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diff --git a/old/7535-8.txt b/old/7535-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a3768d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7535-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8756 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, 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: Book of Old Ballads + +Author: Various + +Editor: Beverly Nichols + +Posting Date: April 29, 2014 [EBook #7535] +Release Date: February, 2005 +First Posted: May 15, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + +A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS + + +Selected and with an Introduction + +by + +BEVERLEY NICHOLS + + + + +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 HEIR OF LINNE +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID +SIR ANDREW BARTON +MAY COLLIN +THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN +THOMAS THE RHYMER +YOUNG BEICHAN +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY +CLERK COLVILL +SIR ALDINGAR +EDOM O' GORDON +CHEVY CHACE +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE +GIL MORRICE +THE CHILD OF ELLE +CHILD WATERS +KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH +SIR PATRICK SPENS +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER +EDWARD, EDWARD +KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS +HYND HORN +JOHN BROWN'S BODY +TIPPERARY +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON +THE THREE RAVENS +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL +THE LYE +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + +_The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix at the end +of this book._ + + + + +LIST OF COLOUR PLATES + + +HYND HORN +KING ESTMERE +BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY +FAIR ROSAMOND +THE BOY AND THE MANTLE +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID +MAY COLLIN +THOMAS THE RHYMER +YOUNG BEICHAN +CLERK COLVILL +GIL MORRICE +CHILD WATERS +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON +THE THREE RAVENS +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + + + + + +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. + + + + +[Illustration] + +MANDALAY + + + 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! + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE FROLICKSOME DUKE + +or + +THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE + + + 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] + + +[Illustration] + +THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + + + 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 + + + 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] + + + + +[Illustration] + +KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY + + + 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 + + + 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. + +[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 + + + 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: Boy and 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." + + + + +THE HEIR OF LINNE + +PART THE FIRST + + + Lithe and listen, gentlemen, + To sing a song I will beginne: + It is of a lord of faire Scotland, + Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. + + His father was a right good lord, + His mother a lady of high degree; + But they, alas! were dead, him froe, + And he lov'd keeping companie. + + To spend the daye with merry cheare, + To drinke and revell every night, + To card and dice from eve to morne, + It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. + + To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, + To alwaye spend and never spare, + I wott, an' it were the king himselfe, + Of gold and fee he mote be bare. + + Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne + Till all his gold is gone and spent; + And he maun sell his landes so broad, + His house, and landes, and all his rent. + + His father had a keen stewarde, + And John o' the Scales was called hee: + But John is become a gentel-man, + And John has gott both gold and fee. + + Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne, + Let nought disturb thy merry cheere; + Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, + Good store of gold Ile give thee heere, + + My gold is gone, my money is spent; + My lande nowe take it unto thee: + Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, + And thine for aye my lande shall bee. + + Then John he did him to record draw, + And John he cast him a gods-pennie; + But for every pounde that John agreed, + The lande, I wis, was well worth three. + + He told him the gold upon the borde, + He was right glad his land to winne; + The gold is thine, the land is mine, + And now Ile be the lord of Linne. + + Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, + Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, + All but a poore and lonesome lodge, + That stood far off in a lonely glenne. + + For soe he to his father hight. + My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee, + Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, + And thou wilt spend thy gold so free: + + But sweare me nowe upon the roode, + That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; + For when all the world doth frown on thee, + Thou there shalt find a faithful friend. + + The heire of Linne is full of golde: + And come with me, my friends, sayd hee, + Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, + And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. + + They ranted, drank, and merry made, + Till all his gold it waxed thinne; + And then his friendes they slunk away; + They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. + + He had never a penny in his purse, + Never a penny left but three, + And one was brass, another was lead, + And another it was white money. + + Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, + Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, + For when I was the lord of Linne, + I never wanted gold nor fee. + + But many a trustye friend have I, + And why shold I feel dole or care? + Ile borrow of them all by turnes, + Soe need I not be never bare. + + But one, I wis, was not at home; + Another had payd his gold away; + Another call'd him thriftless loone, + And bade him sharpely wend his way. + + Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, + Now well-aday, and woe is me; + For when I had my landes so broad, + On me they liv'd right merrilee. + + To beg my bread from door to door + I wis, it were a brenning shame: + To rob and steale it were a sinne: + To worke my limbs I cannot frame. + + Now Ile away to lonesome lodge, + For there my father bade me wend; + When all the world should frown on mee + I there shold find a trusty friend. + + +PART THE SECOND + + + Away then hyed the heire of Linne + Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne, + Untill he came to lonesome lodge, + That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. + + He looked up, he looked downe, + In hope some comfort for to winne: + But bare and lothly were the walles. + Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne. + + The little windowe dim and darke + Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; + No shimmering sunn here ever shone; + No halesome breeze here ever blew. + + No chair, ne table he mote spye, + No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, + Nought save a rope with renning noose, + That dangling hung up o'er his head. + + And over it in broad letters, + These words were written so plain to see: + "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, + And brought thyselfe to penurie? + + "All this my boding mind misgave, + I therefore left this trusty friend: + Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, + And all thy shame and sorrows end." + + Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, + Sorely shent was the heire of Linne, + His heart, I wis, was near to brast With guilt and sorrowe, shame +and sinne. + + Never a word spake the heire of Linne, + Never a word he spake but three: + "This is a trusty friend indeed, + And is right welcome unto mee." + + Then round his necke the corde he drewe, + And sprung aloft with his bodie: + When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, + And to the ground came tumbling hee. + + Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, + Ne knewe if he were live or dead: + At length he looked, and saw a bille, + And in it a key of gold so redd. + + He took the bill, and lookt it on, + Strait good comfort found he there: + It told him of a hole in the wall, + In which there stood three chests in-fere. + + Two were full of the beaten golde, + The third was full of white money; + And over them in broad letters + These words were written so plaine to see: + + "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere; + Amend thy life and follies past; + For but thou amend thee of thy life, + That rope must be thy end at last." + + And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne; + And let it bee, but if I amend: + For here I will make mine avow, + This reade shall guide me to the end. + + Away then went with a merry cheare, + Away then went the heire of Linne; + I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, + Till John o' the Scales house he did winne. + + And when he came to John o' the Scales, + Upp at the speere then looked hee; + There sate three lords upon a rowe, + Were drinking of the wine so free. + + And John himself sate at the bord-head, + Because now lord of Linne was hee. + I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales, + One forty pence for to lend mee. + + Away, away, thou thriftless loone; + Away, away, this may not bee: + For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, + If ever I trust thee one pennìe. + + Then bespake the heire of Linne, + To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: + Madame, some almes on me bestowe, + I pray for sweet Saint Charitìe. + + Away, away, thou thriftless loone, + I swear thou gettest no almes of mee; + For if we shold hang any losel heere, + The first we wold begin with thee. + + Then bespake a good fellòwe, + Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord + Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne; + Some time thou wast a well good lord; + + Some time a good fellow thou hast been, + And sparedst not thy gold nor fee; + Therefore He lend thee forty pence, + And other forty if need bee. + + And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, + To let him sit in thy companie: + For well I wot thou hadst his land, + And a good bargain it was to thee. + + Up then spake him John o' the Scales, + All wood he answer'd him againe: + Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd, + But I did lose by that bargàine. + + And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, + Before these lords so faire and free, + Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, + By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee. + + I draw you to record, lords, he said. + With that he cast him a gods pennie: + Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne, + And