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diff --git a/649-h/649-h.htm b/649-h/649-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e24a167 --- /dev/null +++ b/649-h/649-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11996 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of the +Peasantry of England, Edited by Robert Bell + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England + + +Editor: Robert Bell + +Release Date: October 5, 2014 [eBook #649] +[This file was first posted on September 17, 1996] + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANCIENT POEMS, BALLADS AND SONGS +OF THE PEASANTRY OF ENGLAND*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1857 John W. Parker and Son edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>ANCIENT POEMS<br /> +BALLADS AND SONGS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OF THE</span><br /> +PEASANTRY OF ENGLAND.</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TAKEN DOWN +FROM ORAL RECITATION AND TRANSCRIBED FROM</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PRIVATE MANUSCRIPTS, RARE BROADSIDES +AND</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SCARCE PUBLICATIONS.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">EDITED BY ROBERT BELL</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" + src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +JOHN W. PARKER AND SON WEST STRAND<br /> +1857</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. ii</span><span +class="GutSmall">LONDON:</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CHANDOS STREET.</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="pageiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +iii</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Introduction</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page7">7</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">Poems.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Plain-Dealing Man</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page11">11</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Vanities of Life</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Life and Age of Man</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page20">20</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Young Man’s Wish</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page22">22</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Midnight Messenger</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Dialogue betwixt an Exciseman and +Death</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Messenger of Mortality</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">England’s Alarm</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Smoking Spiritualized</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Masonic Hymn</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">God Speed the Plow, and Bless the +Corn-mow</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Dialogue between the Husbandman and +the Servingman</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Catholick</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">Ballads.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Three Knights</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Blind Beggar of Bednall +Green</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Bold Pedlar and Robin +Hood</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Outlandish Knight</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lord Delaware</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lord Bateman</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Golden Glove; or, the Squire of +Tamworth</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page70">70</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +iv</span><span class="smcap">King James I. and the +Tinkler</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Keach i’ the +Creel</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Merry Broomfield; or, the West +Country Wager</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Sir John Barleycorn</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page80">80</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Blow the Winds, I-ho</span>!</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Beautiful Lady of Kent; or, the +Seaman of Dover</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Berkshire Lady’s +Garland</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page90">90</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Nobleman’s Generous +Kindness</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Drunkard’s Legacy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Bowes Tragedy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page106">106</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Crafty Lover; or, the Lawyer +Outwitted</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page110">110</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Death of Queen Jane</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page113">113</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Wandering Young Gentlewoman; or, +Catskin</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Brave Earl Brand and the King of +England’s Daughter</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page122">122</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Jovial Hunter of Bromsgrove; or, +the Old Man and his Three Sons</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page124">124</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lady Alice</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Felon Sewe of Rokeby and the +Freeres of Richmond</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">Songs.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Arthur O’Bradley’s +Wedding</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page138">138</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Painful Plough</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page143">143</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Useful Plow; or, the +Plough’s Praise</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Farmer’s Son</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page146">146</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Farmer’s Boy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page148">148</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Richard of Taunton Dean; or, Dumble +Dum Deary</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Wooing Song of a Yeoman of +Kent’s Sonne</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page153">153</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Clown’s Courtship</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page155">155</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Harry’s Courtship</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page155">155</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Harvest-home Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Harvest-home</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page157">157</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Mow</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Barley-mow Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page159">159</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. v</span><span +class="smcap">The Barley-mow Song (Suffolk version)</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page162">162</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Craven Churn-supper +Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page162">162</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Rural Dance about the +May-pole</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page164">164</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Hitchin May-day Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Helstone Furry-day Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page167">167</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Cornish Midsummer Bonfire +Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Suffolk Harvest-home Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page170">170</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Haymaker’s Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Sword-dancers’ +Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page172">172</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Sword-dancers’ Song and +Interlude</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Maskers’ Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page180">180</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Gloucestershire Wassailers’ +Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page183">183</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Mummers’ Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page184">184</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Fragment of the Hagmena +Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page186">186</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Greenside Wakes Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page187">187</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Swearing-in Song or +Rhyme</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page188">188</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Fairlop Fair Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page191">191</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">As Tom was a-Walking</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page193">193</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Miller and his Sons</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page194">194</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jack and Tom</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page195">195</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Joan’s Ale was New</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page197">197</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">George Ridler’s Oven</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page199">199</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Carrion Crow</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page202">202</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Leathern Bottel</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page203">203</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Farmer’s Old Wife</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page204">204</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Old Wichet and his Wife</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page206">206</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Jolly Waggoner</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page208">208</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Yorkshire Horse-dealer</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page209">209</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The King and the Countryman</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page210">210</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jone o’ Greenfield’s +Ramble</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page212">212</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Thornehagh-moor Woods</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page214">214</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Lincolnshire Poacher</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page216">216</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Somersetshire Hunting Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Trotting Horse</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page218">218</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Seeds of Love</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page220">220</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span><span class="smcap">The Garden-gate</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The New-mown Hay</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page223">223</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Praise of a Dairy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page224">224</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Milk-maid’s Life</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page226">226</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Milking-pail</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Summer’s Morning</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Old Adam</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page231">231</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Tobacco</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page232">232</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Spanish Ladies</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page234">234</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Harry the Tailor</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page235">235</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Sir Arthur and Charming +Mollee</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">There was an Old Man came over the +Lea</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page237">237</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Why Should we Quarrel for +Riches</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page238">238</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Merry Fellows</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page239">239</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Old Man’s Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page240">240</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Robin Hood’s Hill</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page241">241</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Begone Dull Care</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page243">243</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Full Merrily sings the +Cuckoo</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page244">244</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jockey to the Fair</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page245">245</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Long Preston Peg</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page247">247</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Sweet Nightingale</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page247">247</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Old Man and his Three +Sons</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page250">250</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Begging we will go</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page251">251</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +7</span>INTRODUCTION.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> 1846, the Percy Society issued +to its members a volume entitled <i>Ancient Poems</i>, +<i>Ballads</i>, <i>and Songs of the Peasantry of England</i>, +edited by Mr. James Henry Dixon. The sources drawn upon by +Mr. Dixon are intimated in the following extract from his +preface:—</p> +<blockquote><p>He who, in travelling through the rural districts +of England, has made the road-side inn his resting-place, who has +visited the lowly dwellings of the villagers and yeomanry, and +been present at their feasts and festivals, must have observed +that there are certain old poems, ballads, and songs, which are +favourites with the masses, and have been said and sung from +generation to generation.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This traditional, and, for the most part, unprinted +literature,—cherished in remote villages, resisting +everywhere the invasion of modern namby-pamby verse and jaunty +melody, and possessing, in an historical point of view, especial +value as a faithful record of the feeling, usages, and modes of +life of the rural population,—had been almost wholly passed +over amongst the antiquarian revivals which constitute one of the +distinguishing features of the present age. While attention +was successfully drawn to other forms of our early poetry, this +peasant minstrelsy was scarcely touched, and might be considered +unexplored ground. There was great difficulty in collecting +materials which lay scattered so widely, and which could be +procured in their genuine simplicity only from the people amongst +whom they originated, and with whom they are as ‘familiar +as household words.’ It was even still more difficult +to find an editor who combined genial literary taste with the +local knowledge of character, customs, and dialect, indispensable +to the collation of such reliques; and thus, although their +national interest was universally recognised, they were silently +permitted to fall into comparative oblivion. To supply this +manifest <i>desideratum</i>, Mr. Dixon compiled his volume for +the Percy Society; and its pages, embracing only a selection from +the rich stores he had gathered, abundantly exemplified that +gentleman’s remarkable qualifications for the labour he had +undertaken. After stating in his preface that contributions +from various quarters had accumulated so largely on his hands as +to compel him to <a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>omit many pieces he was desirous of preserving, he thus +describes generally the contents of the work:—</p> +<blockquote><p>In what we have retained will be found every +variety,</p> +<p> ‘From grave to gay, +from lively to severe,’</p> +<p>from the moral poem and the religious dialogue,—</p> +<p> ‘The scrolls that +teach us to live and to die,’—</p> +<p>to the legendary, the historical, or the domestic ballad; from +the strains that enliven the harvest-home and festival, to the +love-ditties which the country lass warbles, or the comic song +with which the rustic sets the village hostel in a roar. In +our collection are several pieces exceedingly scarce, and +hitherto to be met with only in broadsides and chap-books of the +utmost rarity; in addition to which we have given several others +never before in print, and obtained by the editor and his +friends, either from the oral recitation of the peasantry, or +from manuscripts in the possession of private individuals.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The novelty of the matter, and the copious resources disclosed +by the editor, acquired for the volume a popularity extending far +beyond the limited circle to which it was addressed; and although +the edition was necessarily restricted to the members of the +Percy Society, the book was quoted not only by English writers, +but by some of the most distinguished archæologists on the +continent.</p> +<p>It had always been my intention to form a collection of local +songs, illustrative of popular festivals, customs, manners, and +dialects. As the merit of having anticipated, and, in a +great measure, accomplished this project belongs exclusively to +Mr. Dixon, so to that gentleman I have now the pleasure of +tendering my acknowledgments for the means of enriching the +Annotated Edition of the English Poets with a volume which, in +some respects, is the most curious and interesting of the +series.</p> +<p>Subsequently to the publication of his collection by the Percy +Society, Mr. Dixon had amassed additional materials of great +value; and, conscious that the work admitted of considerable +improvement, both in the way of omission and augmentation, he +resolved upon the preparation of a new edition. His reasons +for rejecting certain portions of the former volume are stated in +the following extract from a communication with which he has +obliged me, and which may be considered as his own introduction +to the ensuing pages.</p> +<blockquote><p>The editor had passed his earliest years in a +romantic mountain-district in the North of England, where old +customs and manners, and old songs and ballads still +linger. Under the influence of these associations, he +imbibed a passionate love for peasant rhymes; having little +notion at that time that the simple minstrelsy which afforded <a +name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>him so much +delight could yield hardly less pleasure to those who cultivated +more artificial modes of poetry, and who knew little of the life +of the peasantry. His collection was not issued without +diffidence; but the result dissipated all apprehension as to the +estimate in which these essentially popular productions are +held. The reception of the book, indeed, far exceeded its +merits; for he is bound in candour to say that it was neither so +complete nor so judiciously selected as it might have been. +Like almost all books issued by societies, it was got up in +haste, and hurried through the press. It contained some +things which were out of place in such a work, but which were +inserted upon solicitations that could not have been very easily +refused; and even where the matter was unexceptionable, it +sometimes happened that it was printed from comparatively modern +broadsides, for want of time to consult earlier editions. +In the interval which has since elapsed, all these defects and +short-comings have been remedied. Several pieces, which had +no legitimate claims to the places they occupied, have been +removed; others have been collated with more ancient copies than +the editor had had access to previously; and the whole work has +been considerably enlarged. In its present form it is +strictly what its title-page implies—a collection of poems, +ballads, and songs preserved by tradition, and in actual +circulation, amongst the peasantry.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><i>Bex</i>, <i>Canton de Vaud</i>,<br /> +<i>Switzerland</i>.</p> +<p>The present volume differs in many important particulars from +the former, of the deficiencies of which Mr. Dixon makes so frank +an avowal. It has not only undergone a careful revision, +but has received additions to an extent which renders it almost a +new work. Many of there accessions are taken from extremely +rare originals, and others are here printed for the first time, +including amongst the latter the ballad of <i>Earl Brand</i>, a +traditional lyric of great antiquity, long familiar to the dales +of the North of England; and the <i>Death of Queen Jane</i>, a +relic of more than ordinary intesest. Nearly forty songs, +noted down from recitation, or gathered from sources not +generally accessible, have been added to the former collection, +illustrative, for the most part, of historical events, country +pastimes, and local customs. Not the least suggestive +feature in this department are the political songs it contains, +which have long outlived the occasions that gave them birth, and +which still retain their popularity, although their allusions are +no longer understood. Amongst this class of songs may be +specially indicated <i>Jack and Tom</i>, <i>Joan’s Ale was +New</i>, <i>George Ridler’s Oven</i>, and <i>The Carrion +Crow</i>. The songs of a strictly rural character, having +reference to the occupations and intercourse of the people, +possess an interest which cannot be adequately measured by their +poetical pretensions. The very defects of art with which +they are chargeable, constitute their highest claim to +consideration as authentic specimens of country <a +name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>lore. +The songs in praise of the dairy, or the plough; or in +celebration of the harvest-home, or the churn-supper; or +descriptive of the pleasures of the milk-maid, or the courtship +in the farm-house; or those that give us glimpses of the ways of +life of the waggoner, the poacher, the horse-dealer, and the boon +companion of the road-side hostelrie, are no less curious for +their idiomatic and primitive forms of expression, than for their +pictures of rustic modes and manners. Of special interest, +too, are the songs which relate to festival and customs; such as +the <i>Sword Dancer’s Song and Interlude</i>, the +<i>Swearing-in Song</i>, <i>or Rhyme</i>, <i>at Highgate</i>, the +<i>Cornish Midsummer Bonfire Song</i>, and the <i>Fairlop Fair +Song</i>.</p> +<p>In the arrangement of so multifarious an anthology, gathered +from nearly all parts of the kingdom, the observance of +chronological order, for obvious reasons, has not been attempted; +but pieces which possess any kind of affinity to each other have +been kept together as nearly as other considerations would +permit.</p> +<p>The value of this volume consists in the genuineness of its +contents, and the healthiness of its tone. While +fashionable life was masquerading in imaginary Arcadias, and +deluging theatres and concert rooms with shams, the English +peasant remained true to the realities of his own experience, and +produced and sang songs which faithfully reflected the actual +life around him. Whatever these songs describe is true to +that life. There are no fictitious raptures in them. +Love here never dresses its emotions in artificial images, nor +disguises itself in the mask of a Strephon or a Daphne. It +is in this particular aspect that the poetry of the country +possesses a permanent and moral interest.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. B.</p> +<h2><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>Poems.</h2> +<h3>THE PLAIN-DEALING MAN.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> oldest copy of the <i>Plain +Dealing Man</i> with which we have been able to meet is in black +letter, printed by T. Vere at the sign ‘Of the Angel +without Newgate.’ Vere was living in 1609.]</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">crotchet</span> comes +into my mind<br /> +Concerning a proverb of old,<br /> +Plain dealing’s a jewel most rare,<br /> +And more precious than silver or gold:<br /> +And therefore with patience give ear,<br /> +And listen to what here is penned,<br /> +These verses were written on purpose<br /> +The honest man’s cause to defend.<br /> +For this I will make it appear,<br /> +And prove by experience I can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet some are so impudent grown,<br /> +They’ll domineer, vapour, and swagger,<br /> +And say that the plain-dealing man<br /> +Was born to die a beggar:<br /> +<a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>But men +that are honestly given<br /> +Do such evil actions detest,<br /> +And every one that is well-minded<br /> +Will say that plain dealing is best.<br /> +For this I will make it appear,<br /> +And prove by experience I can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">For my part I am a poor man,<br /> +And sometimes scarce muster a shilling,<br /> +Yet to live upright in the world,<br /> +Heaven knows I am wondrous willing.<br /> +Although that my clothes be threadbare,<br /> +And my calling be simple and poor,<br /> +Yet will I endeavour myself<br /> +To keep off the wolf from the door.<br /> +For this I will make it appear,<br /> +And prove by experience I can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now, to be brief in discourse,<br /> +In plain terms I’ll tell you my mind;<br /> +My qualities you shall all know,<br /> +And to what my humour’s inclined:<br /> +I hate all dissembling base knaves<br /> +And pickthanks whoever they be,<br /> +And for painted-faced drabs, and such like,<br /> +They shall never get penny of me.<br /> +For this I will make it appear,<br /> +And prove by experience I can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor can I abide any tongues<br /> +That will prattle and prate against reason,<br /> +About that which doth not concern them;<br /> +Which thing is no better than treason.<br /> +<a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>Wherefore +I’d wish all that do hear me<br /> +Not to meddle with matters of state,<br /> +Lest they be in question called for it,<br /> +And repent them when it is too late.<br /> +For this I will make it appear,<br /> +And prove by experience I can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">O fie upon spiteful neighbours,<br /> +Whose malicious humours are bent,<br /> +And do practise and strive every day<br /> +To wrong the poor innocent.<br /> +By means of such persons as they,<br /> +There hath many a good mother’s son<br /> +Been utterly brought to decay,<br /> +Their wives and their children undone.<br /> +For this I will make it appear,<br /> +And prove by experience I can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">O fie upon forsworn knaves,<br /> +That do no conscience make<br /> +To swear and forswear themselves<br /> +At every third word they do speak:<br /> +So they may get profit and gain,<br /> +They care not what lies they do tell;<br /> +Such cursed dissemblers as they<br /> +Are worse than the devils of hell.<br /> +For this I will make it appear,<br /> +And prove by experience I can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">O fie upon greedy bribe takers,<br /> +’Tis pity they ever drew breath,<br /> +For they, like to base caterpillars,<br /> +Devour up the fruits of the earth.<br /> +<a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>They’re apt to take money with both hands,<br /> +On one side and also the other,<br /> +And care not what men they undo,<br /> +Though it be their own father or brother.<br /> +Therefore I will make it appear,<br /> +And show very good reasons I can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">O fie upon cheaters and thieves,<br /> +That liveth by fraud and deceit;<br /> +The gallows do for such blades groan,<br /> +And the hangmen do for their clothes wait.<br /> +Though poverty be a disgrace,<br /> +And want is a pitiful grief,<br /> +’Tis better to go like a beggar<br /> +Than to ride in a cart like a thief.<br /> +For this I will make it appear,<br /> +And prove by experience I can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now let all honest men judge,<br /> +If such men as I have here named<br /> +For their wicked and impudent dealings,<br /> +Deserveth not much to be blamed.<br /> +And now here, before I conclude,<br /> +One item to the world I will give,<br /> +Which may direct some the right way,<br /> +And teach them the better to live.<br /> +For now I have made it appear,<br /> +And many men witness it can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<p class="poetry">1. I’ th’ first place +I’d wish you beware<br /> +What company you come in,<br /> +For those that are wicked themselves<br /> +May quickly tempt others to sin.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>2. If youths be inducèd with wealth,<br /> +And have plenty of silver and gold,<br /> +I’d wish them keep something in store,<br /> +To comfort them when they are old.</p> +<p class="poetry">3. I have known many young prodigals,<br +/> +Which have wasted their money so fast,<br /> +That they have been driven in want,<br /> +And were forcèd to beg at the last.</p> +<p class="poetry">4. I’d wish all men bear a good +conscience,<br /> +And in all their actions be just;<br /> +For he’s a false varlet indeed<br /> +That will not be true to his trust.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now to conclude my new song,<br /> +And draw to a perfect conclusion,<br /> +I have told you what is in my mind,<br /> +And what is my [firm] resolution.<br /> +For this I have made it appear,<br /> +And prove by experience I can,<br /> +’Tis the excellen’st thing in the world<br /> +To be a plain-dealing man.</p> +<h3>THE VANITIES OF LIFE.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following verses were copied +by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a MS. on the +fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, +entitled <i>The World’s best Wealth</i>; <i>a Collection of +choice Councils in Verse and Prose</i>. <i>Printed for A. +Bettesworth</i>, <i>at the Red Lion in Paternoster-row</i>, +1720. They were written in a ‘crabbed, quaint hand, +and difficult to decipher.’ Clare remitted the poem +(along with the original MS.) to Montgomery, the author of <i>The +World before the Flood</i>, &c. &c., by whom it was +published in the <i>Sheffield Iris</i>. Montgomery’s +criticism is as follows:—‘Long as the poem appears to +the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being +full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified +with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of +language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas +are often powerfully enforced.’ Most readers will +agree in the justice of these remarks. <a +name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>The poem was, +probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of +the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been +deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers +of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems +to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification +after that of the poetic school of his own times.]</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘Vanity of +vanities, all is vanity.’—<span +class="smcap">Solomon</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> are +life’s joys and gains?<br /> + What pleasures crowd its ways,<br /> +That man should take such pains<br /> + To seek them all his days?<br /> +Sift this untoward strife<br /> + On which thy mind is bent,<br /> +See if this chaff of life<br /> + Is worth the trouble spent.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is pride thy heart’s desire?<br /> + Is power thy climbing aim?<br /> +Is love thy folly’s fire?<br /> + Is wealth thy restless game?<br /> +Pride, power, love, wealth and all,<br /> + Time’s touchstone shall destroy,<br /> +And, like base coin, prove all<br /> + Vain substitutes for joy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dost think that pride exalts<br /> + Thyself in other’s eyes,<br /> +And hides thy folly’s faults,<br /> + Which reason will despise?<br /> +Dost strut, and turn, and stride,<br /> + Like walking weathercocks?<br /> +The shadow by thy side<br /> + Becomes thy ape, and mocks.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dost think that power’s disguise<br /> + Can make thee mighty seem?<br /> +It may in folly’s eyes,<br /> + But not in worth’s esteem:<br /> +<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>When all +that thou canst ask,<br /> + And all that she can give,<br /> +Is but a paltry mask<br /> + Which tyants wear and live.</p> +<p class="poetry">Go, let thy fancies range<br /> + And ramble where they may;<br /> +View power in every change,<br /> + And what is the display?<br /> +—The country magistrate,<br /> + The lowest shade in power,<br /> +To rulers of the state,<br /> + The meteors of an hour:—</p> +<p class="poetry">View all, and mark the end<br /> + Of every proud extreme,<br /> +Where flattery turns a friend,<br /> + And counterfeits esteem;<br /> +Where worth is aped in show,<br /> + That doth her name purloin,<br /> +Like toys of golden glow<br /> + That’s sold for copper coin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ambition’s haughty nod,<br /> + With fancies may deceive,<br /> +Nay, tell thee thou’rt a god,—<br /> + And wilt thou such believe?<br /> +Go, bid the seas be dry,<br /> + Go, hold earth like a ball,<br /> +Or throw her fancies by,<br /> + For God can do it all.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dost thou possess the dower<br /> + Of laws to spare or kill?<br /> +Call it not heav’nly power<br /> + When but a tyrant’s will;<br /> +Know what a God will do,<br /> + And know thyself a fool,<br /> +Nor tyrant-like pursue<br /> + Where He alone should rule.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>Dost think, when wealth is won,<br /> + Thy heart has its desire?<br /> +Hold ice up to the sun,<br /> + And wax before the fire;<br /> +Nor triumph o’er the reign<br /> + Which they so soon resign;<br /> +In this world weigh the gain,<br /> + Insurance safe is thine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dost think life’s peace secure<br /> + In houses and in land?<br /> +Go, read the fairy lure<br /> + To twist a cord of sand;<br /> +Lodge stones upon the sky,<br /> + Hold water in a sieve,<br /> +Nor give such tales the lie,<br /> + And still thine own believe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whoso with riches deals,<br /> + And thinks peace bought and sold,<br /> +Will find them slippery eels,<br /> + That slide the firmest hold:<br /> +Though sweet as sleep with health,<br /> + Thy lulling luck may be,<br /> +Pride may o’erstride thy wealth,<br /> + And check prosperity.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dost think that beauty’s power,<br /> + Life’s sweetest pleasure gives?<br /> +Go, pluck the summer flower,<br /> + And see how long it lives:<br /> +Behold, the rays glide on,<br /> + Along the summer plain,<br /> +Ere thou canst say, they’re gone,—<br /> + And measure beauty’s reign.</p> +<p class="poetry">Look on the brightest eye,<br /> + Nor teach it to be proud,<br /> +But view the clearest sky<br /> + And thou shalt find a cloud;<br /> +<a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>Nor call +each face ye meet<br /> + An angel’s, ‘cause it’s fair,<br +/> +But look beneath your feet,<br /> + And think of what ye are.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who thinks that love doth live<br /> + In beauty’s tempting show,<br /> +Shall find his hopes ungive,<br /> + And melt in reason’s thaw;<br /> +Who thinks that pleasure lies<br /> + In every fairy bower,<br /> +Shall oft, to his surprise,<br /> + Find poison in the flower.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dost lawless pleasures grasp?<br /> + Judge not thou deal’st in joy;<br /> +Its flowers but hide the asp,<br /> + Thy revels to destroy:<br /> +Who trusts a harlot’s smile,<br /> + And by her wiles is led,<br /> +Plays with a sword the while,<br /> + Hung dropping o’er his head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dost doubt my warning song?<br /> + Then doubt the sun gives light,<br /> +Doubt truth to teach thee wrong,<br /> + And wrong alone as right;<br /> +And live as lives the knave,<br /> + Intrigue’s deceiving guest,<br /> +Be tyrant, or be slave,<br /> + As suits thy ends the best.</p> +<p class="poetry">Or pause amid thy toils,<br /> + For visions won and lost,<br /> +And count the fancied spoils,<br /> + If e’er they quit the cost;<br /> +And if they still possess<br /> + Thy mind, as worthy things,<br /> +Pick straws with Bedlam Bess,<br /> + And call them diamond rings.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>Thy folly’s past advice,<br /> + Thy heart’s already won,<br /> +Thy fall’s above all price,<br /> + So go, and be undone;<br /> +For all who thus prefer<br /> + The seeming great for small,<br /> +Shall make wine vinegar,<br /> + And sweetest honey gall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wouldst heed the truths I sing,<br /> + To profit wherewithal,<br /> +Clip folly’s wanton wing,<br /> + And keep her within call:<br /> +I’ve little else to give,<br /> + What thou canst easy try,<br /> +The lesson how to live,<br /> + Is but to learn to die.</p> +<h3>THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">From</span> one of Thackeray’s +Catalogues, preserved in the British Museum, it appears that +<i>The Life and Age of Man</i> was one of the productions printed +by him at the ‘Angel in Duck Lane, London.’ +Thackeray’s imprint is found attached to broadsides +published between 1672 and 1688, and he probably commenced +printing soon after the accession of Charles II. The +present reprint, the correctness of which is very questionable, +is taken from a modern broadside, the editor not having been +fortunate enough to meet with any earlier edition. This old +poem is said to have been a great favourite with the father of +Robert Burns.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> prime of years, +when I was young,<br /> + I took delight in youthful ways,<br /> +Not knowing then what did belong<br /> + Unto the pleasures of those days.<br /> +At seven years old I was a child,<br /> +And subject then to be beguiled.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>At two times seven I went to learn<br /> + What discipline is taught at school:<br /> +When good from ill I could discern,<br /> + I thought myself no more a fool:<br /> +My parents were contriving than,<br /> +How I might live when I were man.</p> +<p class="poetry">At three times seven I waxèd wild,<br /> + When manhood led me to be bold;<br /> +I thought myself no more a child,<br /> + My own conceit it so me told:<br /> +Then did I venture far and near,<br /> +To buy delight at price full dear.</p> +<p class="poetry">At four times seven I take a wife,<br /> + And leave off all my wanton ways,<br /> +Thinking thereby perhaps to thrive,<br /> + And save myself from sad disgrace.<br /> +So farewell my companions all,<br /> +For other business doth me call.</p> +<p class="poetry">At five times seven I must hard strive,<br /> + What I could gain by mighty skill;<br /> +But still against the stream I drive,<br /> + And bowl up stones against the hill;<br /> +The more I laboured might and main,<br /> +The more I strove against the stream.</p> +<p class="poetry">At six times seven all covetise<br /> + Began to harbour in my breast;<br /> +My mind still then contriving was<br /> + How I might gain this worldly wealth;<br /> +To purchase lands and live on them,<br /> +So make my children mighty men.</p> +<p class="poetry">At seven times seven all worldly thought<br /> + Began to harbour in my brain;<br /> +Then did I drink a heavy draught<br /> + Of water of experience plain;<br /> +<a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>There none +so ready was as I,<br /> +To purchase bargains, sell, or buy.</p> +<p class="poetry">At eight times seven I waxèd old,<br /> + And took myself unto my rest,<br /> +Neighbours then sought my counsel bold,<br /> + And I was held in great request;<br /> +But age did so abate my strength,<br /> +That I was forced to yield at length.</p> +<p class="poetry">At nine times seven take my leave<br /> + Of former vain delights must I;<br /> +It then full sorely did me grieve—<br /> + I fetchèd many a heavy sigh;<br /> +To rise up early, and sit up late,<br /> +My former life, I loathe and hate.</p> +<p class="poetry">At ten times seven my glass is run,<br /> + And I poor silly man must die;<br /> +I lookèd up, and saw the sun<br /> + Had overcome the crystal sky.<br /> +So now I must this world forsake,<br /> +Another man my place must take.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now you may see, as in a glass,<br /> + The whole estate of mortal men;<br /> +How they from seven to seven do pass,<br /> + Until they are threescore and ten;<br /> +And when their glass is fully run,<br /> +They must leave off as they begun.</p> +<h3>THE YOUNG MAN’S WISH.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">From</span> an old copy, without +printer’s name; probably one from the Aldermary Church-yard +press. Poems in triplets were very popular during the reign +of Charles I., and are frequently to be met with during the +Interregnum, and the reign of Charles II.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> I could but +attain my wish,<br /> +I’d have each day one wholesome dish,<br /> +Of plain meat, or fowl, or fish.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>A glass of port, with good old beer,<br /> +In winter time a fire burnt clear,<br /> +Tobacco, pipes, an easy chair.</p> +<p class="poetry">In some clean town a snug retreat,<br /> +A little garden ‘fore my gate,<br /> +With thousand pounds a year estate.</p> +<p class="poetry">After my house expense was clear,<br /> +Whatever I could have to spare,<br /> +The neighbouring poor should freely share.</p> +<p class="poetry">To keep content and peace through life,<br /> +I’d have a prudent cleanly wife,<br /> +Stranger to noise, and eke to strife.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I, when blest with such estate,<br /> +With such a house, and such a mate,<br /> +Would envy not the worldly great.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let them for noisy honours try,<br /> +Let them seek worldly praise, while I<br /> +Unnoticèd would live and die.</p> +<p class="poetry">But since dame Fortune’s not thought +fit<br /> +To place me in affluence, yet<br /> +I’ll be content with what I get.</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s happiest far whose humble mind,<br +/> +Is unto Providence resigned,<br /> +And thinketh fortune always kind.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I will strive to bound my wish,<br /> +And take, instead of fowl and fish,<br /> +Whate’er is thrown into my dish.</p> +<p class="poetry">Instead of wealth and fortune great,<br /> +Garden and house and loving mate,<br /> +I’ll rest content in servile state.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ll from each folly strive to fly,<br /> +Each virtue to attain I’ll try,<br /> +And live as I would wish to die.</p> +<h3><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>THE +MIDNIGHT MESSENGER;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, A SUDDEN +CALL FROM AN EARTHLY GLORY TO THE COLD GRAVE.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">In</span> a +Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all +his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his +unspeakable and sorrowful Lamentation.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">To the tune of <i>Aim not too +high</i>, <a name="citation24"></a><a href="#footnote24" +class="citation">[24]</a> &c.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following poem, and the two +that immediately follow, belong to a class of publications which +have always been peculiar favourites with the peasantry, in whose +cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed and glazed, +and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to +the school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that +writer was in the height of his popularity. These religious +dialogues are numerous, but the majority of them are very +namby-pamby productions, and unworthy of a reprint. The +modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside of the +seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably +copies of ruder originals—</p> +<p +class="poetry"> —‘wooden +cuts<br /> +Strange, and uncouth; dire faces, figures dire,<br /> +Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled too,<br /> +With long and ghostly shanks, forms which once seen,<br /> +Can never be forgotten!’—<span +class="smcap">Wordsworth’s</span> <i>Excursion</i>.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> wealthy man of +large possessions here,<br /> +Amounting to some thousand pounds a year,<br /> +Extorted by oppression from the poor,<br /> +The time is come that thou shalt be no more;<br /> +Thy house therefore in order set with speed,<br /> +And call to mind how you your life do lead.<br /> +Let true repentance be thy chiefest care,<br /> +And for another world now, <i>now</i> prepare.<br /> +For notwithstanding all your heaps of gold,<br /> +Your lands and lofty buildings manifold,<br /> +Take notice you must die this very day;<br /> +And therefore kiss your bags and come away.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page25"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 25</span>RICH MAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">[He started straight and turned his head +aside,<br /> +Where seeing pale-faced Death, aloud he cried],<br /> +Lean famished slave! why do you threaten so,<br /> +Whence come you, pray, and whither must I go?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">I come from ranging round the universe,<br /> +Through courts and kingdoms far and near I pass,<br /> +Where rich and poor, distressèd, bond and free,<br /> +Fall soon or late a sacrifice to me.<br /> +From crownèd kings to captives bound in chains<br /> +My power reaches, sir; the longest reigns<br /> +That ever were, I put a period to;<br /> +And now I’m come in fine to conquer you.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">RICH MAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">I can’t nor won’t believe that you, +pale Death,<br /> +Were sent this day to stop my vital breath,<br /> +By reason I in perfect health remain,<br /> +Free from diseases, sorrow, grief, and pain;<br /> +No heavy heart, nor fainting fits have I,<br /> +And do you say that I am drawing nigh<br /> +The latter minute? sure it cannot be;<br /> +Depart, therefore, you are not sent for me!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, yes, I am, for did you never know,<br /> +The tender grass and pleasant flowers that grow<br /> +Perhaps one minute, are the next cut down?<br /> +And so is man, though famed with high renown.<br /> +Have you not heard the doleful passing bell<br /> +Ring out for those that were alive and well<br /> +The other day, in health and pleasure too,<br /> +And had as little thoughts of death as you?<br /> +For let me tell you, when my warrant’s sealed,<br /> +The sweetest beauty that the earth doth yield<br /> +At my approach shall turn as pale as lead;<br /> +’Tis I that lay them on their dying bed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>I kill with dropsy, phthisic, stone, and gout;<br /> +But when my raging fevers fly about,<br /> +I strike the man, perhaps, but over-night,<br /> +Who hardly lives to see the morning light;<br /> +I’m sent each hour, like to a nimble page,<br /> +To infant, hoary heads, and middle age;<br /> +Time after time I sweep the world quite through;<br /> +Then it’s in vain to think I’ll favour you.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">RICH MAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Proud Death, you see what awful sway I bear,<br +/> +For when I frown none of my servants dare<br /> +Approach my presence, but in corners hide<br /> +Until I am appeased and pacified.<br /> +Nay, men of greater rank I keep in awe<br /> +Nor did I ever fear the force of law,<br /> +But ever did my enemies subdue,<br /> +And must I after all submit to you?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis very true, for why thy daring +soul,<br /> +Which never could endure the least control,<br /> +I’ll thrust thee from this earthly tenement,<br /> +And thou shalt to another world be sent.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">RICH MAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">What! must I die and leave a vast estate,<br /> +Which, with my gold, I purchased but of late?<br /> +Besides what I had many years ago?—<br /> +What! must my wealth and I be parted so?<br /> +If you your darts and arrows must let fly,<br /> +Go search the jails, where mourning debtors lie;<br /> +Release them from their sorrow, grief, and woe,<br /> +For I am rich and therefore loth to go.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ll search no jails, but the right mark +I’ll hit;<br /> +And though you are unwilling to submit,<br /> +Yet die you must, no other friend can do,—<br /> +Prepare yourself to go, I’m come for you.<br /> +<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>If you had +all the world and ten times more,<br /> +Yet die you must,—there’s millions gone before;<br /> +The greatest kings on earth yield and obey,<br /> +And at my feet their crowns and sceptres lay:<br /> +If crownèd heads and right renownèd peers<br /> +Die in the prime and blossoms of their years,<br /> +Can you suppose to gain a longer space?<br /> +No! I will send you to another place.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">RICH MAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! stay thy hand and be not so severe,<br /> +I have a hopeful son and daughter dear,<br /> +All that I beg is but to let me live<br /> +That I may them in lawful marriage give:<br /> +They being young when I am laid in the grave,<br /> +I fear they will be wronged of what they have:<br /> +Although of me you will no pity take,<br /> +Yet spare me for my little infants’ sake.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">If such a vain excuse as this might do,<br /> +It would be long ere mortals would go through<br /> +The shades of death; for every man would find<br /> +Something to say that he might stay behind.<br /> +Yet, if ten thousand arguments they’d use,<br /> +The destiny of dying to excuse,<br /> +They’ll find it is in vain with me to strive,<br /> +For why, I part the dearest friends alive;<br /> +Poor parents die, and leave their children small<br /> +With nothing to support them here withal,<br /> +But the kind hand of gracious Providence,<br /> +Who is their father, friend, and sole defence.<br /> +Though I have held you long in disrepute,<br /> +Yet after all here with a sharp salute<br /> +I’ll put a period to your days and years,<br /> +Causing your eyes to flow with dying tears.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">RICH MAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">[Then with a groan he made this sad +complaint]:<br /> +My heart is dying, and my spirits faint;<br /> +<a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>To my +close chamber let me be conveyed;<br /> +Farewell, false world, for thou hast me betrayed.<br /> +Would I had never wronged the fatherless,<br /> +Nor mourning widows when in sad distress;<br /> +Would I had ne’er been guilty of that sin,<br /> +Would I had never known what gold had been;<br /> +For by the same my heart was drawn away<br /> +To search for gold: but now this very day,<br /> +I find it is but like a slender reed,<br /> +Which fails me most when most I stand in need;<br /> +For, woe is me! the time is come at last,<br /> +Now I am on a bed of sorrow cast,<br /> +Where in lamenting tears I weeping lie,<br /> +Because my sins make me afraid to die:<br /> +Oh! Death, be pleased to spare me yet awhile,<br /> +That I to God myself may reconcile,<br /> +For true repentance some small time allow;<br /> +I never feared a future state till now!<br /> +My bags of gold and land I’d freely give,<br /> +For to obtain the favour here to live,<br /> +Until I have a sure foundation laid.<br /> +Let me not die before my peace be made!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou hast not many minutes here to stay,<br /> +Lift up your heart to God without delay,<br /> +Implore his pardon now for what is past,<br /> +Who knows but He may save your soul at last?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">RICH MAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ll water now with tears my dying +bed,<br /> +Before the Lord my sad complaint I’ll spread,<br /> +And if He will vouchsafe to pardon me,<br /> +To die and leave this world I could be free.<br /> +False world! false world, farewell! farewell! adieu!<br /> +I find, I find, there is no trust in you!<br /> +For when upon a dying bed we lie,<br /> +Your gilded baits are nought but misery.<br /> +<a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>My +youthful son and loving daughter dear,<br /> +Take warning by your dying father here;<br /> +Let not the world deceive you at this rate,<br /> +For fear a sad repentance comes too late.<br /> +Sweet babes, I little thought the other day,<br /> +I should so suddenly be snatched away<br /> +By Death, and leave you weeping here behind;<br /> +But life’s a most uncertain thing, I find.<br /> +When in the grave my head is lain full low,<br /> +Pray let not folly prove your overthrow;<br /> +Serve ye the Lord, obey his holy will,<br /> +That he may have a blessing for you still.<br /> +[Having saluted them, he turned aside,<br /> +These were the very words before he died]:</p> +<p class="poetry">A painful life I ready am to leave,<br /> +Wherefore, in mercy, Lord, my soul receive.</p> +<h3>A DIALOGUE BETWIXT AN EXCISEMAN AND DEATH.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Transcribed</span> from a copy in the +British Museum, printed in London by J. C[larke]., 1659. +The idea of Death being employed to execute a writ, recalls an +epitaph which we remember to have seen in a village church-yard +at the foot of the Wrekin, in Shropshire, commencing +thus:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The King of Heaven a warrant got,<br /> +And sealèd it without delay,<br /> +And he did give the same to Death,<br /> +For him to serve straightway,’ &c.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Upon</span> a time when +Titan’s steeds were driven<br /> +To drench themselves beneath the western heaven;<br /> +And sable Morpheus had his curtains spread,<br /> +And silent night had laid the world to bed;<br /> +’Mongst other night-birds which did seek for prey,<br /> +A blunt exciseman, which abhorred the day,<br /> +Was rambling forth to seek himself a booty<br /> +’Mongst merchant’s goods which had not paid the +duty;<br /> +But walking all alone, Death chanced to meet him,<br /> +And in this manner did begin to greet him.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page30"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 30</span>DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">Stand, who comes here? what means this knave to +peep<br /> +And skulk abroad, when honest men should sleep?<br /> +Speak, what’s thy name? and quickly tell me this,<br /> +Whither thou goest, and what thy business is?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">EXCISEMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whate’er my business is, thou +foul-mouthed scold,<br /> +I’d have you know I scorn to be controlled<br /> +By any man that lives; much less by thou,<br /> +Who blurtest out thou know’st not what, nor how;<br /> +I go about my lawful business; and<br /> +I’ll make you smart for bidding of me stand.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">Imperious coxcomb! is your stomach vexed?<br /> +Pray slack your rage, and hearken what comes next:<br /> +I have a writ to take you up; therefore,<br /> +To chafe your blood, I bid you stand, once more.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">EXCISEMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">A writ to take <i>me</i> up! excuse me, sir,<br +/> +You do mistake, I am an officer<br /> +In public service, for my private wealth;<br /> +My business is, if any seek by stealth<br /> +To undermine the state, I do discover<br /> +Their falsehood; therefore hold your hand,—give over.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, fair and soft! ’tis not so quickly +done<br /> +As you conceive it is: I am not gone<br /> +A jot the sooner for your hasty chat,<br /> +Nor bragging language; for I tell you flat<br /> +’Tis more than so, though fortune seem to thwart us,<br /> +Such easy terms I don’t intend shall part us.<br /> +With this impartial arm I’ll make you feel<br /> +My fingers first, and with this shaft of steel<br /> +I’ll peck thy bones! <i>as thou alive wert hated</i>,<br /> +<i>So dead</i>, <i>to dogs thou shalt be segregated</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page31"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 31</span>EXCISEMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’d laugh at that; I would thou didst but +dare<br /> +To lay thy fingers on me; I’d not spare<br /> +To hack thy carcass till my sword was broken,<br /> +I’d make thee eat the words which thou hast spoken;<br /> +All men should warning take by thy transgression,<br /> +How they molested men of my profession.<br /> +My service to the State is so well known,<br /> +That should I but complain, they’d quickly own<br /> +My public grievances; and give me right<br /> +To cut your ears, before to-morrow night.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">Well said, indeed! but bootless all, for I<br +/> +Am well acquainted with thy villany;<br /> +I know thy office, and thy trade is such,<br /> +Thy service little, and thy gains are much:<br /> +Thy brags are many; but ’tis vain to swagger,<br /> +And think to fight me with thy gilded dagger:<br /> +<i>As I abhor thy person</i>, <i>place</i>, <i>and threat</i>,<br +/> +So now I’ll bring thee to the judgment-seat.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">EXCISEMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">The judgment-seat! I must confess that +word<br /> +Doth cut my heart, like any sharpened sword:<br /> +What! come t’ account! methinks the dreadful sound<br /> +Of every word doth make a mortal wound,<br /> +Which sticks not only in my outward skin,<br /> +But penetrates my very soul within.<br /> +’Twas least of all my thoughts that ever Death<br /> +Would once attempt to stop excisemen’s breath.<br /> +But since ’tis so, that now I do perceive<br /> +You are in earnest, then I must relieve<br /> +Myself another way: come, we’ll be friends;<br /> +If I have wrongèd thee, I’ll make th’ +amends.<br /> +Let’s join together; I’ll pass my word this night<br +/> +Shall yield us grub, before the morning light.<br /> +Or otherwise (to mitigate my sorrow),<br /> +Stay here, I’ll bring you gold enough to-morrow.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page32"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 32</span>DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">To-morrow’s gold I will not have; and +thou<br /> +Shalt have no gold upon to-morrow: now<br /> +My final writ shall to th’ execution have thee,<br /> +All earthly treasure cannot help or save thee.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">EXCISEMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then woe is me! ah! how was I befooled!<br /> +I thought that gold (which answereth all things) could<br /> +Have stood my friend at any time to bail me!<br /> +But grief grows great, and now my trust doth fail me.<br /> +Oh! that my conscience were but clear within,<br /> +Which now is rackèd with my former sin;<br /> +With horror I behold my secret stealing,<br /> +My bribes, oppression, and my graceless dealing;<br /> +My office-sins, which I had clean forgotten,<br /> +Will gnaw my soul when all my bones are rotten:<br /> +I must confess it, very grief doth force me,<br /> +Dead or alive, both God and man doth curse me.<br /> +<i>Let all Excisemen</i> hereby warning take,<br /> +To shun their practice for their conscience sake.</p> +<h3>THE MESSENGER OF MORTALITY;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR LIFE AND +DEATH CONTRASTED IN A DIALOGUE BETWIXT DEATH AND A +LADY.