've met," said the seafaring man,
"We've met most joyfully,
For I have come across the salt water sea,
And it's all for the sake of thee.
"I could have married a king's daughter there,
She offered marriage to me,
But I have come across the salt water sea,
And it's all for the sake of thee."
"If you could have married a king's daughter there,
I'm sure you are to blame,
For I have married a house carpenter,
And I think he's a nice young man."
"Oh, won't you forsake your house carpenter
And go along with me?
I'll take you where the grass grows green
On the banks of the sweet Willie."
She took herself into a room,
And dressed in silk most gay,
And spread a veil all over her face
And outshone the glittering day.
She had not been sailing more'n two weeks,
I'm sure it was not three,
When this fair lady set herself to weeping,
And she wept most bitterly.
"Are you a-weeping for the house carpenter,
Are you a-weeping for fear,
Are you a-weeping for the three little babes
That you left when you come with me here?"
"I'm neither a-weeping for the house carpenter,
I'm neither a-weeping for fear,
I'm only a-weeping for three little babes
That I left when I come with you here."
She had not been sailing more'n three weeks,
I'm sure it was nor four,
Till this fair lady threw herself overboard,
And her mourning was heard no more.
He threw himself around three times,
With a dark and dreary eye,
Saying, "The nearest, dearest on earth must part,
And so must you and I."