here, good John, is thy monèy. + + And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, + And layd them down upon the bord: + All woe begone was John o' the Scales, + Soe shent he cold say never a word. + + He told him forth the good red gold, + He told it forth with mickle dinne. + The gold is thine, the land is mine, + And now Ime againe the lord of Linne. + + Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe, + Forty pence thou didst lend me: + Now I am againe the lord of Linne, + And forty pounds I will give thee. + + He make the keeper of my forrest, + Both of the wild deere and the tame; + For but I reward thy bounteous heart, + I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame. + + Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales: + Now welladay! and woe is my life! + Yesterday I was lady of Linne, + Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife. + + Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne; + Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee: + Christs curse light on me, if ever again + I bring my lands in jeopardy. + + + + +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID + + + I Read that once in Affrica + A princely wight did raine, + Who had to name Cophetua, + As poets they did faine: + From natures lawes he did decline, + For sure he was not of my mind. + He cared not for women-kinde, + But did them all disdaine. + But, marke, what hapened on a day, + As he out of his window lay, + He saw a beggar all in gray, + The which did cause his paine. + + The blinded boy, that shootes so trim, + From heaven downe did hie; + He drew a dart and shot at him, + In place where he did lye: + Which soone did pierse him to the quicke. + And when he felt the arrow pricke, + Which in his tender heart did sticke, + He looketh as he would dye. + What sudden chance is this, quoth he, + That I to love must subject be, + Which never thereto would agree, + But still did it defie? + + Then from the window he did come, + And laid him on his bed, + A thousand heapes of care did runne + Within his troubled head: + For now he meanes to crave her love, + And now he seekes which way to proove + How he his fancie might remoove, + And not this beggar wed. + But Cupid had him so in snare, + That this poor begger must prepare + A salve to cure him of his care, + Or els he would be dead. + + And, as he musing thus did lye, + He thought for to devise + How he might have her companye, + That so did 'maze his eyes. + In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life; + For surely thou shalt be my wife, + Or else this hand with bloody knife + The Gods shall sure suffice. + Then from his bed he soon arose, + And to his pallace gate he goes; + Full little then this begger knowes + When she the king espies. + + The Gods preserve your majesty, + The beggers all gan cry: + Vouchsafe to give your charity + Our childrens food to buy. + The king to them his pursse did cast, + And they to part it made great haste; + This silly woman was the last + That after them did hye. + The king he cal'd her back againe, + And unto her he gave his chaine; + And said, With us you shal remaine + Till such time as we dye: + + For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife, + And honoured for my queene; + With thee I meane to lead my life, + As shortly shall be seene: + Our wedding shall appointed be, + And every thing in its degree: + Come on, quoth he, and follow me, + Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. + What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he. + Penelophon, O king, quoth she; + With that she made a lowe courtsey; + A trim one as I weene. + + Thus hand in hand along they walke + Unto the king's pallace: + The king with curteous comly talke + This beggar doth imbrace: + The begger blusheth scarlet red, + And straight againe as pale as lead, + But not a word at all she said, + She was in such amaze. + At last she spake with trembling voyce, + And said, O king, I doe rejoyce + That you wil take me from your choyce, + And my degree's so base. + + And when the wedding day was come, + The king commanded strait + The noblemen both all and some + Upon the queene to wait. + And she behaved herself that day, + As if she had never walkt the way; + She had forgot her gown of gray, + Which she did weare of late. + The proverbe old is come to passe, + The priest, when he begins his masse, + Forgets that ever clerke he was; + He knowth not his estate. + + Here you may read, Cophetua, + Though long time fancie-fed, + Compelled by the blinded boy + The begger for to wed: + He that did lovers lookes disdaine, + To do the same was glad and faine, + Or else he would himselfe have slaine, + In storie, as we read. + Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, + But pitty now thy servant heere, + Least that it hap to thee this yeare, + As to that king it did. + + And thus they led a quiet life + Duringe their princely raigne; + And in a tombe were buried both, + As writers sheweth plaine. + The lords they tooke it grievously, + The ladies tooke it heavily, + The commons cryed pitiously, + Their death to them was paine, + Their fame did sound so passingly, + That it did pierce the starry sky, + And throughout all the world did flye + To every princes realme. + +[Illustration: Decorative ] + + + + +[Illustration] + +SIR ANDREW BARTON + + + 'When Flora with her fragrant flowers + Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, + And Neptune with his daintye showers + Came to present the monthe of Maye;' + King Henrye rode to take the ayre, + Over the river of Thames past hee; + When eighty merchants of London came, + And downe they knelt upon their knee. + + "O yee are welcome, rich merchants; + Good saylors, welcome unto mee." + They swore by the rood, they were saylors good, + But rich merchànts they cold not bee: + "To France nor Flanders dare we pass: + Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare; + And all for a rover that lyes on the seas, + Who robbs us of our merchant ware." + + King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde, + And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might, + "I thought he had not beene in the world, + Durst have wrought England such unright." + The merchants sighed, and said, alas! + And thus they did their answer frame, + He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas, + And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name. + + The king lookt over his left shoulder, + And an angrye look then looked hee: + "Have I never a lorde in all my realme, + Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?" + Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes; + Yea, that dare I with heart and hand; + If it please your grace to give me leave, + Myselfe wil be the only man. + + Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed: + Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare. + "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail, + Or before my prince I will never appeare." + Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, + And chuse them over my realme so free; + Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, + To guide the great shipp on the sea. + + The first man, that Lord Howard chose, + Was the ablest gunner in all the realm, + Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten; + Good Peter Simon was his name. + Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea, + To bring home a traytor live or dead: + Before all others I have chosen thee; + Of a hundred gunners to be the head. + + If you, my lord, have chosen mee + Of a hundred gunners to be the head, + Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, + If I misse my marke one shilling bread. + My lord then chose a boweman rare, + "Whose active hands had gained fame." + In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne, + And William Horseley was his name. + + Horseley, said he, I must with speede + Go seeke a traytor on the sea, + And now of a hundred bowemen brave + To be the head I have chosen thee. + If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee + Of a hundred bowemen to be the head + On your main-mast He hanged bee, + If I miss twelvescore one penny bread. + + With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold, + This noble Howard is gone to the sea; + With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, + Out at Thames mouth sayled he. + And days he scant had sayled three, + Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand, + But there he mett with a noble shipp, + And stoutely made itt stay and stand. + + Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said, + Now who thou art, and what's thy name; + And shewe me where they dwelling is: + And whither bound, and whence thou came. + My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee + With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; + I and my shipp doe both belong + To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne. + + Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt, + As thou hast sayled by daye and by night, + Of a Scottish rover on the seas; + Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight! + Then ever he sighed, and said alas! + With a grieved mind, and well away! + But over-well I knowe that wight, + I was his prisoner yesterday. + + As I was sayling uppon the sea, + A Burdeaux voyage for to fare; + To his hach-borde he clasped me, + And robd me of all my merchant ware: + And mickle debts, God wot, I owe, + And every man will have his owne; + And I am nowe to London bounde, + Of our gracious king to beg a boone. + + That shall not need, Lord Howard sais; + Lett me but once that robber see, + For every penny tane thee froe + It shall be doubled shillings three. + Nowe God forefend, the merchant said, + That you should seek soe far amisse! + God keepe you out of that traitors hands! + Full litle ye wott what a man hee is. + + Hee is brasse within, and steele without, + With beames on his topcastle stronge; + And eighteen pieces of ordinance + He carries on each side along: + And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight, + St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide; + His pinnace beareth ninescore men, + And fifteen canons on each side. + + Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one; + I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall; + He wold overcome them everye one, + If once his beames they doe downe fall. + This is cold comfort, sais my lord, + To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: + Yet He bring him and his ship to shore, + Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee. + + + Then a noble gunner you must have, + And he must aim well with his ee, + And sinke his pinnace into the sea, + Or else hee never orecome will bee: + And if you chance his shipp to borde, + This counsel I must give withall, + Let no man to his topcastle goe + To strive to let his beams downe fall. + + + And seven pieces of ordinance, + I pray your honour lend to mee, + On each side of my shipp along, + And I will lead you on the sea. + A glasse He sett, that may be seene + Whether you sail by day or