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">One</span> of Charles Lamb’s most +beautiful and plaintive poems was suggested by this old +dialogue. The tune is given in Chappell’s <i>Popular +Music</i>, p. 167. In Carey’s <i>Musical Century</i>, +1738, it is called the ‘Old tune of <i>Death and the +Lady</i>.’ The four concluding lines of the present +copy of <i>Death and the Lady</i> are found inscribed on +tomb-stones in village church-yards in every part of +England. They are not contained, however, in the broadside +with which our reprint has been carefully collated.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> lady, lay your +costly robes aside,<br /> +No longer may you glory in your pride;<br /> +Take leave of all your carnal vain delight,<br /> +I’m come to summon you away this night!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page33"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 33</span>LADY.</p> +<p class="poetry">What bold attempt is this? pray let me know<br +/> +From whence you come, and whither I must go?<br /> +Must I, who am a lady, stoop or bow<br /> +To such a pale-faced visage? Who art thou?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">Do you not know me? well! I tell thee, then,<br +/> +It’s I that conquer all the sons of men!<br /> +No pitch of honour from my dart is free;<br /> +My name is Death! have you not heard of me?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LADY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes! I have heard of thee time after +time,<br /> +But being in the glory of my prime,<br /> +I did not think you would have called so soon.<br /> +Why must my morning sun go down at noon?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">Talk not of noon! you may as well be mute;<br +/> +This is no time at all for to dispute:<br /> +Your riches, garments, gold, and jewels brave,<br /> +Houses and lands must all new owners have;<br /> +Though thy vain heart to riches was inclined,<br /> +Yet thou must die and leave them all behind.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LADY.</p> +<p class="poetry">My heart is cold; I tremble at the news;<br /> +There’s bags of gold, if thou wilt me excuse,<br /> +And seize on them, and finish thou the strife<br /> +Of those that are aweary of their life.<br /> +Are there not many bound in prison strong,<br /> +In bitter grief of soul have languished long,<br /> +Who could but find the grave a place of rest,<br /> +From all the grief in which they are oppressed?<br /> +Besides, there’s many with a hoary head,<br /> +And palsy joints, by which their joys are fled;<br /> +<a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>Release +thou them whose sorrows are so great,<br /> +But spare my life to have a longer date.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though some by age be full of grief and +pain,<br /> +Yet their appointed time they must remain:<br /> +I come to none before their warrant’s sealed,<br /> +And when it is, they must submit and yield.<br /> +I take no bribe, believe me, this is true;<br /> +Prepare yourself to go; I’m come for you.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LADY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Death, be not so severe, let me obtain<br /> +A little longer time to live and reign!<br /> +Fain would I stay if thou my life will spare;<br /> +I have a daughter beautiful and fair,<br /> +I’d live to see her wed whom I adore:<br /> +Grant me but this and I will ask no more.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">This is a slender frivolous excuse;<br /> +I have you fast, and will not let you loose;<br /> +Leave her to Providence, for you must go<br /> +Along with me, whether you will or no;<br /> +I, Death, command the King to leave his crown,<br /> +And at my feet he lays his sceptre down!<br /> +Then if to kings I don’t this favour give,<br /> +But cut them off, can you expect to live<br /> +Beyond the limits of your time and space!<br /> +No! I must send you to another place.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LADY.</p> +<p class="poetry">You learnèd doctors, now express your +skill,<br /> +And let not Death of me obtain his will;<br /> +Prepare your cordials, let me comfort find,<br /> +My gold shall fly like chaff before the wind.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DEATH.</p> +<p class="poetry">Forbear to call, their skill will never do,<br +/> +They are but mortals here as well as you:<br /> +<a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>I give the +fatal wound, my dart is sure,<br /> +And far beyond the doctor’s skill to cure.<br /> +How freely can you let your riches fly<br /> +To purchase life, rather than yield to die!<br /> +But while you flourish here with all your store,<br /> +You will not give one penny to the poor;<br /> +Though in God’s name their suit to you they make,<br /> +You would not spare one penny for His sake!<br /> +The Lord beheld wherein you did amiss,<br /> +And calls you hence to give account for this!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LADY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! heavy news! must I no longer stay?<br /> +How shall I stand in the great judgment-day?<br /> +[Down from her eyes the crystal tears did flow:<br /> +She said], None knows what I do undergo:<br /> +Upon my bed of sorrow here I lie;<br /> +My carnal life makes me afraid to die.<br /> +My sins, alas! are many, gross and foul,<br /> +Oh, righteous Lord! have mercy on my soul!<br /> +And though I do deserve thy righteous frown,<br /> +Yet pardon, Lord, and pour a blessing down.<br /> +[Then with a dying sigh her heart did break,<br /> +And did the pleasures of this world forsake.]</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p class="poetry">Thus may we see the high and mighty fall,<br /> +For cruel Death shows no respect at all<br /> +To any one of high or low degree<br /> +Great men submit to Death as well as we.<br /> +Though they are gay, their life is but a span—<br /> +A lump of clay—so vile a creature’s man.<br /> +Then happy those whom Christ has made his care,<br /> +Who die in the Lord, and ever blessèd are.<br /> +The grave’s the market-place where all men meet,<br /> +Both rich and poor, as well as small and great.<br /> +If life were merchandise that gold could buy,<br /> +The rich would live, the poor alone would die.</p> +<h3><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>ENGLAND’S ALARM;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR THE PIOUS +CHRISTIAN’S SPEEDY CALL TO REPENTANCE</span></p> +<p>For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our +present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous +Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; +concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon +our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for +his mercy’s sake.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">From</span> the cluster of +‘ornaments’ alluded to in the ninth verse of the +following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. +The present reprint is from an old broadside, without +printer’s name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. +Smith.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> sober-minded +christians now draw near,<br /> +Labour to learn these pious lessons here;<br /> +For by the same you will be taught to know<br /> +What is the cause of all our grief and woe.</p> +<p class="poetry">We have a God who sits enthroned above;<br /> +He sends us many tokens of his love:<br /> +Yet we, like disobedient children, still<br /> +Deny to yield submission to His will.</p> +<p class="poetry">The just command which He upon us lays,<br /> +We must confess we have ten thousand ways<br /> +Transgressed; for see how men their sins pursue,<br /> +As if they did not fear what God could do.</p> +<p class="poetry">Behold the wretched sinner void of shame,<br /> +He values not how he blasphemes the name<br /> +Of that good God who gave him life and breath,<br /> +And who can strike him with the darts of death!</p> +<p class="poetry">The very little children which we meet,<br /> +Amongst the sports and pastimes in the street,<br /> +We very often hear them curse and swear,<br /> +Before they’ve learned a word of any prayer.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis much to be lamented, for I fear<br +/> +The same they learn from what they daily hear;<br /> +Be careful then, and don’t instruct them so,<br /> +For fear you prove their dismal overthrow.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>Both young and old, that dreadful sin forbear;<br /> +The tongue of man was never made to swear,<br /> +But to adore and praise the blessèd name,<br /> +By whom alone our dear salvation came.</p> +<p class="poetry">Pride is another reigning sin likewise;<br /> +Let us behold in what a strange disguise<br /> +Young damsels do appear, both rich and poor;<br /> +The like was ne’er in any age before.</p> +<p class="poetry">What artificial ornaments they wear,<br /> +Black patches, paint, and locks of powdered hair;<br /> +Likewise in lofty hoops they are arrayed,<br /> +As if they would correct what God had made.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet let ’em know, for all those youthful +charms,<br /> +They must lie down in death’s cold frozen arms!<br /> +Oh think on this, and raise your thoughts above<br /> +The sin of pride, which you so dearly love.</p> +<p class="poetry">Likewise, the wilful sinners that transgress<br +/> +The righteous laws of God by drunkenness,<br /> +They do abuse the creatures which were sent<br /> +Purely for man’s refreshing nourishment.</p> +<p class="poetry">Many diseases doth that sin attend,<br /> +But what is worst of all, the fatal end:<br /> +Let not the pleasures of a quaffing bowl<br /> +Destroy and stupify thy active soul.</p> +<p class="poetry">Perhaps the jovial drunkard over night,<br /> +May seem to reap the pleasures of delight,<br /> +While for his wine he doth in plenty call;<br /> +But oh! the sting of conscience, after all,</p> +<p class="poetry">Is like a gnawing worm upon the mind.<br /> +Then if you would the peace of conscience find,<br /> +A sober conversation learn with speed,<br /> +For that’s the sweetest life that man can lead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Be careful that thou art not drawn away,<br /> +By foolishness, to break the Sabbath-day;<br /> +Be constant at the pious house of prayer,<br /> +That thou mayst learn the christian duties there.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>For tell me, wherefore should we carp and care<br /> +For what we eat and drink, and what we wear;<br /> +And the meanwhile our fainting souls exclude<br /> +From that refreshing sweet celestial food?</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet so it is, we, by experience, find<br /> +Many young wanton gallants seldom mind<br /> +The church of God, but scornfully deride<br /> +That sacred word by which they must be tried.</p> +<p class="poetry">A tavern, or an alehouse, they adore,<br /> +And will not come within the church before<br /> +They’re brought to lodge under a silent tomb,<br /> +And then who knows how dismal is their doom!</p> +<p class="poetry">Though for awhile, perhaps, they flourish +here,<br /> +And seem to scorn the very thoughts of fear,<br /> +Yet when they’re summoned to resign their breath,<br /> +They can’t outbrave the bitter stroke of death!</p> +<p class="poetry">Consider this, young gallants, whilst you +may,<br /> +Swift-wingèd time and tide for none will stay;<br /> +And therefore let it be your christian care,<br /> +To serve the Lord, and for your death prepare.</p> +<p class="poetry">There is another crying sin likewise:<br /> +Behold young gallants cast their wanton eyes<br /> +On painted harlots, which they often meet<br /> +At every creek and corner of the street,</p> +<p class="poetry">By whom they are like dismal captives led<br /> +To their destruction; grace and fear is fled,<br /> +Till at the length they find themselves betrayed,<br /> +And for that sin most sad examples made.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, then, perhaps, in bitter tears +they’ll cry,<br /> +With wringing hands, against their company,<br /> +Which did betray them to that dismal state!<br /> +Consider this before it is too late.</p> +<p class="poetry">Likewise, sons and daughters, far and near,<br +/> +Honour your loving friends, and parents dear;<br /> +Let not your disobedience grieve them so,<br /> +Nor cause their agèd eyes with tears to flow.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>What a heart-breaking sorrow it must be,<br /> +To dear indulgent parents, when they see<br /> +Their stubborn children wilfully run on<br /> +Against the wholesome laws of God and man!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! let these things a deep impression make<br +/> +Upon your hearts, with speed your sins forsake;<br /> +For, true it is, the Lord will never bless<br /> +Those children that do wilfully transgress.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, to conclude, both young and old I pray,<br +/> +Reform your sinful lives this very day,<br /> +That God in mercy may his love extend,<br /> +And bring the nation’s troubles to an end.</p> +<h3>SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following old poem was long +ascribed, on apparently sufficient grounds, to the Rev. Ralph +Erskine, or, as he designated himself, ‘Ralph Erskine, +V.D.M.’ The peasantry throughout the north of England +always call it ‘Erskine’s song,’ and not only +is his name given as the author in numerous chap-books, but in +his own volume of <i>Gospel Sonnets</i>, from an early copy of +which our version is transcribed. The discovery however, by +Mr. Collier, of the First Part in a MS. temp. Jac. I., with the +initials G. W. affixed to it, has disposed of Erskine’s +claim to the honour of the entire authorship. G. W. is +supposed to be George Withers; but this is purely conjectural; +and it is not at all improbable that G. W. really stands for W. +G., as it was a common practice amongst anonymous writers to +reverse their initials. The history, then, of the poem, +seems to be this: that the First Part, as it is now printed, +originally constituted the whole production, being complete in +itself; that the Second Part was afterwards added by the Rev. +Ralph Erskine; and that both parts came subsequently to be +ascribed to him, as his was the only name published in connexion +with the song. The Rev. Ralph Erskine was born at Monilaws, +Northumberland, on the 15th March, 1685. He was one of the +thirty-three children of Ralph Erskine of Shieldfield, a family +of repute descended from the ancient house of Marr. He was +educated at the college in Edinburgh, obtained his licence to +preach in June, 1709, and was ordained, on an unanimous +invitation, over the church at Dunfermline <a +name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>in August, +1711. He was twice married: in 1714 to Margaret Dewar, +daughter of the Laird of Lassodie, by whom he had five sons and +five daughters, all of whom died in the prime of life; and in +1732 to Margaret, daughter of Mr. Simson of Edinburgh, by whom he +had four sons, one of whom, with his wife, survived him. He +died in November, 1752. Erskine was the author of a great +number of <i>Sermons</i>; <i>a Paraphrase on the Canticles</i>; +<i>Scripture Songs</i>; <i>a Treatise on Mental Images</i>; and +<i>Gospel Sonnets</i>.</p> +<p><i>Smoking Spiritualized</i> is, at the present day, a +standard publication with modern ballad-printers, but their +copies are exceedingly corrupt. Many versions and +paraphrases of the song exist. Several are referred to in +<i>Notes and Queries</i>, and, amongst them, a broadside of the +date of 1670, and another dated 1672 (both printed before Erskine +was born), presenting different readings of the First Part, or +original poem. In both these the burthen, or refrain, +differs from that of our copy by the employment of the expression +‘<i>drink</i> tobacco,’ instead of +‘<i>smoke</i> tobacco.’ The former was the +ancient term for drawing in the smoke, swallowing it, and +emitting it through the nostrils. A correspondent of +<i>Notes and Queries</i> says, that the natives of India to this +day use the phrase ‘hooka peue,’ to <i>drink</i> the +hooka.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> Indian weed, +now withered quite,<br /> +Though green at noon, cut down at night,<br /> + Shows thy decay;<br /> + All flesh is hay:<br /> + Thus think, and +smoke tobacco.</p> +<p class="poetry">The pipe so lily-like and weak,<br /> +Does thus thy mortal state bespeak;<br /> + Thou art e’en +such,—<br /> + Gone with a touch:<br /> + Thus think, and +smoke tobacco.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when the smoke ascends on high,<br /> +Then thou behold’st the vanity<br /> + Of worldly stuff,<br /> + Gone with a puff:<br /> + Thus think, and +smoke tobacco.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>And when the pipe grows foul within,<br /> +Think on thy soul defiled with sin;<br /> + For then the fire<br /> + It does require:<br /> + Thus think, and +smoke tobacco.</p> +<p class="poetry">And seest the ashes cast away,<br /> +Then to thyself thou mayest say,<br /> + That to the dust<br /> + Return thou must.<br /> + Thus think, and +smoke tobacco.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART II.</p> +<p class="poetry">Was this small plant for thee cut down?<br /> +So was the plant of great renown,<br /> + Which Mercy sends<br /> + For nobler ends.<br /> + Thus think, and +smoke tobacco.</p> +<p class="poetry">Doth juice medicinal proceed<br /> +From such a naughty foreign weed?<br /> + Then what’s the power<br /> + Of Jesse’s flower?<br /> + Thus think, and +smoke tobacco.</p> +<p class="poetry">The promise, like the pipe, inlays,<br /> +And by the mouth of faith conveys,<br /> + What virtue flows<br /> + From Sharon’s rose.<br /> + Thus think, and +smoke tobacco.</p> +<p class="poetry">In vain the unlighted pipe you blow,<br /> +Your pains in outward means are so,<br /> + Till heavenly fire<br /> + Your heart inspire.<br /> + Thus think, and +smoke tobacco.</p> +<p class="poetry">The smoke, like burning incense, towers,<br /> +So should a praying heart of yours,<br /> + With ardent cries,<br /> + Surmount the skies.<br /> + Thus think, and +smoke tobacco.</p> +<h3><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>THE +MASONIC HYMN.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> is a very ancient production, +though given from a modern copy; it has always been popular +amongst the poor ‘brethren of the mystic tie.’ +The late Henry O’Brien, A.B., quotes the seventh verse in +his essay <i>On the Round Towers of Ireland</i>. He +generally had a common copy of the hymn in his pocket, and on +meeting with any of his antiquarian friends who were not Masons, +was in the habit of thrusting it into their hands, and telling +them that if they understood the mystic allusions it contained, +they would be in possession of a key which would unlock the +pyramids of Egypt! The tune to the hymn is peculiar to it, +and is of a plaintive and solemn character.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span> all you +freemasons that dwell around the globe,<br /> +That wear the badge of innocence, I mean the royal robe,<br /> +Which Noah he did wear when in the ark he stood,<br /> +When the world was destroyed by a deluging flood.</p> +<p class="poetry">Noah he was virtuous in the sight of the +Lord,<br /> +He loved a freemason that kept the secret word;<br /> +For he built the ark, and he planted the first vine,<br /> +Now his soul in heaven like an angel doth shine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Once I was blind, and could not see the +light,<br /> +Then up to Jerusalem I took my flight,<br /> +I was led by the evangelist through a wilderness of care,<br /> +You may see by the sign and the badge that I wear.</p> +<p class="poetry">On the 13th rose the ark, let us join hand in +hand,<br /> +For the Lord spake to Moses by water and by land,<br /> +Unto the pleasant river where by Eden it did rin,<br /> +And Eve tempted Adam by the serpent of sin.</p> +<p class="poetry">When I think of Moses it makes me to blush,<br +/> +All on mount Horeb where I saw the burning bush;<br /> +My shoes I’ll throw off, and my staff I’ll cast +away,<br /> +And I’ll wander like a pilgrim unto my dying day.</p> +<p class="poetry">When I think of Aaron it makes me to weep,<br +/> +Likewise of the Virgin Mary who lay at our Saviour’s +feet;<br /> +<a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>’Twas in the garden of Gethsemane where he had the +bloody sweat;<br /> +Repent, my dearest brethren, before it is too late.</p> +<p class="poetry">I thought I saw twelve dazzling lights, which +put me in surprise,<br /> +And gazing all around me I heard a dismal noise;<br /> +The serpent passèd by me which fell unto the ground,<br /> +With great joy and comfort the secret word I found.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some say it is lost, but surely it is found,<br +/> +And so is our Saviour, it is known to all around;<br /> +Search all the Scriptures over, and there it will be shown;<br /> +The tree that will bear no fruit must be cut down.</p> +<p class="poetry">Abraham was a man well belovèd by the +Lord,<br /> +He was true to be found in great Jehovah’s word,<br /> +He stretchèd forth his hand, and took a knife to slay his +son,<br /> +An angel appearing said, The Lord’s will be done!</p> +<p class="poetry">O, Abraham! O, Abraham! lay no hand upon the +lad,<br /> +He sent him unto thee to make thy heart glad;<br /> +Thy seed shall increase like stars in the sky,<br /> +And thy soul into heaven like Gabriel shall fly.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, never, O, never will I hear an orphan +cry,<br /> +Nor yet a gentle virgin until the day I die;<br /> +You wandering Jews that travel the wide world round,<br /> +May knock at the door where truth is to be found.</p> +<p class="poetry">Often against the Turks and Infidels we +fight,<br /> +To let the wandering world know we’re in the right,<br /> +For in heaven there’s a lodge, and St. Peter keeps the +door,<br /> +And none can enter in but those that are pure.</p> +<p class="poetry">St. Peter he opened, and so we entered in,<br +/> +Into the holy seat secure, which is all free from sin;<br /> +St. Peter he opened, and so we entered there,<br /> +And the glory of the temple no man can compare.</p> +<h3><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>GOD +SPEED THE PLOW, AND BLESS THE CORN-MOW.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A DIALOGUE +BETWEEN THE HUSBANDMAN AND SERVINGMAN.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">The tune is, <i>I am the Duke of +Norfolk</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> ancient dialogue, though in a +somewhat altered form (see the ensuing poem), has long been used +at country merry-makings. It is transcribed from a +black-letter copy in the third volume of the Roxburgh collection, +apparently one of the imprints of Peter Brooksby, which would +make the composition at least as old as the close of the +fifteenth century. There are several dialogues of a similar +character.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ARGUMENT.</p> +<p class="poetry">The servingman the plowman would invite<br /> +To leave his calling and to take delight;<br /> +But he to that by no means will agree,<br /> +Lest he thereby should come to beggary.<br /> +He makes it plain appear a country life<br /> +Doth far excel: and so they end the strife.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> noble friends +give ear, if mirth you love to hear,<br /> +I’ll tell you as fast as I can,<br /> +A story very true, then mark what doth ensue,<br /> +Concerning of a husbandman.<br /> +A servingman did meet a husbandman in the street,<br /> +And thus unto him began:</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">I pray you tell to me of what calling you +be,<br /> +Or if you be a servingman?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Quoth he, my brother dear, the coast I mean to +clear,<br /> +And the truth you shall understand:<br /> +I do no one disdain, but this I tell you plain,<br /> +I am an honest husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">If a husbandman you be, then come along with +me,<br /> +I’ll help you as soon as I can<br /> +Unto a gallant place, where in a little space,<br /> +You shall be a servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page45"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 45</span>HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sir, for your diligence I give you many +thanks,<br /> +These things I receive at your hand;<br /> +I pray you to me show, whereby that I might know,<br /> +What pleasures hath a servingman?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">A servingman hath pleasure, which passeth time +and measure,<br /> +When the hawk on his fist doth stand;<br /> +His hood, and his verrils brave, and other things, we have,<br /> +Which yield joy to a servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">My pleasure’s more than that to see my +oxen fat,<br /> +And to prosper well under my hand;<br /> +And therefore I do mean, with my horse, and with my team,<br /> +To keep myself a husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">O ’tis a gallant thing in the prime time +of the spring,<br /> +To hear the huntsman now and than<br /> +His bugle for to blow, and the hounds run all a row:<br /> +This is pleasure for a servingman!<br /> +To hear the beagle cry, and to see the falcon fly,<br /> +And the hare trip over the plain,<br /> +And the huntsmen and the hound make hill and dale rebound:<br /> +This is pleasure for a servingman!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis pleasure, too, you know, to see the +corn to grow,<br /> +And to grow so well on the land;<br /> +The plowing and the sowing, the reaping and the mowing,<br /> +Yield pleasure to the husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">At our table you may eat all sorts of dainty +meat,<br /> +Pig, cony, goose, capon, and swan;<br /> +And with lords and ladies fine, you may drink beer, ale, and +wine!<br /> +This is pleasure for a servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page46"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 46</span>HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">While you eat goose and capon, I’ll feed +on beef and bacon,<br /> +And piece of hard cheese now and than;<br /> +We pudding have, and souse, always ready in the house,<br /> +Which contents the honest husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">At the court you may have your garments fine +and brave,<br /> +And cloak with gold lace laid upon,<br /> +A shirt as white as milk, and wrought with finest silk:<br /> +That’s pleasure for a servingman!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Such proud and costly gear is not for us to +wear;<br /> +Amongst the briers and brambles many a one,<br /> +A good strong russet coat, and at your need a groat,<br /> +Will suffice the husbandman.<br /> +A proverb here I tell, which likes my humour well,<br /> +And remember it well I can,<br /> +If a courtier be too bold, he’ll want when he is old.<br /> +Then farewell the servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">It needs must be confest that your calling is +the best,<br /> +No longer discourse with you I can;<br /> +But henceforth I will pray, by night and by day,<br /> +Heaven bless the honest husbandman.</p> +<h3>A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE HUSBANDMAN AND THE SERVINGMAN.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> traditional version of the +preceding ancient dialogue has long been popular at country +festivals. At a harvest-home feast at Selborne, in +Hampshire, in 1836, we heard it recited by two countrymen, who +gave it with considerable humour, and dramatic effect. It +was delivered in a sort of chant, or recitative. Davies +Gilbert published a very similar copy in his <a +name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span><i>Ancient +Christmas Carols</i>. In the modern printed editions, which +are almost identical with ours, the term ‘servantman’ +has been substituted for the more ancient designation.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Well</span> met, my brother +friend, all at this highway end,<br /> + So simple all alone, as you can,<br /> +I pray you tell to me, what may your calling be,<br /> + Are you not a servingman?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">No, no, my brother dear, what makes you to +inquire<br /> + Of any such a thing at my hand?<br /> +Indeed I shall not feign, but I will tell you plain,<br /> + I am a downright husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">If a husbandman you be, then go along with +me,<br /> + And quickly you shall see out of hand,<br /> +How in a little space I will help you to a place,<br /> + Where you may be a servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Kind sir! I ‘turn you thanks for your +intelligence,<br /> + These things I receive at your hand;<br /> +But something pray now show, that first I may plainly know<br /> + The pleasures of a servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Why a servingman has pleasure beyond all sort +of measure,<br /> + With his hawk on his fist, as he does stand;<br /> +For the game that he does kill, and the meat that does him +fill,<br /> + Are pleasures for the servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">And my pleasure’s more than that, to see +my oxen fat,<br /> + And a good stock of hay by them stand;<br /> +My plowing and my sowing, my reaping and my mowing,<br /> + Are pleasures for the husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page48"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 48</span>SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Why it is a gallant thing to ride out with a +king,<br /> + With a lord, duke, or any such man;<br /> +To hear the horns to blow, and see the hounds all in a row,<br /> + That is pleasure for the servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">But my pleasure’s more I know, to see my +corn to grow,<br /> + So thriving all over my land;<br /> +And, therefore, I do mean, with my plowing with my team,<br /> + To keep myself a husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Why the diet that we eat is the choicest of all +meat,<br /> + Such as pig, goose, capon, and swan;<br /> +Our pastry is so fine, we drink sugar in our wine,<br /> + That is living for the servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Talk not of goose nor capon, give me good beef +or bacon,<br /> + And good bread and cheese, now at hand;<br /> +With pudding, brawn, and souse, all in a farmer’s house,<br +/> + That is living for the husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Why the clothing that we wear is delicate and +rare,<br /> + With our coat, lace, buckles, and band;<br /> +Our shirts are white as milk, and our stockings they are silk,<br +/> + That is clothing for a servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">But I value not a hair your delicate fine +wear,<br /> + Such as gold is laced upon;<br /> +Give me a good grey coat, and in my purse a groat,<br /> + That is clothing for the husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Kind sir! it would be bad if none could be +had<br /> + Those tables for to wait upon;<br /> +There is no lord, duke, nor squire, nor member for the shire,<br +/> + Can do without a servingman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page49"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 49</span>HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">But, Jack! it would be worse if there was none +of us<br /> + To follow the plowing of the land;<br /> +There is neither king, lord, nor squire, nor member for the +shire,<br /> + Can do without the husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SERVINGMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">Kind sir! I must confess’t, and I humbly +protest<br /> + I will give you the uppermost hand;<br /> +Although your labour’s painful, and mine it is so very +gainful,<br /> + I wish I were a husbandman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">HUSBANDMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">So come now, let us all, both great as well as +small,<br /> + Pray for the grain of our land;<br /> +And let us, whatsoever, do all our best endeavour,<br /> + For to maintain the good husbandman.</p> +<h3>THE CATHOLICK.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following ingenious production +has been copied literally from a broadside posted against the +‘parlour’ wall of a country inn in +Gloucestershire. The verses are susceptible of two +interpretations, being Catholic if read in the columns, but +Protestant if read across.]</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p class="poetry">I HOLD as faith<br /> +What <i>Rome’s</i> church saith<br /> +Where the <i>King’s</i> head<br /> +The flocks misled<br /> +Where the <i>altars</i> drest<br /> +The peoples blest<br /> +He’s but an asse<br /> +Who shuns the <i>masse</i></p> +</td> +<td><p class="poetry">What <i>England’s church</i> alows<br +/> +My conscience disavows<br /> +That <i>church</i> can have no shame<br /> +That holds the <i>Pope</i> supreame.<br /> +There’s service scarce divine<br /> +With table, bread, and wine.<br /> +Who the <i>communion</i> flies<br /> +Is <i>catholick</i> and wise.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p class="poetry">London: printed for George +Eversden, at the signe of the Maidenhead, in St. Powle’s +Church-yard, 1655. <i>Cum privilegio</i>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>Ballads.</h2> +<h3>THE THREE KNIGHTS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">(TRADITIONAL.)</span></p> +<p>[<i>The Three Knights</i> was first printed by the late Davies +Gilbert, F.R.S., in the appendix to his work on <i>Christmas +Carols</i>. Mr. Gilbert thought that some verses were +wanting after the eighth stanza; but we entertain a different +opinion. A conjectural emendation made in the ninth verse, +viz., the substitution of <i>far</i> for <i>for</i>, seems to +render the ballad perfect. The ballad is still popular +amongst the peasantry in the West of England. The tune is +given by Gilbert. The refrain, in the second and fourth +lines, printed with the first verse, should be repeated in +recitation in every verse.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> did three +Knights come from the west,<br /> +With the high and the lily oh!<br /> +And these three Knights courted one ladye,<br /> +As the rose was so sweetly blown.<br /> +The first Knight came was all in white,<br /> +And asked of her if she’d be his delight.<br /> +The next Knight came was all in green,<br /> +And asked of her if she’d be his queen.<br /> +The third Knight came was all in red,<br /> +And asked of her if she would wed.<br /> +‘Then have you asked of my father dear?<br /> +Likewise of her who did me bear?<br /> +‘And have you asked of my brother John?<br /> +And also of my sister Anne?’<br /> +‘Yes, I’ve asked of your father dear,<br /> +Likewise of her who did you bear.<br /> +‘And I’ve asked of your sister Anne,<br /> +But I’ve not asked of your brother John.’<br /> +Far on the road as they rode along,<br /> +There did they meet with her brother John.<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>She +stoopèd low to kiss him sweet,<br /> +He to her heart did a dagger meet. <a name="citation51"></a><a +href="#footnote51" class="citation">[51]</a><br /> +‘Ride on, ride on,’ cried the servingman,<br /> +‘Methinks your bride she looks wondrous wan.’<br /> +‘I wish I were on yonder stile,<br /> +For there I would sit and bleed awhile.<br /> +‘I wish I were on yonder hill,<br /> +There I’d alight and make my will.’<br /> +‘What would you give to your father dear?’<br /> +‘The gallant steed which doth me bear.’<br /> +‘What would you give to your mother dear?’<br /> +‘My wedding shift which I do wear.<br /> +‘But she must wash it very clean,<br /> +For my heart’s blood sticks in every seam.’<br /> +‘What would you give to your sister Anne?’<br /> +‘My gay gold ring, and my feathered fan.’<br /> +‘What would you give to your brother John?’<br /> +‘A rope, and a gallows to hang him on.’<br /> +‘What would you give to your brother John’s +wife?’<br /> +‘A widow’s weeds, and a quiet life.’</p> +<h3>THE BLIND BEGGAR OF BEDNALL GREEN.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">SHOWING HOW +HIS DAUGHTER WAS MARRIED TO A KNIGHT, AND HAD THREE THOUSAND +POUND TO HER PORTION.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Percy’s</span> copy of <i>The +Beggar’s Daughter of Bednall Green</i> is known to be very +incorrect: besides many alterations and improvements which it +received at the hands of the Bishop, it contains no less than +eight stanzas written by Robert Dodsley, the author of <i>The +Economy of Human Life</i>. So far as poetry is concerned, +there cannot be a question that the version in the +<i>Reliques</i> is far superior to the original, which is still a +popular favourite, and a correct copy of which is now given, as +it appears in all the <a name="page52"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 52</span>common broadside editions that have +been printed from 1672 to the present time. Although the +original copies have all perished, the ballad has been very +satisfactorily proved by Percy to have been written in the reign +of Elizabeth. The present reprint is from a modern copy, +carefully collated with one in the Bagford Collection, +entitled,</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The rarest ballad that ever was seen,<br +/> +Of the Blind Beggar’s Daughter of Bednal Green.’</p> +<p>The imprint to it is, ‘Printed by and for W. Onley; and +are to be sold by C. Bates, at the sign of the Sun and Bible, in +Pye Corner.’ The very antiquated orthography adopted +in some editions does not rest on any authority. For two +tunes to <i>The Blind Beggar</i>, see <i>Popular Music</i>.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> song’s of +a beggar who long lost his sight,<br /> +And had a fair daughter, most pleasant and bright,<br /> +And many a gallant brave suitor had she,<br /> +And none was so comely as pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">And though she was of complexion most fair,<br +/> +And seeing she was but a beggar his heir,<br /> +Of ancient housekeepers despisèd was she,<br /> +Whose sons came as suitors to pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wherefore in great sorrow fair Bessee did +say:<br /> +‘Good father and mother, let me now go away,<br /> +To seek out my fortune, whatever it be.’<br /> +This suit then was granted to pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">This Bessee, that was of a beauty most +bright,<br /> +They clad in grey russet; and late in the night<br /> +From father and mother alone parted she,<br /> +Who sighèd and sobbèd for pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">She went till she came to Stratford-at-Bow,<br +/> +Then she know not whither or which way to go,<br /> +With tears she lamented her sad destiny;<br /> +So sad and so heavy was pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">She kept on her journey until it was day,<br /> +And went unto Rumford, along the highway;<br /> +And at the King’s Arms entertainèd was she,<br /> +So fair and well favoured was pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>She had not been there one month at an end,<br /> +But master and mistress and all was her friend:<br /> +And every brave gallant that once did her see,<br /> +Was straightway in love with pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Great gifts they did send her of silver and +gold,<br /> +And in their songs daily her love they extolled:<br /> +Her beauty was blazèd in every decree,<br /> +So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">The young men of Rumford in her had their +joy,<br /> +She showed herself courteous, but never too coy,<br /> +And at their commandment still she would be,<br /> +So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Four suitors at once unto her did go,<br /> +They cravèd her favour, but still she said no;<br /> +I would not have gentlemen marry with me!<br /> +Yet ever they honourèd pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now one of them was a gallant young knight,<br +/> +And he came unto her disguised in the night;<br /> +The second, a gentleman of high degree,<br /> +Who wooèd and suèd for pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">A merchant of London, whose wealth was not +small,<br /> +Was then the third suitor, and proper withal;<br /> +Her master’s own son the fourth man must be,<br /> +Who swore he would die for pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If that thou wilt marry with me,’ +quoth the knight,<br /> +‘I’ll make thee a lady with joy and delight;<br /> +My heart is enthrallèd in thy fair beauty,<br /> +Then grant me thy favour, my pretty Bessee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The gentleman said, ‘Come marry with +me,<br /> +In silks and in velvet my Bessee shall be;<br /> +My heart lies distracted, oh! hear me,’ quoth he,<br /> +‘And grant me thy love, my dear pretty Bessee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Let me be thy husband,’ the +merchant did say,<br /> +‘Thou shalt live in London most gallant and gay;<br /> +My ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee,<br /> +And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>Then Bessee she sighèd and thus she did say:<br +/> +‘My father and mother I mean to obey;<br /> +First get their good will, and be faithful to me,<br /> +And you shall enjoy your dear pretty Bessee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">To every one of them that answer she made,<br +/> +Therefore unto her they joyfully said:<br /> +‘This thing to fulfil we all now agree,<br /> +But where dwells thy father, my pretty Bessee?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘My father,’ quoth she, ‘is +soon to be seen:<br /> +The silly blind beggar of Bednall Green,<br /> +That daily sits begging for charity,<br /> +He is the kind father of pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘His marks and his token are knowen full +well,<br /> +He always is led by a dog and a bell;<br /> +A poor silly old man, God knoweth, is he,<br /> +Yet he’s the true father of pretty Bessee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Nay, nay,’ quoth the merchant, +‘thou art not for me.’<br /> +‘She,’ quoth the innholder, ‘my wife shall not +be.’<br /> +‘I loathe,’ said the gentleman, ‘a +beggar’s degree,<br /> +Therefore, now farewell, my pretty Bessee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why then,’ quoth the knight, +‘hap better or worse,<br /> +I weigh not true love by the weight of the purse,<br /> +And beauty is beauty in every degree,<br /> +Then welcome to me, my dear pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘With thee to thy father forthwith I will +go.’<br /> +‘Nay, forbear,’ quoth his kinsman, ‘it must not +be so:<br /> +A poor beggar’s daughter a lady shan’t be;<br /> +Then take thy adieu of thy pretty Bessee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">As soon then as it was break of the day,<br /> +The knight had from Rumford stole Bessee away;<br /> +The young men of Rumford, so sick as may be,<br /> +Rode after to fetch again pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">As swift as the wind to ride they were seen,<br +/> +Until they came near unto Bednall Green,<br /> +And as the knight lighted most courteously,<br /> +They fought against him for pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>But rescue came presently over the plain,<br /> +Or else the knight there for his love had been slain;<br /> +The fray being ended, they straightway did see<br /> +His kinsman come railing at pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then bespoke the blind beggar, ‘Although +I be poor,<br /> +Rail not against my child at my own door,<br /> +Though she be not deckèd in velvet and pearl,<br /> +Yet I will drop angels with thee for my girl;</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And then if my gold should better her +birth,<br /> +And equal the gold you lay on the earth,<br /> +Then neither rail you, nor grudge you to see<br /> +The blind beggar’s daughter a lady to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But first, I will hear, and have it well +known,<br /> +The gold that you drop it shall be all your own.’<br /> +With that they replièd, ‘Contented we be!’<br +/> +‘Then here’s,’ quoth the beggar, ‘for +pretty Bessee!’</p> +<p class="poetry">With that an angel he dropped on the ground,<br +/> +And droppèd, in angels, full three thousand pound;<br /> +And oftentimes it proved most plain,<br /> +For the gentleman’s one, the beggar dropped twain;</p> +<p class="poetry">So that the whole place wherein they did +sit,<br /> +With gold was coverèd every whit.<br /> +The gentleman having dropped all his store,<br /> +Said, ‘Beggar! your hand hold, for I have no +more.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou hast fulfillèd thy promise +aright,<br /> +Then marry my girl,’ quoth he to the knight;<br /> +‘And then,’ quoth he, ‘I will throw you +down,<br /> +An hundred pound more to buy her a gown.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The gentlemen all, who his treasure had +seen,<br /> +Admirèd the beggar of Bednall Green;<br /> +And those that had been her suitors before,<br /> +Their tender flesh for anger they tore.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus was the fair Bessee matchèd to a +knight,<br /> +And made a lady in other’s despite.<br /> +A fairer lady there never was seen<br /> +Than the blind beggar’s daughter of Bednall Green.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>But of her sumptuous marriage and feast,<br /> +And what fine lords and ladies there prest,<br /> +The second part shall set forth to your sight,<br /> +With marvellous pleasure and wished-for delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Of a blind beggar’s daughter so +bright,<br /> +That late was betrothed to a young knight,<br /> +All the whole discourse therefore you may see;<br /> +But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART II.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was in a gallant palace most brave,<br /> +Adornèd with all the cost they could have,<br /> +This wedding it was kept most sumptuously,<br /> +And all for the love of pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">And all kind of dainties and delicates +sweet,<br /> +Was brought to their banquet, as it was thought meet,<br /> +Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,<br /> +Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">The wedding through England was spread by +report,<br /> +So that a great number thereto did resort<br /> +Of nobles and gentles of every degree,<br /> +And all for the fame of pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">To church then away went this gallant young +knight,<br /> +His bride followed after, an angel most bright,<br /> +With troops of ladies, the like was ne’er seen,<br /> +As went with sweet Bessee of Bednall Green.</p> +<p class="poetry">This wedding being solemnized then,<br /> +With music performèd by skilfullest men,<br /> +The nobles and gentlemen down at the side,<br /> +Each one beholding the beautiful bride.</p> +<p class="poetry">But after the sumptuous dinner was done,<br /> +To talk and to reason a number begun,<br /> +And of the blind beggar’s daughter most bright;<br /> +And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then spoke the nobles, ‘Much marvel have +we<br /> +This jolly blind beggar we cannot yet see!’<br /> +<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>‘My +lords,’ quoth the bride, ‘my father so base<br /> +Is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The praise of a woman in question to +bring,<br /> +Before her own face is a flattering thing;<br /> +But we think thy father’s baseness,’ quoth they,<br +/> +‘Might by thy beauty be clean put away.’</p> +<p class="poetry">They no sooner this pleasant word spoke,<br /> +But in comes the beggar in a silken cloak,<br /> +A velvet cap and a feather had he,<br /> +And now a musician, forsooth, he would be.</p> +<p class="poetry">And being led in from catching of harm,<br /> +He had a dainty lute under his arm,<br /> +Said, ‘Please you to hear any music of me,<br /> +A song I will sing you of pretty Bessee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">With that his lute he twangèd +straightway,<br /> +And thereon began most sweetly to play,<br /> +And after a lesson was played two or three,<br /> +He strained out this song most delicately:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘A beggar’s daughter did dwell on a +green,<br /> +Who for her beauty may well be a queen,<br /> +A blithe bonny lass, and dainty was she,<br /> +And many one callèd her pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Her father he had no goods nor no +lands,<br /> +But begged for a penny all day with his hands,<br /> +And yet for her marriage gave thousands three,<br /> +Yet still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And here if any one do her disdain,<br +/> +Her father is ready with might and with main<br /> +To prove she is come of noble degree,<br /> +Therefore let none flout at my pretty Bessee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">With that the lords and the company round<br /> +With a hearty laughter were ready to swound;<br /> +At last said the lords, ‘Full well we may see,<br /> +The bride and the bridegroom’s beholden to thee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">With that the fair bride all blushing did +rise,<br /> +With crystal water all in her bright eyes,<br /> +<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>‘Pardon my father, brave nobles,’ quoth +she,<br /> +‘That through blind affection thus doats upon +me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If this be thy father,’ the nobles +did say,<br /> +‘Well may he be proud of this happy day,<br /> +Yet by his countenance well may we see,<br /> +His birth with his fortune could never agree;</p> +<p class="poetry">And therefore, blind beggar, we pray thee +bewray,<br /> +And look to us then the truth thou dost say,<br /> +Thy birth and thy parentage what it may be,<br /> +E’en for the love thou bearest pretty Bessee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Then give me leave, ye gentles each +one,<br /> +A song more to sing and then I’ll begone,<br /> +And if that I do not win good report,<br /> +Then do not give me one groat for my sport:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘When first our king his fame did +advance,<br /> +And sought his title in delicate France,<br /> +In many places great perils passed he;<br /> +But then was not born my pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And at those wars went over to fight,<br +/> +Many a brave duke, a lord, and a knight,<br /> +And with them young Monford of courage so free;<br /> +But then was not born my pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And there did young Monford with a blow +on the face<br /> +Lose both his eyes in a very short space;<br /> +His life had been gone away with his sight,<br /> +Had not a young woman gone forth in the night.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Among the said men, her fancy did +move,<br /> +To search and to seek for her own true love,<br /> +Who seeing young Monford there gasping to die,<br /> +She savèd his life through her charity.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And then all our victuals in +beggar’s attire,<br /> +At the hands of good people we then did require;<br /> +At last into England, as now it is seen,<br /> +We came, and remainèd in Bednall Green.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And thus we have livèd in +Fortune’s despite,<br /> +Though poor, yet contented with humble delight,<br /> +<a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>And in my +old years, a comfort to me,<br /> +God sent me a daughter called pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus, ye nobles, my song I do end,<br /> +Hoping by the same no man to offend;<br /> +Full forty long winters thus I have been,<br /> +A silly blind beggar of Bednall Green.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now when the company every one,<br /> +Did hear the strange tale he told in his song,<br /> +They were amazèd, as well they might be,<br /> +Both at the blind beggar and pretty Bessee.</p> +<p class="poetry">With that the fair bride they all did +embrace,<br /> +Saying, ‘You are come of an honourable race,<br /> +Thy father likewise is of high degree,<br /> +And thou art right worthy a lady to be.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus was the feast ended with joy and +delight,<br /> +A happy bridegroom was made the young knight,<br /> +Who lived in great joy and felicity,<br /> +With his fair lady dear pretty Bessee.</p> +<h3>THE BOLD PEDLAR AND ROBIN HOOD.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> ballad is of considerable +antiquity, and no doubt much older than some of those inserted in +the common Garlands. It appears to have escaped the notice +of Ritson, Percy, and other collectors of Robin Hood +ballads. The tune is given in <i>Popular Music</i>. +An aged woman in Bermondsey, Surrey, from whose oral recitation +the present version was taken down, said that she had often heard +her grandmother sing it, and that it was never in print; but we +have since met with several common stall copies. The +subject is the same as that of the old ballad called <i>Robin +Hood newly revived</i>; <i>or</i>, <i>the Meeting and Fighting +with his Cousin Scarlett</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> chanced to be +a pedlar bold,<br /> + A pedlar bold he chanced to be;<br /> +He rolled his pack all on his back,<br /> + And he came tripping o’er the lee.<br /> + Down, a down, a down, a down,<br +/> + Down, a down, a +down.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>By chance he met two troublesome blades,<br /> + Two troublesome blades they chanced to be;<br /> +The one of them was bold Robin Hood,<br /> + And the other was Little John, so free.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh! pedlar, pedlar, what is in thy +pack,<br /> + Come speedilie and tell to me?’<br /> +‘I’ve several suits of the gay green silks,<br /> + And silken bowstrings two or three.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If you have several suits of the gay +green silk,<br /> + And silken bowstrings two or three,<br /> +Then it’s by my body,’ cries <i>bittle</i> John,<br +/> + ‘One half your pack shall belong to +me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! nay, oh! nay,’ says the pedlar +bold,<br /> + ‘Oh! nay, oh! nay, that never can be,<br /> +For there’s never a man from fair Nottingham<br /> + Can take one half my pack from me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the pedlar he pulled off his pack,<br /> + And put it a little below his knee,<br /> +Saying, ‘If you do move me one perch from this,<br /> + My pack and all shall gang with thee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Little John he drew his sword;<br /> + The pedlar by his pack did stand;<br /> +They fought until they both did sweat,<br /> + Till he cried, ‘Pedlar, pray hold your +hand!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Robin Hood he was standing by,<br /> + And he did laugh most heartilie,<br /> +Saying, ‘I could find a man of a smaller scale,<br /> + Could thrash the pedlar, and also thee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Go, you try, master,’ says Little +John,<br /> + ‘Go, you try, master, most speedilie,<br /> +Or by my body,’ says Little John,<br /> + ‘I am sure this night you will not know +me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Robin Hood he drew his sword,<br /> + And the pedlar by his pack did stand,<br /> +They fought till the blood in streams did flow,<br /> + Till he cried, ‘Pedlar, pray hold your +hand!’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>‘Pedlar, pedlar! what is thy name?<br /> + Come speedilie and tell to me.’<br /> +‘My name! my name, I ne’er will tell,<br /> + Till both your names you have told to me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The one of us is bold Robin Hood,<br /> + And the other Little John, so free.’<br /> +‘Now,’ says the pedlar, ‘it lays to my good +will,<br /> + Whether my name I chuse to tell to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I am Gamble Gold <a +name="citation61"></a><a href="#footnote61" +class="citation">[61]</a> of the gay green woods,<br /> + And travellèd far beyond the sea;<br /> +For killing a man in my father’s land,<br /> + From my country I was forced to flee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If you are Gamble Gold of the gay green +woods,<br /> + And travellèd far beyond the sea,<br /> +You are my mother’s own sister’s son;<br /> + What nearer cousins then can we be?’</p> +<p class="poetry">They sheathèd their swords with friendly +words,<br /> + So merrily they did agree;<br /> +They went to a tavern and there they dined,<br /> + And bottles cracked most merrilie.</p> +<h3>THE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> is the common English stall +copy of a ballad of which there are a variety of versions, for an +account of which, and of the presumed origin of the story, the +reader is referred to the notes on the <i>Water o’ +Wearie’s Well</i>, in the <i>Scottish Traditional Versions +of Ancient Ballads</i>, published by the Percy Society. By +the term ‘outlandish’ is signified an inhabitant of +that portion of the border which was formerly known by the name +of ‘the Debateable Land,’ a district which, though +claimed by both England and Scotland, could not be said to belong +to either country. The people on each side of the border +applied the term ‘outlandish’ to the Debateable +residents. The tune to <i>The Outlandish Knight</i> has +never been printed; it is peculiar to the ballad, and, from its +popularity, is well known.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span><span class="smcap">An</span> Outlandish knight came +from the North lands,<br /> + And he came a wooing to me;<br /> +He told me he’d take me unto the North lands,<br /> + And there he would marry me.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Come, fetch me some of your +father’s gold,<br /> + And some of your mother’s fee;<br /> +And two of the best nags out of the stable,<br /> + Where they stand thirty and three.’</p> +<p class="poetry">She fetched him some of her father’s +gold,<br /> + And some of the mother’s fee;<br /> +And two of the best nags out of the stable,<br /> + Where they stood thirty and three.</p> +<p class="poetry">She mounted her on her milk-white steed,<br /> + He on the dapple grey;<br /> +They rode till they came unto the sea side,<br /> + Three hours before it was day.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Light off, light off thy milk-white +steed,<br /> + And deliver it unto me;<br /> +Six pretty maids have I drownèd here,<br /> + And thou the seventh shall be.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Pull off, pull off thy silken gown,<br +/> + And deliver it unto me,<br /> +Methinks it looks too rich and too gay<br /> + To rot in the salt sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Pull off, pull of thy silken stays,<br +/> + And deliver them unto me;<br /> +Methinks they are too fine and gay<br /> + To rot in the salt sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Pull off, pull off thy Holland smock,<br +/> + And deliver it unto me;<br /> +Methinks it looks too rich and gay,<br /> + To rot in the salt sea.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>‘If I must pull off my Holland smock,<br /> + Pray turn thy back unto me,<br /> +For it is not fitting that such a ruffian<br /> + A naked woman should see.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He turned his back towards her,<br /> + And viewed the leaves so green;<br /> +She catched him round the middle so small,<br /> + And tumbled him into the stream.</p> +<p class="poetry">He droppèd high, and he droppèd +low,<br /> + Until he came to the side,—<br /> +‘Catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden,<br /> + And I will make you my bride.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted +man,<br /> + Lie there instead of me;<br /> +Six pretty maids have you drownèd here,<br /> + And the seventh has drownèd thee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">She mounted on her milk-white steed,<br /> + And led the dapple grey,<br /> +She rode till she came to her own father’s hall,<br /> + Three hours before it was day.</p> +<p class="poetry">The parrot being in the window so high,<br /> + Hearing the lady, did say,<br /> +‘I’m afraid that some ruffian has led you astray,<br +/> + That you have tarried so long away.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Don’t prittle nor prattle, my +pretty parrot,<br /> + Nor tell no tales of me;<br /> +Thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,<br /> + Although it is made of a tree.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The king being in the chamber so high,<br /> + And hearing the parrot, did say,<br /> +‘What ails you, what ails you, my pretty parrot,<br /> + That you prattle so long before day?’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>‘It’s no laughing matter,’ the parrot +did say,<br /> + ‘But so loudly I call unto thee;<br /> +For the cats have got into the window so high,<br /> + And I’m afraid they will have me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Well turned, well turned, my pretty +parrot,<br /> + Well turned, well turned for me;<br /> +Thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,<br /> + And the door of the best ivory.’ <a +name="citation64"></a><a href="#footnote64" +class="citation">[64]</a></p> +<h3>LORD DELAWARE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">(TRADITIONAL.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> interesting traditional +ballad was first published by Mr. Thomas Lyle in his <i>Ancient +Ballads and Songs</i>, London, 1827. ‘We have not as +yet,’ says Mr. Lyle, ‘been able to trace out the +historical incident upon which this ballad appears to have been +founded; yet those curious in such matters may consult, if they +list, <i>Proceedings and Debates in the House of Commons</i>, for +1621 and 1662, where they will find that some stormy debating in +these several years had been agitated in parliament regarding the +corn laws, which bear pretty close upon the leading features of +the ballad.’ Does not the ballad, however, belong to +a much earlier period? The description of the combat, the +presence of heralds, the wearing of armour, &c., justify the +conjecture. For De la Ware, ought we not to read De la +Mare? and is not Sir Thomas De la Mare the hero? the De la Mare +who in the reign of Edward III., <span +class="GutSmall">A.D.</span> 1377, was Speaker of the House of +Commons. <a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>All historians are agreed in representing him as a +person using ‘great freedom of speach,’ and which, +indeed, he carried to such an extent as to endanger his personal +liberty. As bearing somewhat upon the subject of the +ballad, it may he observed that De la Mare was a great advocate +of popular rights, and particularly protested against the +inhabitants of England being subject to ‘purveyance,’ +asserting that ‘if the royal revenue was faithfully +administered, there could be no necessity for laying burdens on +the people.’ In the subsequent reign of Richard II, +De In Mare was a prominent character, and though history is +silent on the subject, it is not improbable that such a man +might, even in the royal presence, have defended the rights of +the poor, and spoken in extenuation of the agrarian +insurrectionary movements which were then so prevalent and so +alarming. On the hypothesis of De la Mare being the hero, +there are other incidents in the tale which cannot be reconciled +with history, such as the title given to De la Mare, who +certainly was never ennobled; nor can we ascertain that he was +ever mixed up in any duel; nor does it appear clear who can be +meant by the ‘Welsh Lord, the brave Duke of +Devonshire,’ that dukedom not having been created till 1694 +and no nobleman having derived any title whatever from Devonshire +previously to 1618, when Baron Cavendish, of Hardwick, was +created the first <i>Earl</i> of Devonshire. We may +therefore presume that for ‘Devonshire’ ought to be +inserted the name of some other county or place. Strict +historical accuracy is, however, hardly to be expected in any +ballad, particularly in one which, like the present, has +evidently been corrupted in floating down the stream of +time. There is only one quarrel recorded at the supposed +period of our tale as having taken place betwixt two noblemen, +and which resulted in a hostile meeting, viz., that wherein the +belligerent parties were the Duke of Hereford (who might by a +‘ballad-monger’ be deemed a <i>Welsh</i> lord) and +the Duke of Norfolk. This was in the reign of Richard +II. No fight, however, took place, owing to the +interference of the king. Our minstrel author may have had +rather confused historical ideas, and so mixed up certain +passages in De la Mare’s history with this squabble; and we +are strongly inclined to suspect that such is the case, and that +it will be found the real clue to the story. Vide +Hume’s <i>History of England</i>, chap. XVII. <span +class="GutSmall">A.D.</span> 1398. Lyle acknowledges that +he has taken some liberties with the oral version, but does not +state what they were, beyond that they consisted merely in +‘smoothing down.’ Would that he had left it +‘in the <i>rough</i>!’ The last verse has every +appearance of being <a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +66</span>apocryphal; it looks like one of those benedictory +verses with which minstrels were, and still are, in the habit of +concluding their songs. Lyle says the tune ‘is +pleasing, and peculiar to the ballad.’ A homely +version, presenting only trivial variations from that of Mr. +Lyle, is still printed and sung.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the Parliament +House, a great rout has been there,<br /> +Betwixt our good King and the Lord Delaware:<br /> +Says Lord Delaware to his Majesty full soon,<br /> +‘Will it please you, my liege, to grant me a +boon?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘What’s your boon,’ says the +King, ‘now let me understand?’<br /> +‘It’s, give me all the poor men we’ve starving +in this land;<br /> +And without delay, I’ll hie me to Lincolnshire,<br /> +To sow hemp-seed and flax-seed, and hang them all there.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘For with hempen cord it’s better +to stop each poor man’s breath,<br /> +Than with famine you should see your subjects starve to +death.’<br /> +Up starts a Dutch Lord, who to Delaware did say,<br /> +‘Thou deserves to be stabbed!’ then he turned himself +away;</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou deserves to be stabbed, and the +dogs have thine ears,<br /> +For insulting our King in this Parliament of peers.’<br /> +Up sprang a Welsh Lord, the brave Duke of Devonshire,<br /> +‘In young Delaware’s defence, I’ll fight this +Dutch Lord, my sire;</p> +<p class="poetry">‘For he is in the right, and I’ll +make it so appear:<br /> +Him I dare to single combat, for insulting Delaware.’<br /> +A stage was soon erected, and to combat they went,<br /> +For to kill, or to be killed, it was either’s full +intent.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>But the very first flourish, when the heralds gave +command,<br /> +The sword of brave Devonshire bent backward on his hand;<br /> +In suspense he paused awhile, scanned his foe before he +strake,<br /> +Then against the King’s armour, his bent sword he +brake.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he sprang from the stage, to a soldier in +the ring,<br /> +Saying, ‘Lend your sword, that to an end this tragedy we +bring:<br /> +Though he’s fighting me in armour, while I am fighting +bare,<br /> +Even more than this I’d venture for young Lord +Delaware.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Leaping back on the stage, sword to buckler now +resounds,<br /> +Till he left the Dutch Lord a bleeding in his wounds:<br /> +This seeing, cries the King to his guards without delay,<br /> +‘Call Devonshire down,—take the dead man +away!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘No,’ says brave Devonshire, +‘I’ve fought him as a man,<br /> +Since he’s dead, I will keep the trophies I have won;<br /> +For he fought me in your armour, while I fought him bare,<br /> +And the same you must win back, my liege, if ever you them +wear.’</p> +<p class="poetry">God bless the Church of England, may it prosper +on each hand,<br /> +And also every poor man now starving in this land;<br /> +And while I pray success may crown our King upon his throne,<br +/> +I’ll wish that every poor man may long enjoy his own.</p> +<h3><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>LORD +BATEMAN.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> is a ludicrously corrupt +abridgment of the ballad of <i>Lord Beichan</i>, a copy of which +will be found inserted amongst the <i>Early Ballads</i>, An. Ed. +p. 144. The following grotesque version was published +several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the +title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title +of <i>The loving Ballad of Lord Bateman</i>. It is, +however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in +print, and is one of the publications mentioned in +Thackeray’s Catalogue, see <i>ante</i>, p. 20. The +air printed in Tilt’s edition is the one to which the +ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally +different to the Northern tune, which has never been +published.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lord Bateman</span> he was +a noble lord,<br /> + A noble lord of high degree;<br /> +He shipped himself on board a ship,<br /> + Some foreign country he would go see.</p> +<p class="poetry">He sailèd east, and he sailèd +west,<br /> + Until he came to proud Turkèy;<br /> +Where he was taken, and put to prison,<br /> + Until his life was almost weary.</p> +<p class="poetry">And in this prison there grew a tree,<br /> + It grew so stout, and grew so strong;<br /> +Where he was chainèd by the middle,<br /> + Until his life was almost gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">This Turk he had one only daughter,<br /> + The fairest creature my eyes did see;<br /> +She stole the keys of her father’s prison,<br /> + And swore Lord Bateman she would set free.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Have you got houses? have you got +lands?<br /> + Or does Northumberland belong to thee?<br /> +What would you give to the fair young lady<br /> + That out of prison would set you free?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I have got houses, I have got lands,<br +/> + And half Northumberland belongs to me<br /> +I’ll give it all to the fair young lady<br /> + That out of prison would set me free.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>O! then she took him to her father’s hall,<br /> + And gave to him the best of wine;<br /> +And every health she drank unto him,<br /> + ‘I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were mine!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Now in seven years I’ll make a +vow,<br /> + And seven years I’ll keep it strong,<br /> +If you’ll wed with no other woman,<br /> + I will wed with no other man.’</p> +<p class="poetry">O! then she took him to her father’s +harbour,<br /> + And gave to him a ship of fame;<br /> +‘Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman,<br /> + I’m afraid I ne’er shall see you +again.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now seven long years are gone and past,<br /> + And fourteen days, well known to thee;<br /> +She packed up all her gay clothing,<br /> + And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when she came to Lord Bateman’s +castle,<br /> + So boldly she rang the bell;<br /> +‘Who’s there? who’s there?’ cried the +proud portèr,<br /> + ‘Who’s there? unto me come +tell.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! is this Lord Bateman’s +castle?<br /> + Or is his Lordship here within?’<br /> +‘O, yes! O, yes!’ cried the young portèr,<br +/> + ‘He’s just now taken his new bride +in.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! tell him to send me a slice of +bread,<br /> + And a bottle of the best wine;<br /> +And not forgetting the fair young lady<br /> + Who did release him when close confine.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Away, away went this proud young porter,<br /> + Away, away, and away went he,<br /> +Until he came to Lord Bateman’s chamber,<br /> + Down on his bended knees fell he.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘What news, what news, my proud young +porter?<br /> + What news hast thou brought unto me?’<br /> +‘There is the fairest of all young creatures<br /> + That ever my two eyes did see!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>‘She has got rings on every finger,<br /> + And round one of them she has got three,<br /> +And as much gay clothing round her middle<br /> + As would buy all Northumberlea.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘She bids you send her a slice of +bread,<br /> + And a bottle of the best wine;<br /> +And not forgetting the fair young lady<br /> + Who did release you when close confine.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord Bateman he then in a passion flew,<br /> + And broke his sword in splinters three;<br /> +Saying, ‘I will give all my father’s riches<br /> + If Sophia has crossed the sea.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up spoke the young bride’s +mother,<br /> + Who never was heard to speak so free,<br /> +‘You’ll not forget my only daughter,<br /> + If Sophia has crossed the sea.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I own I made a bride of your +daughter,<br /> + She’s neither the better nor worse for me;<br +/> +She came to me with her horse and saddle,<br /> + She may go back in her coach and three.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord Bateman prepared another marriage,<br /> + And sang, with heart so full of glee,<br /> +I’ll range no more in foreign countries,<br /> + Now since Sophia has crossed the sea.’</p> +<h3>THE GOLDEN GLOVE;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, THE +SQUIRE OF TAMWORTH.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> is a very popular ballad, and +sung in every part of England. It is traditionally reported +to be founded on an incident which occurred in the reign of +Elizabeth. It has been published in the broadside form from +the commencement of the eighteenth century, but is no doubt much +older. It does not appear to have been previously inserted +in any collection.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>A <span class="smcap">wealthy</span> young squire of +Tamworth, we hear,<br /> +He courted a nobleman’s daughter so fair;<br /> +And for to marry her it was his intent,<br /> +All friends and relations gave their consent.</p> +<p class="poetry">The time was appointed for the wedding-day,<br +/> +A young farmer chosen to give her away;<br /> +As soon as the farmer the young lady did spy,<br /> +He inflamèd her heart; ‘O, my heart!’ she did +cry.</p> +<p class="poetry">She turned from the squire, but nothing she +said,<br /> +Instead of being married she took to her bed;<br /> +The thought of the farmer soon run in her mind,<br /> +A way for to have him she quickly did find.</p> +<p class="poetry">Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put +on,<br /> +And a hunting she went with her dog and her gun;<br /> +She hunted all round where the farmer did dwell,<br /> +Because in her heart she did love him full well:</p> +<p class="poetry">She oftentimes fired, but nothing she +killed,<br /> +At length the young farmer came into the field;<br /> +And to discourse with him it was her intent,<br /> +With her dog and her gun to meet him she went.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I thought you had been at the +wedding,’ she cried,<br /> +‘To wait on the squire, and give him his bride.’<br +/> +‘No, sir,’ said the farmer, ‘if the truth I may +tell,<br /> +I’ll not give her away, for I love her too well’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Suppose that the lady should grant you +her love,<br /> +You know that the squire your rival will prove.’<br /> +‘Why, then,’ says the farmer, ‘I’ll take +sword in hand,<br /> +By honour I’ll gain her when she shall command.’</p> +<p class="poetry">It pleasèd the lady to find him so +bold;<br /> +She gave him a glove that was flowered with gold,<br /> +And told him she found it when coming along,<br /> +As she was a hunting with her dog and gun.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lady went home with a heart full of +love,<br /> +And gave out a notice that she’d lost a glove;<br /> +And said, ‘Who has found it, and brings it to me,<br /> +Whoever he is, he my husband shall be.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>The farmer was pleased when he heard of the news,<br /> +With heart full of joy to the lady he goes:<br /> +‘Dear, honoured lady, I’ve picked up your glove,<br +/> +And hope you’ll be pleased to grant me your +love.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘It’s already granted, I will be +your bride;<br /> +I love the sweet breath of a farmer,’ she cried.<br /> +‘I’ll be mistress of my dairy, and milking my cow,<br +/> +While my jolly brisk farmer is whistling at plough.’</p> +<p class="poetry">And when she was married she told of her +fun,<br /> +How she went a hunting with her dog and gun:<br /> +‘And now I’ve got him so fast in my snare,<br /> +I’ll enjoy him for ever, I vow and declare!’</p> +<h3>KING JAMES I. AND THE TINKLER. <a name="citation72a"></a><a +href="#footnote72a" class="citation">[72a]</a></h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">(TRADITIONAL.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> ballad of <i>King James I. +and the Tinkler</i> was probably written either in, or shortly +after, the reign of the monarch who is the hero. The +incident recorded is said to be a fact, though the locality is +doubtful. By some the scene is laid at Norwood, in Surrey; +by others in some part of the English border. The ballad is +alluded to by Percy, but is not inserted either in the +<i>Reliques</i>, or in any other popular collection. It is +to be found only in a few broadsides and chap-books of modern +date. The present version is a traditional one, taken down, +as here given, from the recital of the late Francis King. <a +name="citation72b"></a><a href="#footnote72b" +class="citation">[72b]</a> It is much superior to the <a +name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>common +broadside edition with which it has been collated, and from which +the thirteenth and fifteenth verses were obtained. The +ballad is very popular on the Border, and in the dales of +Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Craven. The late Robert +Anderson, the Cumbrian bard, represents Deavie, in his song of +the <i>Clay Daubin</i>, as singing <i>The King and the +Tinkler</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">And</span> now, to be +brief, let’s pass over the rest,<br /> +Who seldom or never were given to jest,<br /> +And come to King Jamie, the first of our throne,<br /> +A pleasanter monarch sure never was known.</p> +<p class="poetry">As he was a hunting the swift fallow-deer,<br +/> +He dropped all his nobles; and when he got clear,<br /> +In hope of some pastime away he did ride,<br /> +Till he came to an alehouse, hard by a wood-side.</p> +<p class="poetry">And there with a tinkler he happened to +meet,<br /> +And him in kind sort he so freely did greet:<br /> +‘Pray thee, good fellow, what hast in thy jug,<br /> +Which under thy arm thou dost lovingly hug?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘By the mass!’ quoth the tinkler, +‘it’s nappy brown ale,<br /> +And for to drink to thee, friend, I will not fail;<br /> +For although thy jacket looks gallant and fine,<br /> +I think that my twopence as good is as thine.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘By my soul! honest fellow, the truth +thou hast spoke,’<br /> +And straight he sat down with the tinkler to joke;<br /> +They drank to the King, and they pledged to each other;<br /> +Who’d seen ’em had thought they were brother and +brother.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>As they were a-drinking the King pleased to say,<br /> +‘What news, honest fellow? come tell me, I pray?’<br +/> +‘There’s nothing of news, beyond that I hear<br /> +The King’s on the border a-chasing the deer.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And truly I wish I so happy may be<br /> +Whilst he is a hunting the King I might see;<br /> +For although I’ve travelled the land many ways<br /> +I never have yet seen a King in my days.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The King, with a hearty brisk laughter, +replied,<br /> +‘I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride,<br /> +Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring<br /> +To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign King.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But he’ll be surrounded with +nobles so gay,<br /> +And how shall we tell him from them, sir, I pray?’<br /> +‘Thou’lt easily ken him when once thou art there;<br +/> +The King will be covered, his nobles all bare.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He got up behind him and likewise his sack,<br +/> +His budget of leather, and tools at his back;<br /> +They rode till they came to the merry greenwood,<br /> +His nobles came round him, bareheaded they stood.</p> +<p class="poetry">The tinkler then seeing so many appear,<br /> +He slily did whisper the King in his ear:<br /> +Saying, ‘They’re all clothed so gloriously gay,<br /> +But which amongst them is the King, sir, I pray?’</p> +<p class="poetry">The King did with hearty good laughter, +reply,<br /> +‘By my soul! my good fellow, it’s thou or it’s +I!<br /> +The rest are bareheaded, uncovered all round.’—<br /> +With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground,</p> +<p class="poetry">Like one that was frightened quite out of his +wits,<br /> +Then on his knees he instantly gets,<br /> +Beseeching for mercy; the King to him said,<br /> +‘Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Come, tell thy name?’ +‘I am John of the Dale,<br /> +A mender of kettles, a lover of ale.’<br /> +‘Rise up, Sir John, I will honour thee here,—<br /> +I make thee a knight of three thousand a year!’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>This was a good thing for the tinkler indeed;<br /> +Then unto the court he was sent for with speed,<br /> +Where great store of pleasure and pastime was seen,<br /> +In the royal presence of King and of Queen.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has +fee,<br /> +At the court of the king who so happy as he?<br /> +Yet still in his hall hangs the tinkler’s old sack,<br /> +And the budget of tools which he bore at his back.</p> +<h3>THE KEACH I’ THE CREEL.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> old and very humorous ballad +has long been a favourite on both sides of the Border, but had +never appeared in print till about 1845, when a Northumbrian +gentleman printed a few copies for private circulation, from one +of which the following is taken. In the present impression +some trifling typographical mistakes are corrected, and the +phraseology has been rendered uniform throughout. <i>Keach +i’ the Creel</i> means the catch in the basket.]</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">fair</span> young May +went up the street,<br /> + Some white fish for to buy;<br /> +And a bonny clerk’s fa’n i’ luve wi’ +her,<br /> + And he’s followed her by and by, by,<br /> + And he’s followed her by and by.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! where live ye my bonny lass,<br /> + I pray thee tell to me;<br /> +For gin the nicht were ever sae mirk,<br /> + I wad come and visit thee, thee;<br /> + I wad come and visit thee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! my father he aye locks the door,<br +/> + My mither keeps the key;<br /> +And gin ye were ever sic a wily wicht,<br /> + Ye canna win in to me, me;<br /> + Ye canna win in to me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">But the clerk he had ae true brother,<br /> + And a wily wicht was he;<br /> +And he has made a lang ladder,<br /> + Was thirty steps and three, three;<br /> + Was thirty steps and three.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>He has made a cleek but and a creel—<br /> + A creel but and a pin;<br /> +And he’s away to the chimley-top,<br /> + And he’s letten the bonny clerk in, in;<br /> + And he’s letten the bonny clerk in.</p> +<p class="poetry">The auld wife, being not asleep,<br /> + Tho’ late, late was the hour;<br /> +I’ll lay my life,’ quo’ the silly auld wife,<br +/> + ‘There’s a man i’ our +dochter’s bower, bower;<br /> + There’s a man i’ our dochter’s +bower.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The auld man he gat owre the bed,<br /> + To see if the thing was true;<br /> +But she’s ta’en the bonny clerk in her arms,<br /> + And covered him owre wi’ blue, blue;<br /> + And covered him owre wi’ blue.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! where are ye gaun now, father?’ +she says,<br /> + ‘And where are ye gaun sae late?<br /> +Ye’ve disturbed me in my evening prayers,<br /> + And O! but they were sweit, sweit;<br /> + And O! but they were sweit.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! ill betide ye, silly auld wife,<br /> + And an ill death may ye dee;<br /> +She has the muckle buik in her arms,<br /> + And she’s prayin’ for you and me, me;<br +/> + And she’s prayin’ for you and +me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The auld wife being not asleep,<br /> + Then something mair was said;<br /> +‘I’ll lay my life,’ quo’ the silly auld +wife,<br /> + ‘There’s a man by our dochter’s +bed, bed;<br /> + There’s a man by our dochter’s +bed.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The auld wife she gat owre the bed,<br /> + To see if the thing was true;<br /> +But what the wrack took the auld wife’s fit?<br /> + For into the creel she flew, flew;<br /> + For into the creel she flew.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>The man that was at the chimley-top,<br /> + Finding the creel was fu’,<br /> +He wrappit the rape round his left shouther,<br /> + And fast to him he drew, drew:<br /> + And fast to him he drew.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, help! O, help! O, hinny, noo, +help!<br /> + O, help! O, hinny, do!<br /> +For <i>him</i> that ye aye wished me at,<br /> + He’s carryin’ me off just noo, noo;<br +/> + He’s carryin’ me off just +noo.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! if the foul thief’s gotten +ye,<br /> + I wish he may keep his haud;<br /> +For a’ the lee lang winter nicht,<br /> + Ye’ll never lie in your bed, bed;<br /> + Ye’ll never lie in your bed.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s towed her up, he’s towed her +down,<br /> + He’s towed her through an’ through;<br +/> +‘O, Gude! assist,’ quo’ the silly auld wife,<br +/> + ‘For I’m just departin’ noo, +noo;<br /> + For I’m just departin’ noo.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s towed her up, he’s towed her +down,<br /> + He’s gien her a richt down fa’,<br /> +Till every rib i’ the auld wife’s side,<br /> + Played nick nack on the wa’, wa’;<br /> + Played nick nack on the wa’.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! the blue, the bonny, bonny blue,<br /> + And I wish the blue may do weel;<br /> +And every auld wife that’s sae jealous o’ her +dochter,<br /> + May she get a good keach i’ the creel, +creel;<br /> + May she get a good keach i’ the creel!</p> +<h3>THE MERRY BROOMFIELD; OR, THE WEST COUNTRY WAGER.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> old West-country ballad was +one of the broadsides printed at the Aldermary press. We +have not met with any older impression, <a +name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>though we +have been assured that there are black-letter copies. In +Scott’s <i>Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border</i> is a +ballad called the <i>Broomfield Hill</i>; it is a mere fragment, +but is evidently taken from the present ballad, and can be +considered only as one of the many modern antiques to be found in +that work.]</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">noble</span> young squire +that lived in the West,<br /> + He courted a young lady gay;<br /> +And as he was merry he put forth a jest,<br /> + A wager with her he would lay.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘A wager with me,’ the young lady +replied,<br /> + ‘I pray about what must it be?<br /> +If I like the humour you shan’t be denied,<br /> + I love to be merry and free.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Quoth he, ‘I will lay you a hundred +pounds,<br /> + A hundred pounds, aye, and ten,<br /> +That a maid if you go to the merry Broomfield,<br /> + That a maid you return not again.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I’ll lay you that wager,’ +the lady she said,<br /> + Then the money she flung down amain;<br /> +‘To the merry Broomfield I’ll go a pure maid,<br /> + The same I’ll return home again.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He covered her bet in the midst of the hall,<br +/> + With a hundred and ten jolly pounds;<br /> +And then to his servant he straightway did call,<br /> + For to bring forth his hawk and his hounds.</p> +<p class="poetry">A ready obedience the servant did yield,<br /> + And all was made ready o’er night;<br /> +Next morning he went to the merry Broomfield,<br /> + To meet with his love and delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now when he came there, having waited a +while,<br /> + Among the green broom down he lies;<br /> +The lady came to him, and could not but smile,<br /> + For sleep then had closèd his eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">Upon his right hand a gold ring she secured,<br +/> + Drawn from her own fingers so fair;<br /> +That when he awakèd he might be assured<br /> + His lady and love had been there.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>She left him a posie of pleasant perfume,<br /> + Then stepped from the place where he lay,<br /> +Then hid herself close in the besom of broom,<br /> + To hear what her true love did say.</p> +<p class="poetry">He wakened and found the gold ring on his +hand,<br /> + Then sorrow of heart he was in;<br /> +‘My love has been here, I do well understand,<br /> + And this wager I now shall not win.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh! where was you, my goodly goshawk,<br +/> + The which I have purchased so dear,<br /> +Why did you not waken me out of my sleep,<br /> + When the lady, my love, was here?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! with my bells did I ring, master,<br +/> + And eke with my feet did I run;<br /> +And still did I cry, pray awake! master,<br /> + She’s here now, and soon will be +gone.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! where was you, my gallant +greyhound,<br /> + Whose collar is flourished with gold;<br /> +Why hadst thou not wakened me out of my sleep,<br /> + When thou didst my lady behold?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Dear master, I barked with my mouth when +she came,<br /> + And likewise my collar I shook;<br /> +And told you that here was the beautiful dame,<br /> + But no notice of me then you took.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! where wast thou, my servingman,<br /> + Whom I have clothèd so fine?<br /> +If you had waked me when she was here,<br /> + The wager then had been mine.’</p> +<p class="poetry">In the night you should have slept, master,<br +/> + And kept awake in the day;<br /> +Had you not been sleeping when hither she came,<br /> + Then a maid she had not gone away.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then home he returned when the wager was +lost,<br /> + With sorrow of heart, I may say;<br /> +The lady she laughed to find her love crost,—<br /> + This was upon midsummer-day.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>‘O, squire! I laid in the bushes concealed,<br /> + And heard you, when you did complain;<br /> +And thus I have been to the merry Broomfield,<br /> + And a maid returned back again.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Be cheerful! be cheerful! and do not +repine,<br /> + For now ’tis as clear as the sun,<br /> +The money, the money, the money is mine,<br /> + The wager I fairly have won.’</p> +<h3>SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> West-country ballad of <i>Sir +John Barleycorn</i> is very ancient, and being the only version +that has ever been sung at English merry-makings and country +feasts, can certainly set up a better claim to antiquity than any +of the three ballads on the same subject to be found in +Evans’s <i>Old Ballads</i>; viz., <i>John Barleycorn</i>, +<i>The Little Barleycorn</i>, and <i>Mas Mault</i>. Our +west-country version bears the greatest resemblance to <i>The +Little Barleycorn</i>, but it is very dissimilar to any of the +three. Burns altered the old ditty, but on referring to his +version it will be seen that his corrections and additions want +the simplicity of the original, and certainly cannot be +considered improvements. The common ballad does not appear +to have been inserted in any of our popular collections. +<i>Sir John Barleycorn</i> is very appropriately sung to the tune +of <i>Stingo</i>. See <i>Popular Music</i>, p. 305.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> came three men +out of the West,<br /> + Their victory to try;<br /> +And they have taken a solemn oath,<br /> + Poor Barleycorn should die.</p> +<p class="poetry">They took a plough and ploughed him in,<br /> + And harrowed clods on his head;<br /> +And then they took a solemn oath,<br /> + Poor Barleycorn was dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">There he lay sleeping in the ground,<br /> + Till rain from the sky did fall:<br /> +Then Barleycorn sprung up his head,<br /> + And so amazed them all.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +81</span>There he remained till Midsummer,<br /> + And looked both pale and wan;<br /> +Then Barleycorn he got a beard,<br /> + And so became a man.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then they sent men with scythes so sharp,<br /> + To cut him off at knee;<br /> +And then poor little Barleycorn,<br /> + They served him barbarously.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then they sent men with pitchforks strong<br /> + To pierce him through the heart;<br /> +And like a dreadful tragedy,<br /> + They bound him to a cart.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then they brought him to a barn,<br /> + A prisoner to endure;<br /> +And so they fetched him out again,<br /> + And laid him on the floor.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then they set men with holly clubs,<br /> + To beat the flesh from his bones;<br /> +But the miller he served him worse than that,<br /> + For he ground him betwixt two stones.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! Barleycorn is the choicest grain<br /> + That ever was sown on land;<br /> +It will do more than any grain,<br /> + By the turning of your hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">It will make a boy into a man,<br /> + And a man into an ass;<br /> +It will change your gold into silver,<br /> + And your silver into brass.</p> +<p class="poetry">It will make the huntsman hunt the fox,<br /> + That never wound his horn;<br /> +It will bring the tinker to the stocks,<br /> + That people may him scorn.</p> +<p class="poetry">It will put sack into a glass,<br /> + And claret in the can;<br /> +And it will cause a man to drink<br /> + Till he neither can go nor stand.</p> +<h3><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>BLOW +THE WINDS, I-HO!</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> Northumbrian ballad is of +great antiquity, and bears considerable resemblance to <i>The +Baffled Knight</i>; <i>or</i>, <i>Lady’s Policy</i>, +inserted in Percy’s <i>Reliques</i>. It is not in any +popular collection. In the broadside from which it is here +printed, the title and chorus are given, <i>Blow the Winds</i>, +<i>I-O</i>, a form common to many ballads and songs, but only to +those of great antiquity. Chappell, in his <i>Popular +Music</i>, has an example in a song as old as 1698:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Here’s a health to jolly +Bacchus,<br /> + + +I-ho! I-ho! I-ho!’</p> +<p>and in another well-known old catch the same form +appears:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘A pye sat on a pear-tree,<br /> + + +I-ho, I-ho, I-ho.’</p> +<p>‘Io!’ or, as we find it given in these lyrics, +‘I-ho!’ was an ancient form of acclamation or triumph +on joyful occasions and anniversaries. It is common, with +slight variations, to different languages. In the Gothic, +for example, Iola signifies to make merry. It has been +supposed by some etymologists that the word ‘yule’ is +a corruption of ‘Io!’]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a +shepherd’s son,<br /> + He kept sheep on yonder hill;<br /> +He laid his pipe and his crook aside,<br /> + And there he slept his fill.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And blow +the winds, I-ho!<br /> + Sing, blow the +winds, I-ho!<br /> + Clear away the morning dew,<br /> + And blow the +winds, I-ho!</p> +<p class="poetry">He lookèd east, and he lookèd +west,<br /> + He took another look,<br /> +And there he spied a lady gay,<br /> + Was dipping in a brook.</p> +<p class="poetry">She said, ‘Sir, don’t touch my +mantle,<br /> + Come, let my clothes alone;<br /> +I will give you as much monèy<br /> + As you can carry home.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I will not touch your mantle,<br /> + I’ll let your clothes alone;<br /> +I’ll take you out of the water clear,<br /> + My dear, to be my own.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>He did not touch her mantle,<br /> + He let her clothes alone;<br /> +But he took her from the clear water,<br /> + And all to be his own.</p> +<p class="poetry">He set her on a milk-white steed,<br /> + Himself upon another;<br /> +And there they rode along the road,<br /> + Like sister, and like brother.</p> +<p class="poetry">And as they rode along the road,<br /> + He spied some cocks of hay;<br /> +‘Yonder,’ he says, ‘is a lovely place<br /> + For men and maids to play!’</p> +<p class="poetry">And when they came to her father’s +gate,<br /> + She pullèd at a ring;<br /> +And ready was the proud portèr<br /> + For to let the lady in.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when the gates were open,<br /> + This lady jumpèd in;<br /> +She says, ‘You are a fool without,<br /> + And I’m a maid within.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Good morrow to you, modest boy,<br /> + I thank you for your care;<br /> +If you had been what you should have been,<br /> + I would not have left you there.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘There is a horse in my father’s +stable,<br /> + He stands beyond the thorn;<br /> +He shakes his head above the trough,<br /> + But dares not prie the corn.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘There is a bird in my father’s +flock,<br /> + A double comb he wears;<br /> +He flaps his wings, and crows full loud,<br /> + But a capon’s crest he bears.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘There is a flower in my father’s +garden,<br /> + They call it marygold;<br /> +The fool that will not when he may,<br /> + He shall not when he wold.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>Said the shepherd’s son, as he doft his shoon,<br +/> + ‘My feet they shall run bare,<br /> +And if ever I meet another maid,<br /> + I rede that maid beware.’</p> +<h3>THE BEAUTIFUL LADY OF KENT;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, THE +SEAMAN OF DOVER.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">We</span> have met with two copies of +this genuine English ballad; the older one is without +printer’s name, but from the appearance of the type and the +paper, it must have been published about the middle of the last +century. It is certainly not one of the original +impressions, for the other copy, though of recent date, has +evidently been taken from some still older and better +edition. In the modern broadside the ballad is in four +parts, whereas, in our older one, there is no such expressed +division, but a word at the commencement of each part is printed +in capital letters.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART I.</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">seaman</span> of Dover, +whose excellent parts,<br /> +For wisdom and learning, had conquered the hearts<br /> +Of many young damsels, of beauty so bright,<br /> +Of him this new ditty in brief I shall write;</p> +<p class="poetry">And show of his turnings, and windings of +fate,<br /> +His passions and sorrows, so many and great:<br /> +And how he was blessèd with true love at last,<br /> +When all the rough storms of his troubles were past.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, to be brief, I shall tell you the +truth:<br /> +A beautiful lady, whose name it was Ruth,<br /> +A squire’s young daughter, near Sandwich, in Kent,<br /> +Proves all his heart’s treasure, his joy and content.</p> +<p class="poetry">Unknown to their parents in private they +meet,<br /> +Where many love lessons they’d often repeat,<br /> +With kisses, and many embraces likewise,<br /> +She granted him love, and thus gainèd the prize.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>She said, ‘I consent to be thy sweet bride,<br /> +Whatever becomes of my fortune,’ she cried.<br /> +‘The frowns of my father I never will fear,<br /> +But freely will go through the world with my dear.’</p> +<p class="poetry">A jewel he gave her, in token of love,<br /> +And vowed, by the sacred powers above,<br /> +To wed the next morning; but they were betrayed,<br /> +And all by the means of a treacherous maid.</p> +<p class="poetry">She told her parents that they were agreed:<br +/> +With that they fell into a passion with speed,<br /> +And said, ere a seaman their daughter should have,<br /> +They rather would follow her corpse to the grave.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lady was straight to her chamber +confined,<br /> +Here long she continued in sorrow of mind,<br /> +And so did her love, for the loss of his dear,—<br /> +No sorrow was ever so sharp and severe.</p> +<p class="poetry">When long he had mourned for his love and +delight,<br /> +Close under the window he came in the night,<br /> +And sung forth this ditty:—‘My dearest, farewell!<br +/> +Behold, in this nation no longer I dwell.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I am going from hence to the kingdom of +Spain,<br /> +Because I am willing that you should obtain<br /> +Your freedom once more; for my heart it will break<br /> +If longer thou liest confined for my sake.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The words which he uttered, they caused her to +weep;<br /> +Yet, nevertheless, she was forcèd to keep<br /> +Deep silence that minute, that minute for fear<br /> +Her honourèd father and mother should hear.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART II.</p> +<p class="poetry">Soon after, bold Henry he entered on board,<br +/> +The heavens a prosperous gale did afford,<br /> +And brought him with speed to the kingdom of Spain,<br /> +There he with a merchant some time did remain;</p> +<p class="poetry">Who, finding that he was both faithful and +just,<br /> +Preferred him to places of honour and trust;<br /> +<a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>He made +him as great as his heart could request,<br /> +Yet, wanting his Ruth, he with grief was oppressed.</p> +<p class="poetry">So great was his grief it could not be +concealed,<br /> +Both honour and riches no pleasure could yield;<br /> +In private he often would weep and lament,<br /> +For Ruth, the fair, beautiful lady of Kent.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, while he lamented the loss of his dear,<br +/> +A lady of Spain did before him appear,<br /> +Bedecked with rich jewels both costly and gay,<br /> +Who earnestly sought for his favour that day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Said she, ‘Gentle swain, I am wounded +with love,<br /> +And you are the person I honour above<br /> +The greatest of nobles that ever was born;—<br /> +Then pity my tears, and my sorrowful mourn!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I pity thy sorrowful tears,’ he +replied,<br /> +‘And wish I were worthy to make thee my bride;<br /> +But, lady, thy grandeur is greater than mine,<br /> +Therefore, I am fearful my heart to resign.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! never be doubtful of what will +ensue,<br /> +No manner of danger will happen to you;<br /> +At my own disposal I am, I declare,<br /> +Receive me with love, or destroy me with care.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Dear madam, don’t fix your +affection on me,<br /> +You are fit for some lord of a noble degree,<br /> +That is able to keep up your honour and fame;<br /> +I am but a poor sailor, from England who came.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘A man of mean fortune, whose substance +is small,<br /> +I have not wherewith to maintain you withal,<br /> +Sweet lady, according to honour and state;<br /> +Now this is the truth, which I freely relate.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The lady she lovingly squeezèd his +hand,<br /> +And said with a smile, ‘Ever blessed be the land<br /> +That bred such a noble, brave seaman as thee;<br /> +I value no honours, thou’rt welcome to me;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>‘My parents are dead, I have jewels untold,<br /> +Besides in possession a million of gold;<br /> +And thou shalt be lord of whatever I have,<br /> +Grant me but thy love, which I earnestly crave.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, turning aside, to himself he replied,<br +/> +‘I am courted with riches and beauty beside;<br /> +This love I may have, but my Ruth is denied.’<br /> +Wherefore he consented to make her his bride.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lady she clothèd him costly and +great;<br /> +His noble deportment, both proper and straight,<br /> +So charmèd the innocent eye of his dove,<br /> +And added a second new flame to her love.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then married they were without longer delay;<br +/> +Now here we will leave them both glorious and gay,<br /> +To speak of fair Ruth, who in sorrow was left<br /> +At home with her parents, of comfort bereft.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART III.</p> +<p class="poetry">When under the window with an aching heart,<br +/> +He told his fair Ruth he so soon must depart,<br /> +Her parents they heard, and well pleasèd they were,<br /> +But Ruth was afflicted with sorrow and care.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, after her lover had quitted the shore,<br +/> +They kept her confined a fall twelvemonth or more,<br /> +And then they were pleasèd to set her at large,<br /> +With laying upon her a wonderful charge:</p> +<p class="poetry">To fly from a seaman as she would from +death;<br /> +She promised she would, with a faltering breath;<br /> +Yet, nevertheless, the truth you shall hear,<br /> +She found out a way for to follow her dear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, taking her gold and her silver +alsò,<br /> +In seaman’s apparel away she did go,<br /> +And found out a master, with whom she agreed,<br /> +To carry her over the ocean with speed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, when she arrived at the kingdom of +Spain,<br /> +From city to city she travelled amain,<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>Enquiring +about everywhere for her love,<br /> +Who now had been gone seven years and above.</p> +<p class="poetry">In Cadiz, as she walked along in the street,<br +/> +Her love and his lady she happened to meet,<br /> +But in such a garb as she never had seen,—<br /> +She looked like an angel, or beautiful queen.</p> +<p class="poetry">With sorrowful tears she turned her aside:<br +/> +‘My jewel is gone, I shall ne’er be his bride;<br /> +But, nevertheless, though my hopes are in vain,<br /> +I’ll never return to old England again.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But here, in this place, I will now be +confined;<br /> +It will be a comfort and joy to my mind,<br /> +To see him sometimes, though he thinks not of me,<br /> +Since he has a lady of noble degree.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, while in the city fair Ruth did reside,<br +/> +Of a sudden this beautiful lady she died,<br /> +And, though he was in the possession of all,<br /> +Yet tears from his eyes in abundance did fall.</p> +<p class="poetry">As he was expressing his piteous moan,<br /> +Fair Ruth came unto him, and made herself known;<br /> +He started to see her, but seemèd not coy,<br /> +Said he, ‘Now my sorrows are mingled with joy!’</p> +<p class="poetry">The time of the mourning he kept it in +Spain,<br /> +And then he came back to old England again,<br /> +With thousands, and thousands, which he did possess;<br /> +Then glorious and gay was sweet Ruth in her dress.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART IV.</p> +<p class="poetry">When over the seas to fair Sandwich he came,<br +/> +With Ruth, and a number of persons of fame,<br /> +Then all did appear most splendid and gay,<br /> +As if it had been a great festival day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, when that they took up their lodgings, +behold!<br /> +He stripped off his coat of embroiderèd gold,<br /> +And presently borrows a mariner’s suit,<br /> +That he with her parents might have some dispute,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>Before they were sensible he was so great;<br /> +And when he came in and knocked at the gate,<br /> +He soon saw her father, and mother likewise,<br /> +Expressing their sorrow with tears in their eyes,</p> +<p class="poetry">To them, with obeisance, he modestly said,<br +/> +‘Pray where is my jewel, that innocent maid,<br /> +Whose sweet lovely beauty doth thousands excel?<br /> +I fear, by your weeping, that all is not well!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘No, no! she is gone, she is utterly +lost;<br /> +We have not heard of her a twelvemonth at most!<br /> +Which makes us distracted with sorrow and care,<br /> +And drowns us in tears at the point of despair.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I’m grievèd to hear these +sad tidings,’ he cried.<br /> +‘Alas! honest young man,’ her father replied,<br /> +‘I heartily wish she’d been wedded to you,<br /> +For then we this sorrow had never gone through.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet Henry he made them this answer again;<br +/> +‘I am newly come home from the kingdom of Spain,<br /> +From whence I have brought me a beautiful bride,<br /> +And am to be married to-morrow,’ he cried;</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And if you will go to my wedding,’ +said he,<br /> +‘Both you and your lady right welcome shall be.’<br +/> +They promised they would, and accordingly came,<br /> +Not thinking to meet with such persons of fame.</p> +<p class="poetry">All decked with their jewels of rubies and +pearls,<br /> +As equal companions of lords and of earls,<br /> +Fair Ruth, with her love, was as gay as the rest,<br /> +So they in their marriage were happily blessed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, as they returned from the church to an +inn,<br /> +The father and mother of Ruth did begin<br /> +Their daughter to know, by a mole they behold,<br /> +Although she was clothed in a garment of gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">With transports of joy they flew to the +bride,<br /> +‘O! where hast thou been, sweetest daughter?’ they +cried,<br /> +‘Thy tedious absence has grievèd us sore,<br /> +As fearing, alas! we should see thee no more.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>‘Dear parents,’ said she, ‘many +hazards I run,<br /> +To fetch home my love, and your dutiful son;<br /> +Receive him with joy, for ’tis very well known,<br /> +He seeks not your wealth, he’s enough of his +own.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Her father replied, and he merrily smiled,<br +/> +‘He’s brought home enough, as he’s brought home +my child;<br /> +A thousand times welcome you are, I declare,<br /> +Whose presence disperses both sorrow and care.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Full seven long days in feasting they spent;<br +/> +The bells in the steeple they merrily went,<br /> +And many fair pounds were bestowed on the poor,—<br /> +The like of this wedding was never before!</p> +<h3>THE BERKSHIRE LADY’S GARLAND.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">IN FOUR +PARTS.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">To the tune of <i>The Royal +Forester</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">When</span> we first met with this very +pleasing English ballad, we deemed the story to be wholly +fictitious, but ‘strange’ as the +‘relation’ may appear, the incidents narrated are +‘true’ or at least founded on fact. The scene +of the ballad is Whitley Park, near Reading, in Berkshire, and +not, as some suppose, Calcot House, which was not built till +1759. Whitley is mentioned as ‘the Abbot’s +Park, being at the entrance of Redding town.’ At the +Dissolution the estate passed to the crown, and the mansion +seems, from time to time, to have been used as a royal +‘palace’ till the reign of Elizabeth, by whom it was +granted, along with the estate, to Sir Francis Knollys; it was +afterwards, by purchase, the property of the Kendricks, an +ancient race, descended from the Saxon kings. William +Kendrick, of Whitley, armr. was created a baronet in 1679, and +died in 1685, leaving issue one son, Sir William Kendrick, of +Whitley, Bart., who married Miss Mary House, of Reading, and died +in 1699, without issue male, leaving an only daughter. It +was this rich heiress, who possessed ‘store of wealth and +beauty bright,’ that is the heroine of the ballad. +She married Benjamin Child, Esq., a young and handsome, but very +poor attorney of Reading, and the marriage is traditionally +reported to have been brought about exactly as related in the +ballad. We have not been able to ascertain the exact date +of the marriage, which was celebrated in St. Mary’s <a +name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>Church, +Reading, the bride wearing a thick veil; but the ceremony must +have taken place some time about 1705. In 1714, Mr. Child +was high sheriff of Berkshire. As he was an humble and +obscure personage previously to his espousing the heiress of +Whitley, and, in fact, owed all his wealth and influence to his +marriage, it cannot be supposed that <i>immediately</i> after his +union he would be elevated to so important and dignified a post +as the high-shrievalty of the very aristocratical county of +Berks. We may, therefore, consider nine or ten years to +have elapsed betwixt his marriage and his holding the office of +high sheriff, which he filled when he was about thirty-two years +of age. The author of the ballad is unknown: supposing him +to have composed it shortly after the events which he records, we +cannot be far wrong in fixing its date about 1706. The +earliest broadside we have seen contains a rudely executed, but +by no means bad likeness of Queen Anne, the reigning monarch at +that period.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART I.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">SHOWING +CUPID’S CONQUEST OVER A COY LADY OF FIVE THOUSAND A +YEAR.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bachelors</span> of every +station,<br /> +Mark this strange and true relation,<br /> +Which in brief to you I bring,—<br /> +Never was a stranger thing!</p> +<p class="poetry">You shall find it worth the hearing;<br /> +Loyal love is most endearing,<br /> +When it takes the deepest root,<br /> +Yielding charms and gold to boot.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some will wed for love of treasure;<br /> +But the sweetest joy and pleasure<br /> +Is in faithful love, you’ll find,<br /> +Gracèd with a noble mind.</p> +<p class="poetry">Such a noble disposition<br /> +Had this lady, with submission,<br /> +Of whom I this sonnet write,<br /> +Store of wealth, and beauty bright.</p> +<p class="poetry">She had left, by a good grannum,<br /> +Full five thousand pounds per annum,<br /> +Which she held without control;<br /> +Thus she did in riches roll.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +92</span>Though she had vast store of riches,<br /> +Which some persons much bewitches,<br /> +Yet she bore a virtuous mind,<br /> +Not the least to pride inclined.</p> +<p class="poetry">Many noble persons courted<br /> +This young lady, ’tis reported;<br /> +But their labour proved in vain,<br /> +They could not her favour gain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though she made a strong resistance,<br /> +Yet by Cupid’s true assistance,<br /> +She was conquered after all;<br /> +How it was declare I shall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Being at a noble wedding,<br /> +Near the famous town of Redding, <a name="citation92"></a><a +href="#footnote92" class="citation">[92]</a><br /> +A young gentleman she saw,<br /> +Who belongèd to the law.</p> +<p class="poetry">As she viewed his sweet behaviour,<br /> +Every courteous carriage gave her<br /> +New addition to her grief;<br /> +Forced she was to seek relief.</p> +<p class="poetry">Privately she then enquired<br /> +About him, so much admired;<br /> +Both his name, and where he dwelt,—<br /> +Such was the hot flame she felt.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, at night, this youthful lady<br /> +Called her coach, which being ready,<br /> +Homewards straight she did return;<br /> +But her heart with flames did burn.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART II.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">SHOWING THE +LADY’S LETTER OF A CHALLENGE TO FIGHT HIM UPON HIS REFUSING +TO WED HER IN A MASK, WITHOUT KNOWING WHO SHE WAS.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">Night and morning, for a season,<br /> +In her closet would she reason<br /> +<a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>With +herself, and often said,<br /> +‘Why has love my heart betrayed?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I, that have so many slighted,<br /> +Am at length so well requited;<br /> +For my griefs are not a few!<br /> +Now I find what love can do.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘He that has my heart in keeping,<br /> +Though I for his sake be weeping,<br /> +Little knows what grief I feel;<br /> +But I’ll try it out with steel.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘For I will a challenge send him,<br /> +And appoint where I’ll attend him,<br /> +In a grove, without delay,<br /> +By the dawning of the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘He shall not the least discover<br /> +That I am a virgin lover,<br /> +By the challenge which I send;<br /> +But for justice I contend.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘He has causèd sad distraction,<br +/> +And I come for satisfaction,<br /> +Which if he denies to give,<br /> +One of us shall cease to live.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Having thus her mind revealed,<br /> +She her letter closed and sealed;<br /> +Which, when it came to his hand,<br /> +The young man was at a stand.</p> +<p class="poetry">In her letter she conjured him<br /> +For to meet, and well assured him,<br /> +Recompence he must afford,<br /> +Or dispute it with the sword.</p> +<p class="poetry">Having read this strange relation,<br /> +He was in a consternation;<br /> +But, advising with his friend,<br /> +He persuades him to attend.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>‘Be of courage, and make ready,<br /> +Faint heart never won fair lady;<br /> +In regard it must be so,<br /> +I along with you must go.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART III.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">SHOWING HOW +THEY MET BY APPOINTMENT IN A GROVE, WHERE SHE OBLIGED HIM TO +FIGHT OR WED HER.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">Early on a summer’s morning,<br /> +When bright Phoebus was adorning<br /> +Every bower with his beams,<br /> +The fair lady came, it seems.</p> +<p class="poetry">At the bottom of a mountain,<br /> +Near a pleasant crystal fountain,<br /> +There she left her gilded coach,<br /> +While the grove she did approach.</p> +<p class="poetry">Covered with her mask, and walking,<br /> +There she met her lover talking<br /> +With a friend that he had brought;<br /> +So she asked him whom he sought.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I am challenged by a gallant,<br /> +Who resolves to try my talent;<br /> +Who he is I cannot say,<br /> +But I hope to show him play.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘It is I that did invite you,<br /> +You shall wed me, or I’ll fight you,<br /> +Underneath those spreading trees;<br /> +Therefore, choose you which you please.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘You shall find I do not vapour,<br /> +I have brought my trusty rapier;<br /> +Therefore, take your choice,’ said she,<br /> +‘Either fight or marry me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Said he, ‘Madam, pray what mean you?<br +/> +In my life I’ve never seen you;<br /> +Pray unmask, your visage show,<br /> +Then I’ll tell you aye or no.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>‘I will not my face uncover<br /> +Till the marriage ties are over;<br /> +Therefore, choose you which you will,<br /> +Wed me, sir, or try your skill.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Step within that pleasant bower,<br /> +With your friend one single hour;<br /> +Strive your thoughts to reconcile,<br /> +And I’ll wander here the while.’</p> +<p class="poetry">While this beauteous lady waited,<br /> +The young bachelors debated<br /> +What was best for to be done:<br /> +Quoth his friend, ‘The hazard run.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If my judgment can be trusted,<br /> +Wed her first, you can’t be worsted;<br /> +If she’s rich, you’ll rise to fame,<br /> +If she’s poor, why! you’re the same.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He consented to be married;<br /> +All three in a coach were carried<br /> +To a church without delay,<br /> +Where he weds the lady gay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though sweet pretty Cupids hovered<br /> +Round her eyes, her face was covered<br /> +With a mask,—he took her thus,<br /> +Just for better or for worse.</p> +<p class="poetry">With a courteous kind behaviour,<br /> +She presents his friend a favour,<br /> +And withal dismissed him straight,<br /> +That he might no longer wait.