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diff --git a/7531-h/7531-h.htm b/7531-h/7531-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a819e3e --- /dev/null +++ b/7531-h/7531-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3086 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<title>Old Ballads</title> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +<style type="text/css"> +<!-- +body {margin:20%; text-align:justify} +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {color:#A82C28} +blockquote {font-size:14pt} +P {font-size:16pt} +--> +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Book of Ballads, Volume 1, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: A Book of Ballads, Volume 1 + +Author: Various + +Editor: Beverly Nichols + +Posting Date: April 29, 2014 [EBook #7531] +Release Date: February, 2005 +First Posted: May 15, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF BALLADS, VOLUME 1 *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger, Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team. Text version by Al Haines. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<center> +<h1>A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS</h1> + +<h4>Selected and with an Introduction</h4> + +<h3>by</h3> + +<h2>BEVERLEY NICHOLS</h2> +<br><br> + +<img alt="001.jpg (14K)" src="images/001.jpg" height="223" width="280"> + +</center> +<br><br> +<h2>ACKNOWLEDGMENTS</h2> + +<p>The thanks and acknowledgments of the publishers are due to +the<br> +following: to Messrs. B. Feldman & Co., 125 Shaftesbury +Avenue, W.C. 2,<br> +for "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"; to Mr. Rudyard Kipling and +Messrs.<br> +Methuen & Co. for "Mandalay" from <i>Barrack Room +Ballads</i>; and to<br> +the Executors of the late Oscar Wilde for "The Ballad of Reading +Gaol."</p> + +<p>"The Earl of Mar's Daughter", "The Wife of Usher's Well", "The +Three<br> +Ravens", "Thomas the Rhymer", "Clerk Colvill", "Young Beichen", +"May<br> +Collin", and "Hynd Horn" have been reprinted from <i>English +and<br> +Scottish Ballads</i>, edited by Mr. G. L. Kittredge and the late +Mr. F.<br> +J. Child, and published by the Houghton Mifflin Company.</p> + +<p>The remainder of the ballads in this book, with the exception +of "John<br> +Brown's Body", are from <i>Percy's Reliques</i>, Volumes I and +II.</p> +<br><br><br><br> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<p><a href="#FOREWORD">FOREWORD</a><br> +<a href="#MANDALAY">MANDALAY</a><br> +<a href="#THE FROLICKSOME DUKE">THE FROLICKSOME DUKE</a><br> +<a href="#THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER">THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER</a><br> +<a href="#KING ESTMERE">KING ESTMERE</a><br> +<a href="#KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY">KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY</a><br> +<a href="#BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY">BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY</a><br> +<a href="#FAIR ROSAMOND">FAIR ROSAMOND</a><br> +<a href="#ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE">ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE</a><br> +<a href="#THE BOY AND THE MANTLE">THE BOY AND THE MANTLE</a><br> + + + + +<p><i>The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix +at the end<br> +of this book.</i></p> +<br><br><br><br> +<h2>LIST OF COLOUR PLATES</h2> + +<p> +<a href="#estmere">KING ESTMERE</a><br> +<a href="#barbara">BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY</a><br> +<a href="#rosamond">FAIR ROSAMOND</a><br> +<a href="#mantle">THE BOY AND THE MANTLE</a><br> + + + + + + +<br><br><br><br> +<h2><a name="FOREWORD">FOREWORD</a></h2> + +<h4>By</h4> + +<h3>Beverley Nichols</h3> + +<p>These poems are the very essence of the British spirit. They +are, to<br> +literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the Scot, and +the<br> +smell of the sea to the Englishman. All that is beautiful in the +old<br> +word "patriotism" ... a word which, of late, has been twisted to +such<br> +ignoble purposes ... is latent in these gay and full-blooded +measures.</p> + +<p>But it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable +to the<br> +modern spirit. It is rather for their tonic qualities that they +should<br> +be prescribed in 1934. The post-war vintage of poetry is the +thinnest<br> +and the most watery that England has ever produced. But here, in +these<br> +ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of +their<br> +sparkle and none of their bouquet.</p> + +<p>It is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why +these poems<br> +should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem +turns<br> +sour overnight. And though all generalizations are dangerous I +believe<br> +there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one.... +namely,<br> +that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards, +while the<br> +eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards.</p> + +<p>The authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young, +and<br> +infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie +on the<br> +other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by +a<br> +personal God, when giants and monsters stalked, without the +slightest<br> +doubt, in the valleys over the river. In such a world, what could +a man<br> +do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon, +while<br> +his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song?</p> + +<p>But now--the mysteries have gone. We know, all too well, what +lies on<br> +the other side of the hill. The scientists have long ago puffed +out,<br> +scornfully, the golden lamp of the night ... leaving us in the +uttermost<br> +darkness. The giants and the monsters have either skulked away or +have<br> +been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for the +popular<br> +press. And so, in a world where everything is known (and +nothing<br> +understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, and +stares<br> +into his own heart.</p> + +<p>That way madness lies. All madmen are ferocious egotists, and +so are all<br> +modern lyric-writers. That is the first and most vital +difference<br> +between these ballads and their modern counterparts. The old<br> +ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. The +modern<br> +lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else.</p> +<br><br> +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>This is really such an important point that it is worth +labouring.</p> + +<p>Why is ballad-making a lost art? That it <i>is</i> a lost art +there can<br> +be no question. Nobody who is painfully acquainted with the +rambling,<br> +egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for +modern<br> +"ballads", will deny it.</p> + +<p>Ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. Which +is, that we<br> +are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of +thought to<br> +receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. If we +are<br> +wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean +sword, and a<br> +great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. No--we must +needs go<br> +into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations +about its<br> +effect upon our souls.</p> + +<p>It is not "we" who have changed. It is life that has changed. +"We" are<br> +still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors. +But life<br> +has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords +nor<br> +great causes, nor black enemies. And the flags do not know which +way to<br> +flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. All is +doubt.<br> +And doubt's colour is grey.</p> + +<p>Grey is no colour for a ballad. Ballads are woven from stuff +of<br> +primitive hue ... the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining, +the green<br> +grass growing, the white snow falling. Never will you find grey +in a<br> +ballad. You will find the black of the night and the raven's +wing,<br> +and the silver of a thousand stars. You will find the blue of +many<br> +summer skies. But you will not find grey.</p> +<br><br> +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>That is why ballad-making is a lost art. Or almost a lost art. +For even<br> +in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the +twentieth<br> +century, there are times when a man finds himself in a certain +place at<br> +a certain hour and something happens to him which takes him out +of<br> +himself. And a song is born, simply and sweetly, a song which +other<br> +men can sing, for all time, and forget themselves.</p> + +<p>Such a song was once written by a master at my old school, +Marlborough.<br> +He was a Scot. But he loved Marlborough with the sort of love +which the<br> +old ballad-mongers must have had-the sort of love which takes a +man on<br> +wings, far from his foolish little body.</p> + +<p>He wrote a song called "The Scotch Marlburian".</p> + +<p>Here it is:--</p> + +<p> Oh Marlborough, she's a toun o' touns<br> + We will say that and mair,<br> + We that ha' walked alang her douns<br> + And snuffed her Wiltshire air.<br> + A weary way ye'll hae to tramp<br> + Afore ye match the green<br> + O' Savernake and Barbery Camp<br> + And a' that lies atween!</p> + +<p>The infinite beauty of that phrase ... "and a' that lies +atween"! The<br> +infinite beauty as it is roared by seven hundred young throats +in<br> +unison! For in that phrase there drifts a whole pageant of +boyhood--the<br> +sound of cheers as a race is run on a stormy day in March, the +tolling<br> +of the Chapel bell, the crack of ball against bat, the sighs of +sleep<br> +in a long white dormitory.</p> + +<p>But you may say "What is all this to me? I wasn't at +Maryborough. I<br> +don't like schoolboys ... they strike me as dirty, noisy, and +usually<br> +foul-minded. Why should I go into raptures about such a song, +which<br> +seems only to express a highly debatable approval of a certain +method of<br> +education?"</p> + +<p>If you are asking yourself that sort of question, you are +obviously in<br> +very grave need of the tonic properties of this book. For after +you have<br> +read it, you will wonder why you ever asked it.</p> +<br><br> +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>I go back and back to the same point, at the risk of boring +you to<br> +distraction. For it is a point which has much more "to" it than +the<br> +average modern will care to admit, unless he is forced to do +so.</p> + +<p>You remember the generalization about the eyes ... how they +used to look<br> +<i>out</i>, but now look <i>in</i>? Well, listen to this....</p> + +<p> <i>I'm</i> feeling blue,<br> + <i>I</i> don't know what to do,<br> + 'Cos <i>I</i> love you<br> + And you don't love <i>me</i>.</p> + +<p>The above masterpiece is, as far as I am aware, imaginary. But +it<br> +represents a sort of <i>reductio ad absurdum</i> of thousands of +lyrics<br> +which have been echoing over the post-war world. Nearly all these +lyrics<br> +are melancholy, with the profound and primitive melancholy of the +negro<br> +swamp, and they are all violently egotistical.</p> + +<p>Now this, in the long run, is an influence of far greater evil +than one<br> +would be inclined at first to admit. If countless young men, +every<br> +night, are to clasp countless young women to their bosoms, and +rotate<br> +over countless dancing-floors, muttering "I'm feeling blue ... +<i>I</i><br> +don't know what to do", it is not unreasonable to suppose that +they will<br> +subconsciously apply some of the lyric's mournful egotism to +themselves.