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diff --git a/7531-8.txt b/7531-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2afb523 --- /dev/null +++ b/7531-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2703 @@ +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. + + + + + + + + + + +A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS + +Selected and with an Introduction + +by + +BEVERLEY NICHOLS + + +[Illustration: title page art] + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + +The thanks and acknowledgments of the publishers are due to the +following: to Messrs. B. Feldman & Co., 125 Shaftesbury Avenue, +W.C. 2, for "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"; to Mr. Rudyard Kipling and +Messrs. Methuen & Co. for "Mandalay" from _Barrack Room Ballads_; +and to the Executors of the late Oscar Wilde for "The Ballad of Reading +Gaol." + +"The Earl of Mar's Daughter", "The Wife of Usher's Well", "The Three +Ravens", "Thomas the Rhymer", "Clerk Colvill", "Young Beichen", "May +Collin", and "Hynd Horn" have been reprinted from _English and Scottish +Ballads_, edited by Mr. G. L. Kittredge and the late Mr. F. J. Child, +and published by the Houghton Mifflin Company. + +The remainder of the ballads in this book, with the exception of "John +Brown's Body", are from _Percy's Reliques_, Volumes I and II. + + + + + CONTENTS + + FOREWORD + MANDALAY + THE FROLICKSOME DUKE + THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + KING ESTMERE + KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY + BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY + FAIR ROSAMOND + ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE + THE BOY AND THE MANTLE + + + +_The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix at the end +of this book._ + + + + LIST OF COLOUR PLATES + + KING ESTMERE + BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY + FAIR ROSAMOND + THE BOY AND THE MANTLE + + + +FOREWORD + +By + +Beverley Nichols + +These poems are the very essence of the British spirit. They are, to +literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the Scot, and the smell +of the sea to the Englishman. All that is beautiful in the old word +"patriotism" ... a word which, of late, has been twisted to such +ignoble purposes ... is latent in these gay and full-blooded measures. + +But it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable to the +modern spirit. It is rather for their tonic qualities that they should +be prescribed in 1934. The post-war vintage of poetry is the thinnest +and the most watery that England has ever produced. But here, in these +ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of their +sparkle and none of their bouquet. + +It is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why these poems +should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem turns +sour overnight. And though all generalizations are dangerous I believe +there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one.... namely, +that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards, while the +eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards. + +The authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young, and +infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie on the +other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by a +personal God, when giants and monsters stalked, without the slightest +doubt, in the valleys over the river. In such a world, what could a man +do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon, while +his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song? + +But now--the mysteries have gone. We know, all too well, what lies on +the other side of the hill. The scientists have long ago puffed out, +scornfully, the golden lamp of the night ... leaving us in the +uttermost darkness. The giants and the monsters have either skulked +away or have been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for +the popular press. And so, in a world where everything is known (and +nothing understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, +and stares into his own heart. + +That way madness lies. All madmen are ferocious egotists, and so are +all modern lyric-writers. That is the first and most vital difference +between these ballads and their modern counterparts. The old +ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. The modern +lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else. + + + +II + +This is really such an important point that it is worth labouring. + +Why is ballad-making a lost art? That it _is_ a lost art there can be +no question. Nobody who is painfully acquainted with the rambling, +egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for modern +"ballads", will deny it. + +Ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. Which is, that we +are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought to +receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. If we are +wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean sword, and +a great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. No--we must needs +go into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations about +its effect upon our souls. + +It is not "we" who have changed. It is life that has changed. "We" are +still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors. But life +has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords nor +great causes, nor black enemies. And the flags do not know which way to +flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. All is doubt. +And doubt's colour is grey. + +Grey is no colour for a ballad. Ballads are woven from stuff of +primitive hue ... the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining, the +green grass growing, the white snow falling. Never will you find grey +in a ballad. You will find the black of the night and the raven's wing, +and the silver of a thousand stars. You will find the blue of many +summer skies. But you will not find grey. + + + +III + +That is why ballad-making is a lost art. Or almost a lost art. For even +in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the twentieth +century, there are times when a man finds himself in a certain place at +a certain hour and something happens to him which takes him out of +himself. And a song is born, simply and sweetly, a song which other men +can sing, for all time, and forget themselves. + +Such a song was once written by a master at my old school, Marlborough. +He was a Scot. But he loved Marlborough with the sort of love which the +old ballad-mongers must have had-the sort of love which takes a man on +wings, far from his foolish little body. + +He wrote a song called "The Scotch Marlburian". + +Here it is:-- + + Oh Marlborough, she's a toun o' touns + We will say that and mair, + We that ha' walked alang her douns + And snuffed her Wiltshire air. + A weary way ye'll hae to tramp + Afore ye match the green + O' Savernake and Barbery Camp + And a' that lies atween! + +The infinite beauty of that phrase ... "and a' that lies atween"! The +infinite beauty as it is roared by seven hundred young throats in +unison! For in that phrase there drifts a whole pageant of boyhood--the +sound of cheers as a race is run on a stormy day in March, the tolling +of the Chapel bell, the crack of ball against bat, the sighs of sleep +in a long white dormitory. + +But you may say "What is all this to me? I wasn't at Maryborough. I +don't like schoolboys ... they strike me as dirty, noisy, and usually +foul-minded. Why should I go into raptures about such a song, which +seems only to express a highly debatable approval of a certain method +of education?" + +If you are asking yourself that sort of question, you are obviously in +very grave need of the tonic properties of this book. For after you +have read it, you will wonder why you ever asked it. + + + +IV + +I go back and back to the same point, at the risk of boring you to +distraction. For it is a point which has much more "to" it than the +average modern will care to admit, unless he is forced to do so. + +You remember the generalization about the eyes ... how they used to +look _out_, but now look _in_? Well, listen to this.... + + _I'm_ feeling blue, + _I_ don't know what to do, + 'Cos _I_ love you + And you don't love _me_. + +The above masterpiece is, as far as I am aware, imaginary. But it +represents a sort of _reductio ad absurdum_ of thousands of lyrics +which have been echoing over the post-war world. Nearly all these +lyrics are melancholy, with the profound and primitive melancholy of +the negro swamp, and they are all violently egotistical. + +Now this, in the long run, is an influence of far greater evil than one +would be inclined at first to admit. If countless young men, every +night, are to clasp countless young women to their bosoms, and rotate +over countless dancing-floors, muttering "I'm feeling blue ... _I_ +don't know what to do", it is not unreasonable to suppose that they +will subconsciously apply some of the lyric's mournful egotism to +themselves. + +Anybody who has even a nodding acquaintance with modern psychological +science will be aware of the significance of "conditioning", as applied +to the human temperament. The late M. Coué "conditioned" people +into happiness by making them repeat, over and over again, the phrase +"Every day in every way I grow better and better and better." + +The modern lyric-monger exactly reverses M. Coué's doctrine. He +makes the patient repeat "Every night, with all my might, I grow worse +and worse and worse." Of course the "I" of the lyric-writer is an +imaginary "I", but if any man sings "_I'm_ feeling blue", often enough, +to a catchy tune, he will be a superman if he does not eventually apply +that "I" to himself. + +But the "blueness" is really beside the point. It is the _egotism_ of +the modern ballad which is the trouble. Even when, as they occasionally +do, the modern lyric-writers discover, to their astonishment, that they +are feeling happy, they make the happiness such a personal issue that +half its tonic value is destroyed. It is not, like the old ballads, +just an outburst of delight, a