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART IV.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">SHOWING HOW +THEY RODE TOGETHER IN HER GILDED COACH TO HER NOBLE SEAT, OR +CASTLE, ETC.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">As the gilded coach stood ready,<br /> +The young lawyer and his lady<br /> +Rode together, till they came<br /> +To her house of state and fame;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>Which appearèd like a castle,<br /> +Where you might behold a parcel<br /> +Of young cedars, tall and straight,<br /> +Just before her palace gate.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hand in hand they walked together,<br /> +To a hall, or parlour, rather,<br /> +Which was beautiful and fair,—<br /> +All alone she left him there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Two long hours there he waited<br /> +Her return;—at length he fretted,<br /> +And began to grieve at last,<br /> +For he had not broke his fast.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still he sat like one amazed,<br /> +Round a spacious room he gazed,<br /> +Which was richly beautified;<br /> +But, alas! he lost his bride.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was peeping, laughing, sneering,<br /> +All within the lawyer’s hearing;<br /> +But his bride he could not see;<br /> +‘Would I were at home!’ thought he.</p> +<p class="poetry">While his heart was melancholy,<br /> +Said the steward, brisk and jolly,<br /> +‘Tell me, friend, how came you here?<br /> +You’ve some bad design, I fear.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He replied, ‘Dear loving master,<br /> +You shall meet with no disaster<br /> +Through my means, in any case,—<br /> +Madam brought me to this place.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the steward did retire,<br /> +Saying, that he would enquire<br /> +Whether it was true or no:<br /> +Ne’er was lover hampered so.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>Now the lady who had filled him<br /> +With those fears, full well beheld him<br /> +From a window, as she dressed,<br /> +Pleasèd at the merry jest.</p> +<p class="poetry">When she had herself attired<br /> +In rich robes, to be admired,<br /> +She appearèd in his sight,<br /> +Like a moving angel bright.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Sir! my servants have related,<br /> +How some hours you have waited<br /> +In my parlour,—tell me who<br /> +In my house you ever knew?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Madam! if I have offended,<br /> +It is more than I intended;<br /> +A young lady brought me here:’—<br /> +‘That is true,’ said she, ‘my dear.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I can be no longer cruel<br /> +To my joy, and only jewel;<br /> +Thou art mine, and I am thine,<br /> +Hand and heart I do resign!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Once I was a wounded lover,<br /> +Now these fears are fairly over;<br /> +By receiving what I gave,<br /> +Thou art lord of what I have.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Beauty, honour, love, and treasure,<br /> +A rich golden stream of pleasure,<br /> +With his lady he enjoys;<br /> +Thanks to Cupid’s kind decoys.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now he’s clothed in rich attire,<br /> +Not inferior to a squire;<br /> +Beauty, honour, riches’ store,<br /> +What can man desire more?</p> +<h3><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>THE +NOBLEMAN’S GENEROUS KINDNESS.</h3> +<p>Giving an account of a nobleman, who, taking notice of a poor +man’s industrious care and pains for the maintaining of his +charge of seven small children, met him upon a day, and +discoursing with him, invited him, and his wife and his children, +home to his house, and bestowed upon them a farm of thirty acres +of land, to be continued to him and his heirs for ever.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">To the tune of <i>The Two English +Travellers</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> still popular ballad is +entitled in the modern copies, <i>The Nobleman and Thrasher</i>; +<i>or</i>, <i>the Generous Gift</i>. There is a copy +preserved in the Roxburgh Collection, with which our version has +been collated. It is taken from a broadside printed by +Robert Marchbank, in the Custom-house Entry, Newcastle.]</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">nobleman</span> lived in +a village of late,<br /> +Hard by a poor thrasher, whose charge it was great;<br /> +For he had seven children, and most of them small,<br /> +And nought but his labour to support them withal.</p> +<p class="poetry">He never was given to idle and lurk,<br /> +For this nobleman saw him go daily to work,<br /> +With his flail and his bag, and his bottle of beer,<br /> +As cheerful as those that have hundreds a year.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus careful, and constant, each morning he +went,<br /> +Unto his daily labour with joy and content;<br /> +So jocular and jolly he’d whistle and sing,<br /> +As blithe and as brisk as the birds in the spring.</p> +<p class="poetry">One morning, this nobleman taking a walk,<br /> +He met this poor man, and he freely did talk;<br /> +He asked him [at first] many questions at large,<br /> +And then began talking concerning his charge.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou hast many children, I very well +know,<br /> +Thy labour is hard, and thy wages are low,<br /> +And yet thou art cheerful; I pray tell me true,<br /> +How can you maintain them as well as you do?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I carefully carry home what I do +earn,<br /> +My daily expenses by this I do learn;<br /> +And find it is possible, though we be poor,<br /> +To still keep the ravenous wolf from the door.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>‘I reap and I mow, and I harrow and sow,<br /> +Sometimes a hedging and ditching I go;<br /> +No work comes amiss, for I thrash, and I plough,<br /> +Thus my bread I do earn by the sweat of my brow.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘My wife she is willing to pull in a +yoke,<br /> +We live like two lambs, nor each other provoke;<br /> +We both of us strive, like the labouring ant,<br /> +And do our endeavours to keep us from want.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And when I come home from my labour at +night,<br /> +To my wife and my children, in whom I delight;<br /> +To see them come round me with prattling noise,—<br /> +Now these are the riches a poor man enjoys.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Though I am as weary as weary may be,<br +/> +The youngest I commonly dance on my knee;<br /> +I find that content is a moderate feast,<br /> +I never repine at my lot in the least.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now the nobleman hearing what he did say,<br /> +Was pleased, and invited him home the next day;<br /> +His wife and his children he charged him to bring;<br /> +In token of favour he gave him a ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">He thankèd his honour, and taking his +leave,<br /> +He went to his wife, who would hardly believe<br /> +But this same story himself he might raise;<br /> +Yet seeing the ring she was [lost] in amaze.</p> +<p class="poetry">Betimes in the morning the good wife she +arose,<br /> +And made them all fine, in the best of their clothes;<br /> +The good man with his good wife, and children small,<br /> +They all went to dine at the nobleman’s hall.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when they came there, as truth does +report,<br /> +All things were prepared in a plentiful sort;<br /> +And they at the nobleman’s table did dine,<br /> +With all kinds of dainties, and plenty of wine.</p> +<p class="poetry">The feast being over, he soon let them know,<br +/> +That he then intended on them to bestow<br /> +A farm-house, with thirty good acres of land;<br /> +And gave them the writings then, with his own hand.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>‘Because thou art careful, and good to thy +wife,<br /> +I’ll make thy days happy the rest of thy life;<br /> +It shall be for ever, for thee and thy heirs,<br /> +Because I beheld thy industrious cares.’</p> +<p class="poetry">No tongue then is able in full to express<br /> +The depth of their joy, and true thankfulness;<br /> +With many a curtsey, and bow to the ground,—<br /> +Such noblemen there are but few to be found.</p> +<h3>THE DRUNKARD’S LEGACY.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">IN THREE +PARTS.</span></p> +<p>First, giving an account of a gentlemen a having a wild son, +and who, foreseeing he would come to poverty, had a cottage built +with one door to it, always kept fast; and how, on his dying bed, +he charged him not to open it till he was poor and slighted, +which the young man promised he would perform. Secondly, of +the young man’s pawning his estate to a vintner, who, when +poor, kicked him out of doors; when thinking it time to see his +legacy, he broke open the cottage door, where instead of money he +found a gibbet and halter, which he put round his neck, and +jumping off the stool, the gibbet broke, and a thousand pounds +came down upon his head, which lay hid in the ceiling. +Thirdly, of his redeeming his estate, and fooling the vintner out +of two hundred pounds; who, for being jeered by his neighbours, +cut his own throat. And lastly, of the young man’s +reformation. Very proper to be read by all who are given to +drunkenness.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Percy</span>, in the introductory remarks +to the ballad of <i>The Heir of Linne</i>, says, ‘the +original of this ballad [<i>The Heir of Linne</i>] is found in +the editor’s folio MS.; the breaches and defects of which +rendered the insertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. +These it is hoped the reader will pardon, as, indeed, the +completion of the story was suggested by a modern ballad on a +similar subject.’ The ballad thus alluded to by Percy +is <i>The Drunkard’s Legacy</i>, which, it may be remarked, +although styled by him a <i>modern</i> ballad, is only so +comparatively speaking; for it must have been written long +anterior to Percy’s time, and, by his own admission, must +be older than the latter portion of the <i>Heir of +Linne</i>. Our copy is taken from an old chap-book, without +date or printer’s name, and which is decorated with three +rudely executed wood-cuts.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Young</span> people all, I +pray draw near,<br /> +And listen to my ditty here;<br /> +Which subject shows that drunkenness<br /> +Brings many mortals to distress!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>As, for example, now I can<br /> +Tell you of one, a gentleman,<br /> +Who had a very good estate,<br /> +His earthly travails they were great.</p> +<p class="poetry">We understand he had one son<br /> +Who a lewd wicked race did run;<br /> +He daily spent his father’s store,<br /> +When moneyless, he came for more.</p> +<p class="poetry">The father oftentimes with tears,<br /> +Would this alarm sound in his ears;<br /> +‘Son! thou dost all my comfort blast,<br /> +And thou wilt come to want at last.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The son these words did little mind,<br /> +To cards and dice he was inclined;<br /> +Feeding his drunken appetite<br /> +In taverns, which was his delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">The father, ere it was too late,<br /> +He had a project in his pate,<br /> +Before his agèd days were run,<br /> +To make provision for his son.</p> +<p class="poetry">Near to his house, we understand,<br /> +He had a waste plat of land,<br /> +Which did but little profit yield,<br /> +On which he did a cottage build.</p> +<p class="poetry">The <i>Wise Man’s Project</i> was its +name;<br /> +There were few windows in the same;<br /> +Only one door, substantial thing,<br /> +Shut by a lock, went by a spring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Soon after he had played this trick,<br /> +It was his lot for to fall sick;<br /> +As on his bed he did lament,<br /> +Then for his drunken son he sent.</p> +<p class="poetry">He shortly came to his bedside;<br /> +Seeing his son, he thus replied:<br /> +‘I have sent for you to make my will,<br /> +Which you must faithfully fulfil.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>‘In such a cottage is one door,<br /> +Ne’er open it, do thou be sure,<br /> +Until thou art so poor, that all<br /> +Do then despise you, great and small.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘For, to my grief, I do perceive,<br /> +When I am dead, this life you live<br /> +Will soon melt all thou hast away;<br /> +Do not forget these words, I pray.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘When thou hast made thy friends thy +foes,<br /> +Pawned all thy lands, and sold thy clothes;<br /> +Break ope the door, and there depend<br /> +To find something thy griefs to end.’</p> +<p class="poetry">This being spoke, the son did say,<br /> +‘Your dying words I will obey.’<br /> +Soon after this his father dear<br /> +Did die, and buried was, we hear.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART II.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, pray observe the second part,<br /> +And you shall hear his sottish heart;<br /> +He did the tavern so frequent,<br /> +Till he three hundred pounds had spent.</p> +<p class="poetry">This being done, we understand<br /> +He pawned the deeds of all his land<br /> +Unto a tavern-keeper, who,<br /> +When poor, did him no favour show.</p> +<p class="poetry">For, to fulfil his father’s will,<br /> +He did command this cottage still:<br /> +At length great sorrow was his share,<br /> +Quite moneyless, with garments bare.</p> +<p class="poetry">Being not able for to work,<br /> +He in the tavern there did lurk;<br /> +From box to box, among rich men,<br /> +Who oftentimes reviled him then.</p> +<p class="poetry">To see him sneak so up and down,<br /> +The vintner on him he did frown;<br /> +<a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>And one +night kicked him out of door,<br /> +Charging him to come there no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">He in a stall did lie all night,<br /> +In this most sad and wretched plight;<br /> +Then thought it was high time to see<br /> +His father’s promised legacy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Next morning, then, oppressed with woe,<br /> +This young man got an iron crow;<br /> +And, as in tears he did lament,<br /> +Unto this little cottage went.</p> +<p class="poetry">When he the door had open got,<br /> +This poor, distressèd, drunken sot,<br /> +Who did for store of money hope,<br /> +He saw a gibbet and a rope.</p> +<p class="poetry">Under this rope was placed a stool,<br /> +Which made him look just like a fool;<br /> +Crying, ‘Alas! what shall I do?<br /> +Destruction now appears in view!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘As my father foresaw this thing,<br /> +What sottishness to me would bring;<br /> +As moneyless, and free of grace,<br /> +His legacy I will embrace.’</p> +<p class="poetry">So then, oppressed with discontent,<br /> +Upon the stool he sighing went;<br /> +And then, his precious life to check,<br /> +Did place the rope about his neck.</p> +<p class="poetry">Crying, ‘Thou, God, who sitt’st on +high,<br /> +And on my sorrow casts an eye;<br /> +Thou knowest that I’ve not done well,—<br /> +Preserve my precious soul from hell.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘’Tis true the slighting of thy +grace,<br /> +Has brought me to this wretched case;<br /> +And as through folly I’m undone,<br /> +I’ll now eclipse my morning sun.’</p> +<p class="poetry">When he with sighs these words had spoke,<br /> +Jumped off, and down the gibbet broke;<br /> +<a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>In +falling, as it plain appears,<br /> +Dropped down about this young man’s ears,</p> +<p class="poetry">In shining gold, a thousand pound!<br /> +Which made the blood his ears surround:<br /> +Though in amaze, he cried, ‘I’m sure<br /> +This golden salve the sore will cure!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Blessed be my father, then,’ he +cried,<br /> +‘Who did this part for me so hide;<br /> +And while I do alive remain,<br /> +I never will get drunk again.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART III.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, by the third part you will hear,<br /> +This young man, as it doth appear,<br /> +With care he then secured his chink,<br /> +And to the vintner’s went to drink.</p> +<p class="poetry">When the proud vintner did him see,<br /> +He frowned on him immediately,<br /> +And said, ‘Begone! or else with speed,<br /> +I’ll kick thee out of doors, indeed.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Smiling, the young man he did say,<br /> +‘Thou cruel knave! tell me, I pray,<br /> +As I have here consumed my store,<br /> +How durst thee kick me out of door?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘To me thou hast been too severe;<br /> +The deeds of eightscore pounds a-year,<br /> +I pawned them for three hundred pounds,<br /> +That I spent here;—what makes such frowns?’</p> +<p class="poetry">The vintner said unto him, ‘Sirrah!<br /> +Bring me one hundred pounds to-morrow<br /> +By nine o’clock,—take them again;<br /> +So get you out of doors till then.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He answered, ‘If this chink I bring,<br +/> +I fear thou wilt do no such thing.<br /> +He said, ‘I’ll give under my hand,<br /> +A note, that I to this will stand.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>Having the note, away he goes,<br /> +And straightway went to one of those<br /> +That made him drink when moneyless,<br /> +And did the truth to him confess.</p> +<p class="poetry">They both went to this heap of gold,<br /> +And in a bag he fairly told<br /> +A thousand pounds, ill yellow-boys,<br /> +And to the tavern went their ways.</p> +<p class="poetry">This bag they on the table set,<br /> +Making the vintner for to fret;<br /> +He said, ‘Young man! this will not do,<br /> +For I was but in jest with you.’</p> +<p class="poetry">So then bespoke the young man’s +friend:<br /> +‘Vintner! thou mayest sure depend,<br /> +In law this note it will you cast,<br /> +And he must have his land at last.’</p> +<p class="poetry">This made the vintner to comply,—<br /> +He fetched the deeds immediately;<br /> +He had one hundred pounds, and then<br /> +The young man got his deeds again.</p> +<p class="poetry">At length the vintner ’gan to think<br /> +How he was fooled out of his chink;<br /> +Said, ‘When ’tis found how I came off,<br /> +My neighbours will me game and scoff.’</p> +<p class="poetry">So to prevent their noise and clatter<br /> +The vintner he, to mend the matter,<br /> +In two days after, it doth appear,<br /> +Did cut his throat from ear to ear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus he untimely left the world,<br /> +That to this young man proved a churl.<br /> +Now he who followed drunkenness,<br /> +Lives sober, and doth lands possess.</p> +<p class="poetry">Instead of wasting of his store,<br /> +As formerly, resolves no more<br /> +To act the same, but does indeed<br /> +Relieve all those that are in need.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>Let all young men now, for my sake,<br /> +Take care how they such havoc make;<br /> +For drunkenness, you plain may see,<br /> +Had like his ruin for to be.</p> +<h3>THE BOWES TRAGEDY.</h3> +<p>Being a true relation of the Lives and Characters of <span +class="smcap">Roger Wrightson</span> and <span +class="smcap">Martha Railton</span>, of the Town of Bowes, in the +County of York, who died for love of each other, in March, +1714/5</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Tune of <i>Queen Dido</i>.</p> +<p>[<i>The Bowes Tragedy</i> is the original of Mallet’s +<i>Edition and Emma</i>. In these verses are preserved the +village record of the incident which suggested that poem. +When Mallet published his ballad he subjoined an attestation of +the facts, which may be found in Evans’ <i>Old Ballads</i>, +vol. ii. p. 237. Edit. 1784. Mallet alludes to the +statement in the parish registry of Bowes, that ‘they both +died of love, and were buried in the same grave,’ +&c. The following is an exact copy of the entry, as +transcribed by Mr. Denham, 17th April, 1847. The words +which we have printed in brackets are found interlined in another +and a later hand by some person who had inspected the +register:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Ro<i>d</i>ger Wrightson, Jun., and Martha +Railton, both of Bowes, Buried in one grave: He <i>D</i>ied in a +Fever, and upon tolling his passing Bell, she cry’d out My +heart is broke, and in a <i>F</i>ew hours expir’d, purely +[<i>or supposed</i>] thro’ Love, March 15, 1714/5, aged +about 20 years each.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mr. Denham says:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<i>The Bowes Tragedy</i> was, I understand, +written immediately after the death of the lovers, by the then +master of Bowes Grammar School. His name I never +heard. My father, who died a few years ago (aged nearly +80), knew a younger sister of Martha Railton’s, who used to +sing it to strangers passing through Bowes. She was a poor +woman, advanced in years, and it brought her in many a piece of +money.’]</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Let</span> Carthage Queen +be now no more<br /> + The subject of our mournful song;<br /> +Nor such old tales which, heretofore,<br /> + Did so amuse the teeming throng;<br /> +Since the sad story which I’ll tell,<br /> +All other tragedies excel.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>Remote in Yorkshire, near to Bowes,<br /> + Of late did Roger Wrightson dwell;<br /> +He courted Martha Railton, whose<br /> + Repute for virtue did excel;<br /> +Yet Roger’s friends would not agree,<br /> +That he to her should married be.</p> +<p class="poetry">Their love continued one whole year,<br /> + Full sore against their parents’ will;<br /> +And when he found them so severe,<br /> + His loyal heart began to chill:<br /> +And last Shrove Tuesday, took his bed,<br /> +With grief and woe encompassèd.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus he continued twelve days’ space,<br +/> + In anguish and in grief of mind;<br /> +And no sweet peace in any case,<br /> + This ardent lover’s heart could find;<br /> +But languished in a train of grief,<br /> +Which pierced his heart beyond relief.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now anxious Martha sore distressed,<br /> + A private message did him send,<br /> +Lamenting that she could not rest,<br /> + Till she had seen her loving friend:<br /> +His answer was, ‘Nay, nay, my dear,<br /> +Our folks will angry be I fear.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Full fraught with grief, she took no rest,<br +/> + But spent her time in pain and fear,<br /> +Till a few days before his death<br /> + She sent an orange to her dear;<br /> +But’s cruel mother in disdain,<br /> +Did send the orange back again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Three days before her lover died,<br /> + Poor Martha with a bleeding heart,<br /> +To see her dying lover hied,<br /> + In hopes to ease him of his smart;<br /> +Where she’s conducted to the bed,<br /> +In which this faithful young man laid.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>Where she with doleful cries beheld,<br /> + Her fainting lover in despair;<br /> +At which her heart with sorrow filled,<br /> + Small was the comfort she had there;<br /> +Though’s mother showed her great respect,<br /> +His sister did her much reject.</p> +<p class="poetry">She stayed two hours with her dear,<br /> + In hopes for to declare her mind;<br /> +But Hannah Wrightson <a name="citation108a"></a><a +href="#footnote108a" class="citation">[108a]</a> stood so +near,<br /> + No time to do it she could find:<br /> +So that being almost dead with grief,<br /> +Away she went without relief.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tears from her eyes did flow amain,<br /> + And she full oft would sighing say,<br /> +‘My constant love, alas! is slain,<br /> + And to pale death, become a prey:<br /> +Oh, Hannah, Hannah thou art base;<br /> +Thy pride will turn to foul disgrace!’</p> +<p class="poetry">She spent her time in godly prayers,<br /> + And quiet rest did from her fly;<br /> +She to her friends full oft declares,<br /> + She could not live if he did die:<br /> +Thus she continued till the bell,<br /> +Began to sound his fatal knell.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when she heard the dismal sound,<br /> + Her godly book she cast away,<br /> +With bitter cries would pierce the ground.<br /> + Her fainting heart ’gan to decay:<br /> +She to her pensive mother said,<br /> +‘I cannot live now he is dead.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then after three short minutes’ space,<br +/> + As she in sorrow groaning lay,<br /> +A gentleman <a name="citation108b"></a><a href="#footnote108b" +class="citation">[108b]</a> did her embrace,<br /> + And mildly unto her did say,<br /> +<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +109</span>‘Dear melting soul be not so sad,<br /> +But let your passion be allayed.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Her answer was, ‘My heart is burst,<br /> + My span of life is near an end;<br /> +My love from me by death is forced,<br /> + My grief no soul can comprehend.’<br /> +Then her poor heart it waxèd faint,<br /> +When she had ended her complaint.</p> +<p class="poetry">For three hours’ space, as in a +trance,<br /> + This broken-hearted creature lay,<br /> +Her mother wailing her mischance,<br /> + To pacify her did essay:<br /> +But all in vain, for strength being past,<br /> +She seemingly did breathe her last.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her mother, thinking she was dead,<br /> + Began to shriek and cry amain;<br /> +And heavy lamentations made,<br /> + Which called her spirit back again;<br /> +To be an object of hard fate,<br /> +And give to grief a longer date.</p> +<p class="poetry">Distorted with convulsions, she,<br /> + In dreadful manner gasping lay,<br /> +Of twelve long hours no moment free,<br /> + Her bitter groans did her dismay:<br /> +Then her poor heart being sadly broke,<br /> +Submitted to the fatal stroke.</p> +<p class="poetry">When things were to this issue brought,<br /> + Both in one grave were to be laid:<br /> +But flinty-hearted Hannah thought,<br /> + By stubborn means for to persuade,<br /> +Their friends and neighbours from the same,<br /> +For which she surely was to blame.</p> +<p class="poetry">And being asked the reason why,<br /> + Such base objections she did make,<br /> +She answerèd thus scornfully,<br /> + In words not fit for Billingsgate:<br /> +<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>‘She might have taken fairer on—<br /> +Or else be hanged:’ Oh heart of stone!</p> +<p class="poetry">What hell-born fury had possessed,<br /> + Thy vile inhuman spirit thus?<br /> +What swelling rage was in thy breast,<br /> + That could occasion this disgust,<br /> +And make thee show such spleen and rage,<br /> +Which life can’t cure nor death assuage?</p> +<p class="poetry">Sure some of Satan’s minor imps,<br /> + Ordainèd were to be thy guide;<br /> +To act the part of sordid pimps,<br /> + And fill thy heart with haughty pride;<br /> +But take this caveat once for all,<br /> +Such devilish pride must have a fall.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when to church the corpse was brought,<br +/> + And both of them met at the gate;<br /> +What mournful tears by friends were shed,<br /> + When that alas it was too late,—<br /> +When they in silent grave were laid,<br /> +Instead of pleasing marriage-bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">You parents all both far and near,<br /> + By this sad story warning take;<br /> +Nor to your children be severe,<br /> + When they their choice in love do make;<br /> +Let not the love of cursèd gold,<br /> +True lovers from their love withhold.</p> +<h3>THE CRAFTY LOVER;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, THE +LAWYER OUTWITTED.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">Tune of <i>I love thee more and +more</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> excellent old ballad is +transcribed from a copy printed in Aldermary church-yard. +It still continues to be published in the old broadside +form.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Of</span> a rich counsellor +I write,<br /> +Who had one only daughter,<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>Who was +of youthful beauty bright;<br /> +Now mark what follows after. <a name="citation111"></a><a +href="#footnote111" class="citation">[111]</a><br /> +Her uncle left her, I declare,<br /> +A sumptuous large possession;<br /> +Her father he was to take care<br /> +Of her at his discretion.</p> +<p class="poetry">She had ten thousand pounds a-year,<br /> +And gold and silver ready,<br /> +And courted was by many a peer,<br /> +Yet none could gain this lady.<br /> +At length a squire’s youngest son<br /> +In private came a-wooing,<br /> +And when he had her favour won,<br /> +He feared his utter ruin.</p> +<p class="poetry">The youthful lady straightway cried,<br /> +‘I must confess I love thee,<br /> +Though lords and knights I have denied,<br /> +Yet none I prize above thee:<br /> +Thou art a jewel in my eye,<br /> +But here,’ said she, ‘the care is,—<br /> +I fear you will be doomed to die<br /> +For stealing of an heiress.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The young man he replied to her<br /> +Like a true politician;<br /> +‘Thy father is a counsellor,<br /> +I’ll tell him my condition.<br /> +Ten guineas they shall be his fee,<br /> +He’ll think it is some stranger;<br /> +Thus for the gold he’ll counsel me,<br /> +And keep me safe from danger.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>Unto her father he did go,<br /> +The very next day after;<br /> +But did not let the lawyer know<br /> +The lady was his daughter.<br /> +Now when the lawyer saw the gold<br /> +That he should be she gainer,<br /> +A pleasant trick to him he told<br /> +With safety to obtain her.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Let her provide a horse,’ he +cried,<br /> +‘And take you up behind her;<br /> +Then with you to some parson ride<br /> +Before her parents find her:<br /> +That she steals you, you may complain,<br /> +And so avoid their fury.<br /> +Now this is law I will maintain<br /> +Before or judge or jury.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Now take my writing and my seal,<br /> +Which I cannot deny thee,<br /> +And if you any trouble feel,<br /> +In court I will stand by thee.’<br /> +‘I give you thanks,’ the young man cried,<br /> +‘By you I am befriended,<br /> +And to your house I’ll bring my bride<br /> +After the work is ended.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Next morning, ere the day did break,<br /> +This news to her he carried;<br /> +She did her father’s counsel take<br /> +And they were fairly married,<br /> +And now they felt but ill at case,<br /> +And, doubts and fears expressing,<br /> +They home returned, and on their knees<br /> +They asked their father’s blessing,</p> +<p class="poetry">But when he had beheld them both,<br /> +He seemed like one distracted,<br /> +And vowed to be revenged on oath<br /> +For what they now had acted.<br /> +<a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>With +that bespoke his new-made son—<br /> +‘There can be no deceiving,<br /> +That this is law which we have done<br /> +Here is your hand and sealing!’</p> +<p class="poetry">The counsellor did then reply,<br /> +Was ever man so fitted;<br /> +‘My hand and seal I can’t deny,<br /> +By you I am outwitted.<br /> +‘Ten thousand pounds a-year in store<br /> +‘She was left by my brother,<br /> +And when I die there will be more,<br /> +For child I have no other.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘She might have had a lord or knight,<br +/> +From royal loins descended;<br /> +But, since thou art her heart’s delight,<br /> +I will not be offended;<br /> +‘If I the gordian knot should part,<br /> +‘Twere cruel out of measure;<br /> +Enjoy thy love, with all my heart,<br /> +In plenty, peace, and pleasure.’</p> +<h3>THE DEATH OF QUEEN JANE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">(TRADITIONAL.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">We</span> have seen an old printed copy +of this ballad, which was written probably about the date of the +event it records, 1537. Our version was taken down from the +singing of a young gipsy girl, to whom it had descended orally +through two generations. She could not recollect the whole +of it. In Miss Strickland’s <i>Lives of the Queens of +England</i>, we find the following passage: ‘An English +ballad is extant, which, dwelling on the elaborate mourning of +Queen Jane’s ladies, informs the world, in a line of pure +bathos,</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">In black were her +ladies, and black were their faces.’</p> +<p>Miss Strickland does not appear to have seen the ballad to +which she refers; and as we are not aware of the existence of any +other ballad on the subject, we presume that her line of +‘pure bathos’ is merely a corruption of one of the +ensuing verses.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span><span class="smcap">Queen Jane</span> was in travail<br +/> +For six weeks or more,<br /> +Till the women grew tired,<br /> +And fain would give o’er.<br /> +‘O women! O women!<br /> +Good wives if ye be,<br /> +Go, send for King Henrie,<br /> +And bring him to me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">King Henrie was sent for,<br /> +He came with all speed,<br /> +In a gownd of green velvet<br /> +From heel to the head.<br /> +‘King Henrie! King Henrie!<br /> +If kind Henrie you be,<br /> +Send for a surgeon,<br /> +And bring him to me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The surgeon was sent for,<br /> +He came with all speed,<br /> +In a gownd of black velvet<br /> +From heel to the head.<br /> +He gave her rich caudle,<br /> +But the death-sleep slept she.<br /> +Then her right side was opened,<br /> +And the babe was set free.</p> +<p class="poetry">The babe it was christened,<br /> +And put out and nursed,<br /> +While the royal Queen Jane<br /> +She lay cold in the dust.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">So black was the mourning,<br /> +And white were the wands,<br /> +Yellow, yellow the torches,<br /> +They bore in their hands.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span>The bells they were muffled,<br /> +And mournful did play,<br /> +While the royal Queen Jane<br /> +She lay cold in the clay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Six knights and six lords<br /> +Bore her corpse through the grounds;<br /> +Six dukes followed after,<br /> +In black mourning gownds.<br /> +The flower of Old England<br /> +Was laid in cold clay,<br /> +Whilst the royal King Henrie<br /> +Came weeping away.</p> +<h3>THE WANDERING YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, +CATSKIN.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following version of this +ancient English ballad has been collated with three copies. +In some editions it is called <i>Catskin’s Garland</i>; +<i>or</i>, <i>the Wandering Young Gentlewoman</i>. The +story has a close similarity to that of <i>Cinderella</i>, and is +supposed to be of oriental origin. Several versions of it +are current in Scandinavia, Germany, Italy, Poland, and +Wales. For some account of it see <i>Pictorial Book of +Ballads</i>, ii. 153, edited by Mr. J. S. Moore.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> fathers and +mothers, and children also,<br /> +Draw near unto me, and soon you shall know<br /> +The sense of my ditty, and I dare to say,<br /> +The like’s not been heard of this many a day.</p> +<p class="poetry">The subject which to you I am to relate,<br /> +It is of a young squire of vast estate;<br /> +The first dear infant his wife did him bear,<br /> +It was a young daughter of beauty most rare.</p> +<p class="poetry">He said to his wife, ‘Had this child been +a boy,<br /> +‘Twould have pleased me better, and increased my joy,<br /> +If the next be the same sort, I declare,<br /> +Of what I’m possessèd it shall have no +share.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +116</span>In twelve months’ time after, this woman, we +hear,<br /> +Had another daughter of beauty most clear;<br /> +And when that he knew it was but a female,<br /> +Into a bitter passion he presently fell,</p> +<p class="poetry">Saying, ‘Since this is of the same sort +as the first,<br /> +In my habitation she shall not be nursed;<br /> +Pray let her be sent into the countrie,<br /> +For where I am, truly, this child shall not be.’</p> +<p class="poetry">With tears his dear wife unto him did say,<br +/> +‘Husband, be contented, I’ll send her away.’<br +/> +Then to the countrie with speed her did send,<br /> +For to be brought up by one was her friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">Although that her father he hated her so,<br /> +He a good education on her did bestow;<br /> +And with a gold locket, and robes of the best,<br /> +This slighted young damsel was commonly dressed.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when unto stature this damsel was grown,<br +/> +And found from her father she had no love shown,<br /> +She cried, ‘Before I will lay under his frown,<br /> +I’m resolvèd to travel the country +around.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART II.</p> +<p class="poetry">But now mark, good people, the cream of the +jest,<br /> +In what sort of manner this creature was dressed;<br /> +With cat-skins she made her a robe, I declare,<br /> +The which for her covering she daily did wear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her own rich attire, and jewels beside,<br /> +Then up in a bundle by her they were tied,<br /> +And to seek her fortune she wandered away;<br /> +And when she had travelled a cold winter’s day,</p> +<p class="poetry">In the evening-tide she came to a town,<br /> +Where at a knight’s door she sat herself down,<br /> +For to rest herself, who was tirèd sore;—<br /> +This noble knight’s lady then came to the door.</p> +<p class="poetry">This fair creature seeing in such sort of +dress,<br /> +The lady unto her these words did express:<br /> +<a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>‘Whence camest thou, girl, and what wouldst thou +have?’<br /> +She said, ‘A night’s rest in your stable I +crave.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The lady said to her, ‘I’ll grant +thy desire,<br /> +Come into the kitchen, and stand by the fire.’<br /> +Then she thankèd the lady, and went in with haste;<br /> +And there she was gazed on from highest to least.</p> +<p class="poetry">And, being well warmed, her hunger was +great,<br /> +They gave her a plate of good food for to eat,<br /> +And then to an outhouse this creature was led,<br /> +Where with fresh straw she soon made her a bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when in the morning the daylight she +saw,<br /> +Her riches and jewels she hid in the straw;<br /> +And, being very cold, she then did retire<br /> +Into the kitchen, and stood by the fire.</p> +<p class="poetry">The cook said, ‘My lady hath promised +that thee<br /> +Shall be as a scullion to wait upon me;<br /> +What say’st thou girl, art thou willing to bide?’<br +/> +‘With all my heart truly,’ to him she replied.</p> +<p class="poetry">To work at her needle she could very well,<br +/> +And for raising of paste few could her excel;<br /> +She being so handy, the cook’s heart did win,<br /> +And then she was called by the name of Catskin.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART III.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lady a son had both comely and tall,<br /> +Who oftentimes usèd to be at a ball<br /> +A mile out of town; and one evening-tide,<br /> +To dance at this ball away he did ride.</p> +<p class="poetry">Catskin said to his mother, ‘Pray, madam, +let me<br /> +Go after your son now, this ball for to see.’<br /> +With that in a passion this lady she grew,<br /> +And struck her with the ladle, and broke it in two.</p> +<p class="poetry">On being thus servèd she quick got +away,<br /> +And in her rich garments herself did array;<br /> +And then to this ball she with speed did retire,<br /> +Where she dancèd so bravely that all did admire.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>The sport being done, the young squire did say,<br /> +‘Young lady, where do you live? tell me, I pray.’<br +/> +Her answer was to him, ‘Sir, that I will tell,—<br /> +At the sign of the broken ladle I dwell.’</p> +<p class="poetry">She being very nimble, got home first, +’tis said,<br /> +And in her catskin robes she soon was arrayed;<br /> +And into the kitchen again she did go,<br /> +But where she had been they did none of them know.</p> +<p class="poetry">Next night this young squire, to give him +content,<br /> +To dance at this ball again forth he went.<br /> +She said, ‘Pray let me go this ball for to view.’<br +/> +Then she struck with the skimmer, and broke it in two.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out of the doors she ran full of +heaviness,<br /> +And in her rich garments herself soon did dress;<br /> +And to this ball ran away with all speed,<br /> +Where to see her dancing all wondered indeed.</p> +<p class="poetry">The ball being ended, the young squire said,<br +/> +‘Where is it you live?’ She again +answerèd,<br /> +‘Sir, because you ask me, account I will give,<br /> +At the sign of the broken skimmer I live.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Being dark when she left him, she homeward did +hie,<br /> +And in her catskin robes she was dressed presently,<br /> +And into the kitchen amongst them she went,<br /> +But where she had been they were all innocent.</p> +<p class="poetry">When the squire dame home, and found Catskin +there,<br /> +He was in amaze and began for to swear;<br /> +‘For two nights at the ball has been a lady,<br /> +The sweetest of beauties that ever I did see.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘She was the best dancer in all the whole +place,<br /> +And very much like our Catskin in the face;<br /> +Had she not been dressed in that costly degree,<br /> +I should have swore it was Catskin’s body.</p> +<p class="poetry">Next night to the ball he did go once more,<br +/> +And she askèd his mother to go as before,<br /> +Who, having a basin of water in hand,<br /> +She threw it at Catskin, as I understand.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>Shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run,<br /> +And dressèd herself when this thing she had done.<br /> +To the ball once more she then went her ways;<br /> +To see her fine dancing they all gave her praise.</p> +<p class="poetry">And having concluded, the young squire said +he,<br /> +‘From whence might you come, pray, lady, tell me?’<br +/> +Her answer was, ‘Sir, you shall soon know the same,<br /> +From the sign of the basin of water I came.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then homeward she hurried, as fast as could +be;<br /> +This young squire then was resolvèd to see<br /> +Whereto she belonged, and, following Catskin,<br /> +Into an old straw house he saw her creep in.</p> +<p class="poetry">He said, ‘O brave Catskin, I find it is +thee,<br /> +Who these three nights together has so charmèd me;<br /> +Thou’rt the sweetest of creatures my eyes e’er +beheld,<br /> +With joy and content my heart now is filled.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou art our cook’s scullion, but +as I have life,<br /> +Grant me but thy love, and I’ll make thee my wife,<br /> +And thou shalt have maids for to be at thy call.’<br /> +‘Sir, that cannot be, I’ve no portion at +all.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thy beauty’s a portion, my joy and +my dear,<br /> +I prize it far better than thousands a year,<br /> +And to have my friends’ consent I have got a trick,<br /> +I’ll go to my bed, and feign myself sick.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘There no one shall tend me but thee I +profess;<br /> +So one day or another in thy richest dress,<br /> +Thou shalt be clad, and if my parents come nigh,<br /> +I’ll tell them ’tis for thee that sick I do +lie.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART IV.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus having consulted, this couple parted.<br +/> +Next day this young squire he took to his bed;<br /> +And when his dear parents this thing both perceived,<br /> +For fear of his death they were right sorely grieved.</p> +<p class="poetry">To tend him they send for a nurse speedily,<br +/> +He said, ‘None but Catskin my nurse now shall be.’<br +/> +<a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>His +parents said, ‘No, son.’ He said, ‘But +she shall,<br /> +Or else I’ll have none for to nurse me at all.’</p> +<p class="poetry">His parents both wondered to hear him say +thus,<br /> +That no one but Catskin must be his nurse;<br /> +So then his dear parents their son to content,<br /> +Up into his chamber poor Catskin they sent.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet cordials and other rich things were +prepared,<br /> +Which between this young couple were equally shared;<br /> +And when all alone they in each other’s arms,<br /> +Enjoyed one another in love’s pleasant charms.</p> +<p class="poetry">And at length on a time poor Catskin, +’tis said,<br /> +In her rich attire again was arrayed,<br /> +And when that his mother to the chamber drew near,<br /> +Then much like a goddess did Catskin appear;</p> +<p class="poetry">Which caused her to stare, and thus for to +say,<br /> +‘What young lady is this, come tell me, I pray?’<br +/> +He said, ‘It is Catskin for whom sick I lie,<br /> +And except I do have her with speed I shall die.’</p> +<p class="poetry">His mother then hastened to call up the +knight,<br /> +Who ran up to see this amazing great sight;<br /> +He said, ‘Is this Catskin we held in such scorn?<br /> +I ne’er saw a finer dame since I was born.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The old knight he said to her, ‘I prithee +tell me,<br /> +From whence thou didst come and of what family?’<br /> +Then who were her parents she gave them to know,<br /> +And what was the cause of her wandering so.</p> +<p class="poetry">The young squire he cried, ‘If you will +save my life,<br /> +Pray grant this young creature she may be my wife.’<br /> +His father replied, ‘Thy life for to save,<br /> +If you have agreed, my consent you may have.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Next day, with great triumph and joy as we +hear,<br /> +There were many coaches came far and near;<br /> +Then much like a goddess dressed in rich array,<br /> +Catskin was married to the squire that day.</p> +<p class="poetry">For several days this wedding did last,<br /> +Where was many a topping and gallant repast,<br /> +<a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>And for +joy the bells rung out all over the town,<br /> +And bottles of canary rolled merrily round.</p> +<p class="poetry">When Catskin was married, her fame for to +raise,<br /> +Who saw her modest carriage they all gave her praise;<br /> +Thus her charming beauty the squire did win;<br /> +And who lives so great now as he and Catskin.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">PART V.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now in the fifth part I’ll endeavour to +show,<br /> +How things with her parents and sister did go;<br /> +Her mother and sister of life are bereft,<br /> +And now all alone the old squire is left.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who hearing his daughter was married so +brave,<br /> +He said, ‘In my noddle a fancy I have;<br /> +Dressed like a poor man now a journey I’ll make,<br /> +And see if she on me some pity will take.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then dressed like a beggar he went to her +gate,<br /> +Where stood his daughter, who looked very great;<br /> +He cried, ‘Noble lady, a poor man I be,<br /> +And am now forced to crave charity.’</p> +<p class="poetry">With a blush she asked him from whence that he +came;<br /> +And with that he told her, and likewise his name.<br /> +She cried ‘I’m your daughter, whom you slighted +so,<br /> +Yet, nevertheless, to you kindness I’ll show.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Through mercy the Lord hath provided for +me;<br /> +Pray, father, come in and sit down then,’ said she.<br /> +Then the best provisions the house could afford,<br /> +For to make him welcome was set on the board.</p> +<p class="poetry">She said, ‘You are welcome, feed hearty, +I pray,<br /> +And, if you are willing, with me you shall stay,<br /> +So long as you live.’ Then he made this reply:<br /> +‘I only am come now thy love for to try.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Through mercy, my dear child, I’m +rich and not poor,<br /> +I have gold and silver enough now in store;<br /> +And for this love which at thy hands I have found,<br /> +For thy portion I’ll give thee ten thousand +pound.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>So in a few days after, as I understand,<br /> +This man he went home, and sold off all his land,<br /> +And ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give,<br /> +And now altogether in love they do live.</p> +<h3>THE BRAVE EARL BRAND AND THE KING OF ENGLAND’S +DAUGHTER.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">(TRADITIONAL.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> ballad, which resembles the +Danish ballad of <i>Ribolt</i>, was taken down from the +recitation of an old fiddler in Northumberland: in one verse +there is an <i>hiatus</i>, owing to the failure of the +reciter’s memory. The refrain should be repeated in +every verse.]</p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">did</span> you ever hear +of the brave Earl Brand,<br /> +Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie;<br /> +His courted the king’s daughter o’ fair England,<br +/> +I’ the brave nights so early!</p> +<p class="poetry">She was scarcely fifteen years that tide,<br /> +When sae boldly she came to his bed-side,</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, Earl Brand, how fain wad I see<br /> +A pack of hounds let loose on the lea.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, lady fair, I have no steed but +one,<br /> +But thou shalt ride and I will run.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, Earl Brand, but my father has two,<br +/> +And thou shalt have the best of tho’.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now they have ridden o’er moss and +moor,<br /> +And they have met neither rich nor poor;</p> +<p class="poetry">Till at last they met with old Carl Hood,<br /> +He’s aye for ill, and never for good.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Now Earl Brand, an ye love me,<br /> +Slay this old Carl and gar him dee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, lady fair, but that would be sair,<br +/> +To slay an auld Carl that wears grey hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘My own lady fair, I’ll not do +that,<br /> +I’ll pay him his fee . . . . . . ’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, where have ye ridden this lee lang +day,<br /> +And where have ye stown this fair lady away?’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>‘I have not ridden this lee lang day,<br /> +Nor yet have I stown this lady away;</p> +<p class="poetry">‘For she is, I trow, my sick sister,<br +/> +Whom I have been bringing fra’ Winchester.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If she’s been sick, and nigh to +dead,<br /> +What makes her wear the ribbon so red?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If she’s been sick, and like to +die,<br /> +What makes her wear the gold sae high?’</p> +<p class="poetry">When came the Carl to the lady’s yett,<br +/> +He rudely, rudely rapped thereat.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Now where is the lady of this +hall?’<br /> +‘She’s out with her maids a playing at the +ball.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Ha, ha, ha! ye are all +mista’en,<br /> +Ye may count your maidens owre again.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I met her far beyond the lea<br /> +With the young Earl Brand his leman to be.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Her father of his best men armed fifteen,<br /> +And they’re ridden after them bidene.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lady looked owre her left shoulder then,<br +/> +Says, ‘O Earl Brand we are both of us +ta’en.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If they come on me one by one,<br /> +You may stand by till the fights be done;</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But if they come on me one and all,<br +/> +You may stand by and see me fall.’</p> +<p class="poetry">They came upon him one by one,<br /> +Till fourteen battles he has won;</p> +<p class="poetry">And fourteen men he has them slain,<br /> +Each after each upon the plain.</p> +<p class="poetry">But the fifteenth man behind stole round,<br /> +And dealt him a deep and a deadly wound.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though he was wounded to the deid,<br /> +He set his lady on her steed.</p> +<p class="poetry">They rode till they came to the river Doune,<br +/> +And there they lighted to wash his wound.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>‘O, Earl Brand, I see your heart’s +blood!’<br /> +‘It’s nothing but the glent and my scarlet +hood.’</p> +<p class="poetry">They rode till they came to his mother’s +yett,<br /> +So faint and feebly he rapped thereat.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, my son’s slain, he is falling +to swoon,<br /> +And it’s all for the sake of an English loon.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, say not so, my dearest mother,<br /> +But marry her to my youngest brother—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘To a maiden true he’ll give his +hand,<br /> + Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie.</p> +<p class="poetry">To the king’s daughter o’ fair +England,<br /> +To a prize that was won by a slain brother’s brand,<br /> + I’ the brave nights so +early!’</p> +<h3>THE JOVIAL HUNTER OF BROMSGROVE;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, THE OLD +MAN AND HIS THREE SONS.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">(TRADITIONAL.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following ballad has long been +popular in Worcestershire and some of the adjoining +counties. It was printed for the first time by Mr. Allies +of Worcester, under the title of <i>The Jovial Hunter of +Bromsgrove</i>; but amongst the peasantry of that county, and the +adjoining county of Warwick, it has always been called <i>The Old +Man and his Three Sons</i>—the name given to a fragment of +the ballad still used as a nursery song in the north of England, +the chorus of which slightly varies from that of the +ballad. See post, p. 250. The title of <i>The Old Man +and his Three Sons</i> is derived from the usage of calling a +ballad after the first line—a practice that has descended +to the present day. In Shakspeare’s comedy of <i>As +You Like It</i> there appears to be an allusion to this +ballad. Le Beau says,—</p> +<p class="poetry">There comes an old man and his three sons,</p> +<p>to which Celia replies,</p> +<p class="poetry">I could match this beginning with an old +tale.—i. 2.</p> +<p>Whether <i>The Jovial Hunter</i> belongs to either +Worcestershire or Warwickshire is rather questionable. The +probability is that it is a north country ballad connected with +the family of Bolton, of Bolton, in Wensleydale. A tomb, +said to be that of Sir Ryalas Bolton, the <i>Jovial Hunter</i>, +is shown in Bromsgrove church, Worcestershire; <a +name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>but there +is no evidence beyond tradition to connect it with the name or +deeds of any ‘Bolton;’ indeed it is well known that +the tomb belongs to a family of another name. In the +following version are preserved some of the peculiarities of the +Worcestershire dialect.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Old</span> Sir Robert +Bolton had three sons,<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +And one of them was Sir Ryalas,<br /> + For he was a jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">He ranged all round down by the wood side,<br +/> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter,<br /> +Till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied,<br /> + For he was a jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh, what dost thee mean, fair +lady,’ said he,<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +‘The wild boar’s killed my lord, and has thirty men +gored,<br /> + And thou beest a jovial hunter.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh, what shall I do this wild boar for +to see?’<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +‘Oh, thee blow a blast and he’ll come unto thee,<br +/> + As thou beest a jovial hunter.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west, +and south,<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +And the wild boar then heard him full in his den,<br /> + As he was a jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he made the best of his speed unto him,<br +/> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +[Swift flew the boar, with his tusks smeared with [gore], <a +name="citation125a"></a><a href="#footnote125a" +class="citation">[125a]</a><br /> + To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the wild boar, being so stout and so +strong,<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along,<br /> + To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh, what dost thee want of me?’ +wild boar, said he, <a name="citation125b"></a><a +href="#footnote125b" class="citation">[125b]</a><br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +<a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span>‘Oh, I think in my heart I can do enough for +thee,<br /> + For I am the jovial hunter.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then they fought four hours in a long summer +day,<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +Till the wild boar fain would have got him away<br /> + From Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword with +might,<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +And he fairly cut the boar’s head off quite,<br /> + For he was a jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out of the wood the wild woman flew,<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +‘Oh, my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew,<br /> + For thou beest a jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘There are three things, I demand them of +thee,’<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +‘It’s thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady,<br +/> + As thou beest a jovial hunter.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If these three things thou dost ask of +me,’<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +‘It’s just as my sword and thy neck can agree,<br /> + For I am a jovial hunter.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then into his long locks the wild woman +flew,<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +Till she thought in her heart to tear him through,<br /> + Though he was a jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword +again,<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter,<br /> +And he fairly split her head into twain,<br /> + For he was a jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth +lie,<br /> + Wind well thy horn, good hunter;<br /> +And the wild boar’s head is pictured thereby,<br /> + Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.</p> +<h3><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>LADY +ALICE.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> old ballad is regularly +published by the stall printers. The termination resembles +that of <i>Lord Lovel</i> and other ballads. See <i>Early +Ballads</i>, Ann. Ed. p. 134. An imperfect +traditional copy was printed in <i>Notes and Queries</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lady Alice</span> was +sitting in her bower window,<br /> + At midnight mending her quoif;<br /> +And there she saw as fine a corpse<br /> + As ever she saw in her life.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men +tall?<br /> + What bear ye on your shouldèrs?’<br /> +‘We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,<br /> + An old and true lover of yours.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, lay him down gently, ye six men +tall,<br /> + All on the grass so green,<br /> +And to-morrow when the sun goes down,<br /> + Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And bury me in Saint Mary’s +Church,<br /> + All for my love so true;<br /> +And make me a garland of marjoram,<br /> + And of lemon thyme, and rue.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Giles Collins was buried all in the east,<br /> + Lady Alice all in the west;<br /> +And the roses that grew on Giles Collins’s grave,<br /> + They reached Lady Alice’s breast.</p> +<p class="poetry">The priest of the parish he chancèd to +pass,<br /> + And he severed those roses in twain.<br /> +Sure never were seen such true lovers before,<br /> + Nor e’er will there be again.</p> +<h3>THE FELON SEWE OF ROKEBY AND THE FREERES OF RICHMOND.