</p> + +<p>Anybody who has even a nodding acquaintance with modern +psychological<br> +science will be aware of the significance of "conditioning", as +applied<br> +to the human temperament. The late M. Coué "conditioned" +people into<br> +happiness by making them repeat, over and over again, the phrase +"Every<br> +day in every way I grow better and better and better."</p> + +<p>The modern lyric-monger exactly reverses M. Coué's +doctrine. He makes<br> +the patient repeat "Every night, with all my might, I grow worse +and<br> +worse and worse." Of course the "I" of the lyric-writer is an +imaginary<br> +"I", but if any man sings "<i>I'm</i> feeling blue", often +enough, to a<br> +catchy tune, he will be a superman if he does not eventually +apply that<br> +"I" to himself.</p> + +<p>But the "blueness" is really beside the point. It is the +<i>egotism</i><br> +of the modern ballad which is the trouble. Even when, as they<br> +occasionally do, the modern lyric-writers discover, to their<br> +astonishment, that they are feeling happy, they make the +happiness such<br> +a personal issue that half its tonic value is destroyed. It is +not, like<br> +the old ballads, just an outburst of delight, a sudden rapture at +the<br> +warmth of the sun, or the song of the birds, or the glint of +moonlight<br> +on a sword, or the dew in a woman's eyes. It is not an emotion so +sweet<br> +and soaring that self is left behind, like a dull chrysalis, +while the<br> +butterfly of the spirit flutters free. No ... the chrysalis is +never<br> +left behind, the "I", "I", "I", continues, in a maddening +monotone. And<br> +we get this sort of thing....</p> + +<p> <i>I</i> want to be happy,<br> + But <i>I</i> can't be happy<br> + Till <i>I've</i> made you happy too.</p> + +<p>And that, if you please, is one of the jolliest lyrics of the +last<br> +decade! That was a song which made us all smile and set all our +feet<br> +dancing!</p> + +<p>Even when their tale was woven out of the stuff of tragedy, +the old<br> +ballads were not tarnished with such morbid speculations. Read +the tale<br> +of the beggar's daughter of Bethnal Green. One shudders to think +what a<br> +modern lyric-writer would make of it. We should all be in tears +before<br> +the end of the first chorus.</p> + +<p>But here, a lovely girl leaves her blind father to search for +fortune.<br> +She has many adventures, and in the end, she marries a knight. +The<br> +ballad ends with words of almost childish simplicity, but they +are words<br> +which ring with the true tone of happiness:--</p> + +<p> Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte<br> + A bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte<br> + In joy and felicitie long lived hee<br> + All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.</p> + +<p>I said that the words were of almost childish simplicity. But +the<br> +student of language, and the would-be writer, might do worse than +study<br> +those words, if only to see how the cumulative effect of +brightness and<br> +radiance is gained. You may think the words are artless, but +just<br> +ponder, for a moment, the number of brilliant verbal symbols +which are<br> +collected into that tiny verse. There are only four lines. But +those<br> +lines contain these words ...</p> + +<p>Feast, joy, delight, bridegroom, happy, joy, young, felicity, +fair,<br> +pretty.</p> + +<p>Is that quite so artless, after all? Is it not rather like an +old and<br> +primitive plaque, where colour is piled on colour till you would +say<br> +the very wood will burst into flame ... and yet, the total effect +is one<br> +of happy simplicity?</p> +<br><br> +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>How were the early ballads born? Who made them? One man or +many? Were<br> +they written down, when they were still young, or was it only +after the<br> +lapse of many generations, when their rhymes had been sharpened +and<br> +their metres polished by constant repetition, that they were +finally<br> +copied out?</p> + +<p>To answer these questions would be one of the most fascinating +tasks<br> +which the detective in letters could set himself. Grimm, +listening<br> +in his fairyland, heard some of the earliest ballads, loved +them,<br> +pondered on them, and suddenly startled the world by announcing +that<br> +most ballads were not the work of a single author, but of the +people at<br> +large. <i>Das Volk dichtet</i>, he said. And that phrase got him +into a<br> +lot of trouble. People told him to get back to his fairyland and +not<br> +make such ridiculous suggestions. For how, they asked, could a +whole<br> +people make a poem? You might as well tell a thousand men to make +a<br> +tune, limiting each of them to one note!</p> + +<p>To invest Grimm's words with such an intention is quite +unfair.<br> +[Footnote: For a discussion of Grimm's theories, together with +much<br> +interesting speculation on the origin of the ballads, the reader +should<br> +study the admirable introduction to <i>English and Scottish +Popular<br> +Ballads</i>, published by George Harrap & Co., Ltd.] +Obviously a<br> +multitude of people could not, deliberately, make a single poem +any more<br> +than a multitude of people could, deliberately, make a single +picture,<br> +one man doing the nose, one man an eye and so on. Such a +suggestion is<br> +grotesque, and Grimm never meant it. If I might guess at what he +meant,<br> +I would suggest that he was thinking that the origin of ballads +must<br> +have been similar to the origin of the dance, (which was probably +the<br> +earliest form of aesthetic expression known to man).</p> + +<p>The dance was invented because it provided a means of +prolonging ecstasy<br> +by art. It may have been an ecstasy of sex or an ecstasy of +victory ...<br> +that doesn't matter. The point is that it gave to a group of +people an<br> +ordered means of expressing their delight instead of just leaping +about<br> +and making loud cries, like the animals. And you may be sure that +as the<br> +primitive dance began, there was always some member of the tribe +a<br> +little more agile than the rest--some man who kicked a little +higher or<br> +wriggled his body in an amusing way. And the rest of them copied +him,<br> +and incorporated his step into their own.</p> + +<p>Apply this analogy to the origin of ballads. It fits +perfectly.</p> + +<p>There has been a successful raid, or a wedding, or some great +deed of<br> +daring, or some other phenomenal thing, natural or supernatural. +And now<br> +that this day, which will ever linger in their memories, is +drawing to<br> +its close, the members of the tribe draw round the fire and begin +to<br> +make merry. The wine passes ... and tongues are loosened. And +someone<br> +says a phrase which has rhythm and a sparkle to it, and the +phrase is<br> +caught up and goes round the fire, and is repeated from mouth to +mouth.<br> +And then the local wit caps it with another phrase and a rhyme is +born.<br> +For there is always a local wit in every community, however +primitive.<br> +There is even a local wit in the monkey house at the zoo.</p> + +<p>And once you have that single rhyme and that little piece of +rhythm, you<br> +have the genesis of the whole thing. It may not be worked out +that<br> +night, nor even by the men who first made it. The fire may long +have<br> +died before the ballad is completed, and tall trees may stand +over the<br> +men and women who were the first to tell the tale. But rhyme and +rhythm<br> +are indestructible, if they are based on reality. "Not marble nor +the<br> +gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful +rhyme."</p> + +<p>And so it is that some of the loveliest poems in the language +will ever<br> +remain anonymous. Needless to say, <i>all</i> the poems are +not<br> +anonymous. As society became more civilized it was inevitable +that the<br> +peculiar circumstances from which the earlier ballads sprang +should<br> +become less frequent. Nevertheless, about nearly all of the +ballads<br> +there is "a common touch", as though even the most self-conscious +author<br> +had drunk deep of the well of tradition, that sparkling well in +which so<br> +much beauty is distilled.</p> + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>But though the author or authors of most of the ballads may be +lost in<br> +the lists of time, we know a good deal about the minstrels who +sang<br> +them. And it is a happy thought that those minstrels were +such<br> +considerable persons, so honourably treated, so generously +esteemed.<br> +The modern mind, accustomed to think of the singer of popular +songs<br> +either as a highly paid music-hall artist, at the top of the +ladder, or<br> +a shivering street-singer, at the bottom of it, may find it +difficult to<br> +conceive of a minstrel as a sort of ambassador of song, moving +from<br> +court to court with dignity and ceremony.</p> + +<p>Yet this was actually the case. In the ballad of King Estmere, +for<br> +example, we see the minstrel finely mounted, and accompanied by +a<br> +harpist, who sings his songs for him. This minstrel, too, moves +among<br> +kings without any ceremony. As Percy has pointed out, "The +further we<br> +carry our enquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to +the<br> +professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic +nations.<br> +Their character was deemed so sacred that under its sanction our +famous<br> +King Alfred made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at +once<br> +admitted to the king's headquarters."</p> + +<p><i>And even so late as the time of Froissart, we have +minstrels and<br> +heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into +an<br> +enemy's country.</i></p> + +<p>The reader will perhaps forgive me if I harp back, once more, +to our<br> +present day and age, in view of the quite astonishing change in +national<br> +psychology which that revelation implies. Minstrels and heralds +were<br> +once allowed safe conduct into the enemy's country, in time of +war. Yet,<br> +in the last war, it was considered right and proper to hiss the +work of<br> +Beethoven off the stage, and responsible newspapers seriously +suggested<br> +that never again should a note of German music, of however +great<br> +antiquity, be heard in England! We are supposed to have +progressed<br> +towards internationalism, nowadays. Whereas, in reality, we have +grown<br> +more and more frenziedly national. We are very far behind the age +of<br> +Froissart, when there was a true internationalism--the +internationalism<br> +of art.</p> + +<p>To some of us that is still a very real internationalism. When +we hear a<br> +Beethoven sonata we do not think of it as issuing from the brain +of a<br> +"Teuton" but as blowing from the eternal heights of music whose +winds<br> +list nothing of frontiers.</p> + +<p>Man <i>needs</i> song, for he is a singing animal. Moreover, +he needs<br> +communal song, for he is a social animal. The military +authorities<br> +realized this very cleverly, and they encouraged the troops, +during the<br> +war, to sing on every possible occasion. Crazy pacifists, like +myself,<br> +may find it almost unbearably bitter to think that on each side +of<br> +various frontiers young men were being trained to sing themselves +to<br> +death, in a struggle which was hideously impersonal, a struggle +of<br> +machinery, in which the only winners were the armament +manufacturers.<br> +And crazy pacifists might draw a very sharp line indeed between +the<br> +songs which celebrated real personal struggles in the tiny wars +of the<br> +past, and the songs which were merely the prelude to thousands +of<br> +puzzled young men suddenly finding themselves choking in chlorine +gas,<br> +in the wars of the present.