night; + And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke + You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton knight. + + + THE SECOND PART + + + The merchant sett my lorde a glasse + Soe well apparent in his sight, + And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke, + He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight. + His hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold, + Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee: + Nowe by my faith, Lord Howarde sais, + This is a gallant sight to see. + + Take in your ancyents, standards eke, + So close that no man may them see; + And put me forth a white willowe wand, + As merchants use to sayle the sea. + But they stirred neither top, nor mast; + Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by. + What English churles are yonder, he sayd, + That can soe little curtesye? + + Now by the roode, three yeares and more + I have beene admirall over the sea; + And never an English nor Portingall + Without my leave can passe this way. + Then called he forth his stout pinnace; + "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee: + I sweare by the masse, yon English churles + Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree." + + With that the pinnace itt shot off, + Full well Lord Howard might it ken; + For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast, + And killed fourteen of his men. + Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord, + Looke that thy word be true, thou said; + For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang, + If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread. + + Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold; + His ordinance he laid right lowe; + He put in chaine full nine yardes long, + With other great shott lesse, and moe; + And he lette goe his great gunnes shott: + Soe well he settled itt with his ee, + The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe, + He see his pinnace sunke in the sea. + + And when he saw his pinnace sunke, + Lord, how his heart with rage did swell! + "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon; + Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell." + When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose, + Within his heart he was full faine: + "Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes, + Sound all your trumpetts out amaine." + + Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais, + Weale howsoever this geere will sway; + Itt is my Lord Admirall of England, + Is come to seeke mee on the sea. + Simon had a sonne, who shott right well, + That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare; + In att his decke he gave a shott, + Killed threescore of his men of warre. + + Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott + Came bravely on the other side, + Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree, + And killed fourscore men beside. + Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed, + What may a man now thinke, or say? + Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee, + He was my prisoner yesterday. + + Come hither to me, thou Gordon good, + That aye wast readye att my call: + I will give thee three hundred markes, + If thou wilt let my beames downe fall. + Lord Howard hee then calld in haste, + "Horseley see thou be true in stead; + For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang, + If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread." + + Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree, + He swarved it with might and maine; + But Horseley with a bearing arrowe, + Stroke the Gordon through the braine; + And he fell unto the haches again, + And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed: + Then word went through Sir Andrews men, + How that the Gordon hee was dead. + + Come hither to mee, James Hambilton, + Thou art my only sisters sonne, + If thou wilt let my beames downe fall + Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne. + With that he swarved the maine-mast tree, + He swarved it with nimble art; + But Horseley with a broad arròwe + Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart: + + And downe he fell upon the deck, + That with his blood did streame amaine: + Then every Scott cryed, Well-away! + Alas! a comelye youth is slaine. + All woe begone was Sir Andrew then, + With griefe and rage his heart did swell: + "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe, + For I will to the topcastle mysell." + + "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe; + That gilded is with gold soe cleare: + God be with my brother John of Barton! + Against the Portingalls hee it ware; + And when he had on this armour of proofe, + He was a gallant sight to see: + Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, + My deere brother, could cope with thee." + + Come hither Horseley, sayes my lord, + And looke your shaft that itt goe right, + Shoot a good shoote in time of need, + And for it thou shalt be made a knight. + Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then, + Your honour shall see, with might and maine; + But if I were hanged at your maine-mast, + I have now left but arrowes twaine. + + Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree, + With right good will he swarved then: + Upon his breast did Horseley hitt, + But the arrow bounded back agen. + Then Horseley spyed a privye place + With a perfect eye in a secrette part; + Under the spole of his right arme + He smote Sir Andrew to the heart. + + "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes, + "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine; + He but lye downe and bleede a while, + And then He rise and fight againe. + Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes, + "And never flinch before the foe; + And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse + Until you heare my whistle blowe." + + They never heard his whistle blow-- + Which made their hearts waxe sore adread: + Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord, + For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead. + They boarded then his noble shipp, + They boarded it with might and maine; + Eighteen score Scots alive they found, + The rest were either maimed or slaine. + + Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand, + And off he smote Sir Andrewes head, + "I must have left England many a daye, + If thou wert alive as thou art dead." + He caused his body to be cast + Over the hatchboard into the sea, + And about his middle three hundred crownes: + "Wherever thou land this will bury thee." + + Thus from the warres Lord Howard came, + And backe he sayled ore the maine, + With mickle joy and triumphing + Into Thames mouth he came againe. + Lord Howard then a letter wrote, + And sealed it with scale and ring; + "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace, + As never did subject to a king: + + "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee; + A braver shipp was never none: + Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr, + Before in England was but one." + King Henryes grace with royall cheere + Welcomed the noble Howard home, + And where, said he, is this rover stout, + That I myselfe may give the doome? + + "The rover, he is safe, my liege, + Full many a fadom in the sea; + If he were alive as he is dead, + I must have left England many a day: + And your grace may thank four men i' the ship + For the victory wee have wonne, + These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt, + And Peter Simon, and his sonne." + + To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd, + In lieu of what was from thee tane, + A noble a day now thou shalt have, + Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne. + And Horseley thou shalt be a knight, + And lands and livings shalt have store; + Howard shall be erle Surrye hight, + As Howards erst have beene before. + + Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old, + I will maintaine thee and thy sonne: + And the men shall have five hundred markes + For the good service they have done. + Then in came the queene with ladyes fair + To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight: + They weend that hee were brought on shore, + And thought to have seen a gallant sight. + + But when they see his deadlye face, + And eyes soe hollow in his head, + I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes, + This man were alive as hee is dead: + Yett for the manfull part hee playd, + Which fought soe well with heart and hand, + His men shall have twelvepence a day, + Till they come to my brother kings high land. + + + + +MAY COLLIN + + + May Collin ... + ... was her father's heir, + And she fell in love with a false priest, + And she rued it ever mair. + + He followd her butt, he followd her benn, + He followd her through the hall, + Till she had neither tongue nor teeth + Nor lips to say him naw. + + "We'll take the steed out where he is, + The gold where eer it be, + And we'll away to some unco land, + And married we shall be." + + They had not riden a mile, a mile, + A mile but barely three, + Till they came to a rank river, + Was raging like the sea. + + "Light off, light off now, May Collin, + It's here that you must die; + Here I have drownd seven king's daughters, + The eight now you must be. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your gown that's of the green; + For it's oer good and oer costly + To rot in the sea-stream. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your coat that's of the black; + For it's oer good and oer costly + To rot in the sea-wreck. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your stays that are well laced; + For thei'r oer good and costly + In the sea's ground to waste. + + "Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,] + Your sark that's of the holland; + For [it's oer good and oer costly] + To rot in the sea-bottom." + + "Turn you about now, falsh Mess John, + To the green leaf of the tree; + It does not fit a mansworn man + A naked woman to see." + + He turnd him quickly round about, + To the green leaf of the tree; + She took him hastly in her arms + And flung him in the sea. + + "Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John, + My mallasin go with thee! + You thought to drown me naked and bare, + But take your cloaths with thee, + And if there be seven king's daughters there + Bear you them company" + + She lap on her milk steed + And fast she bent the way, + And she was at her father's yate + Three long hours or day. + + Up and speaks the wylie parrot, + So wylily and slee: + "Where is the man now, May Collin, + That gaed away wie thee?" + + "Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot, + And tell no tales of me, + And where I gave a pickle befor + It's now I'll give you three." + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN + + +PART THE FIRST + + + Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, + He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; + And many a gallant brave suiter had shee, + For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee. + + And though shee was of favour most faire, + Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre, + Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, + Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee. + + Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say, + Good father, and mother, let me goe away + To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee. + This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee. + + Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright, + All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night + From father and mother alone parted shee; + Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee. + + Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow; + Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe: + With teares shee lamented her hard destinie, + So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee. + + Shee kept on her journey untill it was day, + And went unto Rumford along the hye way; + Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee; + Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee. + + Shee had not beene there a month to an end, + But master and mistress and all was her friend: + And every brave gallant, that once did her see, + Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee. + + Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, + And in their songs daylye her love was extold; + Her beawtye was blazed in every degree; + Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee. + + The young men of Rumford in her had their joy; + Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; + And at her commandment still wold they bee; + Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee. + + Foure suitors att once unto her did goe; + They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe; + I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee. + Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee. + + The first of them was a gallant young knight, + And he came unto her disguisde in the night; + The second a gentleman of good degree, + Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee. + + A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small, + He was the third suiter, and proper withall: + Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, + Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee. + + And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight, + Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight; + My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle, + That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee. + + The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee, + As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee: + My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee; + And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee. + + Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say, + Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay; + My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee, + And I will for ever love pretty Bessee. + + Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say, + My father and mother I meane to obey; + First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee, + And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee. + + To every one this answer shee made, + Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd, + This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; But where dwells thy father, +my prettye Besse? + + My father, shee said, is soone to be seene: + The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene, + That daylye sits begging for charitie, + He is the good father of pretty Bessee. + + His markes and his tokens are knowen very well; + He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell: + A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee, + Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee. + + Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee: + Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee: + I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree, + And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee! + + Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, + I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse, + And bewtye is bewtye in every degree; + Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee. + + With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe. + Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe; + A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, + Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee. + + But soone after this, by breake of the day, + The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away. + The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee, + Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee. + + As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene, + Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene; + And as the knight lighted most courteouslìe, + They all fought against him for pretty Bessee. + + But rescew came speedilye over the plaine, + Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine. + This fray being ended, then straitway he see + His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee. + + Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore, + Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore: + Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, + Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle. + + And then, if my gold may better her birthe, + And equall the gold that you lay on the earth, + Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see + The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee. + + But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne, + The gold that you drop shall all be your owne. + With that they replyed, Contented bee wee. + Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee. + + With that an angell he cast on the ground, + And dropped in angels full three thousand pound; + And oftentime itt was proved most plaine, + For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne: + + Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt, + With gold it was covered every whitt. + The gentlemen then having dropt all their store, + Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more. + + Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright. + Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight; + And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe + A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne. + + The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene, + Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene: + And all those, that were her suitors before, + Their fleshe for very anger they tore. + + Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight, + And then made a ladye in others despite: + A fairer ladye there never was seene, + Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene. + + But of their sumptuous marriage and feast, + What brave lords and knights thither were prest, + The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight + With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight. + + +PART THE SECOND + + + Off a blind beggars daughter most bright, + That late was betrothed unto a younge knight; + All the discourse therof you did see; + But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee. + + Within a gorgeous palace most brave, + Adorned with all the cost they cold have, + This wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe, + And all for the credit of pretty Bessee. + + All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete + Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; + Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, + Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee. + + This marriage through England was spread by report, + Soe that a great number therto did resort + Of nobles and gentles in every degree; + And all for the fame of prettye Bessee. + + To church then went this gallant younge knight; + His bride followed after, an angell most bright, + With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene + As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene. + + This marryage being solempnized then, + With musicke performed by the skilfullest men, + The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, + Each one admiring the beautiful bryde. + + Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, + To talke, and to reason a number begunn: + They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, + And what with his daughter he gave to the knight. + + Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee, + This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see." + My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, + He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. + + "The prayse of a woman in question to bringe + Before her own face, were a flattering thinge; + But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they, + "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye." + + They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, + But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; + A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee, + And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee. + + He had a daintye lute under his arme, + He touched the strings, which made such a charme, + Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee, + Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee. + + With that his lute he twanged straightway, + And thereon begann most sweetlye to play; + And after that lessons were playd two or three, + He strayn'd out this song most delicatelìe. + + "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, + Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene: + A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, + And many one called her pretty Bessee. + + "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land, + But begged for a penny all day with his hand; + And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three, + And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee. + + "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine, + Her father is ready, with might and with maine, + To proove shee is come of noble degree: + Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee." + + With that the lords and the companye round + With harty laughter were readye to swound; + Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see, + The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee. + + On this the bride all blushing did rise, + The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes, + O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee, + That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee. + + If this be thy father, the nobles did say, + Well may he be proud of this happy day; + Yett by his countenance well may wee see, + His birth and his fortune did never agree: + + And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray, + (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say) + Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee; + For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee. + + "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, + One