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> very curious ballad, or, more +properly, metrical romance, was originally published by the late +Doctor Whitaker in his <i>History of Craven</i>, from an ancient +MS., which was supposed to be unique. Whitaker’s +version was transferred to Evan’s <i>Old </i><a +name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span><i>Ballads</i>, the editor of which work introduced +some judicious conjectural emendations. In reference to +this republication, Dr. Whitaker inserted the following note in +the second edition of his <i>History</i>:—</p> +<p class="poetry">This tale, saith my MS., was known of old to a +few families only, and by them held so precious, that it was +never intrusted to the memory of the son till the father was on +his death-bed. But times are altered, for since the first +edition of this work, a certain bookseller [the late Mr. Evans] +has printed it verbatim, with little acknowledgment to the first +editor. He might have recollected that <i>The Felon +Sewe</i> had been already reclaimed <i>property vested</i>. +However, as he is an ingenious and deserving man, this hint shall +suffice.—<i>History of Craven</i>, second edition, London, +1812.</p> +<p>When Sir Walter Scott published his poem of Rokeby, Doctor +Whitaker discovered that <i>The Felon Sewe</i> was not of such +‘exceeding rarity’ as he had been led to suppose; for +he was then made acquainted with the fact that another MS. of the +‘unique’ ballad was preserved in the archives of the +Rokeby family. This version was published by Scott, who +considered it superior to that printed by Whitaker; and it must +undoubtedly be admitted to be more complete, and, in general, +more correct. It has also the advantage of being +authenticated by the traditions of an ardent family; while of Dr. +Whitaker’s version we know nothing more than that it was +‘printed from a MS. in his possession.’ The +readings of the Rokeby MS., however, are not always to be +preferred; and in order to produce as full and accurate a version +as the materials would yield, the following text has been founded +upon a careful collation of both MSS. A few alterations +have been adopted, but only when the necessity for them appeared +to be self-evident; and the orthography has been rendered +tolerably uniform, for there is no good reason why we should have +‘sewe,’ ‘scho,’ and ‘sike,’ +in some places, and the more modern forms of ‘sow,’ +‘she,’ and ‘such,’ in others. If +the MSS. were correctly transcribed, which we have no ground for +doubting, they must both be referred to a much later period than +the era when the author flourished. The language of the +poem is that of Craven, in Yorkshire; and, although the +composition is acknowledged on all hands to be one of the reign +of Henry VII., the provincialisms of that most interesting +mountain district have been so little affected by the spread of +education, that the <i>Felon Sewe</i> is at the present day +perfectly comprehensible to any Craven peasant, and to such a +reader neither note nor glossary is necessary. Dr. +Whitaker’s explanations are, therefore, few and brief, for +he was thoroughly acquainted with the language and the +district. Scott, on the contrary, who knew nothing of the +<a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>dialect, +and confounded its pure Saxon with his Lowland Scotch, gives +numerous notes, which only display his want of the requisite +local knowledge, and are, consequently, calculated to +mislead.</p> +<p>The <i>Felon Sewe</i> belongs to the same class of +compositions as the <i>Hunting of the Hare</i>, reprinted by +Weber, and the <i>Tournament of Tottenham</i>, in Percy’s +<i>Reliques</i>. Scott says that ‘the comic romance +was a sort of parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel +poetry.’ This idea may be extended, for the old comic +romances were in many instances not merely ‘sorts of +parodies,’ but real parodies on compositions which were +popular in their day, although they have not descended to +us. We certainly remember to have met with an old chivalric +romance, in which the leading incidents were similar to those of +the <i>Felon Sewe</i>.</p> +<p>It may be observed, also, in reference to this poem, that the +design is twofold, the ridicule being equally aimed at the +minstrels and the clergy. The author was in all probability +a follower of Wickliffe. There are many sly satirical +allusions to the Romish faith and practices, in which no orthodox +Catholic would have ventured to indulge.</p> +<p>Ralph Rokeby, who gave the sow to the Franciscan Friars of +Richmond, is believed to have been the Ralph who lived in the +reign of Henry VII. Tradition represents the Baron as +having been ‘a fellow of infinite jest,’ and the very +man to bestow so valuable a gift on the convent! The +Mistress Rokeby of the ballad was, according to the pedigree of +the family, a daughter and heiress of Danby, of Yafforth. +Friar Theobald cannot be traced, and therefore we may suppose +that the monk had some other name; the minstrel author, albeit a +Wickliffite, not thinking it quite prudent, perhaps, to introduce +a priest <i>in propriâ personâ</i>. The story +is told with spirit, and the verse is graceful and flowing.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">FITTE THE FIRSTE.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> men that will of +aunters wynne,<br /> +That late within this lande hath bin,<br /> + Of on I will yow telle;<br /> +And of a sewe that was sea strang,<br /> +Alas! that ever scho lived sea lang,<br /> + For fell folk did scho wele. <a +name="citation129"></a><a href="#footnote129" +class="citation">[129]</a></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>Scho was mare than other three,<br /> +The grizeliest beast that ere mote bee<br /> + Her hede was greate and graye;<br /> +Scho was bred in Rokebye woode,<br /> +Ther war few that thither yoode, <a name="citation130a"></a><a +href="#footnote130a" class="citation">[130a]</a><br /> + But cam belive awaye.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her walke was endlang Greta syde,<br /> +Was no barne that colde her byde,<br /> + That was fra heven or helle; <a +name="citation130b"></a><a href="#footnote130b" +class="citation">[130b]</a><br /> +Ne never man that had that myght,<br /> +That ever durst com in her syght,<br /> + Her force it was sea felle.</p> +<p class="poetry">Raphe <a name="citation130c"></a><a +href="#footnote130c" class="citation">[130c]</a> of Rokebye, with +full gode wyll,<br /> +The freers of Richmonde gav her tyll,<br /> + Full wele to gar thayme fare;<br /> +Freer Myddeltone by name,<br /> +Hee was sent to fetch her hame,<br /> + Yt rewed him syne full sare.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wyth hym tooke hee wyght men two,<br /> +Peter of Dale was on of tho,<br /> + Tother was Bryan of Beare; <a +name="citation130d"></a><a href="#footnote130d" +class="citation">[130d]</a><br /> +Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife,<br /> +And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe,<br /> + What tyme as musters were. <a +name="citation130e"></a><a href="#footnote130e" +class="citation">[130e]</a></p> +<p class="poetry">These three men wended at theyr wyll,<br /> +This wickede sewe gwhyl they cam tyll,<br /> + <a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +131</span>Liggand under a tree;<br /> +Rugg’d and rustic was her here,<br /> +Scho rase up wyth a felon fere, <a name="citation131a"></a><a +href="#footnote131a" class="citation">[131a]</a><br /> + To fyght agen the three.</p> +<p class="poetry">Grizely was scho for to meete,<br /> +Scho rave the earthe up wyth her feete,<br /> + The barke cam fra’ the tree:<br /> +When Freer Myddeltone her saugh,<br /> +Wete yow wele hee list not laugh,<br /> + Full earnestful luik’d hee.</p> +<p class="poetry">These men of auncestors <a +name="citation131b"></a><a href="#footnote131b" +class="citation">[131b]</a> were so wight,<br /> +They bound them bauldly for to fyght,<br /> + And strake at her full sare;<br /> +Until a kilne they garred her flee,<br /> +Wolde God sende thayme the victorye,<br /> + They wolde aske hym na maire.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sewe was in the kilne hoile doone,<br /> +And they wer on the bawke aboone,<br /> + For hurting of theyr feete;<br /> +They wer sea sauted <a name="citation131c"></a><a +href="#footnote131c" class="citation">[131c]</a> wyth this +sewe,<br /> +That ’mang thayme was a stalwarth stewe,<br /> + The kilne began to reeke!</p> +<p class="poetry">Durst noe man nighe her wyth his hande,<br /> +But put a rape downe wyth a wande,<br /> + And heltered her ful meete;<br /> +They hauled her furth agen her wyll,<br /> +Qunyl they cam until a hille,<br /> + A little fra the streete. <a +name="citation131d"></a><a href="#footnote131d" +class="citation">[131d]</a></p> +<p class="poetry">And ther scho made thayme sike a fray,<br /> +As, had they lived until Domesday,<br /> + <a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>They colde yt nere forgette:<br /> +Scho brayded upon every syde,<br /> +And ranne on thayme gapyng ful wyde,<br /> + For nathing wolde scho lette.</p> +<p class="poetry">Scho gaf sike hard braydes at the bande<br /> +That Peter of Dale had in his hande,<br /> + Hee myght not holde hys feete;<br /> +Scho chasèd thayme sea to and fro,<br /> +The wight men never wer sea woe,<br /> + Ther mesure was not mete.</p> +<p class="poetry">Scho bound her boldly to abide,<br /> +To Peter of Dale scho cam aside,<br /> + Wyth mony a hideous yelle;<br /> +Scho gaped sea wide and cryed sea hee,<br /> +The freer sayd, ‘I conjure thee,<br /> + Thou art a fiend of helle!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou art comed hider for sum trayne,<br +/> +I conjure thee to go agayne,<br /> + Wher thou was wont to dwell.’<br /> +He sainèd hym wyth crosse and creede,<br /> +Tooke furth a booke, began to reade,<br /> + In Ste Johan hys gospell.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sewe scho wolde not Latyne heare,<br /> +But rudely rushèd at the freer,<br /> + That blynkèd all his blee; <a +name="citation132a"></a><a href="#footnote132a" +class="citation">[132a]</a><br /> +And when scho wolde have takken holde,<br /> +The freer leapt as I. H. S. wolde, <a name="citation132b"></a><a +href="#footnote132b" class="citation">[132b]</a><br /> + And bealed hym wyth a tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">Scho was brim as anie beare,<br /> +For all their meete to laboure there,<br /> + <a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>To thayme yt was noe boote;<br /> +On tree and bushe that by her stode,<br /> +Scho vengèd her as scho wer woode,<br /> + And rave thayme up by roote.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hee sayd, ‘Alas that I wer freer,<br /> +I shal bee hugged asunder here,<br /> + Hard is my destinie!<br /> +Wiste my brederen, in this houre,<br /> +That I was set in sike a stoure,<br /> + They wolde pray for mee!’</p> +<p class="poetry">This wicked beaste thatte wrought the woe,<br +/> +Tooke that rape from the other two,<br /> + And than they fledd all three;<br /> +They fledd away by Watling streete,<br /> +They had no succour but their feete,<br /> + Yt was the maire pittye.</p> +<p class="poetry">The fielde it was both loste and wonne,<br /> +The sewe wente hame, and thatte ful soone,<br /> + To Morton-on-the-Greene.<br /> +When Raphe of Rokeby saw the rape,<br /> +He wist that there had bin debate,<br /> + Whereat the sewe had beene.</p> +<p class="poetry">He bade thayme stand out of her waye,<br /> +For scho had had a sudden fraye,—<br /> + ‘I saw never sewe sea keene,<br /> +Some new thingis shall wee heare,<br /> +Of her and Myddeltone the freer,<br /> + Some battel hath ther beene.’</p> +<p class="poetry">But all that servèd him for +nought,—<br /> +Had they not better succour sought, <a name="citation133"></a><a +href="#footnote133" class="citation">[133]</a><br /> + They wer servèd therfore loe.<br /> +Then Mistress Rokebye came anon,<br /> +And for her brought scho meete ful soone,<br /> + The sewe cam her untoe.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>Scho gav her meete upon the flower;<br /> +[Scho made a bed beneath a bower,<br /> + With moss and broom besprent;<br /> +The sewe was gentle as mote be,<br /> +Ne rage ne ire flashed fra her e’e,<br /> + Scho seemèd wele content.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center">FITTE THE SECONDE.</p> +<p class="poetry">When Freer Myddeltone com home,<br /> +Hys breders war ful faine ilchone,<br /> + And thanked God for hys lyfe;<br /> +He told thayme all unto the ende,<br /> +How hee had foughten wyth a fiende,<br /> + And lived thro’ mickle stryfe.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Wee gav her battel half a daye,<br /> +And was faine to flee awaye<br /> + For saving of oure lyfe;<br /> +And Peter Dale wolde never blin,<br /> +But ran as faste as he colde rinn,<br /> + Till he cam till hys wyfe.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The Warden sayde, ‘I am ful woe<br /> +That yow sholde bee torment soe,<br /> + But wee had wyth yow beene!<br /> +Had wee bene ther, yowr breders alle,<br /> +Wee wolde hav garred the warlo <a name="citation134"></a><a +href="#footnote134" class="citation">[134]</a> falle,<br /> + That wrought yow all thys teene.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Freer Myddeltone, he sayde soon, +‘Naye,<br /> +In faythe ye wolde hav ren awaye,<br /> + When moste misstirre had bin;<br /> +Ye all can speke safte wordes at home,<br /> +The fiend wolde ding yow doone ilk on,<br /> + An yt bee als I wene,</p> +<p class="poetry">Hee luik’d sea grizely al that +nyght.’<br /> +The Warden sayde, ‘Yon man wol fyght<br /> + <a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>If ye saye ought but gode,<br /> +Yon guest <a name="citation135a"></a><a href="#footnote135a" +class="citation">[135a]</a> hath grievèd hym sea sore;<br +/> +Holde your tongues, and speake ne more,<br /> + Hee luiks als hee wer woode.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The Warden wagèd <a +name="citation135b"></a><a href="#footnote135b" +class="citation">[135b]</a> on the morne,<br /> +Two boldest men that ever wer borne,<br /> + I weyne, or ere shall bee:<br /> +Tone was Gilbert Griffin sonne,<br /> +Ful mickle worship hadde hee wonne,<br /> + Both by land and sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tother a bastard sonne of Spaine,<br /> +Mony a Sarazin hadde hee slaine;<br /> + Hys dint hadde garred thayme dye.<br /> +Theis men the battel undertoke<br /> +Agen the sewe, as saythe the boke,<br /> + And sealed securitye,</p> +<p class="poetry">That they shold boldly bide and fyghte,<br /> +And scomfit her in maine and myghte,<br /> + Or therfor sholde they dye.<br /> +The Warden sealed toe thayme againe,<br /> +And sayde, ‘If ye in fielde be slaine,<br /> + This condition make I:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Wee shall for yow praye, syng, and +reade,<br /> +Until Domesdaye wyth heartye speede,<br /> + With al our progenie.’<br /> +Then the lettres wer wele made,<br /> +The bondes wer bounde wyth seales brade,<br /> + As deeds of arms sholde bee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Theise men-at-arms thatte wer sea wight,<br /> +And wyth theire armour burnished bryght,<br /> + They went the sewe toe see.<br /> +Scho made at thayme sike a roare,<br /> +That for her they fear it sore,<br /> + And almaiste bounde to flee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>Scho cam runnyng thayme agayne,<br /> +And saw the bastarde sonne of Spaine,<br /> + Hee brayded owt hys brande;<br /> +Ful spiteouslie at her hee strake,<br /> +Yet for the fence that he colde make,<br /> + Scho strake it fro hys hande,<br /> +And rave asander half hys sheelde,<br /> +And bare hym backwerde in the fielde,<br /> + Hee mought not her gainstande.</p> +<p class="poetry">Scho wolde hav riven hys privich geare,<br /> +But Gilbert wyth hys swerde of warre,<br /> + Hee strake at her ful strang.<br /> +In her shouther hee held the swerde;<br /> +Than was Gilbert sore afearde,<br /> + When the blade brak in twang.</p> +<p class="poetry">And whan in hande hee had her ta’en,<br +/> +Scho toke hym by the shouther bane,<br /> + And held her hold ful faste;<br /> +Scho strave sea stifflie in thatte stoure,<br /> +Scho byt thro’ ale hys rich armoure,<br /> + Till bloud cam owt at laste.</p> +<p class="poetry">Than Gilbert grievèd was sea sare,<br /> +That hee rave off the hyde of haire;<br /> + The flesh cam fra the bane,<br /> +And wyth force hee held her ther,<br /> +And wanne her worthilie in warre,<br /> + And band her hym alane;</p> +<p class="poetry">And lifte her on a horse sea hee,<br /> +Into two panyers made of a tree,<br /> + And toe Richmond anon.<br /> +When they sawe the felon come,<br /> +They sange merrilye Te Deum!<br /> + The freers evrich one.</p> +<p class="poetry">They thankyd God and Saynte Frauncis,<br /> +That they had wonne the beaste of pris,<br /> + <a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span>And nere a man was sleyne:<br /> +There never didde man more manlye,<br /> +The Knyght Marone, or Sir Guye,<br /> + Nor Louis of Lothraine.</p> +<p class="poetry">If yow wyl any more of thys,<br /> +I’ the fryarie at Richmond <a name="citation137"></a><a +href="#footnote137" class="citation">[137]</a> written yt is,<br +/> + In parchment gude and fyne,<br /> +How Freer Myddeltone sea hende,<br /> +Att Greta Bridge conjured a fiende,<br /> + In lykeness of a swyne.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yt is wel knowen toe manie a man,<br /> +That Freer Theobald was warden than,<br /> + And thys fel in hys tyme.<br /> +And Chryst thayme bles both ferre and nere,<br /> +Al that for solas this doe here,<br /> + And hym that made the ryme.</p> +<p class="poetry">Raphe of Rokeby wid ful gode wyl,<br /> +The freers of Richmond gav her tyll,<br /> + This sewe toe mende ther fare;<br /> +Freer Myddeltone by name,<br /> +He wold bring the felon hame,<br /> + That rewed hym sine ful sare.</p> +<h2><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>Songs.</h2> +<h3>ARTHUR O’BRADLEY’S WEDDING.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">In</span> the ballad called <i>Robin +Hood</i>, <i>his Birth</i>, <i>Breeding</i>, <i>Valour and +Marriage</i>, occurs the following line:—</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">And some singing +Arthur-a-Bradley.</p> +<p>Antiquaries are by no means agreed as to what is the song of +<i>Arthur-a-Bradley</i>, there alluded to, for it so happens that +there are no less than three different songs about this same +Arthur-a-Bradley. Ritson gives one of them in his <i>Robin +Hood</i>, commencing thus:—</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">See you not Pierce +the piper.</p> +<p>He took it from a black-letter copy in a private collection, +compared with, and very much corrected by, a copy contained in +<i>An Antidote against Melancholy</i>, <i>made up in pills +compounded of witty Ballads</i>, <i>jovial Songs</i>, <i>and +merry Catches</i>, 1661. Ritson quotes another, and +apparently much more modern song on the same subject, and to the +same tune, beginning,—</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">All in the merry +month of May.</p> +<p>It is a miserable composition, as may be seen by referring to +a copy preserved in the third volume of the Roxburgh +Ballads. There is another song, the one given by us, which +appears to be as ancient as any of those of which Arthur +O’Bradley is the hero, and from its subject being a +wedding, as also from its being the only Arthur O’Bradley +song that we have been enabled to trace in broadside and +chap-books of the last century, we are induced to believe that it +may be the song mentioned in the old ballad, which is supposed to +have been written in the reign of Charles I. An obscure +music publisher, who about thirty years ago resided in the +Metropolis, brought out an edition of <i>Arthur +O’Bradley’s Wedding</i>, with the prefix +‘Written by Mr. Taylor.’ This Mr. Taylor was, +however, only a low comedian of the day, and the ascribed +authorship was a mere trick on the publisher’s part to +increase the sale of the song. We are not able to give any +account of the hero, but from his being alluded to by so <a +name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>many of our +old writers, he was, perhaps, not altogether a fictitious +personage. Ben Jonson names him in one of his plays, and he +is also mentioned in Dekker’s <i>Honest Whore</i>. Of +one of the tunes mentioned in the song, viz., <i>Hence</i>, +<i>Melancholy</i>! we can give no account; the +other,—<i>Mad Moll</i>, may be found in Playford’s +<i>Dancing-Master</i>, 1698: it is the same tune as the one known +by the names of <i>Yellow Stockings</i> and the <i>Virgin +Queen</i>, the latter title seeming to connect it with Queen +Elizabeth, as the name of Mad Moll does with the history of Mary, +who was subject to mental aberration. The words of <i>Mad +Moll</i> are not known to exist, but probably consisted of some +fulsome panegyric on the virgin queen, at the expense of her +unpopular sister. From the mention of <i>Hence</i>, +<i>Melancholy</i>, and <i>Mad Moll</i>, it is presumed that they +were both popular favourites when <i>Arthur +O’Bradley’s Wedding</i> was written. A good +deal of vulgar grossness has been at different times introduced +into this song, which seems in this respect to be as elastic as +the French chanson, <i>Cadet Rouselle</i>, which is always being +altered, and of which there are no two copies alike. The +tune of <i>Arthur O’Bradley</i> is given by Mr. Chappell in +his <i>Popular Music</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span>, neighbours, +and listen awhile,<br /> + If ever you wished to smile,<br /> +Or hear a true story of old,<br /> +Attend to what I now unfold!<br /> +’Tis of a lad whose fame did resound<br /> +Through every village and town around,<br /> +For fun, for frolic, and for whim,<br /> +None ever was to equal him,<br /> +And his name was Arthur O’Bradley!<br /> + O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur +O’Bradley!<br /> + Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, Arthur being stout and bold,<br /> +And near upon thirty years old,<br /> +He needs a wooing would go,<br /> +To get him a helpmate, you know.<br /> +So, gaining young Dolly’s consent,<br /> +Next to be married they went;<br /> +And to make himself noble appear,<br /> +He mounted the old padded mare;<br /> +<a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>He chose +her because she was blood,<br /> +And the prime of his old daddy’s stud.<br /> +She was wind-galled, spavined, and blind,<br /> +And had lost a near leg behind;<br /> +She was cropped, and docked, and fired,<br /> +And seldom, if ever, was tired,<br /> +She had such an abundance of bone;<br /> +So he called her his high-bred roan,<br /> +A credit to Arthur O’Bradley!<br /> + O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur +O’Bradley!<br /> + Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he packed up his drudgery hose,<br /> +And put on his holiday clothes;<br /> +His coat was of scarlet so fine,<br /> +Full trimmed with buttons behind;<br /> +Two sleeves it had it is true,<br /> +One yellow, the other was blue,<br /> +And the cuffs and the capes were of green,<br /> +And the longest that ever were seen;<br /> +His hat, though greasy and tore,<br /> +Cocked up with a feather before,<br /> +And under his chin it was tied,<br /> +With a strip from an old cow’s hide;<br /> +His breeches three times had been turned,<br /> +And two holes through the left side were burned;<br /> +Two boots he had, but not kin,<br /> +One leather, the other was tin;<br /> +And for stirrups he had two patten rings,<br /> +Tied fast to the girth with two strings;<br /> +Yet he wanted a good saddle cloth,<br /> +Which long had been eat by the moth.<br /> +’Twas a sad misfortune, you’ll say,<br /> +But still he looked gallant and gay,<br /> +And his name it was Arthur O’Bradley!<br /> + O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur +O’Bradley!<br /> + Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>Thus accoutred, away he did ride,<br /> +While Dolly she walked by his side;<br /> +Till coming up to the church door,<br /> +In the midst of five thousand or more,<br /> +Then from the old mare he did alight,<br /> +Which put the clerk in a fright;<br /> +And the parson so fumbled and shook,<br /> +That presently down dropped his book.<br /> +Then Arthur began for to sing,<br /> +And made the whole church to ring;<br /> +Crying, ‘Dolly, my dear, come hither,<br /> +And let us be tacked together;<br /> +For the honour of Arthur O’Bradley!’<br /> + O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur +O’Bradley!<br /> + Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the vicar discharged his duty,<br /> +Without either reward or fee,<br /> +Declaring no money he’d have;<br /> +And poor Arthur he’d none to give:<br /> +So, to make him a little amends,<br /> +He invited him home with his friends,<br /> +To have a sweet kiss at the bride,<br /> +And eat a good dinner beside.<br /> +The dishes, though few, were good,<br /> +And the sweetest of animal food:<br /> +First, a roast guinea-pig and a bantam,<br /> +A sheep’s head stewed in a lanthorn, <a +name="citation141"></a><a href="#footnote141" +class="citation">[141]</a><br /> +Two calves’ feet, and a bull’s trotter,<br /> +The fore and hind leg of an otter,<br /> +With craw-fish, cockles, and crabs,<br /> +Lump-fish, limpets, and dabs,<br /> +Red herrings and sprats, by dozens,<br /> +To feast all their uncles and cousins;<br /> +<a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>Who +seemed well pleased with their treat,<br /> +And heartily they did all eat,<br /> +For the honour of Arthur O’Bradley!<br /> + O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur +O’Bradley!<br /> + Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, the guests being well satisfied,<br /> +The fragments were laid on one side,<br /> +When Arthur, to make their hearts merry,<br /> +Brought ale, and parkin, <a name="citation142"></a><a +href="#footnote142" class="citation">[142]</a> and perry;<br /> +When Timothy Twig stept in,<br /> +With his pipe, and a pipkin of gin.<br /> +A lad that was pleasant and jolly,<br /> +And scorned to meet melancholy;<br /> +He would chant and pipe so well,<br /> +No youth could him excel.<br /> +Not Pan the god of the swains,<br /> +Could ever produce such strains;<br /> +But Arthur, being first in the throng,<br /> +He swore he would sing the first song,<br /> +And one that was pleasant and jolly:<br /> +And that should be ‘Hence, Melancholy!’<br /> +‘Now give me a dance,’ quoth Doll,<br /> +‘Come, Jeffrery, play up Mad Moll,<br /> +’Tis time to be merry and frisky,—<br /> +But first I must have some more whiskey.’<br /> +‘Oh! you’re right,’ says Arthur, ‘my +love!<br /> +My daffy-down-dilly! my dove!<br /> +My everything! my wife!<br /> +I ne’er was so pleased in my life,<br /> +Since my name it was Arthur O’Bradley!’<br /> + O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur +O’Bradley!<br /> + Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the piper he screwed up his bags,<br /> +And the girls began shaking their rags;<br /> +<a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>First up +jumped old Mother Crewe,<br /> +Two stockings, and never a shoe.<br /> +Her nose was crookèd and long,<br /> +Which she could easily reach with her tongue;<br /> +And a hump on her back she did not lack,<br /> +But you should take no notice of that;<br /> +And her mouth stood all awry,<br /> +And she never was heard to lie,<br /> +For she had been dumb from her birth;<br /> +So she nodded consent to the mirth,<br /> +For honour of Arthur O’Bradley.<br /> + O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur +O’Bradley!<br /> + Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the parson led off at the top,<br /> +Some danced, while others did hop;<br /> +While some ran foul of the wall,<br /> +And others down backwards did fall.<br /> +There was lead up and down, figure in,<br /> +Four hands across, then back again.<br /> +So in dancing they spent the whole night,<br /> +Till bright Phoebus appeared in their sight;<br /> +When each had a kiss of the bride,<br /> +And hopped home to his own fire-side:<br /> +Well pleased was Arthur O’Bradley!<br /> + O! rare Arthur O’Bradley! wonderful Arthur +O’Bradley!<br /> + Sweet Arthur O’Bradley, O!</p> +<h3>THE PAINFUL PLOUGH.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> is one of our oldest +agricultural ditties, and maintains its popularity to the present +hour. It is called for at merry-makings and feasts in every +part of the country. The tune is in the minor key, and of a +pleasing character.]</p> +<p class="poetry">‘<span class="smcap">Come</span>, all you +jolly ploughmen, of courage stout and bold,<br /> +That labour all the winter in stormy winds, and cold;<br /> +<a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>To +clothe the fields with plenty, your farm-yards to renew,<br /> +To crown them with contentment, behold the painful +plough!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Hold! ploughman,’ said the +gardener, ‘don’t count your trade with ours,<br /> +Walk through the garden, and view the early flowers;<br /> +Also the curious border and pleasant walks go view,—<br /> +There’s none such peace and plenty performèd by the +plough!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Hold! gardener,’ said the +ploughman, ‘my calling don’t despise,<br /> +Each man for his living upon his trade relies;<br /> +Were it not for the ploughman, both rich and poor would rue,<br +/> +For we are all dependent upon the painful plough.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Adam in the garden was sent to keep it +right,<br /> +But the length of time he stayed there, I believe it was one +night;<br /> +Yet of his own labour, I call it not his due,<br /> +Soon he lost his garden, and went to hold the plough.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘For Adam was a ploughman when ploughing +first begun,<br /> +The next that did succeed him was Cain, the eldest son;<br /> +Some of the generation this calling now pursue;<br /> +That bread may not be wanting, remains the painful plough.</p> +<p class="poetry">Samson was the strongest man, and Solomon was +wise,<br /> +Alexander for to conquer ’twas all his daily prise;<br /> +King David was valiant, and many thousands slew,<br /> +Yet none of these brave heroes could live without the plough!</p> +<p class="poetry">Behold the wealthy merchant, that trades in +foreign seas,<br /> +And brings home gold and treasure for those who live at ease;<br +/> +With fine silks and spices, and fruits also, too,<br /> +They are brought from the Indies by virtue of the plough.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>‘For they must have bread, biscuit, rice pudding, +flour and peas,<br /> +To feed the jolly sailors as they sail o’er the seas;<br /> +And the man that brings them will own to what is true,<br /> +He cannot sail the ocean without the painful plough!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I hope there’s none offended at me +for singing this,<br /> +For it is not intended for anything amiss.<br /> +If you consider rightly, you’ll find what I say is true,<br +/> +For all that you can mention depends upon the plough.’</p> +<h3>THE USEFUL PLOW;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, THE +PLOUGH’S PRAISE.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> common editions of this +popular song inform us that it is taken ‘from an Old +Ballad,’ alluding probably to the dialogue given at page +44. This song is quoted by Farquhar.]</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">country</span> life is +sweet!<br /> +In moderate cold and heat,<br /> + To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair!<br /> +In every field of wheat,<br /> + The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers,<br /> +And every meadow’s brow;<br /> + To that I say, no courtier may<br /> + Compare with they who clothe in grey,<br /> +And follow the useful plow.</p> +<p class="poetry">They rise with the morning lark,<br /> +And labour till almost dark;<br /> + Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;<br +/> +While every pleasant park<br /> + Next morning is ringing with birds that are +singing,<br /> +On each green, tender bough.<br /> + With what content, and merriment,<br /> + Their days are spent, whose minds are bent<br /> +To follow the useful plow.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>The gallant that dresses fine,<br /> +And drinks his bottles of wine,<br /> + Were he to be tried, his feathers of pride,<br /> +Which deck and adorn his back,<br /> + Are tailors’ and mercers’, and other men +dressers,<br /> +For which they do dun them now.<br /> + But Ralph and Will no compters fill<br /> + For tailor’s bill, or garments still,<br /> +But follow the useful plow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Their hundreds, without remorse,<br /> +Some spend to keep dogs and horse,<br /> + Who never would give, as long as they live,<br /> +Not two-pence to help the poor;<br /> + Their wives are neglected, and harlots respected;<br +/> +This grieves the nation now;<br /> + But ’tis not so with us that go<br /> + Where pleasures flow, to reap and mow,<br /> +And follow the useful plow.</p> +<h3>THE FARMER’S SON.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> song, familiar to the +dwellers in the dales of Yorkshire, was published in 1729, in the +<i>Vocal Miscellany</i>; <i>a collection of about four hundred +celebrated songs</i>. As the <i>Miscellany</i> was merely +an anthology of songs already well known, the date of this song +must have been sometime anterior to 1729. It was +republished in the <i>British Musical Miscellany</i>, <i>or the +Delightful Grove</i>, 1796, and in a few other old song +books. It was evidently founded on an old black-letter +dialogue preserved in the Roxburgh collection, called <i>A Mad +Kinde of Wooing</i>; <i>or</i>, <i>a Dialogue between Will the +Simple and Nan the Subtill</i>, <i>with their loving +argument</i>. To the tune of the New Dance at the Red Bull +Playhouse. Printed by the assignees of Thomas Symcock.]</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘<span +class="smcap">Sweet</span> Nelly! my heart’s delight!<br /> + Be loving, and do not slight<br /> +The proffer I make, for modesty’s sake:—<br /> + I honour your beauty bright.<br /> +<a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>For +love, I profess, I can do no less,<br /> + Thou hast my favour won:<br /> +And since I see your modesty,<br /> +I pray agree, and fancy me,<br /> + Though I’m but a farmer’s son.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘No! I am a lady +gay,<br /> + ’Tis very well known I may<br /> +Have men of renown, in country or town;<br /> + So! Roger, without delay,<br /> +Court Bridget or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue,<br /> + Their loves will soon be won;<br /> +But don’t you dare to speak me fair,<br /> +As if I were at my last prayer,<br /> + To marry a farmer’s son.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘My father has +riches’ store,<br /> + Two hundred a year, and more;<br /> +Beside sheep and cows, carts, harrows, and ploughs;<br /> + His age is above threescore.<br /> +And when he does die, then merrily I<br /> + Shall have what he has won;<br /> +Both land and kine, all shall be thine,<br /> +If thou’lt incline, and wilt be mine,<br /> + And marry a farmer’s son.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘A fig for your cattle +and corn!<br /> + Your proffered love I scorn!<br /> +’Tis known very well, my name is Nell,<br /> + And you’re but a bumpkin born.’<br /> +‘Well! since it is so, away I will go,—<br /> + And I hope no harm is done;<br /> +Farewell, adieu!—I hope to woo<br /> +As good as you,—and win her, too,<br /> + Though I’m but a farmer’s +son.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘Be not in such +haste,’ quoth she,<br /> + ‘Perhaps we may still agree;<br /> +For, man, I protest I was but in jest!<br /> + Come, prythee sit down by me;<br /> +<a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>For thou +art the man that verily can<br /> + Win me, if e’er I’m won;<br /> +Both straight and tall, genteel withal;<br /> +Therefore, I shall be at your call,<br /> + To marry a farmer’s son.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘Dear lady! believe me +now<br /> + I solemnly swear and vow,<br /> +No lords in their lives take pleasure in wives,<br /> + Like fellows that drive the plough:<br /> +For whatever they gain with labour and pain,<br /> + They don’t with ’t to harlots run,<br /> +As courtiers do. I never knew<br /> +A London beau that could outdo<br /> + A country farmer’s son.’</p> +<h3>THE FARMER’S BOY.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mr. Denham</span> of Piersbridge, who +communicates the following, says—‘there is no +question that the <i>Farmer’s Boy</i> is a very ancient +song; it is highly popular amongst the north country lads and +lasses.’ The date of the composition may probably be +referred to the commencement of the last century, when there +prevailed amongst the ballad-mongers a great rage for +<i>Farmers’ Sons</i>, <i>Plough Boys</i>, <i>Milk +Maids</i>, <i>Farmers’ Boys</i>, &c. &c. The +song is popular all over the country, and there are numerous +printed copies, ancient and modern.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sun had set +behind yon hills,<br /> + Across yon dreary moor,<br /> +Weary and lame, a boy there came<br /> + Up to a farmer’s door:<br /> +‘Can you tell me if any there be<br /> + That will give me employ,<br /> +To plow and sow, and reap and mow,<br /> + And be a farmer’s boy?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘My father is dead, and mother is left<br +/> + With five children, great and small;<br /> +And what is worse for mother still,<br /> + I’m the oldest of them all.<br /> +<a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>Though +little, I’ll work as hard as a Turk,<br /> + If you’ll give me employ,<br /> +To plow and sow, and reap and mow,<br /> + And be a farmer’s boy.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And if that you won’t me +employ,<br /> + One favour I’ve to ask,—<br /> +Will you shelter me, till break of day,<br /> + From this cold winter’s blast?<br /> +At break of day, I’ll trudge away<br /> + Elsewhere to seek employ,<br /> +To plow and sow, and reap and mow,<br /> + And be a farmer’s boy.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Come, try the lad,’ the mistress +said,<br /> + ‘Let him no further seek.’<br /> +‘O, do, dear father!’ the daughter cried,<br /> + While tears ran down her cheek:<br /> +‘He’d work if he could, so ’tis hard to want +food,<br /> + And wander for employ;<br /> +Don’t turn him away, but let him stay,<br /> + And be a farmer’s boy.’</p> +<p class="poetry">And when the lad became a man,<br /> + The good old farmer died,<br /> +And left the lad the farm he had,<br /> + And his daughter for his bride.<br /> +The lad that was, the farm now has,<br /> + Oft smiles, and thinks with joy<br /> +Of the lucky day he came that way,<br /> + To be a farmer’s boy.</p> +<h3>RICHARD OF TAUNTON DEAN;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, DUMBLE +DUM DEARY.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> song is very popular with the +country people in every part of England, but more particularly +with the inhabitants of the counties of Somerset, Devon, and +Cornwall. <a name="citation149"></a><a href="#footnote149" +class="citation">[149]</a> The chorus is <a +name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>peculiar to +country songs of the West of England. There are many +different versions. The following one, communicated by Mr. +Sandys, was taken down from the singing of an old blind fiddler, +‘who,’ says Mr. Sandys, ‘used to accompany it +on his instrument in an original and humorous manner; a +representative of the old minstrels!’ The air is in +<i>Popular Music</i>. In Halliwell’s <i>Nursery +Rhymes of England</i> there is a version of this song, called +<i>Richard of Dalton Dale</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span><span class="smcap">Last</span> New-Year’s day, +as I’ve heerd say, <a name="citation151"></a><a +href="#footnote151" class="citation">[151]</a><br /> +Young Richard he mounted his dapple grey,<br /> +And he trotted along to Taunton Dean,<br /> +To court the parson’s daughter, Jean.<br /> + Dumble dum deary, dumble dum +deary,<br /> + Dumble dum deary, dumble dum +dee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>With buckskin breeches, shoes and hose,<br /> +And Dicky put on his Sunday clothes;<br /> +Likewise a hat upon his head,<br /> +All bedaubed with ribbons red.</p> +<p class="poetry">Young Richard he rode without dread or fear,<br +/> +Till he came to the house where lived his sweet dear,<br /> +When he knocked, and shouted, and bellowed, ‘Hallo!<br /> +Be the folks at home? say aye or no.’</p> +<p class="poetry">A trusty servant let him in,<br /> +That he his courtship might begin;<br /> +Young Richard he walked along the great hall,<br /> +And loudly for mistress Jean did call.</p> +<p class="poetry">Miss Jean she came without delay,<br /> +To hear what Dicky had got to say;<br /> +‘I s’pose you knaw me, mistress Jean,<br /> +I’m honest Richard of Taunton Dean.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I’m an honest fellow, although I +be poor,<br /> +And I never was in love afore;<br /> +My mother she bid me come here for to woo,<br /> +And I can fancy none but you.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Suppose that I would be your bride,<br +/> +Pray how would you for me provide?<br /> +For I can neither sew nor spin;—<br /> +Pray what will your day’s work bring in?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why, I can plough, and I can zow,<br /> +And zometimes to the market go<br /> +With Gaffer Johnson’s straw or hay,<br /> +And yarn my ninepence every day!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Ninepence a-day will never do,<br /> +For I must have silks and satins too!<br /> +Ninepence a day won’t buy us meat!’<br /> +‘Adzooks!’ says Dick, ‘I’ve a zack of +wheat;</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Besides, I have a house hard by,<br /> +’Tis all my awn, when mammy do die;<br /> +<a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>If thee +and I were married now,<br /> +Ods! I’d feed thee as fat as my feyther’s old +zow.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Dick’s compliments did so delight,<br /> +They made the family laugh outright;<br /> +Young Richard took huff, and no more would say,<br /> +He kicked up old Dobbin, and trotted away,<br /> + Singing, dumble dum deary, +&c.</p> +<h3>WOOING SONG OF A YEOMAN OF KENT’S SONNE.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following song is the original +of a well-known and popular Scottish song:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I hae laid a herring in saut;<br /> +Lass, ’gin ye lo’e me, tell me now!<br /> +I ha’e brewed a forpit o’ maut,<br /> +An’ I canna come ilka day to woo.’</p> +<p>There are modern copies of our Kentish <i>Wooing Song</i>, but +the present version is taken from <i>Melismata</i>, <i>Musical +phansies fitting the court</i>, <i>citie</i>, <i>and +countree</i>. <i>To</i> 3, 4, and 5 <i>voyces</i>. +London, printed by William Stansby, for Thomas Adams, 1611. +The tune will be found in <i>Popular Music</i>, I., 90. The +words are in the Kentish dialect.]</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Ich</span> have house and land in Kent,<br /> + And if you’ll love me, love +me now;<br /> + Two-pence half-penny is my rent,—<br /> + Ich cannot come every day to +woo.<br /> +<i>Chorus</i>. Two-pence half-penny is his rent,<br /> + And he cannot +come every day to woo.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Ich am my vather’s +eldest zonne,<br /> + My mouther eke doth love me +well!<br /> + For Ich can bravely clout my shoone,<br /> + And Ich full-well can ring a +bell.<br /> +<i>Cho</i>. For he can bravely clout his shoone,<br /> + And he full well +can ring a bell. <a name="citation153"></a><a href="#footnote153" +class="citation">[153]</a></p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page154"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 154</span>My vather he gave me a hogge,<br /> + My mouther she gave me a zow;<br +/> + Ich have a god-vather dwells there by,<br /> + And he on me bestowed a plow.<br +/> +<i>Cho</i>. He has a god-vather dwells there by,<br /> + And he on him +bestowed a plow.</p> +<p class="poetry"> One time Ich gave thee a +paper of pins,<br /> + Anoder time a taudry lace;<br /> + And if thou wilt not grant me love,<br /> + In truth Ich die bevore thy +vace.<br /> +<i>Cho</i>. And if thou wilt not grant his love,<br /> + In truth +he’ll die bevore thy vace.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Ich have been twice our +Whitson Lord,<br /> + Ich have had ladies many vare;<br +/> + And eke thou hast my heart in hold,<br /> + And in my minde zeemes passing +rare.<br /> +<i>Cho</i>. And eke thou hast his heart in hold,<br /> + And in his minde +zeemes passing rare.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Ich will put on my best white +sloppe,<br /> + And Ich will weare my yellow +hose;<br /> + And on my head a good gray hat,<br /> + And in’t Ich sticke a lovely +rose.<br /> +<i>Cho</i>. And on his head a good grey hat,<br /> + And in’t +he’ll stick a lovely rose.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Wherefore cease off, make no +delay,<br /> + And if you’ll love me, love +me now;<br /> + Or els Ich zeeke zome oder where,—<br /> + For Ich cannot come every day to +woo.<br /> +<i>Cho</i>. Or else he’ll zeeke zome oder where,<br +/> + For he cannot +come every day to woo. <a name="citation154"></a><a +href="#footnote154" class="citation">[154]</a></p> +<h3><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>THE +CLOWN’S COURTSHIP.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> song, on the same subject as +the preceding, is as old as the reign of Henry VIII., the first +verse, says Mr. Chappell, being found elaborately set to music in +a manuscript of that date. The air is given in <i>Popular +Music</i>, I., 87.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Quoth</span> John to Joan, +wilt thou have me?<br /> +I prythee now, wilt? and I’ze marry with thee,<br /> +My cow, my calf, my house, my rents,<br /> +And all my lands and tenements:<br /> + Oh, say, my +Joan, will not that do?<br /> + I cannot come +every day to woo.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve corn and hay in the barn hard by,<br +/> +And three fat hogs pent up in the sty:<br /> +I have a mare, and she is coal black,<br /> +I ride on her tail to save my back.<br /> + + +Then say, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have a cheese upon the shelf,<br /> +And I cannot eat it all myself;<br /> +I’ve three good marks that lie in a rag,<br /> +In the nook of the chimney, instead of a bag.<br /> + + +Then say, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">To marry I would have thy consent,<br /> +But faith I never could compliment;<br /> +I can say nought but ‘hoy, gee ho,’<br /> +Words that belong to the cart and the plow.<br /> + + +Then say, &c.</p> +<h3>HARRY’S COURTSHIP.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> old ditty, in its incidents, +bears a resemblance to <i>Dumble-dum-deary</i>, see <i>ante</i>, +p. 149. It used to be a popular song in the Yorkshire +dales. We have been obliged to supply an <i>hiatus</i> in +the second verse, and to make an alteration in the last, where we +have converted the ‘red-nosed parson’ of the original +into a squire.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Harry</span> courted modest +Mary,<br /> +Mary was always brisk and airy;<br /> +<a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>Harry +was country neat as could be,<br /> +But his words were rough, and his duds were muddy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Harry when he first bespoke her,<br /> +[Kept a dandling the kitchen poker;]<br /> +Mary spoke her words like Venus,<br /> +But said, ‘There’s something I fear between us.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Have you got cups of China mettle,<br /> +Canister, cream-jug, tongs, or kettle?’<br /> +‘Odzooks, I’ve bowls, and siles, and dishes,<br /> +Enow to supply any prudent wishes.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I’ve got none o’ your cups +of Chaney,<br /> +Canister, cream-jug, I’ve not any;<br /> +I’ve a three-footed pot and a good brass kettle,<br /> +Pray what do you want with your Chaney mettle?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘A shippen full of rye for to fother,<br +/> +A house full of goods, one mack or another;<br /> +I’ll thrash in the lathe while you sit spinning,<br /> +O, Molly, I think that’s a good beginning.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I’ll not sit at my wheel +a-spinning,<br /> +Or rise in the morn to wash your linen;<br /> +I’ll lie in bed till the clock strikes +eleven—’<br /> +‘Oh, grant me patience gracious Heaven!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why then thou must marry some red-nosed +squire,<br /> +[Who’ll buy thee a settle to sit by the fire,]<br /> +For I’ll to Margery in the valley,<br /> +She is my girl, so farewell Malley.’</p> +<h3>HARVEST-HOME SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Our</span> copy of this song is taken +from one in the Roxburgh Collection, where it is called, <i>The +Country Farmer’s vain glory</i>; <i>in a new song of +Harvest Home</i>, <i>sung to a new tune much in +request</i>. <i>Licensed according to order</i>. The +tune is published in <i>Popular Music</i>. A copy of this +song, with the music, may be found in D’Urfey’s +<i>Pills to purge Melancholy</i>. It varies from ours; but +<a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +157</span>D’Urfey is so loose and inaccurate in his texts, +that any other version is more likely to be correct. The +broadside from which the following is copied was ‘Printed +for P. Brooksby, J. Dencon [Deacon], J. Blai[r], and J. +Back.’]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Our</span> oats they are +howed, and our barley’s reaped,<br /> +Our hay is mowed, and our hovels heaped;<br /> + Harvest home! harvest home!<br /> +We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home!<br /> + Harvest home! harvest home!<br /> +We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home!<br /> +We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home!</p> +<p class="poetry">We cheated the parson, we’ll cheat him +again;<br /> +For why should the vicar have one in ten?<br /> + One in ten! one in ten!<br /> +For why should the vicar have one in ten?<br /> +For why should the vicar have one in ten?<br /> +For staying while dinner is cold and hot,<br /> +And pudding and dumpling’s burnt to pot;<br /> + Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!<br /> +Till pudding and dumpling’s burnt to pot,<br /> + Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink off the liquor while we can +stand,<br /> +And hey for the honour of old England!<br /> + Old England! old England!<br /> +And hey for the honour of old England!<br /> + Old England! old England!</p> +<h3>HARVEST-HOME.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">From</span> an old copy without +printer’s name or date.]</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Come</span>, Roger and Nell,<br /> + Come, Simpkin and Bell,<br /> +Each lad with his lass hither come;<br /> + With singing and dancing,<br /> + And pleasure advancing,<br /> +To celebrate harvest-home!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span><i>Chorus</i>. ’Tis Ceres bids play,<br /> + And keep holiday,<br /> +To celebrate harvest-home!<br /> + Harvest-home!<br /> + Harvest-home!<br /> +To celebrate harvest-home!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Our labour is o’er,<br +/> + Our barns, in full store,<br /> +Now swell with rich gifts of the land;<br /> + Let each man then take,<br /> + For the prong and the rake,<br /> +His can and his lass in his hand.<br /> + + +For Ceres, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"> No courtier can be<br /> + So happy as we,<br /> +In innocence, pastime, and mirth;<br /> + While thus we carouse,<br /> + With our sweetheart or spouse,<br /> +And rejoice o’er the fruits of the earth.<br /> + + +For Ceres, &c.</p> +<h3>THE MOW.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A HARVEST +HOME SONG.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">Tune, <i>Where the bee +sucks</i>.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> favourite song, copied from a +chap-book called <i>The Whistling Ploughman</i>, published at the +commencement of the present century, is written in imitation of +Ariel’s song, in the <i>Tempest</i>. It is probably +taken from some defunct ballad-opera.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> our work’s +done, thus we feast,<br /> +After labour comes our rest;<br /> +Joy shall reign in every breast,<br /> +And right welcome is each guest:<br /> + After harvest merrily,<br /> +Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,<br /> +After the harvest that heaps up the mow.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>Now the plowman he shall plow,<br /> +And shall whistle as he go,<br /> +Whether it be fair or blow,<br /> +For another barley mow,<br /> + O’er the furrow merrily:<br /> +Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,<br /> +After the harvest, the fruit of the plow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Toil and plenty, toil and ease,<br /> +Still the husbandman he sees;<br /> +Whether when the winter freeze,<br /> +Or in summer’s gentle breeze;<br /> + Still he labours merrily,<br /> +Merrily, merrily, after the plow,<br /> +He looks to the harvest, that gives us the mow.</p> +<h3>THE BARLEY-MOW SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> song is sung at country +meetings in Devon and Cornwall, particularly on completing the +carrying of the barley, when the rick, or mow of barley, is +finished. On putting up the last sheaf, which is called the +craw (or crow) sheaf, the man who has it cries out ‘I have +it, I have it, I have it;’ another demands, ‘What +have ’ee, what have ’ee, what have ’ee?’ +and the answer is, ‘A craw! a craw! a craw!’ upon +which there is some cheering, &c., and a supper +afterwards. The effect of the <i>Barley-mow Song</i> cannot +be given in words; it should be heard, to be appreciated +properly,—particularly with the West-country dialect.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here’s</span> a +health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +We’ll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health to the barley-mow, my +brave boys,<br /> + + +Here’s a health to the barley-mow!</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the nipperkin, +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The nipperkin and the jolly brown bowl,<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +160</span>We’ll drink it out of the quarter-pint, boys,<br +/> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The quarter-pint, nipperkin, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the half-a-pint, +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The half-a-pint, quarter-pint, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the pint, my brave +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The pint, the half-a-pint, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the quart, my brave +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The quart, the pint, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">Well drink it out of the pottle, my boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The pottle, the quart, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the gallon, my +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The gallon, the pottle, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the half-anker, +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The half-anker, gallon, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the anker, my +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The anker, the half-anker, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>We’ll drink it out of the half-hogshead, boys,<br +/> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The half-hogshead, anker, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the hogshead, my +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The hogshead, the half-hogshead, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the pipe, my brave +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The pipe, the hogshead, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the well, my brave +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The well, the pipe, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the river, my +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The river, the well, &c.<br /> + + +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll drink it out of the ocean, my +boys,<br /> + Here’s a health to the barley-mow!<br /> +The ocean, the river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead,<br /> + the +half-hogshead, the anker, the half-anker,<br /> + the gallon, the +pottle, the quart, the pint, the<br /> + half-a-pint, the +quarter-pint, the nipperkin, and<br /> + the jolly brown +bowl!<br /> +<i>Cho</i>. Here’s a health to the barley-mow, my +brave boys!<br /> + Here’s a +health to the barley-mow!</p> +<p>[The above verses are very much <i>ad libitum</i>, but always +in the third line repeating the whole of the previously-named +measures; as we have shown in the recapitulation at the close of +the last verse.]</p> +<h3><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>THE +BARLEY-MOW SONG.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">(SUFFOLK +VERSION.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> peasantry of Suffolk sing the +following version of the <i>Barley-Mow Song</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here’s</span> a +health to the barley mow!<br /> + Here’s a health to the man<br /> +Who very well can<br /> + Both harrow and plow and sow!</p> +<p class="poetry">When it is well sown<br /> +See it is well mown,<br /> +Both raked and gavelled clean,<br /> +And a barn to lay it in.<br /> +He’s a health to the man<br /> +Who very well can<br /> +Both thrash and fan it clean!</p> +<h3>THE CRAVEN CHURN-SUPPER SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">In</span> some of the more remote dales +of Craven it is customary at the close of the hay-harvest for the +farmers to give an entertainment to their men; this is called the +churn supper; a name which Eugene Aram traces to ‘the +immemorial usage of producing at such suppers a great quantity of +cream in a churn, and circulating it in cups to each of the +rustic company, to be eaten with bread.’ At these +churn-suppers the masters and their families attend the +entertainment, and share in the general mirth. The men mask +themselves, and dress in a grotesque manner, and are allowed the +privilege of playing harmless practical jokes on their employers, +&c. The churn-supper song varies in different dales, +but the following used to be the most popular version. In +the third verse there seems to be an allusion to the +clergyman’s taking tythe in kind, on which occasions he is +generally accompanied by two or three men, and the parish +clerk. The song has never before been printed. There +is a marked resemblance between it and a song of the date of +1650, called <i>A Cup of Old Stingo</i>. See <i>Popular +Music of the Olden Time</i>, I., 308.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span><span class="smcap">God</span> rest you, merry +gentlemen!<br /> +Be not movèd at my strain,<br /> +For nothing study shall my brain,<br /> + But for to make you laugh:<br /> +For I came here to this feast,<br /> +For to laugh, carouse, and jest,<br /> +And welcome shall be every guest,<br /> + To take his cup and quaff.<br /> + <i>Cho</i>. Be frolicsome, +every one,<br /> + + +Melancholy none;<br /> + + +Drink about!<br /> + + +See it out,<br /> + + +And then we’ll all go home,<br /> + + +And then we’ll all go home!</p> +<p class="poetry">This ale it is a gallant thing,<br /> +It cheers the spirits of a king;<br /> +It makes a dumb man strive to sing,<br /> + Aye, and a beggar play!<br /> +A cripple that is lame and halt,<br /> +And scarce a mile a day can walk,<br /> +When he feels the juice of malt,<br /> + Will throw his crutch away.<br /> + <i>Cho</i>. Be frolicsome, +&c.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twill make the parson forget his +men,—<br /> +’Twill make his clerk forget his pen;<br /> +’Twill turn a tailor’s giddy brain,<br /> + And make him break his wand,<br /> +The blacksmith loves it as his life,—<br /> +It makes the tinkler bang his wife,—<br /> +Aye, and the butcher seek his knife<br /> + When he has it in his hand!<br /> + <i>Cho</i>. Be frolicsome, +&c.</p> +<p class="poetry">So now to conclude, my merry boys, all,<br /> +Let’s with strong liquor take a fall,<br /> +Although the weakest goes to the wall,<br /> + <a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>The best is but a play!<br /> +For water it concludes in noise,<br /> +Good ale will cheer our hearts, brave boys;<br /> +Then put it round with a cheerful voice,<br /> + We meet not every day.<br /> + <i>Cho</i>. Be frolicsome, +&c.</p> +<h3>THE RURAL DANCE ABOUT THE MAY-POLE.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> most correct copy of this song +is that given in <i>The Westminster Drollery</i>, Part II. p. +80. It is there called <i>The Rural Dance about the +May-pole</i>, <i>the tune</i>, <i>the first-figure dance at Mr. +Young’s ball</i>, <i>May</i>, 1671. The tune is in +<i>Popular Music</i>. The <i>May-pole</i>, for so the song +is called in modern collections, is a very popular ditty at the +present time. The common copies vary considerably from the +following version, which is much more correct than any hitherto +published.