</p> + +<p>But even the craziest pacifist could not fail to be moved by +some of the<br> +ballads of the last war. To me, "Tipperary" is still the most +moving<br> +tune in the world. It happens to be a very good tune, from +the<br> +musician's point of view, a tune that Handel would not have been +ashamed<br> +to write, but that is not the point. Its emotional qualities are +due to<br> +its associations. Perhaps that is how it has always been, with +ballads.<br> +From the standard of pure aesthetics, one ought not to +consider<br> +"associations" in judging a poem or a tune, but with a song +like<br> +"Tipperary" you would be an inhuman prig if you didn't. We all +have our<br> +"associations" with this particular tune. For me, it recalls a +window in<br> +Hampstead, on a grey day in October 1914. I had been having the +measles,<br> +and had not been allowed to go back to school. Then suddenly, +down the<br> +street, that tune echoed. And they came marching, and marching, +and<br> +marching. And they were all so happy.</p> + +<p>So happy.</p> +<br><br> +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>"Tipperary" is a true ballad, which is why it is included in +this book.<br> +So is "John Brown's Body". They were not written as ballads but +they<br> +have been promoted to that proud position by popular vote.</p> + +<p>It will now be clear, from the foregoing remarks, that there +are<br> +thousands of poems, labelled "ballads" from the eighteenth +century,<br> +through the romantic movement, and onwards, which are not ballads +at<br> +all. Swinburne's ballads, which so shocked our grandparents, bore +about<br> +as much relation to the true ballads as a vase of wax fruit to +a<br> +hawker's barrow. They were lovely patterns of words, woven like +some<br> +exquisite, foaming lace, but they were Swinburne, Swinburne all +the<br> +time. They had nothing to do with the common people. The common +people<br> +would not have understood a word of them.</p> + +<p>Ballads <i>must</i> be popular. And that is why it will always +remain<br> +one of the weirdest paradoxes of literature that the only man, +except<br> +Kipling, who has written a true ballad in the last fifty years is +the<br> +man who despised the people, who shrank from them, and jeered at +them,<br> +from his little gilded niche in Piccadilly. I refer, of course, +to Oscar<br> +Wilde's "Ballad of Reading Gaol." It was a true ballad, and it +was the<br> +best thing he ever wrote. For it was written <i>de profundis</i>, +when<br> +his hands were bloody with labour and his tortured spirit had +been down<br> +to the level of the lowest, to the level of the pavement ... nay, +lower<br> +... to the gutter itself. And in the gutter, with agony, he +learned the<br> +meaning of song.</p> + +<p>Ballads begin and end with the people. You cannot escape that +fact. And<br> +therefore, if I wished to collect the ballads of the future, the +songs<br> +which will endure into the next century (if there <i>is</i> any +song in<br> +the next century), I should not rake through the contemporary +poets, in<br> +the hope of finding gems of lasting brilliance. No. I should go +to the<br> +music-halls. I should listen to the sort of thing they sing when +the<br> +faded lady with the high bust steps forward and shouts, "Now +then, boys,<br> +all together!"</p> + +<p>Unless you can write the words "Now then, boys, all together", +at the<br> +top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. That may sound +a<br> +sweeping statement, but it is true.</p> + +<p>In the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from +their<br> +high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem +destined<br> +for immortality. One of these is "Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. +Moore."</p> + +<p>Do you remember it?</p> + +<p> Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!<br> + Mrs. Moore, oh don't 'ave any more!<br> + Too many double gins<br> + Give the ladies double chins,<br> + So don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!</p> + +<p>The whole of English "low life" (which is much the most +exciting part of<br> +English life) is in that lyric. It is as vivid as a Rowlandson +cartoon.<br> +How well we know Mrs. Moore! How plainly we see her ... the +amiable,<br> +coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on +countless<br> +counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her +eyes<br> +staring, a little vacantly, about her. Some may think it is a +sordid<br> +picture, but I am sure that they cannot know Mrs. Moore very well +if<br> +they think that. They cannot know her bitter struggles, her +silent<br> +heroisms, nor her sardonic humour.</p> + +<p>Lyrics such as these will, I believe, endure long after many +of the most<br> +renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. They all +have<br> +the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring +sentence,<br> +"Now then, boys--all together!" Or to put it another way, as in +the<br> +ballad of George Barnwell,</p> + +<p> All youths of fair England<br> + That dwell both far and near,<br> + Regard my story that I tell<br> + And to my song give ear.</p> + +<p>That may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same +thing!</p> +<br><br> +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p>But if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the +few<br> +popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls, +how much<br> +more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang +through<br> +the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a +whole<br> +people! These ballads <i>are</i> history, and as such they should +be<br> +recognised.</p> + +<p>It has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong +way. We<br> +give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and +queens<br> +and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like +bores.<br> +Thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many +pettifogging<br> +little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a +thousand<br> +could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. +You<br> +could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing +with<br> +such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how +many<br> +boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like, +what<br> +they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and +what they<br> +paid their servants?</p> + +<p>In other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble +to sketch<br> +in the great background, the life of the common people? How many +even<br> +realize their <i>existence</i>, except on occasions of +national<br> +disaster, such as the Black Plague?</p> + +<p>A proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards +remedying this<br> +defect. Thomas Percy, whose <i>Reliques</i> must ever be the main +source<br> +of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has +pointed<br> +out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or +later,<br> +found their way into the country's song-book. But it is not only +the<br> +resounding names that are celebrated. In the ballads we hear the +echoes<br> +of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. Sometimes +these<br> +ring so plainly that they need no explanation. At other times, we +have<br> +to go to Percy or to some of his successors to realize the +true<br> +significance of the song.</p> + +<p>For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at +first<br> +sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was +written<br> +during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses +were<br> +deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the +Scottish<br> +reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a +pasquil<br> +discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, +to<br> +compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these +songs in<br> +rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in +the<br> +Latin Service.</p> + +<p>"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an +occasion.<br> +And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read +between the<br> +lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a +satirical<br> +allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, +which<br> +makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is +actually<br> +concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the +spurious<br> +offspring of Mother Church.</p> + +<p>Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the +lightest and most<br> +blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English +history. How<br> +different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do +not lead<br> +men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the +newspapers.<br> +A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a +single bar<br> +of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from +any of<br> +our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great +War?<br> +Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the +long-deferred<br> +coming of Peace?</p> + +<p>Very deeply significant is it that our only method of +commemorating<br> +Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. +Nothing.<br> +The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.</p> + + + + +<br><br><br><br> +<h2><a name="MANDALAY">MANDALAY</a></h2> +<img alt="033.jpg (13K)" src="images/033.jpg" height="174" width="248"> +<br><br> +<p> By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,<br> + There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' +me;<br> + For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they +say:<br> + 'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to +Mandalay!'<br> + Come you back to Mandalay,<br> + Where the old Flotilla lay:<br> + Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to +Mandalay?<br> + On the road to Mandalay,<br> + Where the flyin'-fishes play,<br> + An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the +Bay!</p> + +<p> 'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,<br> + An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's +Queen,<br> + An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,<br> + An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:<br> + Bloomin' idol made o' mud--<br> + Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--<br> + Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she +stud!<br> + On the road to Mandalay...</p> + +<p> When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was +droppin' slow,<br> + She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing +<i>'Kulla-lo-lo!'</i><br> + With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek<br> + We useter watch the steamers an' the <i>hathis</i> pilin' +teak.<br> + Elephints a-pilin' teak<br> + In the sludgy, squdgy creek,<br> + Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to +speak!<br> + On the road to Mandalay...</p> + +<p> But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,<br> + An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to +Mandalay;<br> + An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier +tells:<br> + 'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed +naught<br> + else.'<br> + No! you won't 'eed nothin' else<br> + But them spicy garlic smells,<br> + An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly +temple-bells;<br> + On the road to Mandalay...</p> + +<p> I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty +pavin'-stones,<br> + An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my +bones;<br> + Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the +Strand,<br> + An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?