sudden rapture at the warmth of the sun, +or the song of the birds, or the glint of moonlight on a sword, or the +dew in a woman's eyes. It is not an emotion so sweet and soaring that +self is left behind, like a dull chrysalis, while the butterfly of the +spirit flutters free. No ... the chrysalis is never left behind, the +"I", "I", "I", continues, in a maddening monotone. And we get this sort +of thing.... + + _I_ want to be happy, + But _I_ can't be happy + Till _I've_ made you happy too. + +And that, if you please, is one of the jolliest lyrics of the last +decade! That was a song which made us all smile and set all our feet +dancing! + +Even when their tale was woven out of the stuff of tragedy, the old +ballads were not tarnished with such morbid speculations. Read the tale +of the beggar's daughter of Bethnal Green. One shudders to think what a +modern lyric-writer would make of it. We should all be in tears before +the end of the first chorus. + +But here, a lovely girl leaves her blind father to search for fortune. +She has many adventures, and in the end, she marries a knight. The +ballad ends with words of almost childish simplicity, but they are +words which ring with the true tone of happiness:-- + + Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte + A bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte + In joy and felicitie long lived hee + All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee. + +I said that the words were of almost childish simplicity. But the +student of language, and the would-be writer, might do worse than study +those words, if only to see how the cumulative effect of brightness and +radiance is gained. You may think the words are artless, but just +ponder, for a moment, the number of brilliant verbal symbols which are +collected into that tiny verse. There are only four lines. But those +lines contain these words ... + +Feast, joy, delight, bridegroom, happy, joy, young, felicity, fair, +pretty. + +Is that quite so artless, after all? Is it not rather like an old and +primitive plaque, where colour is piled on colour till you would say +the very wood will burst into flame ... and yet, the total effect is +one of happy simplicity? + + + +V + +How were the early ballads born? Who made them? One man or many? Were +they written down, when they were still young, or was it only after the +lapse of many generations, when their rhymes had been sharpened and +their metres polished by constant repetition, that they were finally +copied out? + +To answer these questions would be one of the most fascinating tasks +which the detective in letters could set himself. Grimm, listening in +his fairyland, heard some of the earliest ballads, loved them, pondered +on them, and suddenly startled the world by announcing that most +ballads were not the work of a single author, but of the people at +large. _Das Volk dichtet_, he said. And that phrase got him into a lot +of trouble. People told him to get back to his fairyland and not make +such ridiculous suggestions. For how, they asked, could a whole people +make a poem? You might as well tell a thousand men to make a tune, +limiting each of them to one note! + +To invest Grimm's words with such an intention is quite unfair. +[Footnote: For a discussion of Grimm's theories, together with much +interesting speculation on the origin of the ballads, the reader should +study the admirable introduction to _English and Scottish Popular +Ballads_, published by George Harrap & Co., Ltd.] Obviously a +multitude of people could not, deliberately, make a single poem any +more than a multitude of people could, deliberately, make a single +picture, one man doing the nose, one man an eye and so on. Such a +suggestion is grotesque, and Grimm never meant it. If I might guess at +what he meant, I would suggest that he was thinking that the origin of +ballads must have been similar to the origin of the dance, (which was +probably the earliest form of aesthetic expression known to man). + +The dance was invented because it provided a means of prolonging +ecstasy by art. It may have been an ecstasy of sex or an ecstasy of +victory ... that doesn't matter. The point is that it gave to a group +of people an ordered means of expressing their delight instead of just +leaping about and making loud cries, like the animals. And you may be +sure that as the primitive dance began, there was always some member of +the tribe a little more agile than the rest--some man who kicked a +little higher or wriggled his body in an amusing way. And the rest of +them copied him, and incorporated his step into their own. + +Apply this analogy to the origin of ballads. It fits perfectly. + +There has been a successful raid, or a wedding, or some great deed of +daring, or some other phenomenal thing, natural or supernatural. And +now that this day, which will ever linger in their memories, is drawing +to its close, the members of the tribe draw round the fire and begin to +make merry. The wine passes ... and tongues are loosened. And someone +says a phrase which has rhythm and a sparkle to it, and the phrase is +caught up and goes round the fire, and is repeated from mouth to mouth. +And then the local wit caps it with another phrase and a rhyme is born. +For there is always a local wit in every community, however primitive. +There is even a local wit in the monkey house at the zoo. + +And once you have that single rhyme and that little piece of rhythm, +you have the genesis of the whole thing. It may not be worked out that +night, nor even by the men who first made it. The fire may long have +died before the ballad is completed, and tall trees may stand over the +men and women who were the first to tell the tale. But rhyme and rhythm +are indestructible, if they are based on reality. "Not marble nor the +gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme." + +And so it is that some of the loveliest poems in the language will ever +remain anonymous. Needless to say, _all_ the poems are not anonymous. +As society became more civilized it was inevitable that the peculiar +circumstances from which the earlier ballads sprang should become less +frequent. Nevertheless, about nearly all of the ballads there is "a +common touch", as though even the most self-conscious author had drunk +deep of the well of tradition, that sparkling well in which so much +beauty is distilled. + + + +VI + +But though the author or authors of most of the ballads may be lost in +the lists of time, we know a good deal about the minstrels who sang +them. And it is a happy thought that those minstrels were such +considerable persons, so honourably treated, so generously esteemed. +The modern mind, accustomed to think of the singer of popular songs +either as a highly paid music-hall artist, at the top of the ladder, or +a shivering street-singer, at the bottom of it, may find it difficult +to conceive of a minstrel as a sort of ambassador of song, moving from +court to court with dignity and ceremony. + +Yet this was actually the case. In the ballad of King Estmere, for +example, we see the minstrel finely mounted, and accompanied by a +harpist, who sings his songs for him. This minstrel, too, moves among +kings without any ceremony. As Percy has pointed out, "The further we +carry our enquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the +professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic nations. +Their character was deemed so sacred that under its sanction our famous +King Alfred made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at once +admitted to the king's headquarters." + +_And even so late as the time of Froissart, we have minstrels and +heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an +enemy's country._ + +The reader will perhaps forgive me if I harp back, once more, to our +present day and age, in view of the quite astonishing change in +national psychology which that revelation implies. Minstrels and +heralds were once allowed safe conduct into the enemy's country, in +time of war. Yet, in the last war, it was considered right and proper +to hiss the work of Beethoven off the stage, and responsible newspapers +seriously suggested that never again should a note of German music, of +however great antiquity, be heard in England! We are supposed to have +progressed towards internationalism, nowadays. Whereas, in reality, we +have grown more and more frenziedly national. We are very far behind +the age of Froissart, when there was a true internationalism--the +internationalism of art. + +To some of us that is still a very real internationalism. When we hear +a Beethoven sonata we do not think of it as issuing from the brain of a +"Teuton" but as blowing from the eternal heights of music whose winds +list nothing of frontiers. + +Man _needs_ song, for he is a singing animal. Moreover, he needs +communal song, for he is a social animal. The military authorities +realized this very cleverly, and they encouraged the troops, during the +war, to sing on every possible occasion. Crazy pacifists, like myself, +may find it almost unbearably bitter to think that on each side of +various frontiers young men were being trained to sing themselves to +death, in a struggle which was hideously impersonal, a struggle of +machinery, in which the only winners were the armament manufacturers. +And crazy pacifists might draw a very sharp line indeed between the +songs which celebrated real personal struggles in the tiny wars of the +past, and the songs which were merely the prelude to thousands of +puzzled young men suddenly finding themselves choking in chlorine gas, +in the wars of the present. + +But even the craziest pacifist could not fail to be moved by some of +the ballads of the last war. To me, "Tipperary" is still the most +moving tune in the world. It happens to be a very good tune, from the +musician's point of view, a tune that Handel would not have been +ashamed to write, but that is not the point. Its emotional qualities +are due to its associations. Perhaps that is how it has always been, +with ballads. From the standard of pure aesthetics, one ought not to +consider "associations" in judging a poem or a tune, but with a song +like "Tipperary" you