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span>, lasses and +lads, take leave of your dads,<br /> + And away to the may-pole hie;<br /> +For every he has got him a she,<br /> + And the minstrel’s standing by;<br /> +For Willie has gotten his Jill,<br /> + And Johnny has got his Joan,<br /> +To jig it, jig it, jig it,<br /> + Jig it up and down.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Strike up,’ says Wat; +‘Agreed,’ says Kate,<br /> + ‘And I prithee, fiddler, play;’<br /> +‘Content,’ says Hodge, and so says Madge,<br /> + For this is a holiday.<br /> +Then every man did put<br /> + His hat off to his lass,<br /> +And every girl did curchy,<br /> + Curchy, curchy on the grass.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>‘Begin,’ says Hall; ‘Aye, aye,’ +says Mall,<br /> + ‘We’ll lead up <i>Packington’s +Pound</i>;’<br /> +‘No, no,’ says Noll, and so says Doll,<br /> + ‘We’ll first have <i>Sellenger’s +Round</i>.’ <a name="citation165a"></a><a +href="#footnote165a" class="citation">[165a]</a><br /> +Then every man began<br /> + To foot it round about;<br /> +And every girl did jet it,<br /> + Jet it, jet it, in and out.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘You’re out,’ says Dick; +‘’Tis a lie,’ says Nick,<br /> + ‘The fiddler played it false;’<br /> +‘’Tis true,’ says Hugh, and so says Sue,<br /> + And so says nimble Alice.<br /> +The fiddler then began<br /> + To play the tune again;<br /> +And every girl did trip it, trip it,<br /> + Trip it to the men.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Let’s kiss,’ says Jane, <a +name="citation165b"></a><a href="#footnote165b" +class="citation">[165b]</a> ‘Content,’ says Nan,<br +/> + And so says every she;<br /> +‘How many?’ says Batt; ‘Why three,’ says +Matt,<br /> + ‘For that’s a maiden’s +fee.’<br /> +But they, instead of three,<br /> + Did give them half a score,<br /> +And they in kindness gave ’em, gave ’em,<br /> + Gave ’em as many more.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>Then after an hour, they went to a bower,<br /> + And played for ale and cakes;<br /> +And kisses, too;—until they were due,<br /> + The lasses kept the stakes:<br /> +The girls did then begin<br /> + To quarrel with the men;<br /> +And bid ’em take their kisses back,<br /> + And give them their own again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet there they sate, until it was late,<br /> + And tired the fiddler quite,<br /> +With singing and playing, without any paying,<br /> + From morning unto night:<br /> +They told the fiddler then,<br /> + They’d pay him for his play;<br /> +And each a two-pence, two-pence,<br /> + Gave him, and went away.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Good night,’ says Harry; +‘Good night,’ says Mary;<br /> + ‘Good night,’ says Dolly to John;<br /> +‘Good night,’ says Sue; ‘Good night,’ +says Hugh;<br /> + ‘Good night,’ says every one.<br /> +Some walked, and some did run,<br /> + Some loitered on the way;<br /> +And bound themselves with love-knots, love-knots,<br /> + To meet the next holiday.</p> +<h3>THE HITCHIN MAY-DAY SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following song is sung by the +Mayers at Hitchin in the county of Herts. For an account of +the manner in which May-day is observed at Hitchin, see +Hone’s <i>Every-Day Book</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Remember</span> us poor +Mayers all!<br /> + And thus do we begin<br /> +To lead our lives in righteousness,<br /> + Or else we die in sin.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +167</span>We have been rambling all the night,<br /> + And almost all the day;<br /> +And now returned back again,<br /> + We have brought you a branch of May.</p> +<p class="poetry">A branch of May we have brought you,<br /> +And at your door it stands;<br /> + It is but a sprout,<br /> + But it’s well budded out<br /> +By the work of our Lord’s hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">The hedges and trees they are so green,<br /> + As green as any leek;<br /> +Our heavenly Father he watered them<br /> + With his heavenly dew so sweet.</p> +<p class="poetry">The heavenly gates are open wide,<br /> + Our paths are beaten plain;<br /> +And if a man be not too far gone,<br /> + He may return again.</p> +<p class="poetry">The life of man is but a span,<br /> + It flourishes like a flower;<br /> +We are here to-day, and gone to-morrow,<br /> + And we are dead in an hour.</p> +<p class="poetry">The moon shines bright, and the stars give a +light,<br /> + A little before it is day;<br /> +So God bless you all, both great and small,<br /> + And send you a joyful May!</p> +<h3>THE HELSTONE FURRY-DAY SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">At</span> Helstone, in Cornwall, the 8th +of May is a day devoted to revelry and gaiety. It is called +the Furry-day, supposed to be a corruption of Flora’s day, +from the garlands worn and carried in procession during the +festival. <a name="citation167"></a><a href="#footnote167" +class="citation">[167]</a> A writer in the +<i>Gentleman’s </i><a name="page168"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 168</span><i>Magazine</i> for June, 1790, +says, ‘In the morning, very early, some troublesome rogues +go round the streets [of Helstone], with drums and other noisy +instruments, disturbing their sober neighbours, and singing parts +of a song, the whole of which nobody now re-collects, and of +which I know no more than that there is mention in it of the +‘grey goose quill,’ and of going ‘to the green +wood’ to bring home ‘the Summer and the May, +O!’’ During the festival, the gentry, +tradespeople, servants, &c., dance through the streets, and +thread through certain of the houses to a very old dance tune, +given in the appendix to Davies Gilbert’s <i>Christmas +Carols</i>, and which may also be found in Chappell’s +<i>Popular Music</i>, and other collections. The +<i>Furry-day Song</i> possesses no literary merit whatever; but +as a part of an old and really interesting festival, it is worthy +of preservation. The dance-tune has been confounded with +that of the song, but Mr. Sandys, to whom we are indebted for +this communication, observes that ‘the dance-tune is quite +different.’]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Robin Hood</span> and +Little John,<br /> + They both are gone to the fair, O!<br /> +And we will go to the merry green-wood,<br /> + To see what they do there, O!<br /> + And for to chase, O!<br /> + To chase the buck and doe.<br /> + With ha-lan-tow, +rumble, O!<br /> + For we were up +as soon as any day, O!<br /> + And for to fetch +the summer home,<br /> + The summer and +the may, O!<br /> + For summer is +a-come, O!<br /> + And winter is +a-gone, O!</p> +<p class="poetry">Where are those Spaniards<br /> + That make so great a boast, O?<br /> +They shall eat the grey goose feather,<br /> + And we will eat the roast, O!<br /> + <a name="page169"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 169</span>In every land, O!<br /> + The land where’er we go.<br /> + With ha-lan-tow, +&c</p> +<p class="poetry">As for Saint George, O!<br /> + Saint George he was a knight, O!<br /> +Of all the knights in Christendom,<br /> + Saint George is the right, O!<br /> + In every land, O!<br /> + The land where’er we go.<br +/> + With ha-lan-tow, +&c.</p> +<h3>CORNISH MIDSUMMER BONFIRE SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> very ancient custom of +lighting fires on Midsummer-eve, being the vigil of St. John the +Baptist, is still kept up in several parts of Cornwall. On +these occasions the fishermen and others dance about the fires, +and sing appropriate songs. The following has been sung for +a long series of years at Penzance and the neighbourhood, and is +taken down from the recitation of the leader of a West-country +choir. It is communicated to our pages by Mr. Sandys. +The origin of the Midsummer bonfires is fully explained in +Brand’s <i>Popular Antiquities</i>. See Sir H. +Ellis’s edition of that work, vol. i. pp. +166–186.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> bonny month of +June is crowned<br /> + With the sweet scarlet rose;<br /> +The groves and meadows all around<br /> + With lovely pleasure flows.</p> +<p class="poetry">As I walked out to yonder green,<br /> + One evening so fair;<br /> +All where the fair maids may be seen<br /> + Playing at the bonfire.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hail! lovely nymphs, be not too coy,<br /> + But freely yield your charms;<br /> +Let love inspire with mirth and joy,<br /> + In Cupid’s lovely arms.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bright Luna spreads its light around,<br /> + The gallants for to cheer;<br /> +As they lay sporting on the ground,<br /> + At the fair June bonfire.</p> +<p class="poetry">All on the pleasant dewy mead,<br /> + They shared each other’s charms;<br /> +Till Phoebus’ beams began to spread,<br /> + And coming day alarms.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>Whilst larks and linnets sing so sweet,<br /> + To cheer each lovely swain;<br /> +Let each prove true unto their love,<br /> + And so farewell the plain.</p> +<h3>SUFFOLK HARVEST-HOME SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">In</span> no part of England are the +harvest-homes kept up with greater spirit than in Suffolk. +The following old song is a general favourite on such +occasions.]</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Here’s</span> a health unto our master,<br /> + The founder of the feast!<br /> + I wish, with all my heart and soul,<br /> + In heaven he may find rest.<br /> + I hope all things may prosper,<br /> + That ever be takes in hand;<br /> + For we are all his servants,<br /> + And all at his command.</p> +<p class="poetry">Drink, boys, drink, and see you do not +spill,<br /> +For if you do, you must drink two,—it is your +master’s will.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Now our harvest is ended,<br +/> + And supper is past;<br /> + Here’s our mistress’ good health,<br /> + In a full flowing glass!<br /> + She is a good woman,—<br /> + She prepared us good cheer;<br /> + Come, all my brave boys,<br /> + And drink off your beer.</p> +<p class="poetry">Drink, my boys, drink till you come unto me,<br +/> +The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier shall we be!</p> +<p class="poetry">In yon green wood there lies an old fox,<br /> +Close by his den you may catch him, or no;<br /> +Ten thousand to one you catch him, or no.<br /> +<a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>His +beard and his brush are all of one colour,—</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry">[<i>Takes the glass +and empties it off</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">I am sorry, kind sir, that your glass is no +fuller.<br /> +’Tis down the red lane! ’tis down the red lane!<br /> +So merrily hunt the fox down the red lane! <a +name="citation171"></a><a href="#footnote171" +class="citation">[171]</a></p> +<h3>THE HAYMAKER’S SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">An</span> old and very favourite ditty +sung in many parts of England at merry-makings, especially at +those which occur during the hay-harvest. It is not in any +collection.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the merry month +of June,<br /> + In the prime time of the year;<br /> +Down in yonder meadows<br /> + There runs a river clear:<br /> +And many a little fish<br /> + Doth in that river play;<br /> +And many a lad, and many a lass,<br /> + Go abroad a-making hay.</p> +<p class="poetry">In come the jolly mowers,<br /> + To mow the meadows down;<br /> +With budget and with bottle<br /> + Of ale, both stout and brown,<br /> +All labouring men of courage bold<br /> + Come here their strength to try;<br /> +They sweat and blow, and cut and mow,<br /> + For the grass cuts very dry.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here’s nimble Ben and Tom,<br /> + With pitchfork, and with rake;<br /> +Here’s Molly, Liz, and Susan,<br /> + Come here their hay to make.<br /> +<a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 172</span>While +sweet, jug, jug, jug!<br /> + The nightingale doth sing,<br /> +From morning unto even-song,<br /> + As they are hay-making.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when that bright day faded,<br /> + And the sun was going down,<br /> +There was a merry piper<br /> + Approachèd from the town:<br /> +He pulled out his pipe and tabor,<br /> + So sweetly he did play,<br /> +Which made all lay down their rakes,<br /> + And leave off making hay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then joining in a dance,<br /> + They jig it o’er the green;<br /> +Though tired with their labour,<br /> + No one less was seen.<br /> +But sporting like some fairies,<br /> + Their dance they did pursue,<br /> +In leading up, and casting off,<br /> + Till morning was in view.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when that bright daylight,<br /> + The morning it was come,<br /> +They lay down and rested<br /> + Till the rising of the sun:<br /> +Till the rising of the sun,<br /> + When the merry larks do sing,<br /> +And each lad did rise and take his lass,<br /> + And away to hay-making.</p> +<h3>THE SWORD-DANCERS’ SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Sword-dancing</span> is not so common in +the North of England as it was a few years ago; but a troop of +rustic practitioners of the art may still be occasionally met +with at Christmas time, in some of the most secluded of the +Yorkshire dales. The following is <a +name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>a copy of +the introductory song, as it used to be sung by the Wharfdale +sword-dancers. It has been transcribed from a MS. in the +possession of Mr. Holmes, surgeon, at Grassington, in +Craven. At the conclusion of the song a dance ensues, and +sometimes a rustic drama is performed. See post, p. +175. <i>Jumping Joan</i>, alluded to in the last verse, is +a well-known old country dance tune.]</p> +<p><i>The spectators being assembled</i>, <i>the</i> <span +class="smcap">Clown</span> <i>enters</i>, <i>and after drawing a +circle with his sword</i>, <i>walks round it</i>, <i>and calls in +the actors in the following lines</i>, <i>which are sung to the +accompaniment of a violin played outside</i>, <i>or behind the +door</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> first that +enters on the floor,<br /> + His name is Captain Brown;<br /> +I think he is as smart a youth<br /> + As any in this town:<br /> +In courting of the ladies gay,<br /> + He fixes his delight;<br /> +He will not stay from them all day,<br /> + And is with them all the night.</p> +<p class="poetry">The next’s a tailor by his trade,<br /> + Called Obadiah Trim;<br /> +You may quickly guess, by his plain dress,<br /> + And hat of broadest brim,<br /> +That he is of the Quaking sect,<br /> + Who would seem to act by merit<br /> +Of yeas and nays, and hums and hahs,<br /> + And motions of the spirit.</p> +<p class="poetry">The next that enters on the floor,<br /> + He is a foppish knight;<br /> +The first to be in modish dress,<br /> + He studies day and night.<br /> +Observe his habit round about,—<br /> + Even from top to toe;<br /> +The fashion late from France was brought,—<br /> + He’s finer than a beau!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +174</span>Next I present unto your view<br /> + A very worthy man;<br /> +He is a vintner, by his trade,<br /> + And Love-ale is his name.<br /> +If gentlemen propose a glass,<br /> + He seldom says ’em nay,<br /> +But does always think it’s right to drink,<br /> + While other people pay.</p> +<p class="poetry">The next that enters on the floor,<br /> + It is my beauteous dame;<br /> +Most dearly I do her adore,<br /> + And Bridget is her name.<br /> +At needlework she does excel<br /> + All that e’er learnt to sew,<br /> +And when I choose, she’ll ne’er refuse,<br /> + What I command her do.</p> +<p class="poetry">And I myself am come long since,<br /> + And Thomas is my name;<br /> +Though some are pleased to call me Tom,<br /> + I think they’re much to blame:<br /> +Folks should not use their betters thus,<br /> + But I value it not a groat,<br /> +Though the tailors, too, that botching crew,<br /> + Have patched it on my coat.</p> +<p class="poetry">I pray who’s this we’ve met with +here,<br /> + That tickles his trunk wame? <a +name="citation174"></a><a href="#footnote174" +class="citation">[174]</a><br /> +We’ve picked him up as here we came,<br /> + And cannot learn his name:<br /> +But sooner than he’s go without,<br /> + I’ll call him my son Tom;<br /> +And if he’ll play, be it night or day,<br /> + We’ll dance you <i>Jumping Joan</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>THE +SWORD-DANCERS’ SONG AND INTERLUDE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">AS NOW +PERFORMED AT CHRISTMAS, IN THE COUNTY OF DURHAM.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> late Sir Cuthbert Sharp +remarks, that ‘It is still the practice during the +Christmas holidays for companies of fifteen to perform a sort of +play or dance, accompanied by song or music.’ The +following version of the song, or interlude, has been transcribed +from Sir C. Sharp’s <i>Bishoprick Garland</i>, corrected by +collation with a MS. copy recently remitted to the editor by a +countryman of Durham. The Devonshire peasants have a +version almost identical with this, but laths are used instead of +swords, and a few different characters are introduced to suit the +locality. The pageant called <i>The Fool Plough</i>, which +consists of a number of sword-dancers dragging a plough with +music, was anciently observed in the North of England, not only +at Christmas time, but also in the beginning of Lent. +Wallis thinks that the <i>Sword Dance</i> is the antic dance, or +chorus armatus of the Romans. Brand supposes that it is a +composition made up of the gleaning of several obsolete customs +anciently followed in England and other countries. The +Germans still practise the <i>Sword Dance</i> at Christmas and +Easter. We once witnessed a <i>Sword Dance</i> in the Eifel +mountains, which closely resembled our own, but no interlude, or +drama, was performed.]</p> +<p><i>Enter Dancers</i>, <i>decorated with swords and +ribbons</i>; <i>the</i> <span class="smcap">Captain</span> <i>of +the band wearing a cocked hat and a peacock’s feather in it +by way of cockade</i>, <i>and the</i> <span +class="smcap">Clown</span>, <i>or</i> ‘<span +class="smcap">Bessy</span>,’ <i>who acts as treasurer</i>, +<i>being decorated with a hairy cap and a fox’s brush +dependent</i>.</p> +<p><i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Captain</span> <i>forms with +his sword a circle</i>, <i>around which walks</i>.</p> +<p><i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Bessy</span> <i>opens the +proceedings by singing</i>—</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Good</span> gentlemen all, +to our captain take heed,<br /> + And hear what he’s got for to sing;<br /> +He’s lived among music these forty long year,<br /> + And drunk of the elegant <a +name="citation175"></a><a href="#footnote175" +class="citation">[175]</a> spring.</p> +<p><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +176</span><i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Captain</span> <i>then +proceeds as follows</i>, <i>his song being accompanied by a +violin</i>, <i>generally played by the</i> <span +class="smcap">Bessy</span>—</p> +<p class="poetry">Six actors I have brought<br /> + Who were ne’er on a stage before;<br /> +But they will do their best,<br /> + And they can do no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">The first that I call in<br /> + He is a squire’s son;<br /> +He’s like to lose his sweetheart<br /> + Because he is too young.</p> +<p class="poetry">But though he is too young,<br /> + He has money for to rove,<br /> +And he will spend it all<br /> + Before he’ll lose his love.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Chorus</i>. <i>Fal lal de ral</i>, +<i>lal de dal</i>, <i>fal lal de ra ral da</i>.</p> +<p><i>Followed by a symphony on the fiddle</i>, <i>during which +the introduced actor walks round the circle</i>.</p> +<p><i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Captain</span> +<i>proceeds</i>—</p> +<p class="poetry">The next that I call in<br /> + He is a tailor fine;<br /> +What think you of his work?<br /> + He made this coat of mine!</p> +<p><i>Here the</i> <span class="smcap">Captain</span> <i>turns +round and exhibits his coat</i>, <i>which</i>, <i>of course</i>, +<i>is ragged</i>, <i>and full of holes</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">So comes good master Snip,<br /> + His best respects to pay:<br /> +He joins us in our trip<br /> + To drive dull care away.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Chorus and symphony as above</i>.</p> +<p><i>Here the</i> <span class="smcap">Tailor</span> <i>walks +round</i>, <i>accompanied by the</i> <span +class="smcap">Squire’s Son</span>. <i>This form is +observed after each subsequent introduction</i>, <i>all the new +comers taking apart</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>The next I do call in,<br /> + The prodigal son is he;<br /> +By spending of his gold<br /> + He’s come to poverty.</p> +<p class="poetry">But though he all has spent,<br /> + Again he’ll wield the plow,<br /> +And sing right merrily<br /> + As any of us now. <a name="citation177"></a><a +href="#footnote177" class="citation">[177]</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Next comes a skipper bold,<br /> + He’ll do his part right weel—<br /> +A clever blade I’m told<br /> + As ever pozed a keel.</p> +<p class="poetry">He is a bonny lad,<br /> + As you must understand;<br /> +It’s he can dance on deck,<br /> + And you’ll see him dance on land.</p> +<p class="poetry">To join us in this play<br /> + Here comes a jolly dog,<br /> +Who’s sober all the day—<br /> + If he can get no grog.</p> +<p class="poetry">But though he likes his grog,<br /> + As all his friends do say,<br /> +He always likes it best<br /> + When other people pay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Last I come in myself,<br /> + The leader of this crew;<br /> +And if you’d know my name,<br /> + My name it is ‘True Blue.’</p> +<p><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +178</span><i>Here the</i> <span class="smcap">Bessy</span> +<i>gives an account of himself</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">My mother was burnt for a witch,<br /> + My father was hanged on a tree,<br /> +And it’s because I’m a fool<br /> + There’s nobody meddled wi’ me.</p> +<p><i>The dance now commences</i>. <i>It is an ingenious +performance</i>, <i>and the swords of the actors are placed in a +variety of graceful positions</i>, <i>so as to form stars</i>, +<i>hearts</i>, <i>squares</i>, <i>circles</i>, <i>&c. +&c.</i> <i>The dance is so elaborate that it requires +frequent rehearsals</i>, <i>a quick eye</i>, <i>and a strict +adherence to time and tune</i>. <i>Before it concludes</i>, +<i>grace and elegance have given place to disorder</i>, <i>and at +last all the actors are seen fighting</i>. <i>The</i> <span +class="smcap">Parish Clergyman</span> <i>rushes in to prevent +bloodshed</i>, <i>and receives a death-blow</i>. <i>While +on the ground</i>, <i>the actors walk round the body</i>, <i>and +sing as follows</i>, <i>to a slow</i>, <i>psalm-like +tune</i>:—</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas! our parson’s dead,<br /> + And on the ground is laid;<br /> +Some of us will suffer for’t,<br /> + Young men, I’m sore afraid.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’m sure ’twas none of me,<br /> + I’m clear of <i>that</i> crime;<br /> +’Twas him that follows me<br /> + That drew his sword so fine.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’m sure it was <i>not</i> me,<br /> + I’m clear of the fact;<br /> +’Twas him that follows me<br /> + That did this dreadful act.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’m sure ’twas none of me,<br /> + Who say’t be villains all;<br /> +For both my eyes were closed<br /> + When this good priest did fall.</p> +<p><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span><i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Bessy</span> +<i>sings</i>—</p> +<p class="poetry">Cheer up, cheer up, my bonny lads,<br /> + And be of courage brave,<br /> +We’ll take him to his church,<br /> + And bury him in the grave.</p> +<p><i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Captain</span> <i>speaks in a +sort of recitative</i>—</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, for a doctor,<br /> +A ten pound doctor, oh.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Doctor</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Doctor</i>. Here I am, I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Captain</i>. Doctor, what’s your +fee?</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Doctor</i>. Ten pounds is my fee!</p> +<p class="poetry">But nine pounds nineteen shillings eleven pence +three farthings I will take from thee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The Bessy</i>. There’s +ge-ne-ro-si-ty!</p> +<p><i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Doctor</span> +<i>sings</i>—</p> +<p class="poetry">I’m a doctor, a doctor rare,<br /> +Who travels much at home;<br /> +My famous pills they cure all ills,<br /> +Past, present, and to come.</p> +<p class="poetry">My famous pills who’d be without,<br /> +They cure the plague, the sickness <a name="citation179"></a><a +href="#footnote179" class="citation">[179]</a> and gout,<br /> +Anything but a love-sick maid;<br /> +If <i>you’re</i> one, my dear, you’re beyond my +aid!</p> +<p><i>Here the</i> <span class="smcap">Doctor</span> +<i>occasionally salutes one of the fair spectators</i>; <i>he +then takes out his snuff-box</i>, <i>which is always of very +capacious dimensions</i> (<i>a sort of miniature +warming-pan</i>), <i>and empties the contents</i> (<i>flour or +meal</i>) <i>on the</i> <span +class="smcap">Clergyman’s</span> <i>face</i>, <i>singing at +the time</i>—</p> +<p class="poetry">Take a little of my nif-naf,<br /> +Put it on your tif-taf;<br /> +<a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>Parson +rise up and preach again,<br /> +The doctor says you are not slain.</p> +<p><i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Clergyman</span> <i>here +sneezes several times</i>, <i>and gradually recovers</i>, <i>and +all shake him by the hand</i>.</p> +<p><i>The ceremony terminates by the</i> <span +class="smcap">Captain</span> <i>singing</i>—</p> +<p class="poetry"> Our play is at an end,<br /> + And now we’ll taste your cheer;<br /> + We wish you a merry Christmas,<br /> + And a happy new year.<br /> +<i>The Bessy</i>. And your pockets full of brass,<br /> + And your cellars full of beer!</p> +<p><i>A general dance concludes the play.</i></p> +<h3>THE MASKERS’ SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">In</span> the Yorkshire dales the young +men are in the habit of going about at Christmas time in +grotesque masks, and of performing in the farm-houses a sort of +rude drama, accompanied by singing and music. <a +name="citation180"></a><a href="#footnote180" +class="citation">[180]</a> The maskers have wooden swords, +and the performance is an evening one. The following +version of their introductory song was taken down literally from +the recitation of a young besom-maker, now residing at Linton in +Craven, who <a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +181</span>for some years past has himself been one of these +rustic actors. From the allusion to the pace, or +paschal-egg, it is evident that the play was originally an Easter +pageant, which, in consequence of the decline of the gorgeous +rites formerly connected with that season, has been transferred +to Christmas, the only festival which, in the rural districts of +Protestant England, is observed after the olden fashion. +The maskers generally consist of five characters, one of whom +officiates in the threefold capacity of clown, fiddler, and +master of the ceremonies. The custom of masking at +Christmas is common to many parts of Europe, and is observed with +especial zest in the Swiss cantons, where the maskers are all +children, and the performances closely resemble those of +England. In Switzerland, however, more care is bestowed +upon the costume, and the songs are better sung.]</p> +<p><i>Enter </i><span class="smcap">Clown</span>, <i>who sings in +a sort of chant</i>, <i>or recitative.</i></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">open</span> this door, I +enter in,<br /> +I hope your favour for to win;<br /> +Whether we shall stand or fall,<br /> +We do endeavour to please you all.</p> +<p class="poetry">A room! a room! a gallant room,<br /> + A room to let us ride!<br /> +We are not of the raggald sort,<br /> + But of the royal tribe:<br /> +Stir up the fire, and make a light,<br /> +To see the bloody act to-night!</p> +<p><i>Here another of the party introduces his companions by +singing to a violin accompaniment</i>, <i>as follows</i>:</p> +<p class="poetry">Here’s two or three jolly boys, all in +one mind;<br /> +We’ve come a pace-egging, <a name="citation181"></a><a +href="#footnote181" class="citation">[181]</a> I hope +you’ll prove kind:<br /> +I hope you’ll prove kind with your money and beer,<br /> +We shall come no more near you until the next year.<br /> + + +Fal de ral, lal de lal, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +182</span>The first that steps up is Lord [Nelson] <a +name="citation182"></a><a href="#footnote182" +class="citation">[182]</a> you’ll see,<br /> +With a bunch of blue ribbons tied down to his knee;<br /> +With a star on his breast, like silver doth shine;<br /> +I hope you’ll remember this pace-egging time.<br /> + + +Fal de ral, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! the next that steps up is a jolly Jack +tar,<br /> +He sailed with Lord [Nelson], during last war:<br /> +He’s right on the sea, Old England to view:<br /> +He’s come a pace-egging with so jolly a crew.<br /> + + +Fal de ral, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! the next that steps up is old Toss-Pot, +you’ll see,<br /> +He’s a valiant old man, in every degree,<br /> +He’s a valiant old man, and he wears a pig-tail;<br /> +And all his delight is drinking mulled ale.<br /> + + +Fal de ral, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! the next that steps up is old Miser, +you’ll see;<br /> +She heaps up her white and her yellow money;<br /> +<a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>She +wears her old rags till she starves and she begs;<br /> +And she’s come here to ask for a dish of pace eggs.<br /> + + +Fal de ral, &c.</p> +<p><i>The characters being thus duly introduced</i>, <i>the +following lines are sung in chorus by all the party</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gentlemen and ladies, that sit by the fire,<br +/> +Put your hand in your pocket, ’tis all we desire;<br /> +Put your hand in your pocket, and pull out your purse,<br /> +And give us a trifle,—you’ll not be much worse.</p> +<p><i>Here follows a dance</i>, <i>and this is generally +succeeded by a dialogue of an</i> ad libitum <i>character</i>, +<i>which varies in different districts</i>, <i>being sometimes +similar to the one performed by the sword-dancers</i>.</p> +<h3>GLOUCESTERSHIRE WASSAILERS’ SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">It</span> is still customary in many +parts of England to hand round the wassail, or health-bowl, on +New-Year’s Eve. The custom is supposed to be of Saxon +origin, and to be derived from one of the observances of the +Feast of Yule. The tune of this song is given in <i>Popular +Music</i>. It is a universal favourite in Gloucestershire, +particularly in the neighbourhood of</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Stair on the wold,<br /> +Where the winds blow cold,’</p> +<p>as the old rhyme says.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Wassail</span>! wassail! +all over the town,<br /> +Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown;<br /> +Our bowl is made of a maplin tree;<br /> +We be good fellows all;—I drink to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here’s to our horse, <a +name="citation183"></a><a href="#footnote183" +class="citation">[183]</a> and to his right ear,<br /> +God send our measter a happy new year:<br /> +A happy new year as e’er he did see,—<br /> +With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +184</span>Here’s to our mare, and to her right eye,<br /> +God send our mistress a good Christmas pie;<br /> +A good Christmas pie as e’er I did see,—<br /> +With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here’s to our cow, and to her long +tail,<br /> +God send our measter us never may fail<br /> +Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near,<br /> +And our jolly wassail it’s then you shall hear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Be here any maids? I suppose here be +some;<br /> +Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone!<br /> +Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin,<br /> +And the fairest maid in the house let us all in.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the +best;<br /> +I hope your soul in heaven will rest;<br /> +But if you do bring us a bowl of the small,<br /> +Then down fall butler, and bowl and all.</p> +<h3>THE MUMMERS’ SONG;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, THE POOR +OLD HORSE.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">As sung by the Mummers in the +Neighbourhood of Richmond, Yorkshire, at the merrie time of +Christmas.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> rustic actor who sings the +following song is dressed as an old horse, and at the end of +every verse the jaws are snapped in chorus. It is a very +old composition, and is now printed for the first time. The +‘old horse’ is, probably, of Scandinavian +origin,—a reminiscence of Odin’s Sleipnor.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> gentlemen and +sportsmen,<br /> + And men of courage bold,<br /> +All you that’s got a good horse,<br /> + Take care of him when he is old;<br /> +Then put him in your stable,<br /> + And keep him there so warm;<br /> +Give him good corn and hay,<br /> + Pray let him take no harm.<br /> + Poor old horse! poor old +horse!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span>Once I had my clothing<br /> + Of linsey-woolsey fine,<br /> +My tail and mane of length,<br /> + And my body it did shine;<br /> +But now I’m growing old,<br /> + And my nature does decay,<br /> +My master frowns upon me,<br /> + These words I heard him say,—<br /> + Poor old horse! poor old +horse!</p> +<p class="poetry">These pretty little shoulders,<br /> + That once were plump and round,<br /> +They are decayed and rotten,—<br /> + I’m afraid they are not sound.<br /> +Likewise these little nimble legs,<br /> + That have run many miles,<br /> +Over hedges, over ditches,<br /> + Over valleys, gates, and stiles.<br /> + Poor old horse! poor old +horse!</p> +<p class="poetry">I used to be kept<br /> + On the best corn and hay<br /> +That in fields could be grown,<br /> + Or in any meadows gay;<br /> +But now, alas! it’s not so,—<br /> + There’s no such food at all!<br /> +I’m forced to nip the short grass<br /> + That grows beneath your wall.<br /> + Poor old horse! poor old +horse!</p> +<p class="poetry">I used to be kept up<br /> + All in a stable warm,<br /> +To keep my tender body<br /> + From any cold or harm;<br /> +But now I’m turned out<br /> + In the open fields to go,<br /> +To face all kinds of weather,<br /> + The wind, cold, frost, and snow.<br /> + Poor old horse! poor old +horse!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +186</span>My hide unto the huntsman<br /> + So freely I would give,<br /> +My body to the hounds,<br /> + For I’d rather die than live:<br /> +So shoot him, whip him, strip him,<br /> + To the huntsman let him go;<br /> +For he’s neither fit to ride upon,<br /> + Nor in any team to draw.<br /> + Poor old horse! you must die!</p> +<h3>FRAGMENT OF THE HAGMENA SONG.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">As sung at Richmond, Yorkshire, on +the eve of the New Year, by the Corporation Pinder.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> custom of singing Hagmena +songs is observed in different parts of both England and +Scotland. The origin of the term is a matter of +dispute. Some derive it from ‘au guy l’an +neuf,’ i.e., <i>to the misletoe this new year</i>, and a +French Hagmena song still in use seems to give some authority to +such a derivation; others, dissatisfied with a heathen source, +find the term to be a corruption of [Greek text which cannot be +reproduced], i.e., <i>the holy month</i>. The Hagmena songs +are sometimes sung on Christmas Eve and a few of the preceding +nights, and sometimes, as at Richmond, on the eve of the new +year. For further information the reader is referred to +Brand’s <i>Popular Antiquities</i>, vol. i. 247–8, +Sir H. Ellis’s edit. 1842.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To-night</span> it is the +New-year’s night, to-morrow is the day,<br /> +And we are come for our right, and for our ray,<br /> +As we used to do in old King Henry’s day.<br /> + Sing, fellows, +sing, Hagman-heigh.</p> +<p class="poetry">If you go to the bacon-flick, cut me a good +bit;<br /> +Cut, cut and low, beware of your maw;<br /> +Cut, cut and round, beware of your thumb,<br /> +That me and my merry men may have some,<br /> + Sing, fellows, +sing, Hagman-heigh.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +187</span>If you go to the black-ark, bring me X mark;<br /> +Ten mark, ten pound, throw it down upon the ground,<br /> +That me and my merry men may have some.<br /> + Sing, fellows, +sing, Hagman-heigh.</p> +<h3>THE GREENSIDE WAKES SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> wakes, feasts, or tides of the +North of England, were originally religious festivals in honour +of the saints to whom the parish churches were dedicated. +But now-a-days, even in Catholic Lancashire, all traces of their +pristine character have departed, and the hymns and prayers by +which their observance was once hallowed have given place to +dancing and merry-making. At Greenside, near Manchester, +during the wakes, two persons, dressed in a grotesque manner, the +one a male, the other a female, appear in the village on +horseback, with spinning-wheels before them; and the following is +the dialogue, or song, which they sing on these occasions.]</p> +<p class="poetry">‘’<span class="smcap">Tis</span> +Greenside wakes, we’ve come to the town<br /> +To show you some sport of great renown;<br /> +And if my old wife will let me begin,<br /> +I’ll show you how fast and how well I can spin.<br /> + Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, den, don, dell +O.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou brags of thyself, but I don’t +think it true,<br /> +For I will uphold thy faults are not a few;<br /> +For when thou hast done, and spun very hard,<br /> +Of this I’m well sure, thy work is ill marred.<br /> + Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, den, don, dell +O.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou’rt a saucy old jade, and pray +hold thy tongue,<br /> +Or I shall be thumping thee ere it be long;<br /> +And if that I do, I shall make thee to rue,<br /> +For I can have many a one as good as you.<br /> + Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell +O.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘What is it to me who you can have?<br /> +I shall not be long ere I’m laid in my grave;<br /> +<a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>And when +I am dead you may find if you can,<br /> +One that’ll spin as hard as I’ve done.<br /> + Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell +O.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Come, come, my dear wife, here endeth my +song,<br /> +I hope it has pleased this numerous throng;<br /> +But if it has missed, you need not to fear,<br /> +We’ll do our endeavour to please them next year.<br /> + Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell +O.’</p> +<h3>THE SWEARING-IN SONG OR RHYME.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">As formerly sung or said at +Highgate, in the county of Middlesex.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> proverb, ‘He has been +sworn at Highgate,’ is more widely circulated than +understood. In its ordinary signification it is applied to +a ‘knowing’ fellow who is well acquainted with the +‘good things,’ and always helps himself to the best; +and it has its origin in an old usage still kept up at Highgate, +in Middlesex. Grose, in his <i>Classical Dictionary of the +Vulgar Tongue</i>, London, 1785, says,—</p> +<blockquote><p>A ridiculous custom formerly prevailed at the +public-houses of Highgate, to administer a ludicrous oath to all +the men of the middling rank who stopped there. The party +was sworn on a pair of horns fastened on a stick; the substance +of the oath was never to kiss the maid when he could kiss the +mistress, never to drink small beer when he could get strong, +with many other injunctions of the like kind to all of which was +added a saving clause—<i>Unless you like it best</i>! +The person administering the oath was always to be called father +by the juror, and he in return was to style him son, under the +penalty of a bottle.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>From this extract it is evident that in 1786 the custom was +ancient, and had somewhat fallen into desuetude. +Hone’s <i>Year-Book</i> contains a very complete account of +the ceremony, with full particulars of the mode in which the +‘swearing-in’ was then performed in the ‘Fox +under the Hill.’ Hone does not throw any light on the +origin of the practice, nor does he seem to have been aware of +its comparative antiquity. He treated the ceremony as a +piece of modern foolery, got up by some landlord for ‘the +good of the house,’ and adopted from the same interested +motive by others of the tribe. A subsequent correspondent +of Mr. Hone, however, points out the antiquity of the custom, and +shows that it could <a name="page189"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 189</span>be traced back long before the year +1782, when it was introduced into a pantomime called <i>Harlequin +Teague</i>; <i>or</i>, <i>the Giant’s Causeway</i>, which +was performed at the Haymarket on Saturday, August 17, +1782. One of the scenes was Highgate, where, in the +‘parlour’ of a public house, the ceremony was +performed. Mr. Hone’s correspondent sends a copy of +the old initiation song, which varies considerably from our +version, supplied to us in 1851 by a very old man (an ostler) at +Highgate. The reciter said that the <i>copy of verses</i> +was not often used now, as there was no landlord who could sing, +and gentlemen preferred the speech. He said, moreover, +‘that the verses were not always alike—some said one +way, and some another—some made them long, and some <i>cut +’em short</i>.’</p> +<p>Grose was in error when he supposed that the ceremony was +confined to the inferior classes, for even in his day such was +not the case. In subsequent times the oath has been +frequently taken by people of rank, and also by several persons +of the highest literary and political celebrity. An +inspection of any one of the register-books will show that the +jurors have belonged to all sorts of classes, and that amongst +them the Harrovians have always made a conspicuous figure. +When the stage-coaches ceased to pass through the village in +consequence of the opening of railways, the custom declined, and +was kept up only at three houses, which were called the +‘original house,’ the ‘old original,’ and +the ‘real old original.’ Two of the above +houses have latterly ceased to hold courts, and the custom is now +confined to the ‘Fox under the Hill,’ where the rite +is celebrated with every attention to ancient forms and costume, +and for a fee which, in deference to modern notions of economy, +is only one shilling.</p> +<p>Byron, in the first canto of <i>Childe Harold</i>, alludes to +the custom of Highgate:—</p> +<p class="poetry"> Some o’er thy Thamis +row the ribboned fair,<br /> + Others along the safer turnpike fly;<br /> + Some Richmond-hill ascend, some wend to Ware,<br /> + And many to the steep of Highgate hie.<br /> + Ask ye, Bœotian shades! the reason why?<br /> + ’<i>Tis to the worship of the solemn +horn</i>,<br /> + <i>Grasped in the holy hand of mystery</i>,<br /> + <i>In whose dread name both men and maids </i><a +name="citation189"></a><a href="#footnote189" +class="citation">[189]</a><i> are sworn</i>,<br /> +<i>And consecrate the oath with draught</i>, <i>and dance till +morn</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry">Canto I, stanza +70.]</p> +<p><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Landlord</span>, +<i>dressed in a black gown and bands</i>, <i>and wearing an +antique-fashioned wig</i>, <i>followed by the</i> <span +class="smcap">Clerk of the Court</span>, <i>also in appropriate +costume</i>, <i>and carrying the registry-book and the +horns</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Landlord</i>. <span +class="smcap">Do</span> you wish to be sworn at Highgate?</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Candidate</i>. I do, Father.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Clerk</i>. <i>Amen</i>.</p> +<p><i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Landlord</span> <i>then +sings</i>, <i>or says</i>, <i>as follows</i>:—</p> +<p class="poetry">Silence! O, yes! you are my son!<br /> + Full to your old father turn, sir;<br /> +This is an oath you may take as you run,<br /> + So lay your hand thus on the horn, sir.</p> +<p><i>Here the</i> <span class="smcap">Candidate</span> <i>places +his right hand on the horn</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">You shall spend not with cheaters or cozeners +your life,<br /> + Nor waste it on profligate beauty;<br /> +And when you are wedded be kind to your wife,<br /> + And true to all petticoat duty.</p> +<p><i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Candidate</span> <i>says</i> +‘<i>I will</i>,’ <i>and kisses the horn in obedience +to the command of the</i> <span class="smcap">Clerk</span>, +<i>who exclaims in a loud and solemn tone</i>, ‘<i>Kiss the +horn</i>, <i>sir</i>!’</p> +<p class="poetry">And while you thus solemnly swear to be +kind,<br /> + And shield and protect from disaster,<br /> +This part of your oath you must bear it in mind,<br /> + That you, and not she, is the master.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Clerk</i>. ‘<i>Kiss the +horn</i>, <i>sir</i>!’</p> +<p class="poetry">You shall pledge no man first when a woman is +near,<br /> + For neither ’tis proper nor right, sir;<br /> +Nor, unless you prefer it, drink small for strong beer,<br /> + Nor eat brown bread when you can get white, sir.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Clerk</i>. ‘<i>Kiss the +horn</i>, <i>sir</i>!’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +191</span>You shall never drink brandy when wine you can get,<br +/> + Say when good port or sherry is handy;<br /> +Unless that your taste on spirit is set,<br /> + In which case—you <i>may</i>, sir, drink +brandy!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Clerk</i>. ‘<i>Kiss the +horn</i>, <i>sir</i>!’</p> +<p class="poetry">To kiss with the maid when the mistress is +kind,<br /> + Remember that you must be loth, sir;<br /> +But if the maid’s fairest, your oath doesn’t +bind,—<br /> + Or you may, if you like it, kiss both, sir!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Clerk</i>. ‘<i>Kiss the +horn</i>, <i>sir</i>!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Should you ever return, take this oath here +again,<br /> + Like a man of good sense, leal and true, sir;<br /> +And be sure to bring with you some more merry men,<br /> + That they on the horn may swear too, sir.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Landlord</i>. Now, sir, if you please, +sign your name in that book, and if you can’t write, make +your mark, and the clerk of the court will attest it.</p> +<p><i>Here one of the above requests is complied with</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Landlord</i>. You will please pay +half-a-crown for court fees, and what you please to the +clerk.</p> +<p><i>This necessary ceremony being gone through</i>, <i>the +important business terminates by the</i> <span +class="smcap">Landlord</span> <i>saying</i>, ‘<i>God bless +the King</i> [<i>or Queen</i>] <i>and the lord of the +manor</i>;’ <i>to which the</i> <span +class="smcap">Clerk</span> <i>responds</i>, ‘<i>Amen</i>, +<i>amen</i>!’</p> +<p><i>N.B.</i> <i>The court fees are always returned in +wines</i>, <i>spirits</i>, <i>or porter</i>, <i>of which the +Landlord and Clerk are invited to partake</i>.</p> +<h3>FAIRLOP FAIR SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following song is sung at +Fairlop fair, one of the gayest of the numerous saturnalia kept +by the good citizens of London. The venerable oak has +disappeared; but the song is nevertheless <a +name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 192</span>song, and +the curious custom of riding through the fair, seated in boats, +still continues to be observed.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span>, come, my boys, +with a hearty glee,<br /> +To Fairlop fair, bear chorus with me;<br /> +At Hainault forest is known very well,<br /> +This famous oak has long bore the bell.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Cho</i>. Let music sound as the boat +goes round,<br /> +If we tumble on the ground, we’ll be merry, I’ll be +bound;<br /> +We will booze it away, dull care we will defy,<br /> +And be happy on the first Friday in July.</p> +<p class="poetry">At Tainhall forest, Queen Anne she did ride,<br +/> +And beheld the beautiful oak by her side,<br /> +And after viewing it from bottom to top,<br /> +She said that her court should be at Fairlop.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is eight fathom round, spreads an acre of +ground,<br /> +They plastered it round to keep the tree sound.<br /> +So we’ll booze it away, dull care we’ll defy,<br /> +And be happy on the first Friday in July.</p> +<p class="poetry">About a century ago, as I have heard say,<br /> +This fair it was kept by one Daniel Day,<br /> +A hearty good fellow as ever could be,<br /> +His coffin was made of a limb of the tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">With black-strap and perry he made his friends +merry,<br /> +All sorrow for to drown with brandy and sherry.<br /> +So we’ll booze it away, dull care we’ll defy,<br /> +And be happy on the first Friday in July.</p> +<p class="poetry">At Tainhall forest there stands a tree,<br /> +And it has performed a wonderful bounty,<br /> +It is surrounded by woods and plains,<br /> +The merry little warblers chant their strains.</p> +<p class="poetry">So we’ll dance round the tree, and merry +we will be,<br /> +Every year we’ll agree the fair for to see;<br /> +And we’ll booze it away, dull care we’ll defy,<br /> +And be happy on the first Friday in July.</p> +<h3><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>AS +TOM WAS A-WALKING.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">AN ANCIENT +CORNISH SONG.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> song, said to be translated +from the Cornish, ‘was taken down,’ says Mr. Sandys, +‘from the recital of a modern Corypheus, or leader of a +parish choir,’ who assigned to it a very remote, but +indefinite, antiquity.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> Tom was a-walking +one fine summer’s morn,<br /> +When the dazies and goldcups the fields did adorn;<br /> +He met Cozen Mal, with a tub on her head,<br /> +Says Tom, ‘Cozen Mal, you might speak if you +we’d.’</p> +<p class="poetry">But Mal stamped along, and appeared to be +shy,<br /> +And Tom singed out, ‘Zounds! I’ll knaw of thee +why?’<br /> +So back he tore a’ter, in a terrible fuss,<br /> +And axed cozen Mal, ‘What’s the reason of +thus?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Tom Treloar,’ cried out Mal, +‘I’ll nothing do wi’ ’ee,<br /> +Go to Fanny Trembaa, she do knaw how I’m shy;<br /> +Tom, this here t’other daa, down the hill thee didst +stap,<br /> +And dab’d a great doat fig <a name="citation193"></a><a +href="#footnote193" class="citation">[193]</a> in Fan +Trembaa’s lap.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘As for Fanny Trembaa, I ne’er +taalked wi’ her twice,<br /> +And gived her a doat fig, they are so very nice;<br /> +So I’ll tell thee, I went to the fear t’other day,<br +/> +And the doat figs I boft, why I saved them away.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Says Mal, ‘Tom Treloar, ef that be the +caase,<br /> +May the Lord bless for ever that sweet pretty faace;<br /> +Ef thee’st give me thy doat figs thee’st boft in the +fear,<br /> +I’ll swear to thee now, thee shu’st marry me +here.’</p> +<h3><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 194</span>THE +MILLER AND HIS SONS.</h3> +<p>[A <span class="smcap">miller</span>, especially if he happen +to be the owner of a soke-mill, has always been deemed fair game +for the village satirist. Of the numerous songs written in +ridicule of the calling of the ‘rogues in grain,’ the +following is one of the best and most popular: its quaint humour +will recommend it to our readers. For the tune, see +<i>Popular Music</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a crafty +miller, and he<br /> +Had lusty sons, one, two, and three:<br /> +He called them all, and asked their will,<br /> +If that to them he left his mill.</p> +<p class="poetry">He called first to his eldest son,<br /> +Saying, ‘My life is almost run;<br /> +If I to you this mill do make,<br /> +What toll do you intend to take?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Father,’ said he, ‘my name +is Jack;<br /> +Out of a bushel I’ll take a peck,<br /> +From every bushel that I grind,<br /> +That I may a good living find.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou art a fool!’ the old man +said,<br /> +‘Thou hast not well learned thy trade;<br /> +This mill to thee I ne’er will give,<br /> +For by such toll no man can live.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He called for his middlemost son,<br /> +Saying, ‘My life is almost run;<br /> +If I to you this mill do make,<br /> +What toll do you intend to take?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Father,’ says he, ‘my name +is Ralph;<br /> +Out of a bushel I’ll take a half,<br /> +From every bushel that I grind,<br /> +That I may a good living find.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou art a fool!’ the old man +said,<br /> +‘Thou hast not well learned thy trade;<br /> +This mill to thee I ne’er will give,<br /> +For by such toll no man can live.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>He called for his youngest son,<br /> +Saying, ‘My life is almost run;<br /> +If I to you this mill do make,<br /> +What toll do you intend to take?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Father,’ said he, ‘I’m +your only boy,<br /> +For taking toll is all my joy!<br /> +Before I will a good living lack,<br /> +I’ll take it all, and forswear the sack!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou art my boy!’ the old man +said,<br /> +‘For thou hast right well learned thy trade;<br /> +This mill to thee I give,’ he cried,—<br /> +And then he turned up his toes and died.</p> +<h3>JACK AND TOM.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">AN OULD +BORDER DITTIE.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">(TRADITIONAL.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following song was taken down +from recitation in 1847. Of its history nothing is known; +but we are strongly inclined to believe that it may be assigned +to the early part of the seventeenth century, and that it relates +to the visit of Prince Charles and Buckingham, under the assumed +names of Jack and Tom, to Spain, in 1623. Some curious +references to the adventures of the Prince and his companion, on +their masquerading tour, will be found in Halliwell’s +<i>Letters of the Kings of England</i>, vol. ii.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">I’m</span> a north +countrie-man, in Redesdale born,<br /> +Where our land lies lea, and grows ne corn,—<br /> +And such two lads to my house never com,<br /> +As them two lads called Jack and Tom!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, Jack and Tom, they’re going to the +sea;<br /> +I wish them both in good companie!<br /> +They’re going to seek their fortunes ayont the wide sea,<br +/> +Far, far away frae their oan countrie!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +196</span>They mounted their horses, and rode over the moor,<br +/> +Till they came to a house, when they rapped at the door;<br /> +And out came Jockey, the hostler-man.<br /> +‘D’ye brew ony ale? D’ye sell ony +beer?<br /> +Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Ne, we brew ne ale, nor we sell ne +beer,<br /> +Nor we have ne lodgings for strangers here.’<br /> +So he bolted the door, and bade them begone,<br /> +For there was ne lodgings there for poor Jack and Tom.</p> +<p class="poetry">They mounted their horses, and rode over the +plain;—<br /> +Dark was the night, and down fell the rain;<br /> +Till a twinkling light they happened to spy,<br /> +And a castle and a house they were close by.</p> +<p class="poetry">They rode up to the house, and they rapped at +the door,<br /> +And out came Jockey, the hosteler.<br /> +‘D’ye brew ony ale? D’ye sell ony +beer?<br /> +Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Yes, we have brewed ale this fifty lang +year,<br /> +And we have got lodgings for strangers here.’<br /> +So the roast to the fire, and the pot hung on,<br /> +’Twas all to accommodate poor Jack and Tom.</p> +<p class="poetry">When supper was over, and all was <i>sided +down</i>,<br /> +The glasses of wine did go merrily roun’.<br /> +‘Here is to thee, Jack, and here is to thee,<br /> +And all the bonny lasses in our countrie!’<br /> +‘Here is to thee, Tom, and here is to thee,<br /> +And look they may <i>leuk</i> for thee and me!’</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twas early next morning, before the +break of day,<br /> +They mounted their horses, and so they rode away.<br /> +Poor Jack, he died upon a far foreign shore,<br /> +And Tom, he was never, never heard of more!</p> +<h3><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>JOAN’S ALE WAS NEW.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Ours</span> is the common version of this +popular song; it varies considerably from the one given by +D’Urfey, in the <i>Pills to purge Melancholy</i>. +From the names of Nolly and Joan and the allusion to ale, we are +inclined to consider the song as a lampoon levelled at Cromwell, +and his wife, whom the Royalist party nick-named +‘Joan.’ The Protector’s acquaintances +(depicted as low and vulgar tradesmen) are here humorously +represented paying him a congratulatory visit on his change of +fortune, and regaling themselves with the +‘Brewer’s’ ale. The song is mentioned in +Thackeray’s Catalogue, under the title of <i>Joan’s +Ale’s New</i>; which may be regarded as circumstantial +evidence in favour of our hypothesis. The air is published +in <i>Popular Music</i>, accompanying three stanzas of a version +copied from the Douce collection. The first verse in Mr. +Chappell’s book runs as follows:—</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a jovial +tinker,<br /> +Who was a good ale drinker,<br /> +He never was a shrinker,<br /> +Believe me this is true;<br /> +And he came from the Weald of Kent,<br /> +When all his money was gone and spent,<br /> +Which made him look like a Jack a-lent.<br /> + And Joan’s +ale is new, my boys,<br /> + And Joan’s +ale is new.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> were six +jovial tradesmen,<br /> +And they all sat down to drinking,<br /> + For they were a jovial crew;<br /> +They sat themselves down to be merry;<br /> +And they called for a bottle of sherry,<br /> +You’re welcome as the hills, says Nolly,<br /> + While Joan’s ale is new, brave boys,<br /> + While Joan’s ale is new.</p> +<p class="poetry">The first that came in was a soldier,<br /> +With his firelock over his shoulder,<br /> +Sure no one could be bolder,<br /> + And a long broad-sword he drew:<br /> +He swore he would fight for England’s ground,<br /> +Before the nation should be run down;<br /> +He boldly drank their healths all round,<br /> + While Joan’s ale was new.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +198</span>The next that came in was a hatter,<br /> +Sure no one could be blacker,<br /> +And he began to chatter,<br /> + Among the jovial crew:<br /> +He threw his hat upon the ground,<br /> +And swore every man should spend his pound,<br /> +And boldly drank their hearths all round,<br /> + While Joan’s ale was new.</p> +<p class="poetry">The next that came in was a dyer,<br /> +And he sat himself down by the fire,<br /> +For it was his heart’s desire<br /> + To drink with the jovial crew:<br /> +He told the landlord to his face,<br /> +The chimney-corner should be his place,<br /> +And there he’d sit and dye his face,<br /> + While Joan’s ale was new.</p> +<p class="poetry">The next that came in was a tinker,<br /> +And he was no small beer drinker,<br /> +And he was no strong ale shrinker,<br /> + Among the jovial crew:<br /> +For his brass nails were made of metal,<br /> +And he swore he’d go and mend a kettle,<br /> +Good heart, how his hammer and nails did rattle,<br /> + When Joan’s ale was new!</p> +<p class="poetry">The next that came in was a tailor,<br /> +With his bodkin, shears, and thimble,<br /> +He swore he would be nimble<br /> + Among the jovial crew:<br /> +They sat and they called for ale so stout,<br /> +Till the poor tailor was almost broke,<br /> +And was forced to go and pawn his coat,<br /> + While Joan’s ale was new.