<br> + Beefy face an' grubby 'and--<br> + Law! wot do they understand?<br> + I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener +land!<br> + On the road to Mandalay ...</p> + +<p> Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the +worst,<br> + Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a +thirst;<br> + For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would +be--<br> + By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;<br> + On the road to Mandalay,<br> + Where the old Flotilla lay,<br> + With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to +Mandalay!<br> + O the road to Mandalay,<br> + Where the flyin'-fishes play,<br> + An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost +the Bay!</p> + + +<br><br><br><br><br><br> +<h2><a name="THE FROLICKSOME DUKE">THE FROLICKSOME DUKE</a></h2> + +<p>or</p> + +<h3>THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE</h3> +<img alt="036.jpg (17K)" src="images/036.jpg" height="193" width="240"> +<br><br> + +<p> Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court,<br> + One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:<br> + But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,<br> + Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:<br> + A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,<br> + As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.</p> + +<p> The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben,<br> + Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then.<br> + O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd<br> + To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:<br> + Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and +hose,<br> + And they put him to bed for to take his repose.</p> + +<p> Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt,<br> + They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:<br> + On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,<br> + They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.<br> + In the morning when day, then admiring he lay,<br> + For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.</p> + +<p> Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,<br> + Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;<br> + And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,<br> + He desired to know what apparel he'd ware:<br> + The poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd,<br> + And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.</p> + +<p> Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,<br> + Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;<br> + With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd,<br> + And it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride;<br> + For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife?<br> + Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.</p> + +<p> From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace<br> + Did observe his behaviour in every case.<br> + To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,<br> + Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great:<br> + Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,<br> + With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.</p> + +<p> A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,<br> + He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,<br> + In a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red,<br> + With a rich golden canopy over his head:<br> + As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet,<br> + With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.</p> + +<p> While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,<br> + Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine.<br> + Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,<br> + Till at last he began for to tumble and roul<br> + From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,<br> + Being seven times drunker than ever before.</p> + +<p> Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain,<br> + And restore him his old leather garments again:<br> + 'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,<br> + And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first;<br> + There he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;<br> + But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.</p> + +<p> For his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem,<br> + That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;<br> + Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought<br> + For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought;<br> + But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade,<br> + Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.</p> + +<p> Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,<br> + Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak;<br> + Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground,<br> + Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round,<br> + Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend,<br> + Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.</p> + +<p> Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride<br> + Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?<br> + Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command?<br> + Then I shall be a squire I well understand:<br> + Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace,<br> + I was never before in so happy a case.</p> + +<img alt="039.jpg (3K)" src="images/039.jpg" height="98" width="142"> + +<br><br><br><br><br><br> +<h2><a name="THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER">THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER</a></h2> +<img alt="040.jpg (13K)" src="images/040.jpg" height="159" width="243"> +<br><br> + +<p> There was a shepherd's daughter<br> + Came tripping on the waye;<br> + And there by chance a knighte shee mett,<br> + Which caused her to staye.</p> + +<p> Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide,<br> + These words pronounced hee:<br> + O I shall dye this daye, he sayd,<br> + If Ive not my wille of thee.</p> + +<p> The Lord forbid, the maide replyde,<br> + That you shold waxe so wode!<br> + "But for all that shee could do or saye,<br> + He wold not be withstood."</p> + +<p> Sith you have had your wille of mee,<br> + And put me to open shame,<br> + Now, if you are a courteous knighte,<br> + Tell me what is your name?</p> + +<p> Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart,<br> + And some do call mee Jille;<br> + But when I come to the kings faire courte<br> + They call me Wilfulle Wille.</p> + +<p> He sett his foot into the stirrup,<br> + And awaye then he did ride;<br> + She tuckt her girdle about her middle,<br> + And ranne close by his side.</p> + +<p> But when she came to the brode water,<br> + She sett her brest and swamme;<br> + And when she was got out againe,<br> + She tooke to her heels and ranne.</p> + +<p> He never was the courteous knighte,<br> + To saye, faire maide, will ye ride?<br> + "And she was ever too loving a maide<br> + To saye, sir knighte abide."</p> + +<p> When she came to the kings faire courte,<br> + She knocked at the ring;<br> + So readye was the king himself<br> + To let this faire maide in.</p> + +<p> Now Christ you save, my gracious liege,<br> + Now Christ you save and see,<br> + You have a knighte within your courte,<br> + This daye hath robbed mee.</p> + +<p> What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart?<br> + Of purple or of pall?<br> + Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring<br> + From off thy finger small?</p> + +<p> He hath not robbed mee, my liege,<br> + Of purple nor of pall:<br> + But he hath gotten my maiden head,<br> + Which grieves mee worst of all.</p> + +<p> Now if he be a batchelor,<br> + His bodye He give to thee;<br> + But if he be a married man,<br> + High hanged he shall bee.</p> + +<p> He called downe his merrye men all,<br> + By one, by two, by three;<br> + Sir William used to bee the first,<br> + But nowe the last came hee.</p> + +<p> He brought her downe full fortye pounde,<br> + Tyed up withinne a glove:<br> + Faire maide, He give the same to thee;<br> + Go, seeke thee another love.</p> + +<p> O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde,<br> + Nor Ile have none of your fee;<br> + But your faire bodye I must have,<br> + The king hath granted mee.</p> + +<p> Sir William ranne and fetched her then<br> + Five hundred pound in golde,<br> + Saying, faire maide, take this to thee,<br> + Thy fault will never be tolde.</p> + +<p> Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt,<br> + These words then answered shee,<br> + But your own bodye I must have,<br> + The king hath granted mee.</p> + +<p> Would I had dranke the water cleare,<br> + When I did drinke the wine,<br> + Rather than any shepherds brat<br> + Shold bee a ladye of mine!</p> + +<p> Would I had drank the puddle foule,<br> + When I did drink the ale,<br> + Rather than ever a shepherds brat<br> + Shold tell me such a tale!</p> + +<p> A shepherds brat even as I was,<br> + You mote have let me bee,<br> + I never had come to the kings faire courte,<br> + To crave any love of thee.</p> + +<p> He sett her on a milk-white steede,<br> + And himself upon a graye;<br> + He hung a bugle about his necke,<br> + And soe they rode awaye.</p> + +<p> But when they came unto the place,<br> + Where marriage-rites were done,<br> + She proved herself a dukes daughtèr,<br> + And he but a squires sonne.</p> + +<p> Now marrye me, or not, sir knight,<br> + Your pleasure shall be free:<br> + If you make me ladye of one good towne,<br> + He make you lord of three.</p> + +<p> Ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd,<br> + If thou hadst not been trewe,<br> + I shold have forsaken my sweet love,<br> + And have changed her for a newe.</p> + +<p> And now their hearts being linked fast,<br> + They joyned hand in hande:<br> + Thus he had both purse, and person too,<br> + And all at his commande.</p> + + + +<br><br><br><br><br><br> +<h2><a name="KING ESTMERE">KING ESTMERE</a></h2> +<img alt="045.jpg (15K)" src="images/045.jpg" height="171" width="233"> +<br><br> +<a name="estmere"></a> +<img alt="estmere.jpg (161K)" src="images/estmere.jpg" height="1037" width="750"> + +<p> Hearken to me, gentlemen,<br> + Come and you shall heare;<br> + Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren<br> + That ever borne y-were.</p> + +<p> The tone of them was Adler younge,<br> + The tother was kyng Estmere;<br> + The were as bolde men in their deeds,<br> + As any were farr and neare.</p> + +<p> As they were drinking ale and wine<br> + Within kyng Estmeres halle:<br> + When will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr,<br> + A wyfe to glad us all?</p> + +<p> Then bespake him kyng Estmere,<br> + And answered him hastilee:<br> + I know not that ladye in any land<br> + That's able to marrye with mee.</p> + +<p> Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,<br> + Men call her bright and sheene;<br> + If I were kyng here in your stead,<br> + That ladye shold be my queene.</p> + +<p> Saies, Reade me, reade me, deare brother,<br> + Throughout merry Englànd,<br> + Where we might find a messenger<br> + Betwixt us towe to sende.</p> + +<p> Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, brothèr,<br> + Ile beare you companye;<br> + Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,<br> + And I feare lest soe shold wee.</p> + +<p> Thus the renisht them to ryde<br> + Of twoe good renisht steeds,<br> + And when the came to kyng Adlands halle,<br> + Of redd gold shone their weeds.