would be an inhuman prig if you didn't. We all +have our "associations" with this particular tune. For me, it recalls a +window in Hampstead, on a grey day in October 1914. I had been having +the measles, and had not been allowed to go back to school. Then +suddenly, down the street, that tune echoed. And they came marching, +and marching, and marching. And they were all so happy. + +So happy. + + + +VII + +"Tipperary" is a true ballad, which is why it is included in this book. +So is "John Brown's Body". They were not written as ballads but they +have been promoted to that proud position by popular vote. + +It will now be clear, from the foregoing remarks, that there are +thousands of poems, labelled "ballads" from the eighteenth century, +through the romantic movement, and onwards, which are not ballads at +all. Swinburne's ballads, which so shocked our grandparents, bore about +as much relation to the true ballads as a vase of wax fruit to a +hawker's barrow. They were lovely patterns of words, woven like some +exquisite, foaming lace, but they were Swinburne, Swinburne all the +time. They had nothing to do with the common people. The common people +would not have understood a word of them. + +Ballads _must_ be popular. And that is why it will always remain one of +the weirdest paradoxes of literature that the only man, except Kipling, +who has written a true ballad in the last fifty years is the man who +despised the people, who shrank from them, and jeered at them, from his +little gilded niche in Piccadilly. I refer, of course, to Oscar Wilde's +"Ballad of Reading Gaol." It was a true ballad, and it was the best +thing he ever wrote. For it was written _de profundis_, when his hands +were bloody with labour and his tortured spirit had been down to the +level of the lowest, to the level of the pavement ... nay, lower ... to +the gutter itself. And in the gutter, with agony, he learned the +meaning of song. + +Ballads begin and end with the people. You cannot escape that fact. And +therefore, if I wished to collect the ballads of the future, the songs +which will endure into the next century (if there _is_ any song in the +next century), I should not rake through the contemporary poets, in the +hope of finding gems of lasting brilliance. No. I should go to the +music-halls. I should listen to the sort of thing they sing when the +faded lady with the high bust steps forward and shouts, "Now then, +boys, all together!" + +Unless you can write the words "Now then, boys, all together", at the +top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. That may sound a +sweeping statement, but it is true. + +In the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from their +high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem destined +for immortality. One of these is "Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore." + +Do you remember it? + + Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore! + Mrs. Moore, oh don't 'ave any more! + Too many double gins + Give the ladies double chins, + So don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore! + +The whole of English "low life" (which is much the most exciting part +of English life) is in that lyric. It is as vivid as a Rowlandson +cartoon. How well we know Mrs. Moore! How plainly we see her ... the +amiable, coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on +countless counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her +eyes staring, a little vacantly, about her. Some may think it is a +sordid picture, but I am sure that they cannot know Mrs. Moore very +well if they think that. They cannot know her bitter struggles, her +silent heroisms, nor her sardonic humour. + +Lyrics such as these will, I believe, endure long after many of the +most renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. They all +have the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring +sentence, "Now then, boys--all together!" Or to put it another way, as +in the ballad of George Barnwell, + + All youths of fair England + That dwell both far and near, + Regard my story that I tell + And to my song give ear. + +That may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same thing! + + + +VIII + +But if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the few +popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls, how +much more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang +through the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a +whole people! These ballads _are_ history, and as such they should be +recognised. + +It has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong way. We +give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and queens +and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like bores. +Thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many pettifogging +little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a thousand +could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. You +could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with +such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many +boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like, what +they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they +paid their servants? + +In other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble to +sketch in the great background, the life of the common people? How many +even realize their _existence_, except on occasions of national +disaster, such as the Black Plague? + +A proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards remedying +this defect. Thomas Percy, whose _Reliques_ must ever be the main +source of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has +pointed out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or +later, found their way into the country's song-book. But it is not only +the resounding names that are celebrated. In the ballads we hear the +echoes of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. +Sometimes these ring so plainly that they need no explanation. At other +times, we have to go to Percy or to some of his successors to realize +the true significance of the song. + +For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at first +sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was written +during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses were +deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the Scottish +reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil +discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to +compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in +rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the +Latin Service. + +"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion. +And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between +the lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical +allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which +makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually +concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious +offspring of Mother Church. + +Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the lightest and +most blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English +history. How different from anything that we possess to-day! Great +causes do not lead men to song, nowadays they lead them to write +letters to the newspapers. A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a +single rhyme or a single bar of music. Who can remember a solitary +verse of thanksgiving, from any of our poets, in commemoration of any +of the victories of the Great War? Who can recall even a fragment of +verse in praise of the long-deferred coming of Peace? + +Very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating +Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. Nothing. +The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet. + + + + +MANDALAY + +[Illustration: Mandalay headpiece] + + By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, + There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; + For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: + 'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!' + Come you back to Mandalay, + Where the old Flotilla lay: + Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? + On the road to Mandalay, + Where the flyin'-fishes play, + An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! + + 'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, + An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, + An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, + An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: + Bloomin' idol made o' mud-- + Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd-- + Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! + On the road to Mandalay... + + When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, + She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing _'Kulla-lo-lo!'