song more to sing, and then I have done; + And if that itt may not winn good report, + Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport. + + "Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee; + Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, + Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, + Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race. + + "When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose, + Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose; + A leader of courage undaunted was hee, + And oft-times he made their enemyes flee. + + "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine + The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine; + Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, + Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee! + + "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde, + His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side, + Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight! + A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight. + + "Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye, + Till evening drewe on of the following daye, + When by a yong ladye discovered was hee; + And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee! + + "A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte + To search for her father, who fell in the fight, + And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye, + Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye. + + "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, + While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine + At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee, + And made him glad father of prettye Bessee. + + "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, + We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; + Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee: + All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee. + + "And here have we lived in fortunes despite, + Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: + Full forty winters thus have I beene + A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene. + + "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song + Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong: + And thus have you learned a secrette from mee, + That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee." + + Now when the faire companye everye one, + Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne, + They all were amazed, as well they might bee, + Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee. + + With that the faire bride they all did embrace, + Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race, + Thy father likewise is of noble degree, + And thou art well worthy a lady to bee. + + Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, + A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte, + In joy and felicitie long lived hee, + All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee. + + +[Illustration: Hand dropping gold coins] + + + + + +THOMAS THE RHYMER + + + Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank, + A spying ferlies wi his eee, + And he did spy a lady gay, + Come riding down by the lang lee. + + Her steed was o the dapple grey, + And at its mane there hung bells nine; + He thought he heard that lady say, + "They gowden bells sall a' be thine." + + Her mantle was o velvet green, + And a' set round wi jewels fine; + Her hawk and hounds were at her side, + And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine. + + Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap, + For to salute this gay lady: + "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn, + And ay weel met ye save and see!" + + "I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas; + I never carried my head sae hee; + For I am but a lady gay, + Come out to hunt in my follee. + + "Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas, + Ye mauna miss my fair bodee; + Then ye may een gang hame and tell + That ye've lain wi a gay ladee." + + "O gin I loe a lady fair, + Nae ill tales o her wad I tell, + And it's wi thee I fain wad gae, + Tho it were een to heavn or hell." + + "Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said, + "Then harp and carp alang wi me; + But it will be seven years and a day + Till ye win back to yere ain countrie." + + The lady rade, True Thomas ran, + Until they cam to a water wan; + O it was night, and nae delight, + And Thomas wade aboon the knee. + + It was dark night, and nae starn-light, + And on they waded lang days three, + And they heard the roaring o a flood, + And Thomas a waefou man was he. + + Then they rade on, and farther on, + Untill they came to a garden green; + To pu an apple he put up his hand, + For the lack o food he was like to tyne. + + "O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried, + "And let that green flourishing be; + For it's the very fruit o hell, + Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie. + + "But look afore ye, True Thomas, + And I shall show ye ferlies three; + Yon is the gate leads to our land, + Where thou and I sae soon shall be. + + "And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas, + That lies out-owr yon lilly lee? + Weel is the man yon gate may gang, + For it leads him straight to the heavens hie. + + "But do you see yon road, Thomas, + That lies out-owr yon frosty fell? + Ill is the man yon gate may gang, + For it leads him straight to the pit o hell. + + "Now when ye come to our court, Thomas, + See that a weel-learned man ye be; + For they will ask ye, one and all, + But ye maun answer nane but me. + + "And when nae answer they obtain, + Then will they come and question me, + And I will answer them again + That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree. + + + * * * * * + + "Ilka seven years, Thomas, + We pay our teindings unto hell, + And ye're sae leesome and sae strang + That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell." + + + + +YOUNG BEICHAN + + + In London city was Bicham born, + He longd strange countries for to see, + But he was taen by a savage Moor, + Who handld him right cruely. + + For thro his shoulder he put a bore, + An thro the bore has pitten a tree, + An he's gard him draw the carts o wine, + Where horse and oxen had wont to be. + + He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep, + Where he coud neither hear nor see; + He's shut him up in a prison strong, + An he's handld him right cruely. + + O this Moor he had but ae daughter, + I wot her name was Shusy Pye; + She's doen her to the prison-house, + And she's calld Young Bicham one word + + "O hae ye ony lands or rents, + Or citys in your ain country, + Coud free you out of prison strong, + An coud mantain a lady free?" + + "O London city is my own, + An other citys twa or three, + Coud loose me out o prison strong, + An coud mantain a lady free." + + O she has bribed her father's men + Wi meikle goud and white money, + She's gotten the key o the prison doors, + An she has set Young Bicham free. + + She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread, + But an a flask o Spanish wine, + An she bad him mind on the ladie's love + That sae kindly freed him out o pine. + + "Go set your foot on good ship-board, + An haste you back to your ain country, + An before that seven years has an end, + Come back again, love, and marry me." + + It was long or seven years had an end + She longd fu sair her love to see; + She's set her foot on good ship-board, + And turnd her back on her ain country. + + She's saild up, so has she doun, + Till she came to the other side; + She's landed at Young Bicham's gates, + An I hop this day she sal be his bride. + + "Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she, + "Or is that noble prince within?" + "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride, + An monny a lord and lady wi him." + + "O has he taen a bonny bride, + An has he clean forgotten me!" + An sighing said that gay lady, + I wish I were in my ain country! + + But she's pitten her han in her pocket, + An gin the porter guineas three; + Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter, + An bid the bridegroom speak to me. + + O whan the porter came up the stair, + He's fa'n low down upon his knee: + "Won up, won up, ye proud porter, + An what makes a' this courtesy?" + + "O I've been porter at your gates + This mair nor seven years an three, + But there is a lady at them now + The like of whom I never did see. + + "For on every finger she has a ring, + An on the mid-finger she has three, + An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow + As woud buy an earldome o lan to me." + + Then up it started Young Bicham, + An sware so loud by Our Lady, + "It can be nane but Shusy Pye, + That has come oer the sea to me." + + O quickly ran he down the stair, + O fifteen steps he has made but three; + He's tane his bonny love in his arms, + An a wot he kissd her tenderly. + + "O hae you tane a bonny bride? + An hae you quite forsaken me? + An hae ye quite forgotten her + That gae you life an liberty? " + She's lookit oer her left shoulder + To hide the tears stood in her ee; + "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says, + "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee." + + "Take back your daughter, madam," he says, + "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi; + For I maun marry my first true love, + That's done and suffered so much for me." + + He's take his bonny love by the ban, + And led her to yon fountain stane; + He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye, + An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane. + + + + +[Illustration] + +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY + + + The fifteenth day of July, + With glistering spear and shield, + A famous fight in Flanders + Was foughten in the field: + The most couragious officers + Were English captains three; + But the bravest man in battel + Was brave Lord Willoughbèy. + + The next was Captain Norris, + A valiant man was hee: + The other Captain Turner, + From field would never flee. + With fifteen hundred fighting men, + Alas! there were no more, + They fought with fourteen thousand then, + Upon the bloody shore. + + Stand to it, noble pikemen, + And look you round about: + And shoot you right, you bow-men, + And we will keep them out: + You musquet and callìver men, + Do you prove true to me, + I'le be the formost man in fight, + Says brave Lord Willoughbèy. + + And then the bloody enemy + They fiercely did assail, + And fought it out most furiously, + Not doubting to prevail: + The wounded men on both sides fell + Most pitious for to see, + Yet nothing could the courage quell + Of brave Lord Willoughbèy. + + For seven hours to all mens view + This fight endured sore, + Until our men so feeble grew + That they could fight no more; + And then upon dead horses + Full savourly they eat, + And drank the puddle water, + They could no better get. + + When they had fed so freely, + They