</p> + +<p> And when the came to kyng Adlands hall<br> + Before the goodlye gate,<br> + There they found good kyng Adlànd<br> + Rearing himselfe theratt.</p> + +<p> Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland;<br> + Now Christ you save and see.<br> + Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,<br> + Right hartilye to mee.</p> + +<p> You have a daughter, said Adler younge,<br> + Men call her bright and sheene,<br> + My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,<br> + Of Englande to be queene.</p> + +<p> Yesterday was att my deere daughter<br> + Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne;<br> + And then she nicked him of naye,<br> + And I doubt sheele do you the same.</p> + +<p> The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,<br> + And 'leeveth on Mahound;<br> + And pitye it were that fayre ladye<br> + Shold marrye a heathen hound.</p> + +<p> But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere,<br> + For my love I you praye;<br> + That I may see your daughter deere<br> + Before I goe hence awaye.</p> + +<p> Although itt is seven yeers and more<br> + Since my daughter was in halle,<br> + She shall come once downe for your sake<br> + To glad my guestes alle.</p> + +<p> Downe then came that mayden fayre,<br> + With ladyes laced in pall,<br> + And halfe a hundred of bold knightes,<br> + To bring her from bowre to hall;<br> + And as many gentle squiers,<br> + To tend upon them all.</p> + +<p> The talents of golde were on her head sette,<br> + Hanged low downe to her knee;<br> + And everye ring on her small fingèr<br> + Shone of the chrystall free.</p> + +<p> Saies, God you save, my deere madam;<br> + Saies, God you save and see.<br> + Said, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,<br> + Right welcome unto mee.</p> + +<p> And if you love me, as you saye,<br> + Soe well and hartilye,<br> + All that ever you are comin about<br> + Sooner sped now itt shal bee.</p> + +<p> Then bespake her father deare:<br> + My daughter, I saye naye;<br> + Remember well the kyng of Spayne,<br> + What he sayd yesterday.</p> + +<p> He wold pull downe my hales and castles,<br> + And reeve me of my life.<br> + I cannot blame him if he doe,<br> + If I reave him of his wyfe.</p> + +<p> Your castles and your towres, father,<br> + Are stronglye built aboute;<br> + And therefore of the king of Spaine<br> + Wee neede not stande in doubt.</p> + +<p> Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmère,<br> + By heaven and your righte hand,<br> + That you will marrye me to your wyfe,<br> + And make me queene of your land.</p> + +<p> Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth<br> + By heaven and his righte hand,<br> + That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,<br> + And make her queene of his land.</p> + +<p> And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,<br> + To goe to his owne countree,<br> + To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,<br> + That marryed the might bee.</p> + +<p> They had not ridden scant a myle,<br> + A myle forthe of the towne,<br> + But in did come the kyng of Spayne,<br> + With kempès many one.</p> + +<p> But in did come the kyng of Spayne,<br> + With manye a bold barone,<br> + Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,<br> + Tother daye to carrye her home.</p> + +<p> Shee sent one after kyng Estmere<br> + In all the spede might bee,<br> + That he must either turne againe and fighte,<br> + Or goe home and loose his ladye.</p> + +<p> One whyle then the page he went,<br> + Another while he ranne;<br> + Tull he had oretaken king Estmere,<br> + I wis, he never blanne.</p> + +<p> Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere!<br> + What tydinges nowe, my boye?<br> + O tydinges I can tell to you,<br> + That will you sore annoye.</p> + +<p> You had not ridden scant a mile,<br> + A mile out of the towne,<br> + But in did come the kyng of Spayne<br> + With kempès many a one:</p> + +<p> But in did come the kyng of Spayne<br> + With manye a bold barone,<br> + Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter,<br> + Tother daye to carry her home.</p> + +<p> My ladye fayre she greetes you well,<br> + And ever-more well by mee:<br> + You must either turne againe and fighte,<br> + Or goe home and loose your ladyè.</p> + +<p> Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother,<br> + My reade shall ryde at thee,<br> + Whether it is better to turne and fighte,<br> + Or goe home and loose my ladye.</p> + +<p> Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge,<br> + And your reade must rise at me,<br> + I quicklye will devise a waye<br> + To sette thy ladye free.</p> + +<p> My mother was a westerne woman,<br> + And learned in gramaryè,<br> + And when I learned at the schole,<br> + Something she taught itt mee.</p> + +<p> There growes an hearbe within this field,<br> + And iff it were but knowne,<br> + His color, which is whyte and redd,<br> + It will make blacke and browne:</p> + +<p> His color, which is browne and blacke,<br> + Itt will make redd and whyte;<br> + That sworde is not in all Englande,<br> + Upon his coate will byte.</p> + +<p> And you shall be a harper, brother,<br> + Out of the north countrye;<br> + And He be your boy, soe faine of fighte,<br> + And beare your harpe by your knee.</p> + +<p> And you shal be the best harpèr,<br> + That ever tooke harpe in hand;<br> + And I wil be the best singèr,<br> + That ever sung in this lande.</p> + +<p> Itt shal be written on our forheads<br> + All and in grammaryè,<br> + That we towe are the boldest men,<br> + That are in all Christentyè.</p> + +<p> And thus they renisht them to ryde,<br> + On tow good renish steedes;<br> + And when they came to king Adlands hall,<br> + Of redd gold shone their weedes.</p> + +<p> And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall,<br> + Untill the fayre hall yate,<br> + There they found a proud portèr<br> + Rearing himselfe thereatt.</p> + +<p> Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud portèr;<br> + Sayes, Christ thee save and see.<br> + Nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr,<br> + Of whatsoever land ye bee.</p> + +<p> Wee beene harpers, sayd Adler younge,<br> + Come out of the northe countrye;<br> + Wee beene come hither untill this place,<br> + This proud weddinge for to see.</p> + +<p> Sayd, And your color were white and redd,<br> + As it is blacke and browne,<br> + I wold saye king Estmere and his brother,<br> + Were comen untill this towne.</p> + +<p> Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,<br> + Layd itt on the porters arme:<br> + And ever we will thee, proud porter,<br> + Thow wilt saye us no harme.</p> + +<p> Sore he looked on king Estmere,<br> + And sore he handled the ryng,<br> + Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,<br> + He lett for no kind of thyng.</p> + +<p> King Estmere he stabled his steede<br> + Soe fayre att the hall bord;<br> + The froth, that came from his brydle bitte,<br> + Light in kyng Bremors beard.</p> + +<p> Saies, Stable thy steed, thou proud harper,<br> + Saies, Stable him in the stalle;<br> + It doth not beseeme a proud harper<br> + To stable 'him' in a kyngs halle.</p> + +<p> My ladde he is no lither, he said,<br> + He will doe nought that's meete;<br> + And is there any man in this hall<br> + Were able him to beate</p> + +<p> Thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of Spaine,<br> + Thou harper, here to mee:<br> + There is a man within this halle<br> + Will beate thy ladd and thee.</p> + +<p> O let that man come downe, he said,<br> + A sight of him wold I see;<br> + And when hee hath beaten well my ladd,<br> + Then he shall beate of mee.</p> + +<p> Downe then came the kemperye man,<br> + And looketh him in the eare;<br> + For all the gold, that was under heaven,<br> + He durst not neigh him neare.</p> + +<p> And how nowe, kempe, said the Kyng of Spaine,<br> + And how what aileth thee?<br> + He saies, It is writt in his forhead<br> + All and in gramaryè,<br> + That for all the gold that is under heaven<br> + I dare not neigh him nye.</p> + +<p> Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe,<br> + And plaid a pretty thinge:<br> + The ladye upstart from the borde,<br> + And wold have gone from the king.</p> + +<p> Stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,<br> + For Gods love I pray thee,<br> + For and thou playes as thou beginns,<br> + Thou'lt till my bryde from mee.</p> + +<p> He stroake upon his harpe againe,<br> + And playd a pretty thinge;<br> + The ladye lough a loud laughter,<br> + As shee sate by the king.</p> + +<p> Saies, Sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper,<br> + And thy stringes all,<br> + For as many gold nobles 'thou shall have'<br> + As heere bee ringes in the hall.</p> + +<p> What wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,'<br> + If I did sell itt yee?<br> + "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt,<br> + When abed together wee bee."</p> + +<p> Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay,<br> + As shee sitts by thy knee,<br> + And as many gold nobles I will give,<br> + As leaves been on a tree.</p> + +<p> And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,<br> + Iff I did sell her thee?<br> + More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye<br> + To lye by mee then thee.</p> + +<p> Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,<br> + And Adler he did syng,<br> + "O ladye, this is thy owne true love;<br> + Noe harper, but a kyng.</p> + +<p> "O ladye, this is thy owne true love,<br> + As playnlye thou mayest see;<br> + And He rid thee of that foule paynim,<br> + Who partes thy love and thee."</p> + +<p> The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,<br> + And blushte and lookt agayne,<br> + While Adler he hath drawne his brande,<br> + And hath the Sowdan slayne.</p> + +<p> Up then rose the kemperye men,<br> + And loud they gan to crye:<br> + Ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,<br> + And therefore yee shall dye.</p> + +<p> Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,<br> + And swith he drew his brand;<br> + And Estmere he, and Adler yonge<br> + Right stiffe in slodr can stand.</p> + +<p> And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,<br> + Throughe help of Gramaryè,<br> + That soone they have slayne the kempery men,<br> + Or forst them forth to flee.</p> + +<p> Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye,<br> + And marryed her to his wiffe,<br> + And brought her home to merry England<br> + With her to leade his life.</p> + + + +<img alt="057.jpg (4K)" src="images/057.jpg" height="135" width="111"> +<br><br><br><br><br><br> +<h2><a name="KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY">KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY</a></h2> +<img alt="058.jpg (15K)" src="images/058.jpg" height="187" width="239"> +<br><br> +<p> An ancient story Ile tell you anon<br> + Of a notable prince, that was called King John;<br> + And he ruled England with maine and with might,<br> + For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.</p> + +<p> And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,<br> + Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye;<br> + How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,<br> + They rode poste for him to fair London towne.</p> + +<p> An hundred men, the king did heare say,<br> + The abbot kept in his house every day;<br> + And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,<br> + In velvet coates waited the abbot about.</p> + +<p> How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,<br> + Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,<br> + And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,<br> + I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.