_ + With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek + We useter watch the steamers an' the _hathis_ pilin' teak. + Elephints a-pilin' teak + In the sludgy, squdgy creek, + Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! + On the road to Mandalay... + + But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, + An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; + An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: + 'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else.' + No! you won't 'eed nothin' else + But them spicy garlic smells, + An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; + On the road to Mandalay... + + I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, + An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; + Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, + An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? + Beefy face an' grubby 'and-- + Law! wot do they understand? + I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! + On the road to Mandalay ... + + Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, + Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; + For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be-- + By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; + On the road to Mandalay, + Where the old Flotilla lay, + With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! + O the road to Mandalay, + Where the flyin'-fishes play, + An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! + + + +THE FROLICKSOME DUKE + +or + +THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE + +[Illustration: The Frolicksome Duke headpiece] + + + Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court, + One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport: + But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest, + Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest: + A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, + As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound. + + The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben, + Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then. + O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd + To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd: + Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose, + And they put him to bed for to take his repose. + + Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt, + They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt: + On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, + They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown. + In the morning when day, then admiring he lay, + For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay. + + Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, + Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait; + And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare, + He desired to know what apparel he'd ware: + The poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd, + And admired how he to this honour was rais'd. + + Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, + Which he straitways put on without longer dispute; + With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd, + And it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride; + For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife? + Sure she never did see me so fine in her life. + + From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace + Did observe his behaviour in every case. + To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, + Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great: + Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view, + With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew. + + A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests, + He was plac'd at the table above all the rest, + In a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red, + With a rich golden canopy over his head: + As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet, + With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat. + + While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, + Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine. + Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl, + Till at last he began for to tumble and roul + From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore, + Being seven times drunker than ever before. + + Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, + And restore him his old leather garments again: + 'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, + And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first; + There he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; + But when he did waken, his joys took their flight. + + For his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem, + That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream; + Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought + For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought; + But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade, + Such a frolick before I think never was plaid. + + Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, + Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak; + Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground, + Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round, + Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend, + Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend. + + Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride + Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride? + Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command? + Then I shall be a squire I well understand: + Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace, + I was never before in so happy a case. + +[Illustration: The Frolicksome Duke tailpiece] + + + + +THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + +[Illustration: The Knight & Shepherd's daughter headpiece] + + + There was a shepherd's daughter + Came tripping on the waye; + And there by chance a knighte shee mett, + Which caused her to staye. + + Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide, + These words pronounced hee: + O I shall dye this daye, he sayd, + If Ive not my wille of thee. + + The Lord forbid, the maide replyde, + That you shold waxe so wode! + "But for all that shee could do or saye, + He wold not be withstood." + + Sith you have had your wille of mee, + And put me to open shame, + Now, if you are a courteous knighte, + Tell me what is your name? + + Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart, + And some do call mee Jille; + But when I come to the kings faire courte + They call me Wilfulle Wille. + + He sett his foot into the stirrup, + And awaye then he did ride; + She tuckt her girdle about her middle, + And ranne close by his side. + + But when she came to the brode water, + She sett her brest and swamme; + And when she was got out againe, + She tooke to her heels and ranne. + + He never was the courteous knighte, + To saye, faire maide, will ye ride? + "And she was ever too loving a maide + To saye, sir knighte abide." + + When she came to the kings faire courte, + She knocked at the ring; + So readye was the king himself + To let this faire maide in. + + Now Christ you save, my gracious liege, + Now Christ you save and see, + You have a knighte within your courte, + This daye hath robbed mee. + + What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart? + Of purple or of pall? + Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring + From off thy finger small? + + He hath not robbed mee, my liege, + Of purple nor of pall: + But he hath gotten my maiden head, + Which grieves mee worst of all. + + Now if he be a batchelor, + His bodye He give to thee; + But if he be a married man, + High hanged he shall bee. + + He called downe his merrye men all, + By one, by two, by three; + Sir William used to bee the first, + But nowe the last came hee. + + He brought her downe full fortye pounde, + Tyed up withinne a glove: + Faire maide, He give the same to thee; + Go, seeke thee another love. + + O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde, + Nor Ile have none of your fee; + But your faire bodye I must have, + The king hath granted mee. + + Sir William ranne and fetched her then + Five hundred pound in golde, + Saying, faire maide, take this to thee, + Thy fault will never be tolde. + + Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt, + These words then answered shee, + But your own bodye I must have, + The king hath granted mee. + + Would I had dranke the water cleare, + When I did drinke the wine, + Rather than any shepherds brat + Shold bee a ladye of mine! + + Would I had drank the puddle foule, + When I did drink the ale, + Rather than ever a shepherds brat + Shold tell me such a tale! + + A shepherds brat even as I was, + You mote have let me bee, + I never had come to the kings faire courte, + To crave any love of thee. + + He sett her on a milk-white steede, + And himself upon a graye; + He hung a bugle about his necke, + And soe they rode awaye. + + But when they came unto the place, + Where marriage-rites were done, + She proved herself a dukes daughtèr, + And he but a squires sonne. + + Now marrye me, or not, sir knight, + Your pleasure shall be free: + If you make me ladye of one good towne, + He make you lord of three. + + Ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd, + If thou hadst not been trewe, + I shold have forsaken my sweet love, + And have changed her for a newe. + + And now their hearts being linked fast, + They joyned hand in hande: + Thus he had both purse, and person too, + And all at his commande. + + + + +KING ESTMERE + +[Illustration: The King Estmere headpiece] + +[Illustration: King Estmere] + + Hearken to me, gentlemen, + Come and you shall heare; + Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren + That ever borne y-were. + + The tone of them was Adler younge, + The tother was kyng Estmere; + The were as bolde men in their deeds, + As any were farr and neare. + + As they were drinking ale and wine + Within kyng Estmeres halle: + When will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr, + A wyfe to glad us all? + + Then bespake him kyng Estmere, + And answered him hastilee: + I know not that ladye in any land + That's able to marrye with mee. + + Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother, + Men call her bright and sheene; + If I were kyng here in your stead, + That ladye shold be my queene. + + Saies, Reade me, reade me, deare brother, + Throughout merry Englànd, + Where we might find a messenger + Betwixt us towe to sende. + + Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, brothèr, + Ile beare you companye; + Many throughe fals messengers are deceived, + And I feare lest soe shold wee. + + Thus the renisht them to ryde + Of twoe good renisht steeds, + And when the came to kyng Adlands halle, + Of redd gold shone their weeds. + + And when the came to kyng Adlands hall + Before the goodlye gate, + There they found good kyng Adlànd + Rearing himselfe theratt. + + Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland; + Now Christ you save and see. + Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere, + Right hartilye to mee. + + You have a daughter, said Adler younge, + Men call her bright and