kneeled on the ground, + And praised God devoutly + For the favour they had found; + And beating up their colours, + The fight they did renew, + And turning tow'rds the Spaniard, + A thousand more they slew. + + The sharp steel-pointed arrows, + And bullets thick did fly, + Then did our valiant soldiers + Charge on most furiously; + Which made the Spaniards waver, + They thought it best to flee, + They fear'd the stout behaviour + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + + Then quoth the Spanish general, + Come let us march away, + I fear we shall be spoiled all + If here we longer stay; + For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey + With courage fierce and fell, + He will not give one inch of way + For all the devils in hell. + + And then the fearful enemy + Was quickly put to flight, + Our men persued couragiously, + And caught their forces quite; + But at last they gave a shout, + Which ecchoed through the sky, + God, and St. George for England! + The conquerors did cry. + + This news was brought to England + With all the speed might be, + And soon our gracious queen was told + Of this same victory. + O this is brave Lord Willoughbey, + My love that ever won, + Of all the lords of honour + 'Tis he great deeds hath done. + + To the souldiers that were maimed, + And wounded in the fray, + The queen allowed a pension + Of fifteen pence a day; + And from all costs and charges + She quit and set them free: + And this she did all for the sake + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + + Then courage, noble Englishmen, + And never be dismaid; + If that we be but one to ten, + We will not be afraid + To fight with foraign enemies, + And set our nation free. + And thus I end the bloody bout + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE + + + Will you hear a Spanish lady, + How shed wooed an English man? + Garments gay and rich as may be + Decked with jewels she had on. + Of a comely countenance and grace was she, + And by birth and parentage of high degree. + + As his prisoner there he kept her, + In his hands her life did lye! + Cupid's bands did tye them faster + By the liking of an eye. + In his courteous company was all her joy, + To favour him in any thing she was not coy. + + But at last there came commandment + For to set the ladies free, + With their jewels still adorned, + None to do them injury. + Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me; + O let me still sustain this kind captivity! + + Gallant captain, shew some pity + To a ladye in distresse; + Leave me not within this city, + For to dye in heavinesse: + Thou hast this present day my body free, + But my heart in prison still remains with thee. + + "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me, + Whom thou knowest thy country's foe? + Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee: + Serpents lie where flowers grow." + All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight, + God grant the same upon my head may fully light. + Blessed be the time and season, + That you came on Spanish ground; + If our foes you may be termed, + Gentle foes we have you found: + With our city, you have won our hearts eche one, + Then to your country bear away, that is your owne. + + "Rest you still, most gallant lady; + Rest you still, and weep no more; + Of fair lovers there is plenty, + Spain doth yield a wonderous store." + Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, + But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind. + + Leave me not unto a Spaniard, + You alone enjoy my heart: + I am lovely, young, and tender, + Love is likewise my desert: + Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; + The wife of every Englishman is counted blest. + "It wold be a shame, fair lady, + For to bear a woman hence; + English soldiers never carry + Any such without offence." + I'll quickly change myself, if it be so, + And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go. + + "I have neither gold nor silver + To maintain thee in this case, + And to travel is great charges, + As you know in every place." + My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own, + And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown. + + "On the seas are many dangers, + Many storms do there arise, + Which wil be to ladies dreadful, + And force tears from watery eyes." + Well in troth I shall endure extremity, + For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee. + + "Courteous ladye, leave this fancy, + Here comes all that breeds the strife; + I in England have already + A sweet woman to my wife: + I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, + Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain." + + O how happy is that woman + That enjoys so true a friend! + Many happy days God send her; + Of my suit I make an end: + On my knees I pardon crave for my offence, + Which did from love and true affection first commence. + + Commend me to thy lovely lady, + Bear to her this chain of gold; + And these bracelets for a token; + Grieving that I was so bold: + All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, + For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me. + + I will spend my days in prayer, + Love and all her laws defye; + In a nunnery will I shroud mee + Far from any companye: + But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, + To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss. + + Thus farewell, most gallant captain! + Farewell too my heart's content! + Count not Spanish ladies wanton, + Though to thee my love was bent: + Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee! + "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie." + + + + +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY + +[Illustration] + + + It was a friar of orders gray + Walkt forth to tell his beades; + And he met with a lady faire, + Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. + + Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, + I pray thee tell to me, + If ever at yon holy shrine + My true love thou didst see. + + And how should I know your true love + From many another one? + O by his cockle hat, and staff, + And by his sandal shoone. + + But chiefly by his face and mien, + That were so fair to view; + His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, + And eyne of lovely blue. + + O lady, he is dead and gone! + Lady, he's dead and gone! + And at his head a green grass turfe, + And at his heels a stone. + + Within these holy cloysters long + He languisht, and he dyed, + Lamenting of a ladyes love, + And 'playning of her pride. + + Here bore him barefac'd on his bier + Six proper youths and tall, + And many a tear bedew'd his grave + Within yon kirk-yard wall. + + And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! + And art thou dead and gone! + And didst thou die for love of me! + Break, cruel heart of stone! + + O weep not, lady, weep not soe; + Some ghostly comfort seek: + Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, + Ne teares bedew thy cheek. + + O do not, do not, holy friar, + My sorrow now reprove; + For I have lost the sweetest youth, + That e'er wan ladyes love. + + And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, + I'll evermore weep and sigh; + For thee I only wisht to live, + For thee I wish to dye. + + Weep no more, lady, weep no more, + Thy sorrowe is in vaine: + For violets pluckt the sweetest showers + Will ne'er make grow againe. + + Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, + Why then should sorrow last? + Since grief but aggravates thy losse, + Grieve not for what is past. + + O say not soe, thou holy friar; + I pray thee, say not soe: + For since my true-love dyed for mee, + 'Tis meet my tears should flow. + + And will he ne'er come again? + Will he ne'er come again? + Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, + For ever to remain. + + His cheek was redder than the rose; + The comliest youth was he! + But he is dead and laid in his grave: + Alas, and woe is me! + + Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, + Men were deceivers ever: + One foot on sea and one on land, + To one thing constant never. + + Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, + And left thee sad and heavy; + For young men ever were fickle found, + Since summer trees were leafy. + + Now say not so, thou holy friar, + I pray thee say not soe; + My love he had the truest heart: + O he was ever true! + + And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, + And didst thou dye for mee? + Then farewell home; for ever-more + A pilgrim I will bee. + + But first upon my true-loves grave + My weary limbs I'll lay, + And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf, + That wraps his breathless clay. + + Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile + Beneath this cloyster wall: + See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, + And drizzly rain doth fall. + + O stay me not, thou holy friar; + O stay me not, I pray; + No drizzly rain that falls on me, + Can wash my fault away. + + Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, + And dry those pearly tears; + For see beneath this gown of gray + Thy own true-love appears. + + Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, + These holy weeds I sought; + And here amid these lonely walls + To end my days I thought. + + But haply for my year of grace + Is not yet past away, + Might I still hope to win thy love, + No longer would I stay. + + Now farewell grief, and welcome joy + Once more unto my heart; + For since I have found thee, lovely youth, + We never more will part. + + + + +CLERK COLVILL + +[Illustration] + + + Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame + Were walking in the garden green; + The belt around her stately waist + Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen. + + "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill, + Or it will cost ye muckle strife, + Ride never by the wells of Slane, + If ye wad live and brook your life." + + "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, + Now speak nae mair of that to me; + Did I neer see a fair woman, + But I wad sin with her body?" + + He's taen leave o his gay lady, + Nought minding what his lady said, + And he's rode by the wells of Slane, + Where washing was a bonny maid. + + "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, + That wash sae clean your sark of silk;" + "And weel fa you, fair gentleman, + Your body whiter than the milk." + + * * * * * + + Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill, + "O my head it pains me sair;" + "Then take, then take," the maiden said, + "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare." + + Then she's gied him a little bane-knife, + And frae her sark he cut a share; + She's ty'd it round his whey-white face, + But ay his head it aked mair. + + Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville, + "O sairer, sairer akes my head;" + "And sairer, sairer ever will," + The maiden crys, "till you be dead." + + Out then he drew his shining blade, + Thinking to stick her where she stood, + But she was vanished to a fish, + And swam far off, a fair mermaid. + + "O