</p> + +<p> My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,<br> + I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;<br> + And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere,<br> + For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.</p> + +<p> Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,<br> + And now for the same thou needest must dye;<br> + For except thou canst answer me questions three,<br> + Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe.</p> + +<p> And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,<br> + With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,<br> + Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,<br> + Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.</p> + +<p> Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,<br> + How soone I may ride the whole world about.<br> + And at the third question thou must not shrink,<br> + But tell me here truly what I do think.</p> + +<p> O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,<br> + Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:<br> + But if you will give me but three weekes space,<br> + Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.</p> + +<p> Now three weeks space to thee will I give,<br> + And that is the longest time thou hast to live;<br> + For if thou dost not answer my questions three,<br> + Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.</p> + +<p> Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,<br> + And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;<br> + But never a doctor there was so wise,<br> + That could with his learning an answer devise.</p> + +<p> Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,<br> + And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:<br> + How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;<br> + What newes do you bring us from good King John?</p> + +<p> "Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;<br> + That I have but three days more to live:<br> + For if I do not answer him questions three,<br> + My head will be smitten from my bodie.</p> + +<p> The first is to tell him there in that stead,<br> + With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,<br> + Among all his liege men so noble of birth,<br> + To within one penny of all what he is worth.</p> + +<p> The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,<br> + How soon he may ride this whole world about:<br> + And at the third question I must not shrinke,<br> + But tell him there truly what he does thinke."</p> + +<p> Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,<br> + That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?<br> + Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,<br> + And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.</p> + +<p> Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,<br> + I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:<br> + And if you will but lend me your gowne,<br> + There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.</p> + +<p> Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have,<br> + With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;<br> + With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,<br> + Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.</p> + +<p> Now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say,<br> + 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day;<br> + For and if thou canst answer my questions three,<br> + Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.</p> + +<p> And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,<br> + With my crowne of gold so fair on my head,<br> + Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,<br> + Tell me to one penny what I am worth.</p> + +<p> "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold<br> + Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;<br> + And twenty nine is the worth of thee,<br> + For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee."</p> + +<p> The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,<br> + I did not thinke I had been worth so littel!<br> + --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,<br> + How soon I may ride this whole world about.</p> + +<p> "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,<br> + Until the next morning he riseth againe;<br> + And then your grace need not make any doubt,<br> + But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."</p> + +<p> The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,<br> + I did not think, it could be gone so soone!<br> + --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,<br> + But tell me here truly what I do thinke.</p> + +<p> "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:<br> + You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbùry;<br> + But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,<br> + That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."</p> + +<p> The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,<br> + He make thee lord abbot this day in his place!<br> + "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,<br> + For alacke I can neither write ne reade."</p> + +<p> Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee,<br> + For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;<br> + And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,<br> + Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.</p> + + + +<br><br><br><br><br><br> +<h2><a name="BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY">BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY</a></h2> +<img alt="063.jpg (8K)" src="images/063.jpg" height="100" width="250"> +<br><br> + +<a name="barbara"></a> +<img alt="barbara.jpg (141K)" src="images/barbara.jpg" height="1031" width="750"> + +<p> In Scarlet towne where I was borne,<br> + There was a faire maid dwellin,<br> + Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye!<br> + Her name was Barbara Allen.</p> + +<p> All in the merrye month of May,<br> + When greene buds they were swellin,<br> + Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,<br> + For love of Barbara Allen.</p> + +<p> He sent his man unto her then,<br> + To the town where shee was dwellin;<br> + You must come to my master deare,<br> + Giff your name be Barbara Alien.</p> + +<p> For death is printed on his face,<br> + And ore his harte is stealin:<br> + Then haste away to comfort him,<br> + O lovelye Barbara Alien.</p> + +<p> Though death be printed on his face,<br> + And ore his harte is stealin,<br> + Yet little better shall he bee<br> + For bonny Barbara Alien.</p> + +<p> So slowly, slowly, she came up,<br> + And slowly she came nye him;<br> + And all she sayd, when there she came,<br> + Yong man, I think y'are dying.</p> + +<p> He turned his face unto her strait,<br> + With deadlye sorrow sighing;<br> + O lovely maid, come pity mee,<br> + Ime on my death-bed lying.</p> + +<p> If on your death-bed you doe lye,<br> + What needs the tale you are tellin;<br> + I cannot keep you from your death;<br> + Farewell, sayd Barbara Alien.</p> + +<p> He turned his face unto the wall,<br> + As deadlye pangs he fell in:<br> + Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,<br> + Adieu to Barbara Allen.</p> + +<p> As she was walking ore the fields,<br> + She heard the bell a knellin;<br> + And every stroke did seem to saye,<br> + Unworthye Barbara Allen.</p> + +<p> She turned her bodye round about,<br> + And spied the corps a coming:<br> + Laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd,<br> + That I may look upon him.</p> + +<p> With scornful eye she looked downe,<br> + Her cheeke with laughter swellin;<br> + Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine,<br> + Unworthye Barbara Allen.</p> + +<p> When he was dead, and laid in grave,<br> + Her harte was struck with sorrowe,<br> + O mother, mother, make my bed,<br> + For I shall dye to-morrowe.</p> + +<p> Hard-harted creature him to slight,<br> + Who loved me so dearlye:<br> + O that I had beene more kind to him<br> + When he was alive and neare me!</p> + +<p> She, on her death-bed as she laye,<br> + Beg'd to be buried by him;<br> + And sore repented of the daye,<br> + That she did ere denye him.</p> + +<p> Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,<br> + And shun the fault I fell in:<br> + Henceforth take warning by the fall<br> + Of cruel Barbara Allen.</p> + + +<br><br><br><br><br><br> +<h2><a name="FAIR ROSAMOND">FAIR ROSAMOND</a></h2> +<img alt="067.jpg (9K)" src="images/067.jpg" height="131" width="244"> +<br><br> +<a name="rosamond"></a> +<img alt="rosamond.jpg (198K)" src="images/rosamond.jpg" height="1019" width="750"> + + +<p> When as King Henry rulde this land,<br> + The second of that name,<br> + Besides the queene, he dearly lovde<br> + A faire and comely dame.</p> + +<p> Most peerlesse was her beautye founde,<br> + Her favour, and her face;<br> + A sweeter creature in this worlde<br> + Could never prince embrace.</p> + +<p> Her crisped lockes like threads of golde<br> + Appeard to each mans sight;<br> + Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles,<br> + Did cast a heavenlye light.</p> + +<p> The blood within her crystal cheekes<br> + Did such a colour drive,<br> + As though the lillye and the rose<br> + For mastership did strive.</p> + +<p> Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde,<br> + Her name was called so,<br> + To whom our queene, dame Ellinor,<br> + Was known a deadlye foe.</p> + +<p> The king therefore, for her defence,<br> + Against the furious queene,<br> + At Woodstocke builded such a bower,<br> + The like was never scene.</p> + +<p> Most curiously that bower was built<br> + Of stone and timber strong,<br> + An hundred and fifty doors<br> + Did to this bower belong:</p> + +<p> And they so cunninglye contriv'd<br> + With turnings round about,<br> + That none but with a clue of thread,<br> + Could enter in or out.</p> + +<p> And for his love and ladyes sake,<br> + That was so faire and brighte,<br> + The keeping of this bower he gave<br> + Unto a valiant knighte.</p> + +<p> But fortune, that doth often frowne<br> + Where she before did smile,<br> + The kinges delighte and ladyes so<br> + Full soon shee did beguile:</p> + +<p> For why, the kinges ungracious sonne,<br> + Whom he did high advance,<br> + Against his father raised warres<br> + Within the realme of France.</p> + +<p> But yet before our comelye king<br> + The English land forsooke,<br> + Of Rosamond, his lady faire,<br> + His farewelle thus he tooke:</p> + +<p> "My Rosamonde, my only Rose,<br> + That pleasest best mine eye:<br> + The fairest flower in all the worlde<br> + To feed my fantasye:</p> + +<p> The flower of mine affected heart,<br> + Whose sweetness doth excelle:<br> + My royal Rose, a thousand times<br> + I bid thee nowe farwelle!</p> + +<p> For I must leave my fairest flower,<br> + My sweetest Rose, a space,<br> + And cross the seas to famous France,<br> + Proud rebelles to abase.</p> + +<p> But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt<br> + My coming shortlye see,<br> + And in my heart, when hence I am,<br> + Ile beare my Rose with mee."</p> + +<p> When Rosamond, that ladye brighte,<br> + Did heare the king saye soe,<br> + The sorrowe of her grieved heart<br> + Her outward lookes did showe;</p> + +<p> And from her cleare and crystall eyes<br> + The teares gusht out apace,<br> + Which like the silver-pearled dewe<br> + Ranne downe her comely face.</p> + +<p> Her lippes, erst like the corall redde,<br> + Did waxe both wan and pale,<br> + And for the sorrow she conceivde<br> + Her vitall spirits faile;</p> + +<p> And falling down all in a swoone<br> + Before King Henryes face,<br> + Full oft he in his princelye armes<br> + Her bodye did embrace:</p> + +<p> And twentye times, with watery eyes,<br> + He kist her tender cheeke,<br> + Untill he had revivde againe<br> + Her senses milde and meeke.