sheene, + My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe, + Of Englande to be queene. + + Yesterday was att my deere daughter + Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne; + And then she nicked him of naye, + And I doubt sheele do you the same. + + The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim, + And 'leeveth on Mahound; + And pitye it were that fayre ladye + Shold marrye a heathen hound. + + But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere, + For my love I you praye; + That I may see your daughter deere + Before I goe hence awaye. + + Although itt is seven yeers and more + Since my daughter was in halle, + She shall come once downe for your sake + To glad my guestes alle. + + Downe then came that mayden fayre, + With ladyes laced in pall, + And halfe a hundred of bold knightes, + To bring her from bowre to hall; + And as many gentle squiers, + To tend upon them all. + + The talents of golde were on her head sette, + Hanged low downe to her knee; + And everye ring on her small fingèr + Shone of the chrystall free. + + Saies, God you save, my deere madam; + Saies, God you save and see. + Said, You be welcome, kyng Estmere, + Right welcome unto mee. + + And if you love me, as you saye, + Soe well and hartilye, + All that ever you are comin about + Sooner sped now itt shal bee. + + Then bespake her father deare: + My daughter, I saye naye; + Remember well the kyng of Spayne, + What he sayd yesterday. + + He wold pull downe my hales and castles, + And reeve me of my life. + I cannot blame him if he doe, + If I reave him of his wyfe. + + Your castles and your towres, father, + Are stronglye built aboute; + And therefore of the king of Spaine + Wee neede not stande in doubt. + + Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmère, + By heaven and your righte hand, + That you will marrye me to your wyfe, + And make me queene of your land. + + Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth + By heaven and his righte hand, + That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe, + And make her queene of his land. + + And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, + To goe to his owne countree, + To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, + That marryed the might bee. + + They had not ridden scant a myle, + A myle forthe of the towne, + But in did come the kyng of Spayne, + With kempès many one. + + But in did come the kyng of Spayne, + With manye a bold barone, + Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter, + Tother daye to carrye her home. + + Shee sent one after kyng Estmere + In all the spede might bee, + That he must either turne againe and fighte, + Or goe home and loose his ladye. + + One whyle then the page he went, + Another while he ranne; + Tull he had oretaken king Estmere, + I wis, he never blanne. + + Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere! + What tydinges nowe, my boye? + O tydinges I can tell to you, + That will you sore annoye. + + You had not ridden scant a mile, + A mile out of the towne, + But in did come the kyng of Spayne + With kempès many a one: + + But in did come the kyng of Spayne + With manye a bold barone, + Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter, + Tother daye to carry her home. + + My ladye fayre she greetes you well, + And ever-more well by mee: + You must either turne againe and fighte, + Or goe home and loose your ladyè. + + Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother, + My reade shall ryde at thee, + Whether it is better to turne and fighte, + Or goe home and loose my ladye. + + Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge, + And your reade must rise at me, + I quicklye will devise a waye + To sette thy ladye free. + + My mother was a westerne woman, + And learned in gramaryè, + And when I learned at the schole, + Something she taught itt mee. + + There growes an hearbe within this field, + And iff it were but knowne, + His color, which is whyte and redd, + It will make blacke and browne: + + His color, which is browne and blacke, + Itt will make redd and whyte; + That sworde is not in all Englande, + Upon his coate will byte. + + And you shall be a harper, brother, + Out of the north countrye; + And He be your boy, soe faine of fighte, + And beare your harpe by your knee. + + And you shal be the best harpèr, + That ever tooke harpe in hand; + And I wil be the best singèr, + That ever sung in this lande. + + Itt shal be written on our forheads + All and in grammaryè, + That we towe are the boldest men, + That are in all Christentyè. + + And thus they renisht them to ryde, + On tow good renish steedes; + And when they came to king Adlands hall, + Of redd gold shone their weedes. + + And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall, + Untill the fayre hall yate, + There they found a proud portèr + Rearing himselfe thereatt. + + Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud portèr; + Sayes, Christ thee save and see. + Nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr, + Of whatsoever land ye bee. + + Wee beene harpers, sayd Adler younge, + Come out of the northe countrye; + Wee beene come hither untill this place, + This proud weddinge for to see. + + Sayd, And your color were white and redd, + As it is blacke and browne, + I wold saye king Estmere and his brother, + Were comen untill this towne. + + Then they pulled out a ryng of gold, + Layd itt on the porters arme: + And ever we will thee, proud porter, + Thow wilt saye us no harme. + + Sore he looked on king Estmere, + And sore he handled the ryng, + Then opened to them the fayre hall yates, + He lett for no kind of thyng. + + King Estmere he stabled his steede + Soe fayre att the hall bord; + The froth, that came from his brydle bitte, + Light in kyng Bremors beard. + + Saies, Stable thy steed, thou proud harper, + Saies, Stable him in the stalle; + It doth not beseeme a proud harper + To stable 'him' in a kyngs halle. + + My ladde he is no lither, he said, + He will doe nought that's meete; + And is there any man in this hall + Were able him to beate + + Thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of Spaine, + Thou harper, here to mee: + There is a man within this halle + Will beate thy ladd and thee. + + O let that man come downe, he said, + A sight of him wold I see; + And when hee hath beaten well my ladd, + Then he shall beate of mee. + + Downe then came the kemperye man, + And looketh him in the eare; + For all the gold, that was under heaven, + He durst not neigh him neare. + + And how nowe, kempe, said the Kyng of Spaine, + And how what aileth thee? + He saies, It is writt in his forhead + All and in gramaryè, + That for all the gold that is under heaven + I dare not neigh him nye. + + Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe, + And plaid a pretty thinge: + The ladye upstart from the borde, + And wold have gone from the king. + + Stay thy harpe, thou proud harper, + For Gods love I pray thee, + For and thou playes as thou beginns, + Thou'lt till my bryde from mee. + + He stroake upon his harpe againe, + And playd a pretty thinge; + The ladye lough a loud laughter, + As shee sate by the king. + + Saies, Sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper, + And thy stringes all, + For as many gold nobles 'thou shall have' + As heere bee ringes in the hall. + + What wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,' + If I did sell itt yee? + "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt, + When abed together wee bee." + + Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay, + As shee sitts by thy knee, + And as many gold nobles I will give, + As leaves been on a tree. + + And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay, + Iff I did sell her thee? + More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye + To lye by mee then thee. + + Hee played agayne both loud and shrille, + And Adler he did syng, + "O ladye, this is thy owne true love; + Noe harper, but a kyng. + + "O ladye, this is thy owne true love, + As playnlye thou mayest see; + And He rid thee of that foule paynim, + Who partes thy love and thee." + + The ladye looked, the ladye blushte, + And blushte and lookt agayne, + While Adler he hath drawne his brande, + And hath the Sowdan slayne. + + Up then rose the kemperye men, + And loud they gan to crye: + Ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng, + And therefore yee shall dye. + + Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde, + And swith he drew his brand; + And Estmere he, and Adler yonge + Right stiffe in slodr can stand. + + And aye their swordes soe sore can byte, + Throughe help of Gramaryè, + That soone they have slayne the kempery men, + Or forst them forth to flee. + + Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye, + And marryed her to his wiffe, + And brought her home to merry England + With her to leade his life. + + + +[Illustration: The King Estmere tailpiece] + + +KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY + +[Illustration: King John and the Abbot of Canterbury headpiece] + + + An ancient story Ile tell you anon + Of a notable prince, that was called King John; + And he ruled England with maine and with might, + For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right. + + And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, + Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye; + How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, + They rode poste for him to fair London towne. + + An hundred men, the king did heare say, + The abbot kept in his house every day; + And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, + In velvet coates waited the abbot about. + + How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, + Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, + And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, + I feare thou work'st treason against my crown. + + My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne, + I never spend nothing, but what is my owne; + And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere, + For spending of my owne true-gotten geere. + + Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, + And now for the same thou needest must dye; + For except