mother, mother, braid my hair; + My lusty lady, make my bed; + O brother, take my sword and spear, + For I have seen the false mermaid." + + +[Illustration] + + + + +SIR ALDINGAR + + + Our king he kept a false stewàrde, + Sir Aldingar they him call; + A falser steward than he was one, + Servde not in bower nor hall. + + He wolde have layne by our comelye queene, + Her deere worshippe to betraye: + Our queene she was a good womàn, + And evermore said him naye. + + Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind, + With her hee was never content, + Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, + In a fyer to have her brent. + + There came a lazar to the kings gate, + A lazar both blinde and lame: + He tooke the lazar upon his backe, + Him on the queenes bed has layne. + + "Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest, + Looke thou goe not hence away; + He make thee a whole man and a sound + In two howers of the day." + + Then went him forth Sir Aldingar, + And hyed him to our king: + "If I might have grace, as I have space, + Sad tydings I could bring." + + Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar, + Saye on the soothe to mee. + "Our queene hath chosen a new new love, + And shee will have none of thee. + + "If shee had chosen a right good knight, + The lesse had beene her shame; + But she hath chose her a lazar man, + A lazar both blinde and lame." + + If this be true, thou Aldingar, + The tyding thou tellest to me, + Then will I make thee a rich rich knight, + Rich both of golde and fee. + + But if it be false, Sir Aldingar, + As God nowe grant it bee! + Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood, + Shall hang on the gallows tree. + + He brought our king to the queenes chambèr, + And opend to him the dore. + A lodlye love, King Harry says, + For our queene dame Elinore! + + If thou were a man, as thou art none, + Here on my sword thoust dye; + But a payre of new gallowes shall be built, + And there shalt thou hang on hye. + + Forth then hyed our king, I wysse, + And an angry man was hee; + And soone he found Queen Elinore, + That bride so bright of blee. + + Now God you save, our queene, madame, + And Christ you save and see; + Heere you have chosen a newe newe love, + And you will have none of mee. + + If you had chosen a right good knight, + The lesse had been your shame; + But you have chose you a lazar man, + A lazar both blinde and lame. + + Therfore a fyer there shalt be built, + And brent all shalt thou bee.-- + Now out alacke! said our comly queene, + Sir Aldingar's false to mee. + + Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene, + My heart with griefe will brast. + I had thought swevens had never been true; + I have proved them true at last. + + I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve, + In my bed whereas I laye. + I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast + Had carryed my crowne awaye; + + My gorgett and my kirtle of golde, + And all my faire head-geere: + And he wold worrye me with his tush + And to his nest y-beare: + + Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke, + A merlin him they call, + Which untill the grounde did strike the grype, + That dead he downe did fall. + + Giffe I were a man, as now I am none, + A battell wold I prove, + To fight with that traitor Aldingar, + Att him I cast my glove. + + But seeing Ime able noe battell to make, + My liege, grant me a knight + To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar, + To maintaine me in my right. + + "Now forty dayes I will give thee + To seeke thee a knight therein: + If thou find not a knight in forty dayes + Thy bodye it must brenn." + + Then shee sent east, and shee sent west, + By north and south bedeene: + But never a champion colde she find, + Wolde fight with that knight soe keene. + + Now twenty dayes were spent and gone, + Noe helpe there might be had; + Many a teare shed our comelye queene + And aye her hart was sad. + + Then came one of the queenes damsèlles, + And knelt upon her knee, + "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, + I trust yet helpe may be: + + And here I will make mine avowe, + And with the same me binde; + That never will I return to thee, + Till I some helpe may finde." + + Then forth she rode on a faire palfràye + Oer hill and dale about: + But never a champion colde she finde, + Wolde fighte with that knight so stout. + + And nowe the daye drewe on a pace, + When our good queene must dye; + All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle, + When she found no helpe was nye. + + All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle, + And the salt teares fell from her eye: + When lo! as she rode by a rivers side, + She met with a tinye boye. + + A tinye boye she mette, God wot, + All clad in mantle of golde; + He seemed noe more in mans likenèsse, + Then a childe of four yeere old. + + Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd, + And what doth cause you moane? + The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, + But fast she pricked on. + + Yet turne againe, thou faire damsèlle + And greete thy queene from mee: + When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest, + Nowe helpe enoughe may bee. + + Bid her remember what she dreamt + In her bedd, wheras shee laye; + How when the grype and grimly beast + Wolde have carried her crowne awaye, + + Even then there came the little gray hawke, + And saved her from his clawes: + Then bidd the queene be merry at hart, + For heaven will fende her cause. + + Back then rode that faire damsèlle, + And her hart it lept for glee: + And when she told her gracious dame + A gladd woman then was shee: + + But when the appointed day was come, + No helpe appeared nye: + Then woeful, woeful was her hart, + And the teares stood in her eye. + + And nowe a fyer was built of wood; + And a stake was made of tree; + And now Queene Elinor forth was led, + A sorrowful sight to see. + + Three times the herault he waved his hand, + And three times spake on hye: + Giff any good knight will fende this dame, + Come forth, or shee must dye. + + No knight stood forth, no knight there came, + No helpe appeared nye: + And now the fyer was lighted up, + Queen Elinor she must dye. + + And now the fyer was lighted up, + As hot as hot might bee; + When riding upon a little white steed, + The tinye boy they see. + + "Away with that stake, away with those brands, + And loose our comelye queene: + I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar, + And prove him a traitor keene." + + Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar, + But when he saw the chylde, + He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, + And weened he had been beguylde. + + "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar, + And eyther fighte or flee; + I trust that I shall avenge the wronge, + Thoughe I am so small to see." + + The boy pulld forth a well good sworde + So gilt it dazzled the ee; + The first stroke stricken at Aldingar, + Smote off his leggs by the knee. + + "Stand up, stand up, thou false traitòr, + And fight upon thy feete, + For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st, + Of height wee shall be meete." + + A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr, + While I am a man alive. + A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr, + Me for to houzle and shrive. + + I wolde have laine by our comlie queene, + Bot shee wolde never consent; + Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge + In a fyer to have her brent. + + There came a lazar to the kings gates, + A lazar both blind and lame: + I tooke the lazar upon my backe, + And on her bedd had him layne. + + Then ranne I to our comlye king, + These tidings sore to tell. + But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar, + Falsing never doth well. + + Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, + The short time I must live. + "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar, + As freely I forgive." + + Here take thy queene, our king Harryè, + And love her as thy life, + For never had a king in Christentye. + A truer and fairer wife. + + King Henrye ran to claspe his queene, + And loosed her full sone: + Then turned to look for the tinye boye; + --The boye was vanisht and gone. + + But first he had touched the lazar man, + And stroakt him with his hand: + The lazar under the gallowes tree + All whole and sounde did stand. + + The lazar under the gallowes tree + Was comelye, straight and tall; + King Henrye made him his head stewàrde + To wayte withinn his hall. + +[Illustration] + + + + +EDOM O' GORDON + +[Illustration] + + + It fell about the Martinmas, + Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld, + Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, + We maun draw till a hauld. + + And quhat a hauld sall we draw till, + My mirry men and me? + We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes, + To see that fair ladie. + + The lady stude on her castle wa', + Beheld baith dale and down: + There she was ware of a host of men + Cum ryding towards the toun. + + O see ze nat, my mirry men a'? + O see za nat quhat I see? + Methinks I see a host of men: + I marveil quha they be. + + She weend it had been hir luvely lord, + As he cam ryding hame; + It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon, + Quha reckt nae sin nor shame. + + She had nae sooner buskit hirsel, + And putten on hir goun, + But Edom o' Gordon and his men + Were round about the toun. + + They had nae sooner supper sett, + Nae sooner said the grace, + But Edom o' Gordon and his men + Were light about the place. + + The lady ran up to hir towir head, + Sa fast as she could hie, + To see if by hir fair speechès + She could wi' him agree. + + But quhan he see this lady saif, + And hir yates all locked fast, + He fell into a rage of wrath, + And his look was all aghast. + + Cum doun to me, ze lady gay, + Cum doun, cum doun to me: + This night sall ye lig within mine armes, + To-morrow my bride sall be. + + I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordòn, + I winnae cum doun to thee; + I winna forsake my ain dear lord, + That is sae far frae me. + + Give owre zour house, ze lady fair, + Give owre zour house to me, + Or I sall brenn yoursel therein, + Bot and zour babies three. + + I winnae give owre, ze false Gordòn, + To nae sik traitor as zee; + And if ze brenn my ain dear babes, + My lord sall make ze drie. + + But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man, + And charge ze weil my gun: + For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, + My babes we been undone. + + She stude upon hir castle wa', + And let twa bullets flee: + She mist that bluidy butchers hart, + And only raz'd his knee. + + Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordòn, + All wood wi' dule and ire: + Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid, + As ze bren in the fire. + + Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man, + I paid ze weil zour fee; + Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, + Lets in the reek to me? + + And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man, + I paid ze weil zour