</p> + +<p> Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?<br> + The king did often say.<br> + Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres<br> + My lord must part awaye.</p> + +<p> But since your grace on forrayne coastes<br> + Amonge your foes unkinde<br> + Must goe to hazard life and limbe,<br> + Why should I staye behinde?</p> + +<p> Nay rather, let me, like a page,<br> + Your sworde and target beare;<br> + That on my breast the blowes may lighte,<br> + Which would offend you there.</p> + +<p> Or lett mee, in your royal tent,<br> + Prepare your bed at nighte,<br> + And with sweete baths refresh your grace,<br> + Ar your returne from fighte.</p> + +<p> So I your presence may enjoye<br> + No toil I will refuse;<br> + But wanting you, my life is death;<br> + Nay, death Ild rather chuse!</p> + +<p> "Content thy self, my dearest love;<br> + Thy rest at home shall bee<br> + In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;<br> + For travell fits not thee.</p> + +<p> Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres;<br> + Soft peace their sexe delights;<br> + Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;<br> + Gay feastes, not cruell fights.'</p> + +<p> My Rose shall safely here abide,<br> + With musicke passe the daye;<br> + Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes,<br> + My foes seeke far awaye.</p> + +<p> My Rose shall shine in pearle, and golde,<br> + Whilst Ime in armour dighte;<br> + Gay galliards here my love shall dance,<br> + Whilst I my foes goe fighte.</p> + +<p> And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste<br> + To bee my loves defence;<br> + Be careful of my gallant Rose<br> + When I am parted hence."</p> + +<p> And therewithall he fetcht a sigh,<br> + As though his heart would breake:<br> + And Rosamonde, for very grief,<br> + Not one plaine word could speake.</p> + +<p> And at their parting well they mighte<br> + In heart be grieved sore:<br> + After that daye faire Rosamonde<br> + The king did see no more.</p> + +<p> For when his grace had past the seas,<br> + And into France was gone;<br> + With envious heart, Queene Ellinor,<br> + To Woodstocke came anone.</p> + +<p> And forth she calls this trustye knighte,<br> + In an unhappy houre;<br> + Who with his clue of twined thread,<br> + Came from this famous bower.</p> + +<p> And when that they had wounded him,<br> + The queene this thread did gette,<br> + And went where Ladye Rosamonde<br> + Was like an angell sette.</p> + +<p> But when the queene with stedfast eye<br> + Beheld her beauteous face,<br> + She was amazed in her minde<br> + At her exceeding grace.</p> + +<p> Cast off from thee those robes, she said,<br> + That riche and costlye bee;<br> + And drinke thou up this deadlye draught,<br> + Which I have brought to thee.</p> + +<p> Then presentlye upon her knees<br> + Sweet Rosamonde did fall;<br> + And pardon of the queene she crav'd<br> + For her offences all.</p> + +<p> "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,"<br> + Faire Rosamonde did crye;<br> + "And lett mee not with poison stronge<br> + Enforced bee to dye.</p> + +<p> I will renounce my sinfull life,<br> + And in some cloyster bide;<br> + Or else be banisht, if you please,<br> + To range the world soe wide.</p> + +<p> And for the fault which I have done,<br> + Though I was forc'd thereto,<br> + Preserve my life, and punish mee<br> + As you thinke meet to doe."</p> + +<p> And with these words, her lillie handes<br> + She wrunge full often there;<br> + And downe along her lovely face<br> + Did trickle many a teare.</p> + +<p> But nothing could this furious queene<br> + Therewith appeased bee;<br> + The cup of deadlye poyson stronge,<br> + As she knelt on her knee,</p> + +<p> Shee gave this comelye dame to drinke;<br> + Who tooke it in her hand,<br> + And from her bended knee arose,<br> + And on her feet did stand:</p> + +<p> And casting up her eyes to heaven,<br> + She did for mercye calle;<br> + And drinking up the poison stronge,<br> + Her life she lost withalle.</p> + +<p> And when that death through everye limbe<br> + Had showde its greatest spite,<br> + Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse<br> + Shee was a glorious wight.</p> + +<p> Her body then they did entomb,<br> + When life was fled away,<br> + At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne,<br> + As may be scene this day.</p> + + + +<br><br><br><br><br><br> +<h2><a name="ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE">ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE</a></h2> +<img alt="076.jpg (18K)" src="images/076.jpg" height="166" width="239"> +<br><br> + +<p> When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,<br> + And leaves both large and longe,<br> + Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest<br> + To heare the small birdes songe.</p> + +<p> The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,<br> + Sitting upon the spraye,<br> + Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,<br> + In the greenwood where he lay.</p> + +<p> Now by my faye, sayd jollye Robin,<br> + A sweaven I had this night;<br> + I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,<br> + That fast with me can fight.</p> + +<p> Methought they did mee beate and binde,<br> + And tooke my bow mee froe;<br> + If I be Robin alive in this lande,<br> + He be wroken on them towe.</p> + +<p> Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John,<br> + As the wind that blowes ore a hill;<br> + For if itt be never so loude this night,<br> + To-morrow itt may be still.</p> + +<p> Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,<br> + And John shall goe with mee,<br> + For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,<br> + In greenwood where the bee.</p> + +<p> Then the cast on their gownes of grene,<br> + And tooke theyr bowes each one;<br> + And they away to the greene forrest<br> + A shooting forth are gone;</p> + +<p> Until they came to the merry greenwood,<br> + Where they had gladdest bee,<br> + There were the ware of a wight yeoman,<br> + His body leaned to a tree.</p> + +<p> A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,<br> + Of manye a man the bane;<br> + And he was clad in his capull hyde<br> + Topp and tayll and mayne.</p> + +<p> Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John,<br> + Under this tree so grene,<br> + And I will go to yond wight yeoman<br> + To know what he doth meane.</p> + +<p> Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,<br> + And that I farley finde:<br> + How offt send I my men beffore<br> + And tarry my selfe behinde?</p> + +<p> It is no cunning a knave to ken,<br> + And a man but heare him speake;<br> + And itt were not for bursting of my bowe.<br> + John, I thy head wold breake.</p> + +<p> As often wordes they breeden bale,<br> + So they parted Robin and John;<br> + And John is gone to Barnesdale;<br> + The gates he knoweth eche one.</p> + +<p> But when he came to Barnesdale,<br> + Great heavinesse there hee hadd,<br> + For he found tow of his owne fellòwes<br> + Were slaine both in a slade.</p> + +<p> And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote<br> + Fast over stocke and stone,<br> + For the sheriffe with seven score men<br> + Fast after him is gone.</p> + +<p> One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,<br> + With Christ his might and mayne:<br> + Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,<br> + To stopp he shall be fayne.</p> + +<p> Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,<br> + And fetteled him to shoote:<br> + The bow was made of a tender boughe,<br> + And fell down to his foote.</p> + +<p> Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,<br> + That ere thou grew on a tree;<br> + For now this day thou art my bale,<br> + My boote when thou shold bee.</p> + +<p> His shoote it was but loosely shott,<br> + Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,<br> + For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,<br> + Good William a Trent was slaine.</p> + +<p> It had bene better of William a Trent<br> + To have bene abed with sorrowe,<br> + Than to be that day in the green wood slade<br> + To meet with Little Johns arrowe.</p> + +<p> But as it is said, when men be mett<br> + Fyve can doe more than three,<br> + The sheriffe hath taken little John,<br> + And bound him fast to a tree.</p> + +<p> Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,<br> + And hanged hye on a hill.<br> + But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,<br> + If itt be Christ his will.</p> + +<p> Let us leave talking of Little John,<br> + And thinke of Robin Hood,<br> + How he is gone to the wight yeoman,<br> + Where under the leaves he stood.</p> + +<p> Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,<br> + Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:<br> + Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande<br> + A good archere thou sholdst bee.</p> + +<p> I am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman,<br> + And of my morning tyde.<br> + He lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;<br> + Good fellow, He be thy guide.</p> + +<p> I seeke an outlàwe, the straunger sayd,<br> + Men call him Robin Hood;<br> + Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe,<br> + Than fortye pound so good.</p> + +<p> Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,<br> + And Robin thou soone shalt see:<br> + But first let us some pastime find<br> + Under the greenwood tree.</p> + +<p> First let us some masterye make<br> + Among the woods so even,<br> + Wee may chance to meet with Robin Hood<br> + Here att some unsett steven.</p> + +<p> They cut them downe two summer shroggs,<br> + That grew both under a breere,<br> + And sett them threescore rood in twaine<br> + To shoot the prickes y-fere:</p> + +<p> Lead on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,<br> + Lead on, I doe bidd thee.<br> + Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,<br> + My leader thou shalt bee.</p> + +<p> The first time Robin shot at the pricke,<br> + He mist but an inch it froe:<br> + The yeoman he was an archer good,<br> + But he cold never shoote soe.</p> + +<p> The second shoote had the wightye yeman,<br> + He shote within the garlànde:<br> + But Robin he shott far better than hee,<br> + For he clave the good pricke wande.</p> + +<p> A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;<br> + Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;<br> + For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,<br> + Thou wert better then Robin Hoode.</p> + +<p> Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,<br> + Under the leaves of lyne.<br> + Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin,<br> + Till thou have told me thine.</p> + +<p> I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,<br> + And Robin to take Ime sworne;<br> + And when I am called by my right name<br> + I am Guye of good Gisborne.</p> + +<p> My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,<br> + By thee I set right nought:<br> + I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,<br> + Whom thou so long hast sought.</p> + +<p> He that hath neither beene kithe nor kin,<br> + Might have scene a full fayre sight,<br> + To see how together these yeomen went<br> + With blades both browne and bright.</p> + +<p> To see how these yeomen together they fought<br> + Two howres of a summers day:<br> + Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy<br> + Them fettled to flye away.