</p> +<p class="poetry">The next that came in was a ragman,<br /> +With his rag-bag over his shoulder,<br /> +Sure no one could be bolder<br /> + Among the jovial crew.<br /> +<a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>They sat +and called for pots and glasses,<br /> +Till they were all drunk as asses,<br /> +And burnt the old ragman’s bag to ashes,<br /> + While Joan’s ale was new.</p> +<h3>GEORGE RIDLER’S OVEN.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> ancient Gloucestershire song +has been sung at the annual dinners of the Gloucestershire +Society, from the earliest period of the existence of that +institution; and in 1776 there was an Harmonic Society at +Cirencester, which always opened its meetings with <i>George +Ridler’s Oven</i> in full chorus.</p> +<p>The substance of the following key to this very curious song +is furnished by Mr. H. Gingell, who extracts it from the +<i>Annual Report of the Gloucestershire Society</i> for +1835. The annual meeting of this Society is held at Bristol +in the month of August, when the members dine, and a branch +meeting, which was formerly held at the Crown and Anchor in the +Strand, is now annually held at the Thatched House Tavern, St. +James’s. <i>George Ridler’s Oven</i> is sung at +both meetings, and the late Duke of Beaufort used to lead off the +glee in capital style. The words have a secret meaning, +well known to the members of the Gloucestershire Society, which +was founded in 1657, three years before the Restoration of +Charles II. The Society consisted of Royalists, who +combined together for the purpose of restoring the Stuarts. +The Cavalier party was supported by all the old Roman Catholic +families of the kingdom; and some of the Dissenters, who were +disgusted with Cromwell, occasionally lent them a kind of passive +aid.</p> +<p><i>First Verse</i>.—By ‘George Ridler’ is +meant King Charles I. The ‘oven’ was the +Cavalier party. The ‘stwons’ that ‘built +the oven,’ and that ‘came out of the Bleakney +quaar,’ were the immediate followers of the Marquis of +Worcester, who held out long and steadfastly for the Royal cause +at Raglan Castle, which was not surrendered till 1646, and was in +fact the last stronghold retained for the King. ‘His +head did grow above his hair,’ is an allusion to the crown, +the head of the State, which the King wore ‘above his +hair.’</p> +<p><i>Second Verse</i>.—This means that the King, +‘before he died,’ boasted that notwithstanding his +present adversity, the ancient constitution of the kingdom was so +good, and its vitality so great, that it would surpass and +outlive every other form of government.</p> +<p><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +200</span><i>Third Verse</i>.—‘Dick the treble, Jack +the mean, and George the bass,’ mean King, Lords, and +Commons. The injunction to ‘let every man sing in his +own place,’ is a warning to each of the three estates of +the realm to preserve its proper position, and not to encroach on +each other’s prerogative.</p> +<p><i>Fourth Verse</i>.—‘Mine hostess’s +maid’ is an allusion to the Queen, who was a Roman +Catholic, and her maid, the Church. The singer we must +suppose was one of the leaders of the party, and his +‘dog’ a companion, or faithful official of the +Society, and the song was sung on occasions when the members met +together socially; and thus, as the Roman Catholics were +Royalists, the allusion to the mutual attachment between the +‘maid’ and ‘my dog and I,’ is plain and +consistent.</p> +<p><i>Fifth Verse</i>.—The ‘dog’ had a +‘trick of visiting maids when they were sick.’ +The meaning is, that when any of the members were in distress or +desponding, or likely to give up the Royal cause in despair, the +officials, or active members visited, counselled, and assisted +them.</p> +<p><i>Sixth Verse</i>.—The ‘dog’ was +‘good to catch a hen,’ a ‘duck,’ or a +‘goose.’—That is, to enlist as members of the +Society any who were well affected to the Royal cause.</p> +<p><i>Seventh Verse</i>.—‘The good ale tap’ is +an allusion, under cover of the similarity in sound between the +words ale and aisle, to the Church, of which it was dangerous at +the time to be an avowed follower; and so the members were +cautioned that indiscretion might lead to their discovery and +‘overthrow.’</p> +<p><i>Eighth Verse</i>.—The allusion here is to those +unfaithful supporters of the Royal cause, who +‘welcomed’ the members of the Society when it +appeared to be prospering, but ‘parted’ from them in +adversity.</p> +<p><i>Ninth Verse</i>.—An expression of the singer’s +wish that if he should die he may be buried with his faithful +companion, as representing the principles of the Society, under +the good aisles of the church.</p> +<p>The following text has been collated with a version published +in <i>Notes and Queries</i>, from the ‘fragments of a MS. +found in the speech-house of Dean.’ The tune is the +same as that of the <i>Wassailers’ Song</i>, and is printed +in <i>Popular Music</i>. Other ditties appear to have been +founded on this ancient piece. The fourth, seventh, and +ninth verses are in the old ditty called <i>My Dog and I</i>: and +the eighth verse appears in another old song. The air and +words bear some resemblance to <i>Todlen Hame</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +201</span><span class="smcap">The</span> stwons that built George +Ridler’s oven,<br /> +And thauy keam vrom the Bleakney quaar,<br /> +And George he wur a jolly old mon,<br /> +And his yead it grow’d above his yare.</p> +<p class="poetry">One thing of George Ridler I must commend,<br +/> +And that wur vor a notable thing;<br /> +He mead his brags avoore he died,<br /> +Wi’ any dree brooders his zons zshould zing.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Dick the treble, and John the +meean,<br /> +(Let every mon zing in his auwn pleace,)<br /> +And George he wur the elder brother,<br /> +And therevoor he would zing the beass.</p> +<p class="poetry">Mine hostess’s moid, (and her neaum +‘twour Nell,)<br /> +A pretty wench, and I lov’d her well;<br /> +I lov’d her well, good reauzon why,<br /> +Because zshe loved my dog and I.</p> +<p class="poetry">My dog is good to catch a hen;<br /> +A dug or goose is vood for men;<br /> +And where good company I spy,<br /> +O thether gwoes my dog and I.</p> +<p class="poetry">My mwother told I, when I wur young,<br /> +If I did vollow the strong-beer pwoot,<br /> +That drenk would prov my awverdrow,<br /> +And meauk me wear a threadbare cwoat.</p> +<p class="poetry">My dog has gotten zitch a trick,<br /> +To visit moids when thauy be zick;<br /> +When thauy be zick and like to die,<br /> +O thether gwoes my dog and I.</p> +<p class="poetry">When I have dree zixpences under my thumb,<br +/> +O then I be welcome wherever I come;<br /> +But when I have none, O, then I pass by,—<br /> +’Tis poverty pearts good companie.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +202</span>If I should die, as it may hap,<br /> +My greauve shall be under the good yeal tap;<br /> +In voulded yarms there wool us lie,<br /> +Cheek by jowl, my dog and I.</p> +<h3>THE CARRION CROW.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> still popular song is quoted +by Grose in his <i>Olio</i>, where it is made the subject of a +burlesque commentary, the covert political allusions having +evidently escaped the penetration of the antiquary. The +reader familiar with the annals of the Commonwealth and the +Restoration, will readily detect the leading points of the +allegory. The ‘Carrion Crow’ in the oak is +Charles II., who is represented as that bird of voracious +appetite, because he deprived the puritan clergy of their +livings; perhaps, also, because he ordered the bodies of the +regicides to be exhumed—as Ainsworth says in one of his +ballads:—</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> carrion crow is +a sexton bold,<br /> +He raketh the dead from out of the mould.</p> +<p>The religion of the ‘old sow,’ whoever she may be, +is clearly pointed out by her little pigs praying for her +soul. The ‘tailor’ is not easily +identified. It is possibly intended for some puritan divine +of the name of Taylor, who wrote and preached against both +prelacy and papacy, but with an especial hatred of the +latter. In the last verse he consoles himself by the +reflection that, notwithstanding the deprivations, his party will +have enough remaining from the voluntary contributions of their +adherents. The ‘cloak’ which the tailor is +engaged in cutting out, is the Genevan gown, or cloak; the +‘spoon’ in which he desires his wife to bring +treacle, is apparently an allusion to the ‘spatula’ +upon which the wafer is placed in the administration of the +Eucharist; and the introduction of ‘chitterlings and +black-puddings’ into the last verse seems to refer to a +passage in Rabelais, where the same dainties are brought in to +personify those who, in the matter of fasting, are opposed to +Romish practices. The song is found in collections of the +time of Charles II.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> carrion crow he +sat upon an oak,<br /> +And he spied an old tailor a cutting out a cloak.<br /> + Heigho! the +carrion crow.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +203</span>The carrion crow he began for to rave,<br /> +And he called the tailor a lousy knave!<br /> + Heigho! the +carrion crow.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Wife, go fetch me my arrow and my +bow,<br /> +I’ll have a shot at that carrion crow.’<br /> + Heigho! the +carrion crow.</p> +<p class="poetry">The tailor he shot, and he missed his mark,<br +/> +But he shot the old sow through the heart.<br /> + Heigho! the +carrion crow.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Wife, go fetch me some treacle in a +spoon,<br /> +For the old sow’s in a terrible swoon!’<br /> + Heigho! the +carrion crow.</p> +<p class="poetry">The old sow died, and the bells they did +toll,<br /> +And the little pigs prayed for the old sow’s soul!<br /> + Heigho! the +carrion crow.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Never mind,’ said the tailor, +‘I don’t care a flea,<br /> +There’ll be still black-puddings, souse, and chitterlings +for me.’<br /> + Heigho! the +carrion crow.</p> +<h3>THE LEATHERN BOTTEL.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">SOMERSETSHIRE VERSION.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">In</span> Chappell’s <i>Popular +Music</i> is a much longer version of <i>The Leathern +Bottèl</i>. The following copy is the one sung at +the present time by the country-people in the county of +Somerset. It has been communicated to our pages by Mr. +Sandys.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">God</span> above, who rules +all things,<br /> +Monks and abbots, and beggars and kings,<br /> +The ships that in the sea do swim,<br /> +The earth, and all that is therein;<br /> +Not forgetting the old cow’s hide,<br /> +And everything else in the world beside:<br /> +And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell,<br /> +Who first invented this leathern bottèl!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +204</span>Oh! what do you say to the glasses fine?<br /> +Oh! they shall have no praise of mine;<br /> +Suppose a gentleman sends his man<br /> +To fill them with liquor, as fast as he can,<br /> +The man he falls, in coming away,<br /> +And sheds the liquor so fine and gay;<br /> +But had it been in the leathern bottèl,<br /> +And the stopper been in, ‘twould all have been well!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! what do you say to the tankard fine?<br /> +Oh! it shall have no praise of mine;<br /> +Suppose a man and his wife fall out,—<br /> +And such things happen sometimes, no doubt,—<br /> +They pull and they haul; in the midst of the fray<br /> +They shed the liquor so fine and gay;<br /> +But had it been in the leathern bottèl,<br /> +And the stopper been in, ’twould all have been well!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, when this bottèl it is worn out,<br +/> +Out of its sides you may cut a clout;<br /> +This you may hang upon a pin,—<br /> +’Twill serve to put odd trifles in;<br /> +Ink and soap, and candle-ends,<br /> +For young beginners have need of such friends.<br /> +And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell,<br /> +Who first invented the leathern bottèl!</p> +<h3>THE FARMER’S OLD WIFE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A SUSSEX +WHISTLING SONG.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> is a countryman’s +whistling song, and the only one of the kind which we remember to +have heard. It is very ancient, and a great +favourite. The farmer’s wife has an adventure +somewhat resembling the hero’s in the burlesque version of +<i>Don Giovanni</i>. The tune is <i>Lilli burlero</i>, and +the song is sung as follows:—the first line of each verse +is given as a solo; then the tune is continued by a chorus of +whistlers, who whistle that portion of the air which in <i>Lilli +burlero</i> would be sung to the words, <i>Lilli burlero bullen a +la</i>. The songster then proceeds with the tune, and <a +name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>sings the +whole of the verse through, after which the strain is resumed and +concluded by the whistlers. The effect, when accompanied by +the strong whistles of a group of lusty countrymen, is very +striking, and cannot be adequately conveyed by description. +This song constitutes the ‘traditionary verses’ upon +which Burns founded his <i>Carle of Killyburn Braes</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was an old +farmer in Sussex did dwell,</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Chorus of whistlers</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell,<br +/> +And he had a bad wife, as many knew well.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Chorus of whistlers</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Satan came to the old man at the +plough,—<br /> +‘One of your family I must have now.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘It is not your eldest son that I +crave,<br /> +But it is your old wife, and she I will have.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, welcome! good Satan, with all my +heart,<br /> +I hope you and she will never more part.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Satan has got the old wife on his back,<br +/> +And he lugged her along, like a pedlar’s pack.</p> +<p class="poetry">He trudged away till they came to his +hall-gate,<br /> +Says he, ‘Here! take in an old Sussex chap’s +mate!’</p> +<p class="poetry">O! then she did kick the young imps +about,—<br /> +Says one to the other, ‘Let’s try turn her +out.’</p> +<p class="poetry">She spied thirteen imps all dancing in +chains,<br /> +She up with her pattens, and beat out their brains.</p> +<p class="poetry">She knocked the old Satan against the +wall,—<br /> +‘Let’s try turn her out, or she’ll murder us +all!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now he’s bundled her up on his back +amain,<br /> +And to her old husband he took her again.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I have been a tormenter the whole of my +life,<br /> +But I ne’er was tormenter till I met with your +wife.’</p> +<h3><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 206</span>OLD +WICHET AND HIS WIFE.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> song still retains its +popularity in the North of England, and, when sung with humour, +never fails to elicit roars of laughter. A Scotch version +may be found in Herd’s Collection, 1769, and also in +Cunningham’s <i>Songs of England and Scotland</i>, London, +1835. We cannot venture to give an opinion as to which is +the original; but the English set is of unquestionable +antiquity. Our copy was obtained from Yorkshire. It +has been collated with one printed at the Aldermary press, and +preserved in the third volume of the Roxburgh Collection. +The tune is peculiar to the song.]</p> +<p class="poetry">O! I went into the stable, and there for to +see, <a name="citation206"></a><a href="#footnote206" +class="citation">[206]</a><br /> +And there I saw three horses stand, by one, by two, and by +three;<br /> +O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ +quoth she;<br /> +‘O! what do these three horses here, without the leave of +me?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! +can’t you very well see,<br /> +These are three milking cows my mother sent to me?’<br /> +‘Ods bobs! well done! milking cows with saddles on!<br /> +The like was never known!’<br /> +Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!</p> +<p class="poetry">O! I went into the kitchen, and there for to +see,<br /> +And there I saw three swords hang, by one, by two, quoth she;<br +/> +O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind +sir!’<br /> +‘O! what do these three swords do here, without the leave +of me?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! +can’t you very well see,<br /> +These are three roasting spits my mother sent to me?’<br /> +‘Ods bobs! well done! roasting spits with scabbards on!<br +/> +The like was never known!’<br /> +Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +207</span>O! I went into the parlour, and there for to see,<br /> +And there I saw three cloaks hang, by one, by two, and by +three;<br /> +O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ +quoth she;<br /> +‘O! what do these three cloaks do here, without the leave +of me?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! +can’t you very well see,<br /> +These are three mantuas my mother sent to me?’<br /> +‘Ods bobs! well done! mantuas with capes on!<br /> +The like was never known!’<br /> +Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!</p> +<p class="poetry">O! I went into the pantry, and there for to +see,<br /> +And there I saw three pair of boots, <a name="citation207"></a><a +href="#footnote207" class="citation">[207]</a> by one, by two, +and by three;<br /> +O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ +quoth she;<br /> +‘O! what do these three pair of boots here, without the +leave of me?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! +can’t you very well see,<br /> +These are three pudding-bags my mother sent to me?’<br /> +‘Ods bobs! well done! pudding-bags with spurs on!<br /> +The like was never known!’<br /> +Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!</p> +<p class="poetry">O! I went into the dairy, and there for to +see,<br /> +And there I saw three hats hang, by one, by two, and by three;<br +/> +O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ +quoth she;<br /> +‘Pray what do these three hats here, without the leave of +me?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! +can’t you very well see,<br /> +These are three skimming-dishes my mother sent to me?’<br +/> +‘Ods bobs! well done! skimming-dishes with hat-bands on!<br +/> +The like was never known!’<br /> +Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +208</span>O! I went into the chamber, and there for to see,<br /> +And there I saw three men in bed, by one, by two, and by +three;<br /> +O! I called to my loving wife, and ‘Anon, kind sir!’ +quoth she;<br /> +‘O! what do these three men here, without the leave of +me?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why, you old fool! blind fool! +can’t you very well see,<br /> +They are three milking-maids my mother sent to me?’<br /> +‘Ods bobs! well done! milking-maids with beards on!<br /> +The like was never known!’<br /> +Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!</p> +<h3>THE JOLLY WAGGONER.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> country song can be traced +back a century at least, but is, no doubt, much older. It +is very popular in the West of England. The words are +spirited and characteristic. We may, perhaps, refer the +song to the days of transition, when the waggon displaced the +packhorse.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> first I went +a-waggoning, a-waggoning did go,<br /> +I filled my parents’ hearts full of sorrow, grief, and woe. +<a name="citation208a"></a><a href="#footnote208a" +class="citation">[208a]</a><br /> +And many are the hardships that I have since gone through.<br /> + And sing wo, my lads, sing wo!<br /> + Drive on my lads, I-ho! <a +name="citation208b"></a><a href="#footnote208b" +class="citation">[208b]</a><br /> + And who wouldn’t lead the life of a jolly +waggoner?</p> +<p class="poetry">It is a cold and stormy night, and I’m +wet to the skin,<br /> +I will bear it with contentment till I get unto the inn.<br /> +And then I’ll get a drinking with the landlord and his +kin.<br /> + And sing, +&c.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +209</span>Now summer it is coming,—what pleasure we shall +see;<br /> +The small birds are a-singing on every green tree,<br /> +The blackbirds and the thrushes are a-whistling merrilie.<br /> + And sing, +&c.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Michaelmas is coming,—what pleasure +we shall find;<br /> +It will make the gold to fly, my boys, like chaff before the +wind;<br /> +And every lad shall take his lass, so loving and so kind.<br /> + And sing, +&c.</p> +<h3>THE YORKSHIRE HORSE-DEALER.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> ludicrous and genuine +Yorkshire song, the production of some unknown country minstrel, +obtained considerable popularity a few years ago from the +admirable singing of Emery. The incidents actually occurred +at the close of the last century, and some of the descendants of +‘Tommy Towers’ were resident at Clapham till within a +very recent period, and used to take great delight in relating +the laughable adventure of their progenitor. Abey Muggins +is understood to be a <i>sobriquet</i> for a then Clapham +innkeeper. The village of Clapham is in the west of +Yorkshire, on the high road between Skipton and Kendal.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bane</span> <a +name="citation209a"></a><a href="#footnote209a" +class="citation">[209a]</a> ta Claapam town-gate <a +name="citation209b"></a><a href="#footnote209b" +class="citation">[209b]</a> lived an ond Yorkshire tike,<br /> +Who i’ dealing i’ horseflesh hed ne’er met his +like;<br /> +’Twor his pride that i’ aw the hard bargains +he’d hit,<br /> +He’d bit a girt monny, but nivver bin bit.</p> +<p class="poetry">This ond Tommy Towers (bi that naam he wor +knaan),<br /> +Hed an oud carrion tit that wor sheer skin an’ baan;<br /> +Ta hev killed him for t’ curs wad hev bin quite as well,<br +/> +But ’twor Tommy opinion <a name="citation209c"></a><a +href="#footnote209c" class="citation">[209c]</a> he’d dee +on himsel!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +210</span>Well! yan Abey Muggins, a neighborin cheat,<br /> +Thowt ta diddle ond Tommy wad be a girt treat;<br /> +Hee’d a horse, too, ’twor war than ond Tommy’s, +ye see,<br /> +Fort’ neet afore that hee’d thowt proper ta dee!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thinks Abey, t’ oud codger ‘ll +nivver smoak t’ trick,<br /> +I’ll swop wi’ him my poor deead horse for his wick, +<a name="citation210a"></a><a href="#footnote210a" +class="citation">[210a]</a><br /> +An’ if Tommy I nobbut <a name="citation210b"></a><a +href="#footnote210b" class="citation">[210b]</a> can happen ta +trap,<br /> +’Twill be a fine feather i’ Aberram cap!</p> +<p class="poetry">Soa to Tommy he goas, an’ the question he +pops:<br /> +‘Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops?<br +/> +What wilt gi’ me ta boot? for mine’s t’better +horse still!’<br /> +‘Nout,’ says Tommy, ‘I’ll swop ivven +hands, an’ ye will.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Abey preaached a lang time about summat ta +boot,<br /> +Insistin’ that his war the liveliest brute;<br /> +But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun,<br /> +Till Abey shook hands, and sed, ‘Well, Tommy, done!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O! Tommy,’ sed Abey, +‘I’ze sorry for thee,<br /> +I thowt thou’d a hadden mair white i’ thy +’ee;<br /> +Good luck’s wi’ thy bargin, for my horse is +deead.’<br /> +‘Hey!’ says Tommy, ‘my lad, soa is min, an +it’s fleead?’</p> +<p class="poetry">Soa Tommy got t’ better of t’ +bargin, a vast,<br /> +An’ cam off wi’ a Yorkshireman’s triumph at +last;<br /> +For thof ’twixt deead horses there’s not mitch to +choose,<br /> +Yet Tommy war richer by t’ hide an’ fower shooes.</p> +<h3>THE KING AND THE COUNTRYMAN.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> popular favourite is a mere +abridgment and alteration of a poem preserved in the Roxburgh +Collection, called <i>The King and Northern Man</i>, <i>shewing +how a poor Northumberland man</i> (<i>tenant to the King</i>) +<i>being wronged by a lawyer</i> (<i>his neighbour</i>) <i>went +to the King himself to make known his grievance</i>. <i>To +the tune of </i><a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +211</span><i>Slut</i>. Printed by and for Alex. Melbourne, +at the Stationer’s Arms in Green Arbour Court, in the +Little Old Baily. The Percy Society printed <i>The King and +Northern Man</i> from an edition published in 1640. There +is also a copy preserved in the Bagford Collection, which is one +of the imprints of W. Onley. The edition of 1640 has the +initials of Martin Parker at the end, but, as Mr. Collier +observes, ‘There is little doubt that the story is much +older than 1640.’ See preface to Percy +Society’s Edition.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was an old +chap in the west country,<br /> + A flaw in the lease the lawyers had found,<br /> +’Twas all about felling of five oak trees,<br /> + And building a house upon his own ground.<br /> + Right too looral, looral, +looral—right too looral la!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, this old chap to Lunnun would go,<br /> + To tell the king a part of his woe,<br /> +Likewise to tell him a part of his grief,<br /> + In hopes the king would give him relief.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, when this old chap to Lunnun had come,<br +/> + He found the king to Windsor had gone;<br /> +But if he’d known he’d not been at home,<br /> + He danged his buttons if ever he’d come.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, when this old chap to Windsor did +stump,<br /> + The gates were barred, and all secure,<br /> +But he knocked and thumped with his oaken clump,<br /> + There’s room within for I to be sure.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when he got there, how he did stare,<br /> + To see the yeomen strutting about;<br /> +He scratched his head, and rubbed down his hair,<br /> + In the ear of a noble he gave a great shout:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Pray, Mr. Noble, show I the King;<br /> + Is that the King that I see there?<br /> +I seed an old chap at Bartlemy fair<br /> + Look more like a king than that chap there.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +212</span>‘Well, Mr. King, pray how d’ye do?<br /> + I gotten for you a bit of a job,<br /> +Which if you’ll be so kind as to do,<br /> + I gotten a summat for you in my fob.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The king he took the lease in hand,<br /> + To sign it, too, he was likewise willing;<br /> +And the old chap to make a little amends,<br /> + He lugg’d out his bag, and gave him a +shilling.</p> +<p class="poetry">The king, to carry on the joke,<br /> + Ordered ten pounds to be paid down;<br /> +The farmer he stared, but nothing spoke,<br /> + And stared again, and he scratched his crown.</p> +<p class="poetry">The farmer he stared to see so much money,<br +/> + And to take it up he was likewise willing;<br /> +But if he’d a known King had got so much money,<br /> + He danged his wig if he’d gien him that +shilling!</p> +<h3>JONE O’ GREENFIELD’S RAMBLE.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> county of Lancaster has always +been famed for its admirable <i>patois</i> songs; but they are in +general the productions of modern authors, and consequently, +however popular they may be, are not within the scope of the +present work. In the following humorous production, +however, we have a composition of the last century. It is +the oldest and most popular Lancashire song we have been able to +procure; and, unlike most pieces of its class, it is entirely +free from grossness and vulgarity.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Says</span> Jone to his +wife, on a hot summer’s day,<br /> +‘I’m resolved i’ Grinfilt no lunger to stay;<br +/> +For I’ll go to Owdham os fast os I can,<br /> +So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, un fare thee weel, Nan;<br /> + A soger I’ll be, un brave Owdham I’ll +see,<br /> + Un I’ll ha’e a battle wi’ +th’ French.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Dear Jone,’ then said Nan, un hoo +bitterly cried,<br /> +Wilt be one o’ th’ foote, or tha meons to +ride?’<br /> +<a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +213</span>‘Odsounds! wench, I’ll ride oather ass or a +mule,<br /> +Ere I’ll kewer i’ Grinfilt os black as te dule,<br /> + Booath clemmink <a name="citation213"></a><a +href="#footnote213" class="citation">[213]</a> un starvink, un +never a fardink,<br /> + Ecod! it would drive ony mon mad.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Aye, Jone, sin’ wi’ coom +i’ Grinfilt for t’ dwell,<br /> +We’n had mony a bare meal, I con vara weel tell.’<br +/> +‘Bare meal! ecod! aye, that I vara weel know,<br /> +There’s bin two days this wick ot we’n had nowt at +o:<br /> + I’m vara near sided, afore I’ll abide +it,<br /> + I’ll feight oather Spanish or +French.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then says my Aunt Marget, ‘Ah! Jone, +thee’rt so hot,<br /> +I’d ne’er go to Owdham, boh i’ Englond +I’d stop.’<br /> +‘It matters nowt, Madge, for to Owdham I’ll go,<br /> +I’ll naw clam to deeoth, boh sumbry shalt know:<br /> + Furst Frenchman I find, I’ll tell him meh +mind,<br /> + Un if he’ll naw feight, he shall +run.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then down th’ broo I coom, for we livent +at top,<br /> +I thowt I’d reach Owdharn ere ever I’d stop;<br /> +Ecod! heaw they stared when I getten to th’ Mumps,<br /> +Meh owd hat i’ my hond, un meh clogs full +o’stumps;<br /> + Boh I soon towd um, I’r gooink to Owdham,<br +/> + Un I’d ha’e battle wi’ th’ +French.</p> +<p class="poetry">I kept eendway thro’ th’ lone, un +to Owdham I went,<br /> +I ask’d a recruit if te’d made up their keawnt?<br /> +‘No, no, honest lad’ (for he tawked like a king),<br +/> +‘Go wi’ meh thro’ the street, un thee I will +bring<br /> + Where, if theaw’rt willink, theaw may +ha’e a shillink.’<br /> + Ecod! I thowt this wur rare news.</p> +<p class="poetry">He browt me to th’ pleck where te measurn +their height,<br /> +Un if they bin height, there’s nowt said about weight;<br +/> +<a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 214</span>I +retched me, un stretched me, un never did flinch,<br /> +Says th’ mon, ‘I believe theaw ’rt meh lad to +an inch.’<br /> + I thowt this’ll do, I’st ha’e +guineas enow,<br /> + Ecod! Owdham, brave Owdham for me.</p> +<p class="poetry">So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, a soger I’m +made,<br /> +I’n getten new shoon, un a rare cockade;<br /> +I’ll feight for Owd Englond os hard os I con,<br /> +Oather French, Dutch, or Spanish, to me it’s o one,<br /> + I’ll make ’em to stare like a +new-started hare,<br /> + Un I’ll tell ’em fro’ Owdham I +coom.</p> +<h3>THORNEHAGH-MOOR WOODS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A CELEBRATED +NOTTINGHAMSHIRE POACHER’S SONG.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Nottinghamshire</span> was, in the olden +day, famous in song for the achievements of Robin Hood and his +merry men. In our times the reckless daring of the heroes +of the ‘greenwood tree’ has descended to the poachers +of the county, who have also found poets to proclaim and exult +over <i>their</i> lawless exploits; and in <i>Thornehagh-Moor +Woods</i> we have a specimen of one of these rude, but +mischievous and exciting lyrics. The air is beautiful, and +of a lively character; and will be found in <i>Popular +Music</i>. There is it prevalent idea that the song is not +the production of an ordinary ballad-writer, but was written +about the middle of the last century by a gentleman of rank and +education, who, detesting the English game-laws, adopted a too +successful mode of inspiring the peasantry with a love of +poaching. The song finds locality in the village of +Thornehagh, in the hundred of Newark. The common, or +Moor-fields, was inclosed about 1797, and is now no longer called +by the ancient designation. It contains eight hundred +acres. The manor of Thornehagh is the property of the +ancient family of Nevile, who have a residence on the +estate.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> Thornehagh-Moor +woods, in Nottinghamshire,<br /> + Fol de rol, la re, right fol +laddie, dee;<br /> +In Robin Hood’s bold Nottinghamshire,<br /> + Fol de rol, la re da;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>Three keepers’ houses stood three-square,<br /> +And about a mile from each other they were;—<br /> +Their orders were to look after the deer.<br /> + Fol de rol, la re da.</p> +<p class="poetry">I went out with my dogs one night,—<br /> +The moon shone clear, and the stars gave light;<br /> +Over hedges and ditches, and steyls<br /> +With my two dogs close at my heels,<br /> +To catch a fine buck in Thornehagh-Moor fields.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! that night we had bad luck,<br /> +One of my very best dogs was stuck;<br /> +He came to me both breeding and lame,—<br /> +Right sorry was I to see the same,—<br /> +He was not able to follow the game.</p> +<p class="poetry">I searched his wounds, and found them +slight,<br /> +Some keeper has done this out of spite;<br /> +But I’ll take my pike-staff,—that’s the +plan!<br /> +I’ll range the woods till I find the man,<br /> +And I’ll tan his hide right well,—if I can!</p> +<p class="poetry">I ranged the woods and groves all night,<br /> +I ranged the woods till it proved daylight;<br /> +The very first thing that then I found,<br /> +Was a good fat buck that lay dead on the ground;<br /> +I knew my dogs gave him his death-wound.</p> +<p class="poetry">I hired a butcher to skin the game,<br /> +Likewise another to sell the same;<br /> +The very first buck he offered for sale,<br /> +Was to an old [hag] that sold bad ale,<br /> +And she sent us three poor lads to gaol.</p> +<p class="poetry">The quarter sessions we soon espied,<br /> +At which we all were for to be tried;<br /> +The Chairman laughed the matter to scorn,<br /> +He said the old woman was all forsworn,<br /> +And unto pieces she ought to be torn.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +216</span>The sessions are over, and we are clear!<br /> +The sessions are over, and we sit here,<br /> + Singing fol de rol, la re da!<br +/> +The very best game I ever did see,<br /> +Is a buck or a deer, but a deer for me!<br /> +In Thornehagh-Moor woods this night we’ll be!<br /> + Fol de rol, la re da!</p> +<h3>THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> very old ditty has been +transformed into the dialects of Somersetshire, Northamptonshire, +and Leicestershire; but it properly belongs to +Lincolnshire. Nor is this the only liberty that his been +taken with it. The original tune is that of a Lancashire +air, well known as <i>The Manchester Angel</i>; but a florid +modern tune has been substituted. <i>The Lincolnshire +Poacher</i> was a favourite ditty with George IV., and it is said +that he often had it sung for his amusement by a band of +Berkshire ploughmen. He also commanded it to be sung at his +harvest-homes, but we believe it was always on such occasions +sung to the ‘playhouse tune,’ and not to the genuine +music. It is often very difficult to trace the locality of +countrymen’s songs, in consequence of the licence adopted +by printers of changing the names of places to suit their own +neighbourhoods; but there is no such difficulty about <i>The +Lincolnshire Poacher</i>. The oldest copy we have seen, +printed at York about 1776, reads ‘Lincolnshire,’ and +it is only in very modern copies that the venue is removed to +other counties. In the Somersetshire version the local +vernacular is skilfully substituted for that of the original; but +the deception may, nevertheless, be very easily detected.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> I was bound +apprentice, in famous Lincolnsheer,<br /> +Full well I served my master for more than seven year,<br /> +Till I took up with poaching, as you shall quickly +hear:—<br /> +Oh! ’tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the +year.</p> +<p class="poetry">As me and my comrades were setting of a +snare,<br /> +’Twas then we seed the gamekeeper—for him we did not +care,<br /> +<a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 217</span>For we +can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o’er +everywhere:—<br /> +Oh! ’tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the +year.</p> +<p class="poetry">As me and my comrades were setting four or +five,<br /> +And taking on him up again, we caught the hare alive;<br /> +We caught the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did +steer:—<br /> +Oh! ’tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the +year.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in +Lincolnsheer; <a name="citation217"></a><a href="#footnote217" +class="citation">[217]</a><br /> +Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare;<br /> +Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his +deer:—<br /> +Oh! ’tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the +year.</p> +<h3>SOMERSETSHIRE HUNTING SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> following song, which is very +popular with the peasantry of Somersetshire, is given as a +curious specimen of the dialect still spoken in some parts of +that county. Though the song is a genuine peasant’s +ditty, it is heard in other circles, and frequently roared out at +hunting dinners. It is here reprinted from a copy +communicated by Mr. Sandys.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There’s</span> no +pleasures can compare<br /> +Wi’ the hunting o’ the hare,<br /> +In the morning, in the morning,<br /> +In fine and pleasant weather.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +218</span><i>Cho</i>. With our hosses and our hounds,<br /> +We will scamps it o’er the grounds,<br /> +And sing traro, huzza!<br /> +And sing traro, huzza!<br /> +And sing traro, brave boys, we will foller.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when poor puss arise,<br /> +Then away from us she flies;<br /> +And we’ll gives her, boys, we’ll gives her,<br /> +One thundering and loud holler!<br /> + <i>Cho</i>. With our hosses, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when poor puss is killed,<br /> +We’ll retires from the field;<br /> +And we’ll count boys, and we’ll count<br /> +On the same good ren to-morrer.<br /> + <i>Cho</i>. With our bosses and our hounds, +&c.</p> +<h3>THE TROTTING HORSE.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> common copies of this old +highwayman’s song are very corrupt. We are indebted +for the following version, which contains several emendations, to +Mr. W. H. Ainsworth. The song, which may probably be +referred to the age of Charles II., is a spirited specimen of its +class.]</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">can</span> sport as fine +a trotting horse as any swell in town,<br /> +To trot you fourteen miles an hour, I’ll bet you fifty +crown;<br /> +He is such a one to bend his knees, and tuck his haunches in,<br +/> +And throw the dust in people’s face, and think it not a +sin.<br /> + For to ride +away, trot away,<br /> + Ri, fa lar, la, +&c.</p> +<p class="poetry">He has an eye like any hawk, a neck like any +swan,<br /> +A foot light as the stag’s, the while his back is scarce a +span;<br /> +<a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 219</span>Kind +Nature hath so formed him, he is everything that’s +good,—<br /> +Aye! everything a man could wish, in bottom, bone, and blood.<br +/> + For to ride +away, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">If you drop therein, he’ll nod his head, +and boldly walk away,<br /> +While others kick and bounce about, to him it’s only +play;<br /> +There never was a finer horse e’er went on English +ground,<br /> +He is rising six years old, and is all over right and sound.<br +/> + For to ride +away, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">If any frisk or milling match should call me +out of town,<br /> +I can pass the blades with white cockades, their whiskers hanging +down;<br /> +With large jack-towels round their necks, they think +they’re first and fast,<br /> +But, with their gapers open wide, they find that they are +last.<br /> + Whilst I ride +away, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">If threescore miles I am from home, I darkness +never mind,<br /> +My friend is gone, and I am left, with pipe and pot behind;<br /> +Up comes some saucy kiddy, a scampsman on the hot,<br /> +But ere he pulls the trigger I am off just like a shot.<br /> + For I ride away, +&c.</p> +<p class="poetry">If Fortune e’er should fickle be, and +wish to have again<br /> +That which she so freely gave, I’d give it without pain;<br +/> +I would part with it most freely, and without the least +remorse,<br /> +Only grant to me what God hath gave, my mistress and my horse!<br +/> + That I may ride +away, &c.</p> +<h3><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 220</span>THE +SEEDS OF LOVE.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> very curious old song is not +only a favourite with our peasantry, but, in consequence of +having been introduced into the modern dramatic entertainment of +<i>The Loan of a Lover</i>, has obtained popularity in higher +circles. Its sweetly plaintive tune will be found in +<i>Popular Music</i>. The words are quaint, but by no means +wanting in beauty; they are, no doubt, corrupted, as we have +derived them from common broadsides, the only form in which we +have been able to meet with them. The author of the song +was Mrs. Fleetwood Habergham, of Habergham, in the county of +Lancaster. ‘Ruined by the extravagance, and disgraced +by the vices of her husband, she soothed her sorrows,’ says +Dr. Whitaker, ‘by some stanzas yet remembered among the old +people of her neighbourhood.’—<i>History of +Whalley</i>. Mrs. Habergham died in 1703, and was buried at +Padiham.]</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">sowed</span> the seeds of +love, it was all in the spring,<br /> +In April, May, and June, likewise, when small birds they do +sing;<br /> +My garden’s well planted with flowers everywhere,<br /> +Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself the flower that I +loved so dear.</p> +<p class="poetry">My gardener he stood by, I asked him to choose +for me,<br /> +He chose me the violet, the lily and pink, but those I refused +all three;<br /> +The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon,<br /> +The lily and the pink I did o’erlook, and I vowed I’d +stay till June.</p> +<p class="poetry">In June there’s a red rose-bud, and +that’s the flower for me!<br /> +But often have I plucked at the red rose-bud till I gained the +willow-tree;<br /> +The willow-tree will twist, and the willow-tree will +twice,—<br /> +O! I wish I was in the dear youth’s arms that once had the +heart of mine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +221</span>My gardener he stood by, he told me to take great +care,<br /> +For in the middle of a red rose-bud there grows a sharp thorn +there;<br /> +I told him I’d take no care till I did feel the smart,<br +/> +And often I plucked at the red rose-bud till I pierced it to the +heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ll make me a posy of hyssop,—no +other I can touch,—<br /> +That all the world may plainly see I love one flower too much;<br +/> +My garden is run wild! where shall I plant anew—<br /> +For my bed, that once was covered with thyme, is all overrun with +rue? <a name="citation221a"></a><a href="#footnote221a" +class="citation">[221a]</a></p> +<h3>THE GARDEN-GATE.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">One</span> of our most pleasing rural +ditties. The air is very beautiful. We first heard it +sung in Malhamdale, Yorkshire, by Willy Bolton, an old +Dales’-minstrel, who accompanied himself on the +union-pipes. <a name="citation221b"></a><a href="#footnote221b" +class="citation">[221b]</a>]</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +222</span><span class="smcap">The</span> day was spent, the moon +shone bright,<br /> + The village clock struck eight;<br /> +Young Mary hastened, with delight,<br /> + Unto the garden-gate:<br /> +But what was there that made her sad?—<br /> +The gate was there, but not the lad,<br /> +Which made poor Mary say and sigh,<br /> +‘Was ever poor girl so sad as I?’</p> +<p class="poetry">She traced the garden here and there,<br /> + The village clock struck nine;<br /> +Which made poor Mary sigh, and say,<br /> + ‘You shan’t, you shan’t be +mine!<br /> +You promised to meet at the gate at eight,<br /> +You ne’er shall keep me, nor make me wait,<br /> +For I’ll let all such creatures see,<br /> +They ne’er shall make a fool of me!’</p> +<p class="poetry">She traced the garden here and there,<br /> + The village clock struck ten;<br /> +Young William caught her in his arms,<br /> + No more to part again:<br /> +For he’d been to buy the ring that day,<br /> +And O! he had been a long, long way;—<br /> +<a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 223</span>Then, +how could Mary cruel prove,<br /> +To banish the lad she so dearly did love?</p> +<p class="poetry">Up with the morning sun they rose,<br /> + To church they went away,<br /> +And all the village joyful were,<br /> + Upon their wedding-day:<br /> +Now in a cot, by a river side,<br /> +William and Mary both reside;<br /> +And she blesses the night that she did wait<br /> +For her absent swain, at the garden-gate.</p> +<h3>THE NEW-MOWN HAY.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> song is a village-version of +an incident which occurred in the Cecil family. The same +English adventure has, strangely enough, been made the subject of +one of the most romantic of Moore’s <i>Irish Melodies</i>, +viz., <i>You remember Helen</i>, <i>the hamlet’s +pride</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> I walked forth +one summer’s morn,<br /> + Hard by a river’s side,<br /> +Where yellow cowslips did adorn<br /> + The blushing field with pride;<br /> +I spied a damsel on the grass,<br /> + More blooming than the may;<br /> +Her looks the Queen of Love surpassed,<br /> + Among the new-mown hay.</p> +<p class="poetry">I said, ‘Good morning, pretty maid,<br /> + How came you here so soon?’<br /> +‘To keep my father’s sheep,’ she said,<br /> + ‘The thing that must be done:<br /> +While they are feeding ‘mong the dew,<br /> + To pass the time away,<br /> +I sit me down to knit or sew,<br /> + Among the new-mown hay.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>Delighted with her simple tale,<br /> + I sat down by her side;<br /> +With vows of love I did prevail<br /> + On her to be my bride:<br /> +In strains of simple melody,<br /> + She sung a rural lay;<br /> +The little lambs stood listening by,<br /> + Among the new-mown hay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then to the church they went with speed,<br /> + And Hymen joined them there;<br /> +No more her ewes and lambs to feed,<br /> + For she’s a lady fair:<br /> +A lord he was that married her,<br /> + To town they came straightway:<br /> +She may bless the day he spied her there,<br /> + Among the new-mown hay.</p> +<h3>THE PRAISE OF A DAIRY.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> excellent old country song, +which can be traced to 1687, is sung to the air of +<i>Packington’s Pound</i>, for the history of which see +<i>Popular Music</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> praise of a dairy +I purpose to sing,<br /> +But all things in order, first, God save the King! <a +name="citation224"></a><a href="#footnote224" +class="citation">[224]</a><br /> + And the Queen, I +may say,<br /> + That every +May-day,<br /> +Has many fair dairy-maids all fine and gay.<br /> +Assist me, fair damsels, to finish my theme,<br /> +Inspiring my fancy with strawberry cream.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +225</span>The first of fair dairy-maids, if you’ll +believe,<br /> +Was Adam’s own wife, our great grandmother Eve,<br /> + Who oft milked a +cow,<br /> + As well she knew +how.<br /> +Though butter was not then as cheap as ’tis now,<br /> +She hoarded no butter nor cheese on her shelves,<br /> +For butter and cheese in those days made themselves.</p> +<p class="poetry">In that age or time there was no horrid +money,<br /> +Yet the children of Israel had both milk and honey;<br /> + No Queen you +could see,<br /> + Of the highest +degree,<br /> +But would milk the brown cow with the meanest she.<br /> +Their lambs gave them clothing, their cows gave them meat,<br /> +And in plenty and peace all their joys wore complete.</p> +<p class="poetry">Amongst the rare virtues that milk does +produce,<br /> +For a thousand of dainties it’s daily in use:<br /> + Now a pudding +I’ll tell ’ee,<br /> + And so can maid +Nelly,<br /> +Must have from good milk both the cream and the jelly:<br /> +For a dainty fine pudding, without cream or milk,<br /> +Is a citizen’s wife, without satin or silk.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the virtues of milk there is more to be +mustered:<br /> +O! the charming delights both of cheesecake and custard!<br /> + If to wakes <a +name="citation225"></a><a href="#footnote225" +class="citation">[225]</a> you resort,<br /> + You can have no +sport,<br /> +Unless you give custards and cheesecake too for’t:<br /> +And what’s the jack-pudding that makes us to laugh,<br /> +Unless he hath got a great custard to quaff?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +226</span>Both pancake and fritter of milk have good store,<br /> +But a Devonshire white-pot must needs have much more;<br /> + Of no brew <a +name="citation226a"></a><a href="#footnote226a" +class="citation">[226a]</a> you can think,<br /> + Though you study +and wink,<br /> +From the lusty sack posset to poor posset drink,<br /> +But milk’s the ingredient, though wine’s <a +name="citation226b"></a><a href="#footnote226b" +class="citation">[226b]</a> ne’er the worse,<br /> +For ’tis wine makes the man, though ’tis milk makes +the nurse.</p> +<h3>THE MILK-MAID’S LIFE.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Of</span> this popular country song there +are a variety of versions. The following, which is the most +ancient, is transcribed from a black-letter broadside in the +Roxburgh Collection, entitled <i>The Milke-maid’s Life</i>; +<i>or</i>, <i>a pretty new ditty composed and penned</i>, <i>the +praise of the Milking-pail to defend</i>. To a curious new +tune called the <i>Milke-maid’s Dump</i>. It is +subscribed with the initials M. P.; probably those of Martin +Parker.]</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">You</span> rural goddesses,<br /> + That woods and fields possess,<br +/> +Assist me with your skill, that may direct my quill,<br /> + More jocundly to express,<br /> +The mirth and delight, both morning and night,<br /> + On mountain or in dale,<br /> +Of them who choose this trade to use,<br /> +And, through cold dews, do never refuse<br /> + To carry the milking-pail.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>The bravest +lasses gay,<br /> + Live not so merry as they;<br /> +In honest civil sort they make each other sport,<br /> + As they trudge on their way;<br /> +Come fair or foul weather, they’re fearful of neither,<br +/> + Their courages never quail.<br /> +In wet and dry, though winds be high,<br /> +And dark’s the sky, they ne’er deny<br /> + To carry the milking-pail.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Their +hearts are free from care,<br /> + They never will despair;<br /> +Whatever them befal, they bravely bear out all,<br /> + And fortune’s frowns +outdare.<br /> +They pleasantly sing to welcome the spring,<br /> + ’Gainst heaven they never +rail;<br /> +If grass well grow, their thanks they show,<br /> +And, frost or snow, they merrily go<br /> + Along with the milking-pail:</p> +<p class="poetry"> Base +idleness they do scorn,<br /> + They rise very early i’ +th’ morn,<br /> +And walk into the field, where pretty birds do yield<br /> + Brave music on every thorn.<br /> +The linnet and thrush do sing on each bush,<br /> + And the dulcet nightingale<br /> +Her note doth strain, by jocund vein,<br /> +To entertain that worthy train,<br /> + Which carry the milking-pail.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Their +labour doth health preserve,<br /> + No doctor’s rules they +observe,<br /> +While others too nice in taking their advice,<br /> + Look always as though they would +starve.<br /> +Their meat is digested, they ne’er are molested,<br /> + No sickness doth them assail;<br +/> +Their time is spent in merriment,<br /> +While limbs are lent, they are content,<br /> + To carry the milking-pail.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>Upon the +first of May,<br /> + With garlands, fresh and gay,<br +/> +With mirth and music sweet, for such a season meet,<br /> + They pass the time away.<br /> +They dance away sorrow, and all the day thorough<br /> + Their legs do never fail,<br /> +For they nimbly their feet do ply,<br /> +And bravely try the victory,<br /> + In honour o’ the +milking-pail.</p> +<p class="poetry"> If any +think that I<br /> + Do practise flattery,<br /> +In seeking thus to raise the merry milkmaids’ praise,<br /> + I’ll to them thus +reply:—<br /> +It is their desert inviteth my art,<br /> + To study this pleasant tale;<br /> +In their defence, whose innocence,<br /> +And providence, gets honest pence<br /> + Out of the milking-pail.</p> +<h3>THE MILKING-PAIL.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following is another version +of the preceding ditty, and is the one most commonly sung.]</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Ye</span> nymphs and sylvan gods,<br /> + That love green fields and +woods,<br /> +When spring newly-born herself does adorn,<br /> + With flowers and blooming buds:<br +/> +Come sing in the praise, while flocks do graze,<br /> + On yonder pleasant vale,<br /> +Of those that choose to milk their ewes,<br /> +And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,<br /> + To carry the milking-pail.</p> +<p class="poetry"> You goddess +of the morn,<br /> + With blushes you adorn,<br /> +<a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>And take +the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare<br /> + A concert on each green thorn;<br +/> +The blackbird and thrush on every bush,<br /> + And the charming nightingale,<br +/> +In merry vein, their throats do strain<br /> +To entertain, the jolly train<br /> + Of those of the milking-pail.</p> +<p class="poetry"> When cold +bleak winds do roar,<br /> + And flowers will spring no +more,<br /> +The fields that were seen so pleasant and green,<br /> + With winter all candied +o’er,<br /> +See now the town lass, with her white face,<br /> + And her lips so deadly pale;<br /> +But it is not so, with those that go<br /> +Through frost and snow, with cheeks that glow,<br /> + And carry the milking-pail.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The country +lad is free<br /> + From fears and jealousy,<br /> +Whilst upon the green he oft is seen,<br /> + With his lass upon his knee.<br /> +With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,<br /> + And swears her charms won’t +fail;<br /> +But the London lass, in every place,<br /> +With brazen face, despises the grace<br /> + Of those of the milking-pail.</p> +<h3>THE SUMMER’S MORNING.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> is a very old ditty, and a +favourite with the peasantry in every part of England; but more +particularly in the mining districts of the North. The tune +is pleasing, but uncommon. R. W. Dixon, Esq., of +Seaton-Carew, Durham, by whom the song was communicated to his +brother for publication, says, ‘I have written down the +above, <i>verbatim</i>, as generally sung. It will be seen +that the last lines of each verse are not of equal length. +The singer, however, makes all right and smooth! The words +underlined <a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span>in each verse are sung five times, thus:—<i>They +ad-van-cèd</i>, <i>they ad-van-cèd</i>, <i>they +ad-van-cèd</i>, <i>they ad-van-cèd</i>, <i>they +ad-van-cèd me some money</i>,—<i>ten guineas and a +crown</i>. The last line is thus sung:—<i>We’ll +be married</i>, (as the word is usually pronounced), +<i>We’ll be married</i>, <i>we’ll be married</i>, +<i>we’ll be married</i>, <i>we’ll be married</i>, +<i>we’ll be mar-ri-èd when I return +again</i>.’ The tune is given in <i>Popular +Music</i>. Since this song appeared in the volume issued by +the Percy Society, we have met with a copy printed at +Devonport. The readings are in general not so good; but in +one or two instances they are apparently more ancient, and are, +consequently, here adopted. The Devonport copy contains two +verses, not preserved in our traditional version. These we +have incorporated in our present text, in which they form the +third and last stanzas.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> was one +summer’s morning, as I went o’er the moss,<br /> +I had no thought of ’listing, till the soldiers did me +cross;<br /> +They kindly did invite me to a flowing bowl, and down,<br /> +<i>They advancèd</i> me some money,—ten guineas and +a crown.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘It’s true my love has listed, he +wears a white cockade,<br /> +He is a handsome tall young man, besides a roving blade;<br /> +He is a handsome young man, and he’s gone to serve the +king,<br /> +<i>Oh</i>! <i>my very</i> heart is breaking for the loss of +him.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘My love is tall and handsome, and comely +for to see,<br /> +And by a sad misfortune a soldier now is he;<br /> +I hope the man that listed him may not prosper night nor day,<br +/> +<i>For I wish that</i> the Hollànders may sink him in the +sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh! may he never prosper, oh! may he +never thrive,<br /> +Nor anything he takes in hand so long as he’s alive;<br /> +May the very grass he treads upon the ground refuse to grow,<br +/> +<i>Since he’s been</i> the only cause of my sorrow, grief, +and woe!’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>Then he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her flowing +eyes,—<br /> +‘Leave off those lamentations, likewise those mournful +cries;<br /> +Leave of your grief and sorrow, while I march o’er the +plain,<br /> +<i>We’ll be married</i> when I return again.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O now my love has listed, and I for him +will rove,<br /> +I’ll write his name on every tree that grows in yonder +grove,<br /> +Where the huntsman he does hollow, and the hounds do sweetly +cry,<br /> +<i>To remind me</i> of my ploughboy until the day I +die.’</p> +<h3>OLD ADAM.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">We</span> have had considerable trouble +in procuring a copy of this old song, which used, in former days, +to be very popular with aged people resident in the North of +England. It has been long out of print, and handed down +traditionally. By the kindness, however, of Mr. S. +Swindells, printer, Manchester, we have been favoured with an +ancient printed copy, which Mr. Swindells observes he had great +difficulty in obtaining. Some improvements have been made +in the present edition from the recital of Mr. Effingham Wilson, +who was familiar with the song in his youth.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Both</span> sexes give ear +to my fancy,<br /> + While in praise of dear woman I sing;<br /> +Confined not to Moll, Sue, or Nancy,<br /> + But mates from a beggar to king.</p> +<p class="poetry">When old Adam first was created,<br /> + And lord of the universe crowned,<br /> +His happiness was not completed,<br /> + Until that an helpmate was found.</p> +<p class="poetry">He’d all things in food that were +wanting<br /> + To keep and support him through life;<br /> +He’d horses and foxes for hunting,<br /> + Which some men love better than wife.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +232</span>He’d a garden so planted by nature,<br /> + Man cannot produce in his life;<br /> +But yet the all-wise great Creator<br /> + Still saw that he wanted a wife.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Adam he laid in a slumber,<br /> + And there he lost part of his side;<br /> +And when he awoke, with a wonder,<br /> + Beheld his most beautiful bride!</p> +<p class="poetry">In transport he gazèd upon her,<br /> + His happiness now was complete!<br /> +He praisèd his bountiful donor,<br /> + Who thus had bestowed him a mate.</p> +<p class="poetry">She was not took out of his head, sir,<br /> + To reign and triumph over man;<br /> +Nor was she took out of his feet, sir,<br /> + By man to be trampled upon.</p> +<p class="poetry">But she was took out of his side, sir,<br /> + His equal and partner to be;<br /> +But as they’re united in one, sir,<br /> + The man is the top of the tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then let not the fair be despisèd<br /> + By man, as she’s part of himself;<br /> +For woman by Adam was prizèd<br /> + More than the whole globe full of wealth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Man without a woman’s a beggar,<br /> + Suppose the whole world he possessed;<br /> +And the beggar that’s got a good woman,<br /> + With more than the world he is blest.</p> +<h3>TOBACCO.