thou canst answer me questions three, + Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe. + + And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead, + With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, + Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, + Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. + + Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, + How soone I may ride the whole world about. + And at the third question thou must not shrink, + But tell me here truly what I do think. + + O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, + Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet: + But if you will give me but three weekes space, + Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace. + + Now three weeks space to thee will I give, + And that is the longest time thou hast to live; + For if thou dost not answer my questions three, + Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee. + + Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, + And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; + But never a doctor there was so wise, + That could with his learning an answer devise. + + Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, + And he mett his shepheard a going to fold: + How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; + What newes do you bring us from good King John? + + "Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give; + That I have but three days more to live: + For if I do not answer him questions three, + My head will be smitten from my bodie. + + The first is to tell him there in that stead, + With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, + Among all his liege men so noble of birth, + To within one penny of all what he is worth. + + The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, + How soon he may ride this whole world about: + And at the third question I must not shrinke, + But tell him there truly what he does thinke." + + Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, + That a fool he may learn a wise man witt? + Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, + And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel. + + Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, + I am like your lordship, as ever may bee: + And if you will but lend me your gowne, + There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne. + + Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have, + With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; + With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, + Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope. + + Now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say, + 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day; + For and if thou canst answer my questions three, + Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. + + And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, + With my crowne of gold so fair on my head, + Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, + Tell me to one penny what I am worth. + + "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold + Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told; + And twenty nine is the worth of thee, + For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee." + + The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, + I did not thinke I had been worth so littel! + --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, + How soon I may ride this whole world about. + + "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, + Until the next morning he riseth againe; + And then your grace need not make any doubt, + But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." + + The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, + I did not think, it could be gone so soone! + --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, + But tell me here truly what I do thinke. + + "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: + You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbùry; + But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, + That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." + + The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, + He make thee lord abbot this day in his place! + "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, + For alacke I can neither write ne reade." + + Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee, + For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; + And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, + Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John. + + + + +BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY + +[Illustration: The Barbara Allen's Cruelty headpiece] + +[Illustration: Barbara Allen's Cruelty] + + In Scarlet towne where I was borne, + There was a faire maid dwellin, + Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye! + Her name was Barbara Allen. + + All in the merrye month of May, + When greene buds they were swellin, + Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay, + For love of Barbara Allen. + + He sent his man unto her then, + To the town where shee was dwellin; + You must come to my master deare, + Giff your name be Barbara Alien. + + For death is printed on his face, + And ore his harte is stealin: + Then haste away to comfort him, + O lovelye Barbara Alien. + + Though death be printed on his face, + And ore his harte is stealin, + Yet little better shall he bee + For bonny Barbara Alien. + + So slowly, slowly, she came up, + And slowly she came nye him; + And all she sayd, when there she came, + Yong man, I think y'are dying. + + He turned his face unto her strait, + With deadlye sorrow sighing; + O lovely maid, come pity mee, + Ime on my death-bed lying. + + If on your death-bed you doe lye, + What needs the tale you are tellin; + I cannot keep you from your death; + Farewell, sayd Barbara Alien. + + He turned his face unto the wall, + As deadlye pangs he fell in: + Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, + Adieu to Barbara Allen. + + As she was walking ore the fields, + She heard the bell a knellin; + And every stroke did seem to saye, + Unworthye Barbara Allen. + + She turned her bodye round about, + And spied the corps a coming: + Laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd, + That I may look upon him. + + With scornful eye she looked downe, + Her cheeke with laughter swellin; + Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine, + Unworthye Barbara Allen. + + When he was dead, and laid in grave, + Her harte was struck with sorrowe, + O mother, mother, make my bed, + For I shall dye to-morrowe. + + Hard-harted creature him to slight, + Who loved me so dearlye: + O that I had beene more kind to him + When he was alive and neare me! + + She, on her death-bed as she laye, + Beg'd to be buried by him; + And sore repented of the daye, + That she did ere denye him. + + Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all, + And shun the fault I fell in: + Henceforth take warning by the fall + Of cruel Barbara Allen. + + + +FAIR ROSAMOND + +[Illustration: Fair Rosamond headpiece] + +[Illustration: Fair Rosamond] + + + When as King Henry rulde this land, + The second of that name, + Besides the queene, he dearly lovde + A faire and comely dame. + + Most peerlesse was her beautye founde, + Her favour, and her face; + A sweeter creature in this worlde + Could never prince embrace. + + Her crisped lockes like threads of golde + Appeard to each mans sight; + Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles, + Did cast a heavenlye light. + + The blood within her crystal cheekes + Did such a colour drive, + As though the lillye and the rose + For mastership did strive. + + Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde, + Her name was called so, + To whom our queene, dame Ellinor, + Was known a deadlye foe. + + The king therefore, for her defence, + Against the furious queene, + At Woodstocke builded such a bower, + The like was never scene. + + Most curiously that bower was built + Of stone and timber strong, + An hundred and fifty doors + Did to this bower belong: + + And they so cunninglye contriv'd + With turnings round about, + That none but with a clue of thread, + Could enter in or out. + + And for his love and ladyes sake, + That was so faire and brighte, + The keeping of this bower he gave + Unto a valiant knighte. + + But fortune, that doth often frowne + Where she before did smile, + The kinges delighte and ladyes so + Full soon shee did beguile: + + For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, + Whom he did high advance, + Against his father raised warres + Within the realme of France. + + But yet before our comelye king + The English land forsooke, + Of Rosamond, his lady faire, + His farewelle thus he tooke: + + "My Rosamonde, my only Rose, + That pleasest best mine eye: + The fairest flower in all the worlde + To feed my fantasye: + + The flower of mine affected heart, + Whose sweetness doth excelle: + My royal Rose, a thousand times + I bid thee nowe farwelle! + + For I must leave my fairest flower, + My sweetest Rose, a space, + And cross the seas to famous France, + Proud rebelles to abase. + + But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt + My coming shortlye see, + And in my heart, when hence I am, + Ile beare my Rose with mee." + + When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, + Did heare the king saye soe, + The sorrowe of her grieved heart + Her outward lookes did showe; + + And from her cleare and crystall eyes + The teares gusht out apace, + Which like the silver-pearled dewe + Ranne downe her comely face. + + Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, + Did waxe both wan and pale, + And for the sorrow she conceivde + Her vitall spirits faile; + + And falling down all in a swoone + Before King Henryes face, + Full oft he in his princelye armes + Her bodye did embrace: + + And twentye times, with watery eyes, + He kist her tender cheeke, + Untill he had revivde againe + Her senses milde and meeke. + + Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose? + The king did often say. + Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres + My lord must part awaye. + + But since your grace on forrayne coastes + Amonge your foes unkinde + Must goe to hazard life and limbe, + Why should I staye behinde? + + Nay rather, let me, like a page, + Your sworde and target beare; + That on my breast the blowes may lighte, + Which would offend you there. + + Or lett mee, in your royal tent, + Prepare your bed at nighte, + And with sweete baths refresh your grace, + Ar your returne from fighte. + + So I your presence may enjoye + No toil I will refuse; + But wanting you, my life is death; + Nay, death Ild rather chuse! + + "Content thy self, my dearest love; + Thy rest at home shall bee + In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle; + For travell fits not thee. + + Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; + Soft peace their sexe delights; + Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; + Gay feastes, not cruell fights.' + + My Rose shall safely here abide, + With musicke passe the daye; + Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes, + My foes seeke far awaye. + + My Rose shall shine in pearle, and golde, + Whilst Ime in armour dighte; + Gay galliards here my love shall dance, + Whilst I my foes goe fighte. + + And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste + To bee my loves defence; + Be careful of my gallant Rose + When I am parted hence." + + And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, + As though his heart would breake: + And Rosamonde, for very grief, + Not one plaine word could speake. + + And at their parting well they mighte + In heart be grieved sore: + After that daye faire Rosamonde + The king did see no more. + + For when his grace had past the seas, + And into France was gone; + With envious heart, Queene Ellinor, + To Woodstocke came anone. + + And forth she calls this trustye knighte, + In an unhappy houre; + Who with his clue of twined thread, + Came from this famous bower. + + And when that they had wounded him, + The queene this thread did gette, + And went where Ladye Rosamonde + Was like an angell sette. + + But when the queene with stedfast eye + Beheld her beauteous face, + She was amazed in her minde + At her exceeding grace. + + Cast off from thee those robes, she said, + That riche and costlye bee; + And drinke thou up this deadlye draught, + Which I have brought to thee. + + Then presentlye upon her knees + Sweet Rosamonde did fall; + And pardon of the queene she crav'd + For her offences all. + + "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares," + Faire Rosamonde did crye; + "And lett mee not with poison stronge + Enforced bee to dye. + + I will renounce my sinfull life, + And in some cloyster bide; + Or else be banisht, if you please, + To range the world soe wide. + + And for the fault which I have done, + Though I was forc'd thereto, + Preserve my life, and punish mee + As you thinke meet to doe." + + And with these words, her lillie handes + She wrunge full often there; + And downe along her lovely face + Did trickle many a teare. + + But nothing could this furious queene + Therewith appeased bee; + The cup of deadlye poyson stronge, + As she knelt on her knee, + + Shee gave this comelye dame to drinke; + Who tooke it in her hand, + And from her bended knee arose, + And on her feet did stand: + + And casting up her eyes to heaven, + She did for mercye calle; + And drinking up the poison stronge, + Her life she lost withalle. + + And when that death through everye limbe + Had showde its greatest spite, + Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse + Shee was a glorious wight. + + Her body then they did entomb, + When life was fled away, + At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne, + As may be scene this day. + + + + +ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE + +[Illustration: Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne headpiece] + + + When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre, + And leaves both large and longe, + Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest + To heare the small birdes songe. + + The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, + Sitting upon the spraye, + Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, + In the greenwood where he lay. + + Now by my faye, sayd jollye Robin, + A sweaven I had this night; + I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, + That fast with me can fight. + + Methought they did mee beate and binde, + And tooke my bow mee froe; + If I be Robin alive in this lande, + He be wroken on them towe. + + Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John, + As the wind that blowes ore a hill; + For if itt be never so loude this night, + To-morrow itt may be still. + + Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, + And John shall goe with mee, + For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, + In greenwood where the bee. + + Then the cast on their gownes of grene, + And tooke theyr bowes each one; + And they away to the greene forrest + A shooting forth are gone; + + Until they came to the merry greenwood, + Where they had gladdest bee, + There were the ware of a wight yeoman, + His body leaned to a tree. + + A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, + Of manye a man the bane; + And he was clad in his capull hyde + Topp and tayll and mayne. + + Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John, + Under this tree so grene, + And I will go to yond wight yeoman + To know what he doth meane. + + Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store, + And that I farley finde: + How offt send I my men beffore + And tarry my selfe behinde? + + It is no cunning a knave to ken, + And a man but heare him speake; + And itt were not for bursting of my bowe. + John, I thy head wold breake. + + As often wordes they breeden bale, + So they parted Robin and John; + And John is gone to Barnesdale; + The gates he knoweth eche one. + + But when he came to Barnesdale, + Great heavinesse there hee hadd, + For he found tow of his owne fellòwes + Were slaine both in a slade. + + And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote + Fast over stocke and stone, + For the sheriffe with seven score men + Fast after him is gone. + + One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John, + With Christ his might and mayne: + Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, + To stopp he shall be fayne. + + Then John bent up his long bende-bowe, + And fetteled him to shoote: + The bow was made of a tender boughe, + And fell down to his foote. + + Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, + That ere thou grew on a tree; + For now this day thou art my bale, + My boote when thou shold bee. + + His shoote it was but loosely shott, + Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, + For itt mett one of the sheriffes men, + Good William a Trent was slaine. + + It had bene better of William a Trent + To have bene abed with sorrowe, + Than to be that day in the green wood slade + To meet with Little Johns arrowe. + + But as it is said, when men be mett + Fyve can doe more than three, + The sheriffe hath taken little John, + And bound him fast to a tree. + + Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, + And hanged hye on a hill. + But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John, + If itt be Christ his will. + + Let us leave talking of Little John, + And thinke of Robin Hood, + How he is gone to the wight yeoman, + Where under the leaves he stood. + + Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre, + Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he: + Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande + A good archere thou sholdst bee. + + I am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman, + And of my morning tyde. + He lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin; + Good fellow, He be thy guide. + + I seeke an outlàwe, the straunger sayd, + Men call him Robin Hood; + Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe, + Than fortye pound so good. + + Now come with me, thou wighty yeman, + And Robin thou soone shalt see: + But first let us some pastime find + Under the greenwood tree. + + First let us some masterye make + Among the woods so even, + Wee may chance to meet with Robin Hood + Here att some unsett steven. + + They cut them downe two summer shroggs, + That grew both under a breere, + And sett them threescore rood in twaine + To shoot the prickes y-fere: + + Lead on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood, + Lead on, I doe bidd thee. + Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd, + My leader thou shalt bee. + + The first time Robin shot at the pricke, + He mist but an inch it froe: + The yeoman he was an archer good, + But he cold never shoote soe. + + The second shoote had the wightye yeman, + He shote within the garlànde: + But Robin he shott far better than hee, + For he clave the good pricke wande. + + A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd; + Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode; + For an thy hart be as good as thy hand, + Thou wert better then Robin Hoode. + + Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he, + Under the leaves of lyne. + Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin, + Till thou have told me thine. + + I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee, + And Robin to take Ime sworne; + And when I am called by my right name + I am Guye of good Gisborne. + + My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin, + By thee I set right nought: + I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale, + Whom thou so long hast sought. + + He that hath neither beene kithe nor kin, + Might have scene a full fayre sight, + To see how together these yeomen went + With blades both browne and bright. + + To see how these yeomen together they fought + Two howres of a summers day: + Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy + Them fettled to flye away. + + Robin was reachles on a roote, + And stumbled at that tyde; + And Guy was quick and nimble with-all, + And hitt him ore the left side. + + Ah deere Lady, sayd Robin Hood, 'thou + That art