</p> + +<p> Robin was reachles on a roote,<br> + And stumbled at that tyde;<br> + And Guy was quick and nimble with-all,<br> + And hitt him ore the left side.</p> + +<p> Ah deere Lady, sayd Robin Hood, 'thou<br> + That art both mother and may,'<br> + I think it was never mans destinye<br> + To dye before his day.</p> + +<p> Robin thought on our ladye deere,<br> + And soone leapt up againe,<br> + And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke,<br> + And he Sir Guy hath slayne.</p> + +<p> He took Sir Guys head by the hayre,<br> + And sticked itt on his bowes end:<br> + Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe,<br> + Which thing must have an ende.</p> + +<p> Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,<br> + And nicked Sir Guy in the face,<br> + That he was never on woman born,<br> + Cold tell whose head it was.</p> + +<p> Saies, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye,<br> + And with me be not wrothe,<br> + If thou have had the worst stroked at my hand,<br> + Thou shalt have the better clothe.</p> + +<p> Robin did off his gowne of greene,<br> + And on Sir Guy did it throwe,<br> + And hee put on that capull hyde,<br> + That cladd him topp to toe.</p> + +<p> The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home,<br> + Now with me I will beare;<br> + For I will away to Barnesdale,<br> + To see how my men doe fare.</p> + +<p> Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth.<br> + And a loud blast in it did blow.<br> + That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,<br> + As he leaned under a lowe.</p> + +<p> Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,<br> + I heare now tydings good,<br> + For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe,<br> + And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.</p> + +<p> Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe,<br> + Itt blowes soe well in tyde,<br> + And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,<br> + Cladd in his capull hyde.</p> + +<p> Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,<br> + Aske what thou wilt of mee.<br> + O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,<br> + Nor I will none of thy fee:</p> + +<p> But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,<br> + Let me go strike the knave;<br> + This is all the rewarde I aske;<br> + Nor noe other will I have.</p> + +<p> Thou art a madman, said the sheriffe,<br> + Thou sholdest have had a knights fee:<br> + But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,<br> + Well granted it shale be.</p> + +<p> When Litle John heard his master speake,<br> + Well knewe he it was his steven:<br> + Now shall I be looset, quoth Litle John,<br> + With Christ his might in heaven.</p> + +<p> Fast Robin hee hyed him to Litle John,<br> + He thought to loose him belive;<br> + The sheriffe and all his companye<br> + Fast after him did drive.<br> + Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin;<br> + Why draw you mee soe neere?<br> + Itt was never the use in our countrye,<br> + Ones shrift another shold heere.</p> + +<p> But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,<br> + And losed John hand and foote,<br> + And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand,<br> + And bade it be his boote.</p> + +<p> Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,<br> + His boltes and arrowes eche one:<br> + When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,<br> + He fettled him to be gone.</p> + +<p> Towards his house in Nottingham towne<br> + He fled full fast away;<br> + And soe did all his companye:<br> + Not one behind wold stay.</p> + +<p> But he cold neither runne soe fast,<br> + Nor away soe fast cold ryde,<br> + But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad<br> + He shott him into the 'back'-syde.</p> + + + + +<br><br><br><br><br><br> +<h2><a name="THE BOY AND THE MANTLE">THE BOY & THE MANTLE</a></h2> +<img alt="087.jpg (11K)" src="images/087.jpg" height="160" width="244"> +<br><br> +<a name="mantle"></a> +<img alt="mantle.jpg (152K)" src="images/mantle.jpg" height="1027" width="750"> + +<p> In Carleile dwelt King Arthur,<br> + A prince of passing might;<br> + And there maintain'd his table round,<br> + Beset with many a knight.</p> + +<p> And there he kept his Christmas<br> + With mirth and princely cheare,<br> + When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy<br> + Before him did appeare.</p> + +<p> A kirtle and a mantle<br> + This boy had him upon,<br> + With brooches, rings, and owches,<br> + Full daintily bedone.</p> + +<p> He had a sarke of silk<br> + About his middle meet;<br> + And thus, with seemely curtesy,<br> + He did King Arthur greet.</p> + +<p> "God speed thee, brave King Arthur,<br> + Thus feasting in thy bowre;<br> + And Guenever thy goodly queen,<br> + That fair and peerlesse flowre.</p> + +<p> "Ye gallant lords, and lordings,<br> + I wish you all take heed,<br> + Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose,<br> + Should prove a cankred weed."</p> + +<p> Then straitway from his bosome<br> + A little wand he drew;<br> + And with it eke a mantle<br> + Of wondrous shape and hew.</p> + +<p> "Now have you here, King Arthur,<br> + Have this here of mee,<br> + And give unto thy comely queen,<br> + All-shapen as you see.</p> + +<p> "No wife it shall become,<br> + That once hath been to blame."<br> + Then every knight in Arthur's court<br> + Slye glaunced at his dame.</p> + +<p> And first came Lady Guenever,<br> + The mantle she must trye.<br> + This dame, she was new-fangled,<br> + And of a roving eye.</p> + +<p> When she had tane the mantle,<br> + And all was with it cladde,<br> + From top to toe it shiver'd down,<br> + As tho' with sheers beshradde.</p> + +<p> One while it was too long,<br> + Another while too short,<br> + And wrinkled on her shoulders<br> + In most unseemly sort.</p> + +<p> Now green, now red it seemed,<br> + Then all of sable hue.<br> + "Beshrew me," quoth King Arthur,<br> + "I think thou beest not true."</p> + +<p> Down she threw the mantle,<br> + Ne longer would not stay;<br> + But, storming like a fury,<br> + To her chamber flung away.</p> + +<p> She curst the whoreson weaver,<br> + That had the mantle wrought:<br> + And doubly curst the froward impe,<br> + Who thither had it brought.</p> + +<p> "I had rather live in desarts<br> + Beneath the green-wood tree;<br> + Than here, base king, among thy groomes,<br> + The sport of them and thee."</p> + +<p> Sir Kay call'd forth his lady,<br> + And bade her to come near:<br> + "Yet, dame, if thou be guilty,<br> + I pray thee now forbear."</p> + +<p> This lady, pertly gigling,<br> + With forward step came on,<br> + And boldly to the little boy<br> + With fearless face is gone.</p> + +<p> When she had tane the mantle,<br> + With purpose for to wear;<br> + It shrunk up to her shoulder,<br> + And left her b--- side bare.</p> + +<p> Then every merry knight,<br> + That was in Arthur's court,<br> + Gib'd, and laught, and flouted,<br> + To see that pleasant sport.</p> + +<p> Downe she threw the mantle,<br> + No longer bold or gay,<br> + But with a face all pale and wan,<br> + To her chamber slunk away.</p> + +<p> Then forth came an old knight,<br> + A pattering o'er his creed;<br> + And proffer'd to the little boy<br> + Five nobles to his meed;</p> + +<p> "And all the time of Christmass<br> + Plumb-porridge shall be thine,<br> + If thou wilt let my lady fair<br> + Within the mantle shine."</p> + +<p> A saint his lady seemed,<br> + With step demure and slow,<br> + And gravely to the mantle<br> + With mincing pace doth goe.</p> + +<p> When she the same had taken,<br> + That was so fine and thin,<br> + It shrivell'd all about her,<br> + And show'd her dainty skin.</p> + +<p> Ah! little did HER mincing,<br> + Or HIS long prayers bestead;<br> + She had no more hung on her,<br> + Than a tassel and a thread.</p> + +<p> Down she threwe the mantle,<br> + With terror and dismay,<br> + And, with a face of scarlet,<br> + To her chamber hyed away.</p> + +<p> Sir Cradock call'd his lady,<br> + And bade her to come neare:<br> + "Come, win this mantle, lady,<br> + And do me credit here.</p> + +<p> "Come, win this mantle, lady,<br> + For now it shall be thine,<br> + If thou hast never done amiss,<br> + Sith first I made thee mine."</p> + +<p> The lady, gently blushing,<br> + With modest grace came on,<br> + And now to trye the wondrous charm<br> + Courageously is gone.</p> + +<p> When she had tane the mantle,<br> + And put it on her backe,<br> + About the hem it seemed<br> + To wrinkle and to cracke.</p> + +<p> "Lye still," shee cryed, "O mantle!<br> + And shame me not for nought,<br> + I'll freely own whate'er amiss,<br> + Or blameful I have wrought.</p> + +<p> "Once I kist Sir Cradocke<br> + Beneathe the green-wood tree:<br> + Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth<br> + Before he married mee."</p> + +<p> When thus she had her shriven,<br> + And her worst fault had told,<br> + The mantle soon became her<br> + Right comely as it shold.</p> + +<p> Most rich and fair of colour,<br> + Like gold it glittering shone:<br> + And much the knights in Arthur's court<br> + Admir'd her every one.</p> + +<p> Then towards King Arthur's table<br> + The boy he turn'd his eye:<br> + Where stood a boar's head garnished<br> + With bayes and rosemarye.</p> + +<p> When thrice he o'er the boar's head<br> + His little wand had drawne,<br> + Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife<br> + Can carve this head of brawne."</p> + +<p> Then some their whittles rubbed<br> + On whetstone, and on hone:<br> + Some threwe them under the table,<br> + And swore that they had none.</p> + +<p> Sir Cradock had a little knife,<br> + Of steel and iron made;<br> + And in an instant thro' the skull<br> + He thrust the shining blade.</p> + +<p> He thrust the shining blade<br> + Full easily and fast;<br> + And every knight in Arthur's court<br> + A morsel had to taste.</p> + +<p> The boy brought forth a horne,<br> + All golden was the rim:<br> + Saith he, "No cuckolde ever can<br> + Set mouth unto the brim.</p> + +<p> "No cuckold can this little horne<br> + Lift fairly to his head;<br> + But or on this, or that side,<br> + He shall the liquor shed."</p> + +<p> Some shed it on their shoulder,<br> + Some shed it on their thigh;<br> + And hee that could not hit his mouth,<br> + Was sure to hit his eye.</p> + +<p> Thus he, that was a cuckold,<br> + Was known of every man:<br> + But Cradock lifted easily,<br> + And wan the golden can.</p> + +<p> Thus boar's head, horn and mantle,<br> + Were this fair couple's meed:<br> + And all such constant lovers,<br> + God send them well to speed.</p> + +<p> Then down in rage came Guenever,<br> + And thus could spightful say,<br> + "Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully<br> + Hath borne the prize away.</p> + +<p> "See yonder shameless woman,<br> + That makes herselfe so clean:<br> + Yet from her pillow taken<br> + Thrice five gallants have been.</p> + +<p> "Priests, clarkes, and wedded men,<br> + Have her lewd pillow prest:<br> + Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth<br> + Must beare from all the rest."</p> + +<p> Then bespake the little boy,<br> + Who had the same in hold:<br> + "Chastize thy wife, King Arthur,<br> + Of speech she is too bold:</p> + +<p> "Of speech she is too bold,<br> + Of carriage all too free;<br> + Sir King, she hath within thy hall<br> + A cuckold made of thee.</p> + +<p> "All frolick light and wanton<br> + She hath her carriage borne:<br> + And given thee for a kingly crown<br> + To wear a cuckold's horne."</p> + + + +<br> +<br> +<hr> +<br><br><br><br><br><br> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Book of Ballads, Volume 1, by Various + 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