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> song is a mere adaptation of +<i>Smoking Spiritualized</i>; see <i>ante</i>, p. 39. The +earliest copy of the abridgment we have been able to meet with, +is published in D’Urfey’s <i>Pills to purge +Melancholy</i>, <a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +233</span>1719; but whether we are indebted for it to the author +of the original poem, or to ‘that bright genius, Tom +D’Urfey,’ as Burns calls him, we are not able to +determine. The song has always been popular. The tune +is in <i>Popular Music</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Tobacco’s</span> but +an Indian weed,<br /> +Grows green in the morn, cut down at eve;<br /> + It shows our decay,<br /> + We are but clay;<br /> +Think of this when you smoke tobacco!</p> +<p class="poetry">The pipe that is so lily white,<br /> +Wherein so many take delight,<br /> + It’s broken with a +touch,—<br /> + Man’s life is such;<br /> +Think of this when you take tobacco!</p> +<p class="poetry">The pipe that is so foul within,<br /> +It shows man’s soul is stained with sin;<br /> + It doth require<br /> + To be purred with fire;<br /> +Think of this when you smoke tobacco!</p> +<p class="poetry">The dust that from the pipe doth fall,<br /> +It shows we are nothing but dust at all;<br /> + For we came from the dust,<br /> + And return we must;<br /> +Think of this when you smoke tobacco!</p> +<p class="poetry">The ashes that are left behind,<br /> +Do serve to put us all in mind<br /> + That unto dust<br /> + Return we must;<br /> +Think of this when you take tobacco!</p> +<p class="poetry">The smoke that does so high ascend,<br /> +Shows that man’s life must have an end;<br /> + The vapour’s gone,—<br +/> + Man’s life is done;<br /> +Think of this when you take tobacco!</p> +<h3><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 234</span>THE +SPANISH LADIES.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> song is ancient, but we have +no means of ascertaining at what period it was written. +Captain Marryat, in his novel of <i>Poor Jack</i>, introduces it, +and says it is <i>old</i>. It is a general favourite. +The air is plaintive, and in the minor key. See <i>Popular +Music</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Farewell</span>, and adieu +to you Spanish ladies,<br /> + Farewell, and adieu to you ladies of Spain!<br /> +For we’ve received orders for to sail for old England,<br +/> + But we hope in a short time to see you again.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll rant and we’ll roar <a +name="citation234"></a><a href="#footnote234" +class="citation">[234]</a> like true British heroes,<br /> + We’ll rant and we’ll roar across the +salt seas,<br /> +Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England;<br /> + From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then we hove our ship to, with the wind at +sou’-west, boys,<br /> + We hove our ship to, for to strike soundings +clear;<br /> +We got soundings in ninety-five fathom, and boldly<br /> + Up the channel of old England our course we did +steer.</p> +<p class="poetry">The first land we made it was callèd the +Deadman,<br /> + Next, Ram’shead off Plymouth, Start, Portland, +and Wight;<br /> +We passèd by Beachy, by Fairleigh, and Dungeness,<br /> + And hove our ship to, off the South Foreland +light.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then a signal was made for the grand fleet to +anchor<br /> + All in the Downs, that night for to sleep;<br /> +Then stand by your stoppers, let go your shank-painters,<br /> + Haul all your clew-garnets, stick out tacks and +sheets.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +235</span>So let every man toss off a full bumper,<br /> + Let every man toss off his full bowls;<br /> +We’ll drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy,<br /> + So here’s a good health to all true-hearted +souls!</p> +<h3>HARRY THE TAILOR.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">(TRADITIONAL.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> following song was taken down +some years ago from the recitation of a country curate, who said +he had learned it from a very old inhabitant of Methley, near +Pontefract, Yorkshire. We have never seen it in print.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> Harry the +tailor was twenty years old,<br /> +He began for to look with courage so bold;<br /> +He told his old mother he was not in jest,<br /> +But he would have a wife as well as the rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Harry next morning, before it was day,<br +/> +To the house of his fair maid took his way.<br /> +He found his dear Dolly a making of cheese,<br /> +Says he, ‘You must give me a buss, if you +please!’</p> +<p class="poetry">She up with the bowl, the butter-milk flew,<br +/> +And Harry the tailor looked wonderful blue.<br /> +‘O, Dolly, my dear, what hast thou done?<br /> +From my back to my breeks has thy butter-milk run.’</p> +<p class="poetry">She gave him a push, he stumbled and fell<br /> +Down from the dairy into the drawwell.<br /> +Then Harry, the ploughboy, ran amain,<br /> +And soon brought him up in the bucket again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Harry went home like a drowned rat,<br /> +And told his old mother what he had been at.<br /> +With butter-milk, bowl, and a terrible fall,<br /> +O, if this be called love, may the devil take all!</p> +<h3><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>SIR +ARTHUR AND CHARMING MOLLEE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">(TRADITIONAL.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">For</span> this old Northumbrian song we +are indebted to Mr. Robert Chambers. It was taken down from +the recitation of a lady. The ‘Sir Arthur’ is +no less a personage than Sir Arthur Haslerigg, the Governor of +Tynemouth Castle during the Protectorate of Cromwell.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> noble Sir Arthur +one morning did ride,<br /> +With his hounds at his feet, and his sword by his side,<br /> +He saw a fair maid sitting under a tree,<br /> +He askèd her name, and she said ’twas Mollee.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh, charming Mollee, you my butler shall +be,<br /> +To draw the red wine for yourself and for me!<br /> +I’ll make you a lady so high in degree,<br /> +If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I’ll give you fine ribbons, +I’ll give you fine rings,<br /> +I’ll give you fine jewels, and many fine things;<br /> +I’ll give you a petticoat flounced to the knee,<br /> +If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I’ll have none of your ribbons, +and none of your rings,<br /> +None of your jewels, and other fine things;<br /> +And I’ve got a petticoat suits my degree,<br /> +And I’ll ne’er love a married man till his wife +dee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh, charming Mollee, lend me then your +penknife,<br /> +And I will go home, and I’ll kill my own wife;<br /> +I’ll kill my own wife, and my bairnies three,<br /> +If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh, noble Sir Arthur, it must not be +so,<br /> +Go home to your wife, and let nobody know;<br /> +For seven long years I will wait upon thee,<br /> +But I’ll ne’er love a married man till his wife +dee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now seven long years are gone and are past,<br +/> +The old woman went to her long home at last;<br /> +<a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>The old +woman died, and Sir Arthur was free,<br /> +And he soon came a-courting to charming Mollee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now charming Mollee in her carriage doth +ride,<br /> +With her hounds at her feet, and her lord by her side:<br /> +Now all ye fair maids take a warning by me,<br /> +And ne’er love a married man till his wife dee.</p> +<h3>THERE WAS AN OLD MAN CAME OVER THE LEA.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> is a version of the +<i>Baillie of Berwick</i>, which will be found in the <i>Local +Historian’s Table-Book</i>. It was originally +obtained from Morpeth, and communicated by W. H. Longstaffe, +Esq., of Darlington, who says, ‘in many respects the +<i>Baillie of Berwick</i> is the better edition—still mine +may furnish an extra stanza or two, and the ha! ha! ha! is better +than heigho, though the notes suit either version.’]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was an old man +came over the Lea,<br /> + Ha-ha-ha-ha! but I won’t have him. <a +name="citation237"></a><a href="#footnote237" +class="citation">[237]</a><br /> + He came over the Lea,<br /> + A-courting to me,<br /> +With his grey beard newly-shaven.</p> +<p class="poetry">My mother she bid me open the door:<br /> + I opened the door,<br /> + And he fell on the floor.</p> +<p class="poetry">My mother she bid me set him a stool:<br /> + I set him a stool,<br /> + And he looked like a fool.</p> +<p class="poetry">My mother she bid me give him some beer:<br /> + I gave him some beer,<br /> + And he thought it good cheer.</p> +<p class="poetry">My mother she bid me cut him some bread:<br /> + I cut him some bread,<br /> + And I threw’t at his +head.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +238</span>My mother she bid me light him to bed:<br /> + I lit him to bed,<br /> + And wished he were dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">My mother she bid me tell him to rise:<br /> + I told him to rise,<br /> + And he opened his eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">My mother she bid me take him to church:<br /> + I took him to church,<br /> + And left him in the lurch;<br /> +With his grey beard newly-shaven.</p> +<h3>WHY SHOULD WE QUARREL FOR RICHES.</h3> +<p>[A <span class="smcap">version</span> of this very favourite +song may be found in Ramsay’s <i>Tea-Table +Miscellany</i>. Though a sailor’s song, we question +whether it is not a greater favourite with landsmen. The +chorus is become proverbial, and its philosophy has often been +invoked to mitigate the evils and misfortunes of life.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> pleasant a +sailor’s life passes,<br /> + Who roams o’er the watery main!<br /> +No treasure he ever amasses,<br /> + But cheerfully spends all his gain.<br /> +We’re strangers to party and faction,<br /> + To honour and honesty true;<br /> +And would not commit a bad action<br /> + For power or profit in view.<br /> + Then why should we quarrel for +riches,<br /> + Or any such +glittering toys;<br /> + A light heart, and a thin pair of +breeches,<br /> + Will go through +the world, my brave boys!</p> +<p class="poetry">The world is a beautiful garden,<br /> + Enriched with the blessings of life,<br /> +The toiler with plenty rewarding,<br /> + Which plenty too often breeds strife.<br /> +<a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 239</span>When +terrible tempests assail us,<br /> + And mountainous billows affright,<br /> +No grandeur or wealth can avail us,<br /> + But skilful industry steers right.<br /> + Then why, +&c.</p> +<p class="poetry">The courtier’s more subject to +dangers,<br /> + Who rules at the helm of the state,<br /> +Than we that, to politics strangers,<br /> + Escape the snares laid for the great.<br /> +The various blessings of nature,<br /> + In various nations we try;<br /> +No mortals than us can be greater,<br /> + Who merrily live till we die.<br /> + Then why should, +&c.</p> +<h3>THE MERRY FELLOWS;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, HE THAT +WILL NOT MERRY, MERRY BE.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> popularity of this old lyric, +of which ours is the ballad-printer’s version, has been +increased by the lively and appropriate music recently adapted to +it by Mr. Holderness. The date of this song is about the +era of Charles II.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span>, since +we’re met, let’s merry, merry be,<br /> + In spite of all our foes;<br /> +And he that will not merry be,<br /> + We’ll pull him by the nose.<br /> + <i>Cho</i>. Let him be +merry, merry there,<br /> + While +we’re all merry, merry here,<br /> + For who can know where he shall +go,<br /> + To be merry +another year.</p> +<p class="poetry">He that will not merry, merry be,<br /> + With a generous bowl and a toast,<br /> +May he in Bridewell be shut up,<br /> + And fast bound to a post.<br /> + + +Let him, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +240</span>He that will not merry, merry be,<br /> + And take his glass in course,<br /> +May he be obliged to drink small beer,<br /> + Ne’er a penny in his +purse.<br /> + + +Let him, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">He that will not merry, merry be,<br /> + With a company of jolly boys;<br /> +May he be plagued with a scolding wife,<br /> + To confound him with her noise.<br +/> + + +Let him, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">[He that will not merry, merry be,<br /> + With his sweetheart by his side,<br /> +Let him be laid in the cold churchyard,<br /> + With a head-stone for his +bride.<br /> + + +Let him, &c.]</p> +<h3>THE OLD MAN’S SONG.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> ditty, still occasionally +heard in the country districts, seems to be the original of the +very beautiful song, <i>The Downhill of Life</i>. <i>The +Old Man’s Song</i> may be found in Playford’s +<i>Theatre of Music</i>, 1685; but we are inclined to refer it to +an earlier period. The song is also published by +D’Urfey, accompanied by two objectionable parodies.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> I live to grow +old, for I find I go down,<br /> +Let this be my fate in a country town:—<br /> +May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,<br /> +And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate;<br /> +May I govern my passions with absolute sway,<br /> +And grow wiser and better as strength wears away,<br /> +Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.</p> +<p class="poetry">In a country town, by a murmuring brook,<br /> +With the ocean at distance on which I may look;<br /> +With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile,<br /> +And an easy pad nag to ride out a mile.<br /> + + +May I govern, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +241</span>With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more<br /> +Of the best wits that lived in the age before;<br /> +With a dish of roast mutton, not venison or teal,<br /> +And clean, though coarse, linen at every meal.<br /> + + +May I govern, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming +liquor,<br /> +And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar;<br /> +With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine,<br /> +To drink the king’s health in as oft as I dine.<br /> + + +May I govern, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">When the days are grown short, and it freezes +and snows,<br /> +May I have a coal fire as high as my nose;<br /> +A fire (which once stirred up with a prong),<br /> +Will keep the room temperate all the night long.<br /> + + +May I govern, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">With a courage undaunted may I face my last +day;<br /> +And when I am dead may the better sort say—<br /> +‘In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow,<br +/> +He’s gone, and he leaves not behind him his +fellow!’<br /> + + +May I govern, &c.</p> +<h3>ROBIN HOOD’S HILL.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Ritson</span> speaks of a Robin +Hood’s Hill near Gloucester, and of a ‘foolish +song’ about it. Whether this is the song to which he +alludes we cannot determine. We find it in <i>Notes and +Queries</i>, where it is stated to be printed from a MS. of the +latter part of the last century, and described as a song well +known in the district to which it refers.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> bards who extol +the gay valleys and glades,<br /> +The jessamine bowers, and amorous shades,<br /> +Who prospects so rural can boast at your will,<br /> +Yet never once mentioned sweet ‘Robin Hood’s +Hill.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +242</span>This spot, which of nature displays every smile,<br /> +From famed Glo’ster city is distanced two mile,<br /> +Of which you a view may obtain at your will,<br /> +From the sweet rural summit of ‘Robin Hood’s +Hill.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Where a clear crystal spring does incessantly +flow,<br /> +To supply and refresh the fair valley below;<br /> +No dog-star’s brisk heat e’er diminished the rill<br +/> +Which sweetly doth prattle on ‘Robin Hood’s +Hill.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Here, gazing around, you find objects still +new,<br /> +Of Severn’s sweet windings, how pleasing the view,<br /> +Whose stream with the fruits of blessed commerce doth fill<br /> +The sweet-smelling vale beneath ‘Robin Hood’s +Hill.’</p> +<p class="poetry">This hill, though so lofty, yet fertile and +rare,<br /> +Few valleys can with it for herbage compare;<br /> +Some far greater bard should his lyre and his quill<br /> +Direct to the praise of sweet ‘Robin Hood’s +Hill.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Here lads and gay lasses in couples resort,<br +/> +For sweet rural pastime and innocent sport;<br /> +Sure pleasures ne’er flowed from gay nature or skill,<br /> +Like those that are found on sweet ‘Robin Hood’s +Hill.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Had I all the riches of matchless Peru,<br /> +To revel in splendour as emperors do,<br /> +I’d forfeit the whole with a hearty good will,<br /> +To dwell in a cottage on ‘Robin Hood’s +Hill.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, poets, record my loved theme in your +lays:<br /> +First view;—then you’ll own that ’tis worthy of +praise;<br /> +Nay, Envy herself must acknowledge it still,<br /> +That no spot’s so delightful as ‘Robin Hood’s +Hill.’</p> +<h3><a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +243</span>BEGONE DULL CARE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">(TRADITIONAL.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">We</span> cannot trace this popular ditty +beyond the reign of James II, but we believe it to be +older. The origin is to be found in an early French +chanson. The present version has been taken down from the +singing of an old Yorkshire yeoman. The third verse we have +never seen in print, but it is always sung in the west of +Yorkshire.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Begone</span>, dull +care!<br /> + I prithee begone from me;<br /> +Begone, dull care!<br /> + Thou and I can never agree.<br /> +Long while thou hast been tarrying here,<br /> + And fain thou wouldst me kill;<br /> +But i’ faith, dull care,<br /> + Thou never shalt have thy will.</p> +<p class="poetry">Too much care<br /> + Will make a young man grey;<br /> +Too much care<br /> + Will turn an old man to clay.<br /> +My wife shall dance, and I shall sing,<br /> + So merrily pass the day;<br /> +For I hold it is the wisest thing,<br /> + To drive dull care away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hence, dull care,<br /> + I’ll none of thy company;<br /> +Hence, dull care,<br /> + Thou art no pair <a name="citation243"></a><a +href="#footnote243" class="citation">[243]</a> for me.<br /> +We’ll hunt the wild boar through the wold,<br /> + So merrily pass the day;<br /> +And then at night, o’er a cheerful bowl,<br /> + We’ll drive dull care away.</p> +<h3><a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 244</span>FULL +MERRILY SINGS THE CUCKOO.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> earliest copy of this playful +song is one contained in a MS. of the reign of James I., +preserved amongst the registers of the Stationers’ Company; +but the song can be traced back to 1566.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Full</span> merrily sings +the cuckoo<br /> + Upon the beechen tree;<br /> +Your wives you well should look to,<br /> + If you take advice of me.<br /> +Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the morn,<br /> + When of married men<br /> + Full nine in ten<br /> +Must be content to wear the horn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Full merrily sings the cuckoo<br /> + Upon the oaken tree;<br /> +Your wives you well should look to,<br /> + If you take advice of me.<br /> +Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the day!<br /> + For married men<br /> + But now and then,<br /> +Can ’scape to bear the horn away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Full merrily sings the cuckoo<br /> + Upon the ashen tree;<br /> +Your wives you well should look to,<br /> + If you take advice of me.<br /> +Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the noon,<br /> + When married men<br /> + Must watch the hen,<br /> +Or some strange fox will steal her soon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Full merrily sings the cuckoo<br /> + Upon the alder tree;<br /> +Your wives you well should look to,<br /> + If you take advice of me.<br /> +<a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>Cuckoo! +cuckoo! alack the eve,<br /> + When married men<br /> + Must bid good den<br /> +To such as horns to them do give.</p> +<p class="poetry">Full merrily sings the cuckoo<br /> + Upon the aspen tree;<br /> +Your wives you well should look to,<br /> + If you take advice of me.<br /> +Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the night,<br /> + When married men,<br /> + Again and again,<br /> +Must hide their horns in their despite.</p> +<h3>JOCKEY TO THE FAIR.</h3> +<p>[A <span class="smcap">version</span> of this song, not quite +so accurate as the following was published from an old broadside +in <i>Notes and Queries</i>, vol. vii., p. 49, where it is +described as a ‘very celebrated Gloucestershire +ballad.’ But Gloucestershire is not exclusively +entitled to the honour of this genuine old country song, which is +well known in Westmoreland and other counties. +‘Jockey’ songs constitute a distinct and numerous +class, and belong for the most part to the middle of the last +century, when Jockey and Jenny were formidable rivals to the +Strephons and Chloes of the artificial school of pastoral +poetry. The author of this song, whoever he was, drew upon +real rural life, and not upon its fashionable masquerade. +We have been unable to trace the exact date of this ditty, which +still enjoys in some districts a wide popularity. It is not +to be found in any of several large collections of Ranelagh and +Vauxhall songs, and other anthologies, which we have +examined. From the christian names of the lovers, it might +be supposed to be of Scotch or Border origin; but <i>Jockey to +the Fair</i> is not confined to the North; indeed it is much +better known, and more frequently sung, in the South and +West.]</p> +<p class="poetry">’<span class="smcap">Twas</span> on the +morn of sweet May-day,<br /> +When nature painted all things gay,<br /> +Taught birds to sing, and lambs to play,<br /> + And gild the meadows fair;<br /> +<a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 246</span>Young +Jockey, early in the dawn,<br /> +Arose and tripped it o’er the lawn;<br /> +His Sunday clothes the youth put on,<br /> +For Jenny had vowed away to run<br /> + With Jockey to the fair;<br /> +For Jenny had vowed, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">The cheerful parish bells had rung,<br /> +With eager steps he trudged along,<br /> +While flowery garlands round him hung,<br /> + Which shepherds use to wear;<br /> +He tapped the window; ‘Haste, my dear!’<br /> +Jenny impatient cried, ‘Who’s there?’<br /> +‘’Tis I, my love, and no one near;<br /> +Step gently down, you’ve nought to fear,<br /> + With Jockey to the fair.’<br +/> +Step gently down, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘My dad and mam are fast asleep,<br /> +My brother’s up, and with the sheep;<br /> +And will you still your promise keep,<br /> + Which I have heard you swear?<br +/> +And will you ever constant prove?’<br /> +‘I will, by all the powers above,<br /> +And ne’er deceive my charming dove;<br /> +Dispel these doubts, and haste, my love,<br /> + With Jockey to the fair.’<br +/> +Dispel, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Behold, the ring,’ the shepherd +cried;<br /> +‘Will Jenny be my charming bride?<br /> +Let Cupid be our happy guide,<br /> + And Hymen meet us there.’<br +/> +Then Jockey did his vows renew;<br /> +He would be constant, would he true,<br /> +His word was pledged; away she flew,<br /> +O’er cowslips tipped with balmy dew,<br /> + With Jockey to the fair.<br /> +O’er cowslips, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +247</span>In raptures meet the joyful throng;<br /> +Their gay companions, blithe and young,<br /> +Each join the dance, each raise the song,<br /> + To hail the happy pair.<br /> +In turns there’s none so loud as they,<br /> +They bless the kind propitious day,<br /> +The smiling morn of blooming May,<br /> +When lovely Jenny ran away<br /> + With Jockey to the fair.<br /> +When lovely, &c.</p> +<h3>LONG PRESTON PEG.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">(A +FRAGMENT.)</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mr. Birkbeck</span>, of Threapland House, +Lintondale, in Craven, has favoured us with the following +fragment. The tune is well known in the North, but all attempts +on the part of Mr. Birkbeck to obtain the remaining verses have +been unsuccessful. The song is evidently of the date of the +first rebellion, 1715.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Long</span> Preston Peg to +proud Preston went,<br /> +To see the Scotch rebels it was her intent.<br /> +A noble Scotch lord, as he passed by,<br /> +On this Yorkshire damsel did soon cast an eye.</p> +<p class="poetry">He called to his servant, which on him did +wait,<br /> +‘Go down to yon girl who stands in the gate, <a +name="citation247"></a><a href="#footnote247" +class="citation">[247]</a><br /> +That sings with a voice so soft and so sweet,<br /> +And in my name do her lovingly greet.’</p> +<h3>THE SWEET NIGHTINGALE;</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">OR, DOWN IN +THOSE VALLEYS BELOW.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">AN ANCIENT +CORNISH SONG.</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> curious ditty, which may be +confidently assigned to the seventeenth century, is said to be a +translation from the ancient <a name="page248"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 248</span>Cornish tongue. We first heard +it in Germany, in the pleasure-gardens of the Marienberg, on the +Moselle. The singers were four Cornish miners, who were at +that time, 1854, employed at some lead mines near the town of +Zell. The leader or ‘Captain,’ John Stocker, +said that the song was an established favourite with the lead +miners of Cornwall and Devonshire, and was always sung on the +pay-days, and at the wakes; and that his grandfather, who died +thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing +the song, and say that it was very old. Stocker promised to +make a copy of it, but there was no opportunity of procuring it +before we left Germany. The following version has been +supplied by a gentleman in Plymouth, who writes:—</p> +<blockquote><p>I have had a great deal of trouble about <i>The +Valley Below</i>. It is not in print. I first met +with one person who knew one part, then with another person who +knew another part, but nobody could sing the whole. At +last, chance directed me to an old man at work on the roads, and +he sung and recited it throughout, not exactly, however, as I +send it, for I was obliged to supply a little here and there, but +only where a bad rhyme, or rather none at all, made it evident +what the real rhyme was. I have read it over to a mining +gentleman at Truro, and he says ‘It is pretty near the way +we sing it.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The tune is plaintive and original.]</p> +<p +class="poetry"> ‘<span +class="smcap">My</span> sweetheart, come along!<br /> + Don’t you hear the fond +song,<br /> +The sweet notes of the nightingale flow?<br /> + Don’t you hear the fond +tale<br /> + Of the sweet nightingale,<br /> +As she sings in those valleys below?<br /> + So be not afraid<br /> + To walk in the shade,<br /> +Nor yet in those valleys below,<br /> +Nor yet in those valleys below.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> ‘Pretty +Betsy, don’t fail,<br /> + For I’ll carry your pail,<br +/> +Safe home to your cot as we go;<br /> + You shall hear the fond tale<br /> + Of the sweet nightingale,<br /> +As she sings in those valleys below.’<br /> + <a name="page249"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 249</span>But she was afraid<br /> + To walk in the shade,<br /> +To walk in those valleys below,<br /> +To walk in those valleys below.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘Pray +let me alone,<br /> + I have hands of my own;<br /> +Along with you I will not go,<br /> + To hear the fond tale<br /> + Of the sweet nightingale,<br /> +As she sings in those valleys below;<br /> + For I am afraid<br /> + To walk in the shade,<br /> +To walk in those valleys below,<br /> +To walk in those valleys below.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘Pray +sit yourself down<br /> + With me on the ground,<br /> +On this bank where sweet primroses grow;<br /> + You shall hear the fond tale<br /> + Of the sweet nightingale,<br /> +As she sings in those valleys below;<br /> + So be not afraid<br /> + To walk in the shade,<br /> +Nor yet in those valleys below,<br /> +Nor yet in those valleys below.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> This couple +agreed;<br /> + They were married with speed,<br +/> +And soon to the church they did go.<br /> + She was no more afraid<br /> + For to <a +name="citation249"></a><a href="#footnote249" +class="citation">[249]</a> walk in the shade,<br /> +Nor yet in those valleys below:<br /> + <a name="page250"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 250</span>Nor to hear the fond tale<br /> + Of the sweet nightingale,<br /> +As she sung in those valleys below,<br /> +As she sung in those valleys below.</p> +<h3>THE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">This</span> traditional ditty, founded +upon the old ballad inserted <i>ante</i>, p. 124, is current as a +nursery song in the North of England.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was an old +man, and sons he had three, <a name="citation250"></a><a +href="#footnote250" class="citation">[250]</a><br /> + Wind well, Lion, good hunter.<br /> +A friar he being one of the three,<br /> +With pleasure he rangèd the north country,<br /> + For he was a jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">As he went to the woods some pastime to see,<br +/> + Wind well, Lion, good hunter,<br /> +He spied a fair lady under a tree,<br /> +Sighing and moaning mournfully.<br /> + He was a jovial hunter.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘What are you doing, my fair +lady!’<br /> + Wind well, Lion, good hunter.<br /> +‘I’m frightened, the wild boar he will kill me,<br /> +He has worried my lord, and wounded thirty,<br /> + As thou art a jovial hunter.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the friar he put his horn to his mouth,<br +/> + Wind well, Lion, good hunter.<br /> +And he blew a blast, east, west, north, and south,<br /> +And the wild boar from his den he came forth<br /> + Unto the jovial hunter.</p> +<h3><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 251</span>A +BEGGING WE WILL GO.</h3> +<p>[<span class="smcap">The</span> authorship of this song is +attributed to Richard Brome—(he who once ‘performed a +servant’s faithful part’ for Ben Jonson)—in a +black-letter copy in the Bagford Collection, where it is entitled +<i>The Beggars’ Chorus in the</i> ‘<i>Jovial +Crew</i>,’ <i>to an excellent new tune</i>. No such +chorus, however, appears in the play, which was produced at the +Cock-pit in 1641; and the probability is, as Mr. Chappell +conjectures, that it was only interpolated in the +performance. It is sometimes called <i>The Jovial +Beggar</i>. The tune has been from time to time introduced +into several ballad operas; and the song, says Mr. Chappell, who +publishes the air in his <i>Popular Music</i>, ‘is the +prototype of many others, such as <i>A bowling we will go</i>, +<i>A fishing we will go</i>, <i>A hawking we will go</i>, and +<i>A fishing we will go</i>. The last named is still +popular with those who take delight in hunting, and the air is +now scarcely known by any other title.]</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">There</span> was a jovial beggar,<br /> + He had a wooden leg,<br /> + Lame from his cradle,<br /> + And forced for to beg.<br /> +And a begging we will go, we’ll go, we’ll go;<br /> +And a begging we will go!</p> +<p class="poetry"> A bag for his oatmeal,<br /> + Another for his salt;<br /> + And a pair of crutches,<br /> + To show that he can halt.<br /> + + +And a begging, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"> A bag for his wheat,<br /> + Another for his rye;<br /> + A little bottle by his side,<br /> + To drink when he’s a-dry.<br +/> + + +And a begging, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Seven years I begged<br /> + For my old Master Wild,<br /> + He taught me to beg<br /> + When I was but a child.<br /> + + +And a begging, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page252"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 252</span>I begged for my master,<br /> + And got him store of pelf;<br /> + But now, Jove be praised!<br /> + I’m begging for myself.<br +/> + + +And a begging, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"> In a hollow tree<br /> + I live, and pay no rent;<br /> + Providence provides for me,<br /> + And I am well content.<br /> + + +And a begging, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Of all the occupations,<br /> + A beggar’s life’s the +best;<br /> + For whene’er he’s weary,<br /> + He’ll lay him down and +rest.<br /> + + +And a begging, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I fear no plots against +me,<br /> + I live in open cell;<br /> + Then who would be a king<br /> + When beggars live so well?<br /> +And a begging we will go, we’ll go, we’ll go;<br /> +And a begging we will go!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">THE END.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>FOOTNOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="footnote24"></a><a href="#citation24" +class="footnote">[24]</a> This is the same tune as +<i>Fortune my foe</i>.—See <i>Popular Music of the Olden +Time</i>, p. 162.</p> +<p><a name="footnote51"></a><a href="#citation51" +class="footnote">[51]</a> This word seems to be used here +in the sense of the French verb <i>mettre</i>, to put, to +place.</p> +<p><a name="footnote61"></a><a href="#citation61" +class="footnote">[61]</a> The stall copies read +‘Gamble bold.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote64"></a><a href="#citation64" +class="footnote">[64]</a> In the Roxburgh Collection is a +copy of this ballad, in which the catastrophe is brought about in +a different manner. When the young lady finds that she is +to be drowned, she very leisurely makes a particular examination +of the place of her intended destruction, and raises an objection +to some nettles which are growing on the banks of the stream; +these she requires to be removed, in the following poetical +stanza:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Go fetch the sickle, to crop the +nettle,<br /> + That grows so near the brim;<br /> +For fear it should tangle my golden locks,<br /> + Or freckle my milk-white skin.’</p> +<p>A request so elegantly made is gallantly complied with by the +treacherous knight, who, while engaged in ‘cropping’ +the nettles, is pushed into the stream.</p> +<p><a name="footnote72a"></a><a href="#citation72a" +class="footnote">[72a]</a> A <i>tinker</i> is still so +called in the north of England.</p> +<p><a name="footnote72b"></a><a href="#citation72b" +class="footnote">[72b]</a> This poor minstrel was born at +the village of Rylstone, in Craven, the scene of +Wordsworth’s <i>White Doe of Rylstone</i>. King was +always called ‘the Skipton Minstrel;’ and he merited +that name, for he was not a mere player of jigs and country +dances, but a singer of heroic ballads, carrying his hearers back +to the days of chivalry and royal adventure, when the King of +England called up Cheshire and Lancashire to fight the King of +France, and monarchs sought the greenwood tree, and hob-a-nobbed +with tinkers, knighting these Johns of the Dale as a matter of +poetical justice and high sovereign prerogative. Francis +King was a character. His physiognomy was striking and +peculiar; and, although there was nothing of the rogue in its +expression, for an honester fellow never breathed, he might have +sat for Wordsworth’s ‘Peter Bell.’ He +combined in a rare degree the qualities of the mime and the +minstrel, and his old jokes, and older ballads and songs, always +ensured him a hearty welcome. He was lame, in consequence +of one leg being shorter than the other, and his limping gait +used to give occasion to the remark that ‘few Kings had had +more ups and downs in the world.’ He met his death by +drowning on the night of December 13, 1844. He had been at +a ‘merry-making’ at Gargrave, in Craven, and it is +supposed that, owing to the darkness of the night, he mistook the +road, and walked into the river. As a musician his talents +were creditable; and his name will long survive in the village +records. The minstrel’s grave is in the quiet +churchyard of Gargrave. Further particulars of Francis King +may be seen in Dixon’s <i>Stories of the Craven Dales</i>, +published by Tasker and Son, of Skipton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote92"></a><a href="#citation92" +class="footnote">[92]</a> This is the ancient way of +spelling the name of Reading. In Percy’s version of +<i>Barbara Allen</i>, that ballad commences ‘In Scarlet +town,’ which, in the common stall copies, is rendered +‘In Redding town.’ The former is apparently a +pun upon the old orthography—<i>Red</i>ding.</p> +<p><a name="footnote108a"></a><a href="#citation108a" +class="footnote">[108a]</a> The sister of Roger.</p> +<p><a name="footnote108b"></a><a href="#citation108b" +class="footnote">[108b]</a> This gentleman was Mr. Thomas +Petty.</p> +<p><a name="footnote111"></a><a href="#citation111" +class="footnote">[111]</a> We here, and in a subsequent +verse, find ‘daughter’ made to rhyme with +‘after;’ but we must not therefore conclude that the +rhyme is of cockney origin. In many parts of England, the +word ‘daughter’ is pronounced ‘dafter’ by +the peasantry, who, upon the same principle, pronounce +‘slaughter’ as if it were spelt +‘slafter.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote125a"></a><a href="#citation125a" +class="footnote">[125a]</a> Added to complete the +sense.</p> +<p><a name="footnote125b"></a><a href="#citation125b" +class="footnote">[125b]</a> That is, ‘said he, the +wild boar.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote129"></a><a href="#citation129" +class="footnote">[129]</a> Scott has strangely +misunderstood this line, which he interprets—</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">‘Many people +did she <i>kill</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Fell’ is to knock down, and the meaning is that +she could ‘well’ knock down, or ‘fell’ +people.</p> +<p><a name="footnote130a"></a><a href="#citation130a" +class="footnote">[130a]</a> Went.</p> +<p><a name="footnote130b"></a><a href="#citation130b" +class="footnote">[130b]</a> The meaning appears to be that +no ‘wiseman’ or wizard, no matter from whence his +magic, was derived, durst face her. Craven has always been +famed for its wizards, or wisemen, and several of such impostors +may be found there at the present day.</p> +<p><a name="footnote130c"></a><a href="#citation130c" +class="footnote">[130c]</a> Scott’s MS. reads Ralph, +but Raphe is the ancient form.</p> +<p><a name="footnote130d"></a><a href="#citation130d" +class="footnote">[130d]</a> Scott reads ‘brim as +beare,’ which he interprets ‘fierce as a +bear.’ Whitaker’s rendering is correct. +Beare is a small hamlet on the Bay of Morecambe, no great +distance, as the crow files, from the <i>locale</i> of the +poem. There is also a Bear-park in the county of Durham, of +which place Bryan might be an inhabitant. <i>Utrum +horum</i>, &c.</p> +<p><a name="footnote130e"></a><a href="#citation130e" +class="footnote">[130e]</a> That is, they were good +soldiers when the <i>musters</i> were—when the regiments +were called up.</p> +<p><a name="footnote131a"></a><a href="#citation131a" +class="footnote">[131a]</a> Fierce look.</p> +<p><a name="footnote131b"></a><a href="#citation131b" +class="footnote">[131b]</a> Descended from an ancient race +famed for fighting.</p> +<p><a name="footnote131c"></a><a href="#citation131c" +class="footnote">[131c]</a> Assaulted. They were, +although out of danger, terrified by the attacks of the sow, and +their fear was shared by the kiln, which began to smoke!</p> +<p><a name="footnote131d"></a><a href="#citation131d" +class="footnote">[131d]</a> Watling-street, the Roman way +from Catterick to Bowes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote132a"></a><a href="#citation132a" +class="footnote">[132a]</a> Lost his colour.</p> +<p><a name="footnote132b"></a><a href="#citation132b" +class="footnote">[132b]</a> Scott, not understanding this +expression, has inserted ‘Jesus’ for the initials +‘I. H. S.,’ and so has given a profane interpretation +to the passage. By a figure of speech the friar is called +an I. H. S., from these letters being conspicuously wrought on +his robes, just as we might call a livery-servant by his +master’s motto, because it was stamped on his buttons.</p> +<p><a name="footnote133"></a><a href="#citation133" +class="footnote">[133]</a> The meaning here is +obscure. The verse is not in Whitaker.</p> +<p><a name="footnote134"></a><a href="#citation134" +class="footnote">[134]</a> Warlock or wizard.</p> +<p><a name="footnote135a"></a><a href="#citation135a" +class="footnote">[135a]</a> It is probable that by guest is +meant an allusion to the spectre dog of Yorkshire (the +<i>Barguest</i>), to which the sow is compared.</p> +<p><a name="footnote135b"></a><a href="#citation135b" +class="footnote">[135b]</a> Hired.</p> +<p><a name="footnote137"></a><a href="#citation137" +class="footnote">[137]</a> The monastery of Gray Friars at +Richmond.—See <span class="smcap">Leland</span>, +<i>Itin.</i>, vol. iii, p. 109.</p> +<p><a name="footnote141"></a><a href="#citation141" +class="footnote">[141]</a> This appears to have been a cant +saying in the reign of Charles II. It occurs in several +novels, jest books and satires of the time, and was probably as +unmeaning as such vulgarisms are in general.</p> +<p><a name="footnote142"></a><a href="#citation142" +class="footnote">[142]</a> A cake composed of oatmeal, +caraway-seeds, and treacle. ‘Ale and parkin’ is +a common morning meal in the north of England.</p> +<p><a name="footnote149"></a><a href="#citation149" +class="footnote">[149]</a> The popularity of this +West-country song has extended even to Ireland, as appears from +two Irish versions, supplied by the late Mr. T. Crofton +Croker. One of them is entitled <i>Last New-Year’s +Day</i>, and is printed by Haly, Hanover-street, Cork. It +follows the English song almost verbatim, with the exception of +the first and second verses, which we subjoin:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Last New-Year’s day, as I heard +say,<br /> +Dick mounted on his dapple gray;<br /> +He mounted high and he mounted low,<br /> +Until he came to <i>sweet Raphoe</i>!<br /> + Sing fal de dol +de ree,<br /> + Fol de dol, righ +fol dee.<br /> +‘My buckskin does I did put on,<br /> +My spladdery clogs, <i>to save my brogues</i>!<br /> +And in my pocket a lump of bread,<br /> +And round my hat a ribbon red.’</p> +<p>The other version is entitled <i>Dicky of Ballyman</i>, and a +note informs us that ‘Dicky of Ballyman’s sirname was +Byrne!’ As our readers may like to hear how the +Somersetshire bumpkin behaved after he had located himself in the +town of Ballyman, and taken the sirname of Byrne, we give the +whole of his amatory adventures in the sister-island. We +discover from them, <i>inter alia</i>, that he had found +‘the best of friends’ in his +‘Uncle,’—that he had made a grand discovery in +natural history, viz., that a rabbit is a <i>fowl</i>!—that +he had taken the temperance pledge, which, however, his Mistress +Ann had certainly not done; and, moreover, that he had become an +enthusiast in potatoes!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DICKY OF BALLYMAN.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘On New-Year’s day, as I heard +say,<br /> +Dicky he saddled his dapple gray;<br /> +He put on his Sunday clothes,<br /> +His scarlet vest, and his new made hose.<br /> + Diddle dum di, +diddle dum do,<br /> + Diddle dum di, +diddle dum do.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘He rode till he came to Wilson Hall,<br +/> +There he rapped, and loud did call;<br /> +Mistress Ann came down straightway,<br /> +And asked him what he had to say?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘‘Don’t you know me, Mistress +Ann?<br /> +I am Dicky of Ballyman;<br /> +An honest lad, though I am poor,—<br /> +I never was in love before.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘‘I have an uncle, the best of +friends,<br /> +Sometimes to me a fat rabbit he sends;<br /> +And many other dainty fowl,<br /> +To please my life, my joy, my soul.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘‘Sometimes I reap, sometimes I +mow,<br /> +And to the market I do go,<br /> +To sell my father’s corn and hay,—<br /> +I earn my sixpence every day!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘‘Oh, Dicky! you go beneath your +mark,—<br /> +You only wander in the dark;<br /> +Sixpence a day will never do,<br /> +I must have silks, and satins, too!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘‘Besides, Dicky, I must have +tea<br /> +For my breakfast, every day;<br /> +And after dinner a bottle of wine,—<br /> +For without it I cannot dine.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘‘If on fine clothes our money is +spent,<br /> +Pray how shall my lord be paid his rent?<br /> +He’ll expect it when ’tis due,—<br /> +Believe me, what I say is true.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘‘As for tea, good stirabout<br /> +Will do far better, I make no doubt;<br /> +And spring water, when you dine,<br /> +Is far wholesomer than wine.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘‘Potatoes, too, are very nice +food,—<br /> +I don’t know any half so good:<br /> +You may have them boiled or roast,<br /> +Whichever way you like them most.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘This gave the company much delight,<br +/> +And made them all to laugh outright;<br /> +So Dicky had no more to say,<br /> +But saddled his dapple and rode away.<br /> + Diddle dum di, +&c.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote151"></a><a href="#citation151" +class="footnote">[151]</a> We have heard a Yorkshire yeoman +sing a version, which commenced with this line:—</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">‘It was at the +time of a high holiday.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote153"></a><a href="#citation153" +class="footnote">[153]</a> Bell-ringing was formerly a +great amusement of the English, and the allusions to it are of +frequent occurrence. Numerous payments to bell-ringers are +generally to be found in Churchwarden’s accounts of the +sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.—<span +class="smcap">Chappell</span>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote154"></a><a href="#citation154" +class="footnote">[154]</a> The subject and burthen of this +song are identical with those of the song which immediately +follows, called in some copies <i>The Clown’s +Courtship</i>, <i>sung to the King at Windsor</i>, and in others, +<i>I cannot come everyday to woo</i>. The Kentish ditty +cannot be traced to so remote a date as the <i>Clown’s +Courtship</i>; but it probably belongs to the same period.</p> +<p><a name="footnote165a"></a><a href="#citation165a" +class="footnote">[165a]</a> The common modern copies read +‘St. Leger’s Round.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote165b"></a><a href="#citation165b" +class="footnote">[165b]</a> The common stall copies read +‘Pan,’ which not only furnishes a more accurate rhyme +to ‘Nan,’ but is, probably, the true reading. +About the time when this song was written, there appears to have +been some country minstrel or fiddler, who was well known by the +sobriquet of ‘Pan.’ Frequent allusions to such +a personage may be found in popular ditties of the period, and it +is evidently that individual, and not the heathen deity, who is +referred to in the song of <i>Arthur +O’Bradley</i>:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Not Pan, the god of the swains,<br /> +Could e’er produce such strains.’—See +<i>ante</i>, p. 142.</p> +<p><a name="footnote167"></a><a href="#citation167" +class="footnote">[167]</a> A correspondent of <i>Notes and +Queries</i> says that, although there is some resemblance between +Flora and Furry, the latter word is derived from an old Cornish +term, and signifies jubilee or fair.</p> +<p><a name="footnote171"></a><a href="#citation171" +class="footnote">[171]</a> There is another version of +these concluding lines:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Down the red lane there lives an old +fox,<br /> +There does he sit a-mumping his chops;<br /> +Catch him, boys, catch him, catch if you can;<br /> +’Tis twenty to one if you catch him or Nan.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote174"></a><a href="#citation174" +class="footnote">[174]</a> A cant term for a fiddle. +In its literal sense, it means trunk, or box-belly.</p> +<p><a name="footnote175"></a><a href="#citation175" +class="footnote">[175]</a> ‘Helicon,’ as +observed by Sir C. Sharp, is, of course, the true reading.</p> +<p><a name="footnote177"></a><a href="#citation177" +class="footnote">[177]</a> In the introduction of the +‘prodigal son,’ we have a relic derived from the old +mysteries and moralities. Of late years, the +‘prodigal son’ has been left out, and his place +supplied by a ‘sailor.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote179"></a><a href="#citation179" +class="footnote">[179]</a> Probably the disease here +pointed at is the sweating sickness of old times.</p> +<p><a name="footnote180"></a><a href="#citation180" +class="footnote">[180]</a> Robert Kearton, a working miner, +and librarian and lecturer at the Grassington Mechanics’ +institution, informs us that at Coniston, in Lancashire, and the +neighbourhood, the maskers go about at the proper season, viz., +Easter. Their introductory song is different to the one +given above. He has favoured us with two verses of the +delectable composition; he says, ‘I dare say they’ll +be quite sufficient!’</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘The next that comes +on<br /> + Is a gentleman’s son;—<br /> +A gentleman’s son he was born;<br /> + For mutton and beef,<br /> + You may look at his teeth,<br /> +He’s a laddie for picking a bone!</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘The next that comes +on<br /> + Is a tailor so bold—<br /> +He can stitch up a hole in the dark!<br /> + There’s never a ‘prentice<br /> + In famed London city<br /> +Can find any fault with his <i>wark</i>!’</p> +<p><a name="footnote181"></a><a href="#citation181" +class="footnote">[181]</a> For the history of the paschal +egg, see a paper by Mr. J. H. Dixon, in the <i>Local +Historian’s Table Book</i> (Traditional Division). +Newcastle. 1843.</p> +<p><a name="footnote182"></a><a href="#citation182" +class="footnote">[182]</a> We suspect that Lord +Nelson’s name was introduced out of respect to the late +Jack Rider, of Linton (who is himself introduced into the +following verse), an old tar who, for many years, was one of the +‘maskers’ in the district from whence our version was +obtained. Jack was ‘loblolly boy’ on board the +‘Victory,’ and one of the group that surrounded the +dying Hero of Trafalgar. Amongst his many miscellaneous +duties, Jack had to help the doctor; and while so employed, he +once set fire to the ship as he was engaged investigating, by +candlelight, the contents of a bottle of ether. The fire +was soon extinguished, but not without considerable noise and +confusion. Lord Nelson, when the accident happened, was +busy writing his despatches. ‘What’s all that +noise about?’ he demanded. The answer was, +‘Loblolly boy’s set fire to an empty bottle, and it +has set fire to the doctor’s shop!’ ‘Oh, +that’s all, is it?’ said Nelson, ‘then I wish +you and loblolly would put the fire out without making such a +confusion’—and he went on writing with the greatest +coolness, although the accident might have been attended by the +most disastrous consequences, as an immense quantity of powder +was on board, and some of it close to the scene of the +disaster. The third day after the above incident Nelson was +no more, and the poor ‘loblolly boy’ left the service +minus two fingers. ‘Old Jack’ used often to +relate his ‘accident;’ and Captain Carslake, now of +Sidmouth, who, at the time was one of the officers, permits us to +add his corroboration of its truth.</p> +<p><a name="footnote183"></a><a href="#citation183" +class="footnote">[183]</a> In this place, and in the first +line of the following verse, the name of the horse is generally +inserted by the singer; and ‘Filpail’ is often +substituted for ‘the cow’ in a subsequent verse.</p> +<p><a name="footnote189"></a><a href="#citation189" +class="footnote">[189]</a> The ‘swearing-in’ is +gone through by females as well as the male sex. See +Hone’s <i>Year-Book</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote193"></a><a href="#citation193" +class="footnote">[193]</a> A fig newly gathered from the +tree; so called to distinguish it from a grocer’s, or +preserved fig.</p> +<p><a name="footnote206"></a><a href="#citation206" +class="footnote">[206]</a> This line is sometimes +sung—</p> +<p class="poetry">O! I went into the stable, to see what I could +see.</p> +<p><a name="footnote207"></a><a href="#citation207" +class="footnote">[207]</a> Three cabbage-nets, according to +some versions.</p> +<p><a name="footnote208a"></a><a href="#citation208a" +class="footnote">[208a]</a> This is a common phrase in old +English songs and ballads. See <i>The Summer’s +Morning</i>, <i>post</i>, p. 229.</p> +<p><a name="footnote208b"></a><a href="#citation208b" +class="footnote">[208b]</a> See <i>ante</i>, p. 82.</p> +<p><a name="footnote209a"></a><a href="#citation209a" +class="footnote">[209a]</a> Near.</p> +<p><a name="footnote209b"></a><a href="#citation209b" +class="footnote">[209b]</a> The high-road through a town or +village.</p> +<p><a name="footnote209c"></a><a href="#citation209c" +class="footnote">[209c]</a> That is Tommy’s +opinion. In the Yorkshire dialect, when the possessive case +is followed by the relative substantive, it is customary to omit +the <i>s</i>; but if the relative be understood, and not +expressed, the possessive case is formed in the usual manner, as +in a subsequent line of this song:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Hee’d a horse, too, ‘twor +war than ond Tommy’s, ye see.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote210a"></a><a href="#citation210a" +class="footnote">[210a]</a> Alive, quick.</p> +<p><a name="footnote210b"></a><a href="#citation210b" +class="footnote">[210b]</a> Only.</p> +<p><a name="footnote213"></a><a href="#citation213" +class="footnote">[213]</a> Famished. The line in +which this word occurs exhibits one of the most striking +peculiarities of the Lancashire dialect, which is, that in words +ending in <i>ing</i>, the termination is changed into +<i>ink</i>. <i>Ex. gr.</i>, for starving, <i>starvink</i>, +farthing, <i>fardink</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote217"></a><a href="#citation217" +class="footnote">[217]</a> In one version this line has +been altered, probably by some printer who had a wholesome fear +of the ‘Bench of Justices,’ into—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Success to every gentleman<br /> +That lives in Lincolnsheer.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote221a"></a><a href="#citation221a" +class="footnote">[221a]</a> Dr. Whitaker gives a +traditional version of part of this song as follows:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The gardener standing by proferred to +chuse for me,<br /> +The pink, the primrose, and the rose, but I refused the three;<br +/> +The primrose I forsook because it came too soon,<br /> +The violet I o’erlooked, and vowed to wait till June.</p> +<p class="poetry">In June, the red rose sprung, bat was no flower +for me,<br /> +I plucked it up, lo! by the stalk, and planted the +willow-tree.<br /> +The willow I must wear with sorrow twined among,<br /> +That all the world may know I falshood loved too long.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote221b"></a><a href="#citation221b" +class="footnote">[221b]</a> The following account of Billy +Bolton may, with propriety, be inserted here:—It was a +lovely September day, and the scene was Arncliffe, a retired +village in Littondale, one of the most secluded of the Yorkshire +dales. While sitting at the open window of the humble +hostelrie, we heard what we, at first, thought was a +<i>ranter</i> parson, but, on inquiry, were told it was old Billy +Bolton reading to a crowd of villagers. Curious to +ascertain what the minstrel was reading, we joined the crowd, and +found the text-book was a volume of Hume’s <i>England</i>, +which contained the reign of Elizabeth. Billy read in a +clear voice, with proper emphasis, and correct pronunciation, +interlarding his reading with numerous comments, the nature of +some of which may be readily inferred from the fact that the +minstrel belonged to what he called ‘the ancient +church.’ It was a scene for a painter; the village +situate in one of the deepest parts of the dale, the twilight +hour, the attentive listeners, and the old man, leaning on his +knife-grinding machine, and conveying popular information to a +simple peasantry. Bolton is in the constant habit of so +doing, and is really an extraordinary man, uniting, as he does, +the opposite occupations of minstrel, conjuror, knife-grinder, +and schoolmaster. Such a labourer (though an humble one) in +the great cause of human improvement is well deserving of this +brief notice, which it would be unjust to conclude without +stating that whenever the itinerant teacher takes occasion to +speak of his own creed, and contrast it with others, he does so +in a spirit of charity; and he never performs any of his +sleight-of-hand tricks without a few introductory remarks on the +evil of superstition, and the folly of supposing that in the +present age any mortal is endowed with supernatural +attainments.</p> +<p><a name="footnote224"></a><a href="#citation224" +class="footnote">[224]</a> This elastic opening might be +adapted to existing circumstances by a slight +alteration:—</p> +<p class="poetry">The praise of a dairy to tell you I mean,<br /> +But all things in order, first God save the Queen.</p> +<p>The common copies print ‘God save the Queen,’ +which of course destroys the rhyme.</p> +<p><a name="footnote225"></a><a href="#citation225" +class="footnote">[225]</a> This is the reading of a common +stall copy. Chappell reads—</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">‘For at +Tottenham-court,’</p> +<p>which is no doubt correct, though inapplicable to a rural +assembly in our days.</p> +<p><a name="footnote226a"></a><a href="#citation226a" +class="footnote">[226a]</a> Brew, or broo, or broth. +Chappell’s version reads, ‘No state you can +think,’ which is apparently a mistake. The reading of +the common copies is to be preferred.</p> +<p><a name="footnote226b"></a><a href="#citation226b" +class="footnote">[226b]</a> No doubt the original word in +these places was <i>sack</i>, as in Chappell’s +copy—but what would a peasant understand by +<i>sack</i>? Dryden’s receipt for a sack posset is as +follows:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘From fair Barbadoes, on the western +main,<br /> +Fetch sugar half-a-pound: fetch sack, from Spain,<br /> +A pint: then fetch, from India’s fertile coast,<br /> +Nutmeg, the glory of the British toast.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><i>Miscellany +Poems</i>, v. 138.</p> +<p><a name="footnote234"></a><a href="#citation234" +class="footnote">[234]</a> Corrupted in modern copies into +‘we’ll range and we’ll rove.’ The +reading in the text is the old reading. The phrase occurs +in several old songs.</p> +<p><a name="footnote237"></a><a href="#citation237" +class="footnote">[237]</a> We should, probably, read +‘he.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote243"></a><a href="#citation243" +class="footnote">[243]</a> Peer—equal.</p> +<p><a name="footnote247"></a><a href="#citation247" +class="footnote">[247]</a> The road or street.</p> +<p><a name="footnote249"></a><a href="#citation249" +class="footnote">[249]</a> This is the only instance of +this peculiar form in the present version. The miners in +the Marienberg invariably said ‘for to’ wherever the +preposition ‘to’ occurred before a verb.</p> +<p><a name="footnote250"></a><a href="#citation250" +class="footnote">[250]</a> Three is a favourite number in +the nursery rhymes. The following is one of numerous +examples:—</p> +<p class="poetry">There was an old woman had three sons,<br /> +Jerry and James and John:<br /> +Jerry was hung, James was drowned,<br /> +John was lost and never was found;<br /> +And there was an end of her three sons,<br /> +Jerry, and James, and John!</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANCIENT POEMS, BALLADS AND SONGS OF +THE PEASANTRY OF ENGLAND***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 649-h.htm or 649-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/4/649 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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