both mother and may,' + I think it was never mans destinye + To dye before his day. + + Robin thought on our ladye deere, + And soone leapt up againe, + And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke, + And he Sir Guy hath slayne. + + He took Sir Guys head by the hayre, + And sticked itt on his bowes end: + Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, + Which thing must have an ende. + + Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, + And nicked Sir Guy in the face, + That he was never on woman born, + Cold tell whose head it was. + + Saies, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye, + And with me be not wrothe, + If thou have had the worst stroked at my hand, + Thou shalt have the better clothe. + + Robin did off his gowne of greene, + And on Sir Guy did it throwe, + And hee put on that capull hyde, + That cladd him topp to toe. + + The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home, + Now with me I will beare; + For I will away to Barnesdale, + To see how my men doe fare. + + Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth. + And a loud blast in it did blow. + That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, + As he leaned under a lowe. + + Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe, + I heare now tydings good, + For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe, + And he hath slaine Robin Hoode. + + Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe, + Itt blowes soe well in tyde, + And yonder comes that wightye yeoman, + Cladd in his capull hyde. + + Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy, + Aske what thou wilt of mee. + O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin, + Nor I will none of thy fee: + + But now I have slaine the master, he sayes, + Let me go strike the knave; + This is all the rewarde I aske; + Nor noe other will I have. + + Thou art a madman, said the sheriffe, + Thou sholdest have had a knights fee: + But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, + Well granted it shale be. + + When Litle John heard his master speake, + Well knewe he it was his steven: + Now shall I be looset, quoth Litle John, + With Christ his might in heaven. + + Fast Robin hee hyed him to Litle John, + He thought to loose him belive; + The sheriffe and all his companye + Fast after him did drive. + Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin; + Why draw you mee soe neere? + Itt was never the use in our countrye, + Ones shrift another shold heere. + + But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe, + And losed John hand and foote, + And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand, + And bade it be his boote. + + Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand, + His boltes and arrowes eche one: + When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow, + He fettled him to be gone. + + Towards his house in Nottingham towne + He fled full fast away; + And soe did all his companye: + Not one behind wold stay. + + But he cold neither runne soe fast, + Nor away soe fast cold ryde, + But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad + He shott him into the 'back'-syde. + + + + + +THE BOY & THE MANTLE + +[Illustration: The Boy and the Mantle headpiece] + +[Illustration: The Boy and the Mantle] + + In Carleile dwelt King Arthur, + A prince of passing might; + And there maintain'd his table round, + Beset with many a knight. + + And there he kept his Christmas + With mirth and princely cheare, + When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy + Before him did appeare. + + A kirtle and a mantle + This boy had him upon, + With brooches, rings, and owches, + Full daintily bedone. + + He had a sarke of silk + About his middle meet; + And thus, with seemely curtesy, + He did King Arthur greet. + + "God speed thee, brave King Arthur, + Thus feasting in thy bowre; + And Guenever thy goodly queen, + That fair and peerlesse flowre. + + "Ye gallant lords, and lordings, + I wish you all take heed, + Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose, + Should prove a cankred weed." + + Then straitway from his bosome + A little wand he drew; + And with it eke a mantle + Of wondrous shape and hew. + + "Now have you here, King Arthur, + Have this here of mee, + And give unto thy comely queen, + All-shapen as you see. + + "No wife it shall become, + That once hath been to blame." + Then every knight in Arthur's court + Slye glaunced at his dame. + + And first came Lady Guenever, + The mantle she must trye. + This dame, she was new-fangled, + And of a roving eye. + + When she had tane the mantle, + And all was with it cladde, + From top to toe it shiver'd down, + As tho' with sheers beshradde. + + One while it was too long, + Another while too short, + And wrinkled on her shoulders + In most unseemly sort. + + Now green, now red it seemed, + Then all of sable hue. + "Beshrew me," quoth King Arthur, + "I think thou beest not true." + + Down she threw the mantle, + Ne longer would not stay; + But, storming like a fury, + To her chamber flung away. + + She curst the whoreson weaver, + That had the mantle wrought: + And doubly curst the froward impe, + Who thither had it brought. + + "I had rather live in desarts + Beneath the green-wood tree; + Than here, base king, among thy groomes, + The sport of them and thee." + + Sir Kay call'd forth his lady, + And bade her to come near: + "Yet, dame, if thou be guilty, + I pray thee now forbear." + + This lady, pertly gigling, + With forward step came on, + And boldly to the little boy + With fearless face is gone. + + When she had tane the mantle, + With purpose for to wear; + It shrunk up to her shoulder, + And left her b--- side bare. + + Then every merry knight, + That was in Arthur's court, + Gib'd, and laught, and flouted, + To see that pleasant sport. + + Downe she threw the mantle, + No longer bold or gay, + But with a face all pale and wan, + To her chamber slunk away. + + Then forth came an old knight, + A pattering o'er his creed; + And proffer'd to the little boy + Five nobles to his meed; + + "And all the time of Christmass + Plumb-porridge shall be thine, + If thou wilt let my lady fair + Within the mantle shine." + + A saint his lady seemed, + With step demure and slow, + And gravely to the mantle + With mincing pace doth goe. + + When she the same had taken, + That was so fine and thin, + It shrivell'd all about her, + And show'd her dainty skin. + + Ah! little did HER mincing, + Or HIS long prayers bestead; + She had no more hung on her, + Than a tassel and a thread. + + Down she threwe the mantle, + With terror and dismay, + And, with a face of scarlet, + To her chamber hyed away. + + Sir Cradock call'd his lady, + And bade her to come neare: + "Come, win this mantle, lady, + And do me credit here. + + "Come, win this mantle, lady, + For now it shall be thine, + If thou hast never done amiss, + Sith first I made thee mine." + + The lady, gently blushing, + With modest grace came on, + And now to trye the wondrous charm + Courageously is gone. + + When she had tane the mantle, + And put it on her backe, + About the hem it seemed + To wrinkle and to cracke. + + "Lye still," shee cryed, "O mantle! + And shame me not for nought, + I'll freely own whate'er amiss, + Or blameful I have wrought. + + "Once I kist Sir Cradocke + Beneathe the green-wood tree: + Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth + Before he married mee." + + When thus she had her shriven, + And her worst fault had told, + The mantle soon became her + Right comely as it shold. + + Most rich and fair of colour, + Like gold it glittering shone: + And much the knights in Arthur's court + Admir'd her every one. + + Then towards King Arthur's table + The boy he turn'd his eye: + Where stood a boar's head garnished + With bayes and rosemarye. + + When thrice he o'er the boar's head + His little wand had drawne, + Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife + Can carve this head of brawne." + + Then some their whittles rubbed + On whetstone, and on hone: + Some threwe them under the table, + And swore that they had none. + + Sir Cradock had a little knife, + Of steel and iron made; + And in an instant thro' the skull + He thrust the shining blade. + + He thrust the shining blade + Full easily and fast; + And every knight in Arthur's court + A morsel had to taste. + + The boy brought forth a horne, + All golden was the rim: + Saith he, "No cuckolde ever can + Set mouth unto the brim. + + "No cuckold can this little horne + Lift fairly to his head; + But or on this, or that side, + He shall the liquor shed." + + Some shed it on their shoulder, + Some shed it on their thigh; + And hee that could not hit his mouth, + Was sure to hit his eye. + + Thus he, that was a cuckold, + Was known of every man: + But Cradock lifted easily, + And wan the golden can. + + Thus boar's head, horn and mantle, + Were this fair couple's meed: + And all such constant lovers, + God send them well to speed. + + Then down in rage came Guenever, + And thus could spightful say, + "Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully + Hath borne the prize away. + + "See yonder shameless woman, + That makes herselfe so clean: + Yet from her pillow taken + Thrice five gallants have been. + + "Priests, clarkes, and wedded men, + Have her lewd pillow prest: + Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth + Must beare from all the rest." + + Then bespake the little boy, + Who had the same in hold: + "Chastize thy wife, King Arthur, + Of speech she is too bold: + + "Of speech she is too bold, + Of carriage all too free; + Sir King, she hath within thy hall + A cuckold made of thee. + + "All frolick light and wanton + She hath her carriage borne: + And given thee for a kingly crown + To wear a cuckold's horne." + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Book of Ballads, Volume 1, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF BALLADS, VOLUME 1 *** + +***** This file should be named 7531-8.txt or 7531-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/5/3/7531/ + +Produced by David Widger, Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team. 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