hire; + Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, + To me lets in the fire? + + Ze paid me weil my hire, lady; + Ze paid me weil my fee: + But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man, + Maun either doe or die. + + O than bespaik hir little son, + Sate on the nurses knee: + Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house, + For the reek it smithers me. + + I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, + Say wald I a' my fee, + For ane blast o' the western wind, + To blaw the reek frae thee. + + O then bespaik hir dochter dear, + She was baith jimp and sma; + O row me in a pair o' sheits, + And tow me owre the wa. + + They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits, + And towd hir owre the wa: + But on the point of Gordons spear + She gat a deadly fa. + + O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth, + And cherry were her cheiks, + And clear clear was hir zellow hair, + Whereon the reid bluid dreips. + + Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre, + O gin hir face was wan! + He sayd, Ze are the first that eir + I wisht alive again. + + He turnd hir owre and owre againe, + O gin hir skin was whyte! + I might ha spared that bonnie face + To hae been sum mans delyte. + + Busk and boun, my merry men a', + For ill dooms I doe guess; + I cannae luik in that bonnie face, + As it lyes on the grass. + + Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir, + Then freits wil follow thame: + Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon + Was daunted by a dame. + + But quhen the ladye see the fire + Cum flaming owre hir head, + She wept and kist her children twain, + Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead. + + The Gordon then his bougill blew, + And said, Awa', awa'; + This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame, + I hauld it time to ga'. + + O then bespyed hir ain dear lord, + As hee cam owr the lee; + He sied his castle all in blaze Sa far as he could see. + + Then sair, O sair his mind misgave, + And all his hart was wae; + Put on, put on, my wighty men, + So fast as ze can gae. + + Put on, put on, my wighty men, + Sa fast as ze can drie; + For he that is hindmost of the thrang + Sall neir get guid o' me. + + Than sum they rade, and sum they rin, + Fou fast out-owr the bent; + But eir the foremost could get up, + Baith lady and babes were brent. + + He wrang his hands, he rent his hair, + And wept in teenefu' muid: + O traitors, for this cruel deid + Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid. + + And after the Gordon he is gane, + Sa fast as he might drie. + And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid + He's wroken his dear ladie. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHEVY CHASE + +[Illustration] + + God prosper long our noble king, + Our lives and safetyes all; + A woefull hunting once there did + In Chevy-Chace befall; + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Erle Percy took his way, + The child may rue that is unborne, + The hunting of that day. + + The stout Erle of Northumberland + A vow to God did make, + His pleasure in the Scottish woods + Three summers days to take; + + The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace + To kill and beare away. + These tydings to Erle Douglas came, + In Scotland where he lay: + + Who sent Erle Percy present word, + He wold prevent his sport. + The English erle, not fearing that, + Did to the woods resort + + With fifteen hundred bow-men bold; + All chosen men of might, + Who knew full well in time of neede + To ayme their shafts arright. + + The galland greyhounds swiftly ran, + To chase the fallow deere: + On munday they began to hunt, + Ere day-light did appeare; + + And long before high noone they had + An hundred fat buckes slaine; + Then having dined, the drovyers went + To rouze the deare againe. + + The bow-men mustered on the hills, + Well able to endure; + Theire backsides all, with speciall care, + That day were guarded sure. + + The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, + The nimble deere to take, + That with their cryes the hills and dales + An eccho shrill did make. + + Lord Percy to the quarry went, + To view the slaughter'd deere; + Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised + This day to meet me heere: + + But if I thought he wold not come, + Noe longer wold I stay. + With that, a brave younge gentleman + Thus to the Erle did say: + + Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, + His men in armour bright; + Full twenty hundred Scottish speres + All marching in our sight; + + All men of pleasant Tivydale, + Fast by the river Tweede: + O cease your sports, Erle Percy said, + And take your bowes with speede: + + And now with me, my countrymen, + Your courage forth advance; + For there was never champion yett, + In Scotland nor in France, + + That ever did on horsebacke come, + But if my hap it were, + I durst encounter man for man, + With him to break a spere. + + Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, + Most like a baron bolde, + Rode foremost of his company, + Whose armour shone like gold. + + Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, + That hunt soe boldly heere, + That, without my consent, doe chase + And kill my fallow-deere. + + The first man that did answer make + Was noble Percy hee; + Who sayd, Wee list not to declare, + Nor shew whose men wee bee: + Yet wee will spend our deerest blood, + Thy cheefest harts to slay. + Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, + And thus in rage did say, + + Ere thus I will out-braved bee, + One of us two shall dye: + I know thee well, an erle thou art; + Lord Percy, soe am I. + + But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, + And great offence to kill + Any of these our guiltlesse men, + For they have done no ill. + + Let thou and I the battell trye, + And set our men aside. + Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd, + By whome this is denyed. + + Then stept a gallant squier forth, + Witherington was his name, + Who said, I wold not have it told + To Henry our king for shame, + + That ere my captaine fought on foote, + And I stood looking on. + You be two erles, sayd Witherington, + And I a squier alone: + + He doe the best that doe I may, + While I have power to stand: + While I have power to weeld my sword + He fight with hart and hand. + + Our English archers bent their bowes, + Their harts were good and trew; + Att the first flight of arrowes sent, + Full four-score Scots they slew. + + Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, + As Chieftain stout and good. + As valiant Captain, all unmov'd + The shock he firmly stood. + + His host he parted had in three, + As Leader ware and try'd, + And soon his spearmen on their foes + Bare down on every side. + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Douglas bade on the bent + Two captaines moved with mickle might + Their speres to shivers went. + + Throughout the English archery + They dealt full many a wound: + But still our valiant Englishmen + All firmly kept their ground: + + And throwing strait their bows away, + They grasp'd their swords so bright: + And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, + On shields and helmets light. + + They closed full fast on every side, + Noe slackness there was found: + And many a gallant gentleman + Lay gasping on the ground. + + O Christ! it was a griefe to see; + And likewise for to heare, + The cries of men lying in their gore, + And scattered here and there. + + At last these two stout erles did meet, + Like captaines of great might: + Like lyons wood, they layd on lode, + And made a cruell fight: + + They fought untill they both did sweat, + With swords of tempered steele; + Untill the blood, like drops of rain, + They tricklin downe did feele. + + Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd + In faith I will thee bringe, + Where thou shalt high advanced bee + By James our Scottish king: + + Thy ransome I will freely give, + And this report of thee, + Thou art the most couragious knight, + That ever I did see. + + Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then, + Thy proffer I doe scorne; + I will not yeelde to any Scott, + That ever yett was borne. + + With that, there came an arrow keene + Out of an English bow, + Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, + A deepe and deadlye blow: + + Who never spake more words than these, + Fight on, my merry men all; + For why, my life is at an end; + Lord Percy sees my fall. + + Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke + The dead man by the hand; + And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life + Wold I had lost my land. + + O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed + With sorrow for thy sake; + For sure, a more redoubted knight + Mischance cold never take. + + A knight amongst the Scotts there was + Which saw Erle Douglas dye, + Who streight in wrath did vow revenge + Upon the Lord Percye: + + Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd, + Who, with a spere most bright, + Well-mounted on a gallant steed, + Ran fiercely through the fight; + + And past the English archers all, + Without all dread or feare; + And through Earl Percyes body then + He thrust his hatefull spere; + + With such a vehement force and might + He did his body gore, + The staff ran through the other side + A large cloth-yard and more. + + So thus did both these nobles dye, + Whose courage none could staine: + An English archer then perceiv'd + The noble erle was slaine; + + He had a bow bent in his hand, + Made of a trusty tree; + An arrow of a cloth-yard long + Up to the head drew hee: + + Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, + So right the shaft he sett, + The grey goose-winge that was thereon, + In his harts bloode was wette. + + This fight did last from breake of day, + Till setting of the sun; + For when they rang the evening-bell, + The battel scarce was done. + + With stout Erle Percy there was slaine + Sir John of Egerton, + Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, + Sir James that bold barròn: + + And with Sir George and stout Sir James, + Both knights of good account, + Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, + Whose prowesse did surmount. + + For Witherington needs must I wayle, + As one in doleful dumpes; + For when his leggs were smitten off, + He fought upon his stumpes. + + And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine + Sir Hugh Montgomerye, + Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld + One foote wold never flee. + + Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, + His sisters sonne was hee; + Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, + Yet saved cold not bee. + + And the Lord Maxwell in like case + Did with Erle Douglas dye: + Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, + Scarce fifty-five did flye. + + Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, + Went home but fifty-three; + The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, + Under the greene woode tree. + + Next day did many widowes come, + Their husbands to bewayle; + They washt their wounds in brinish teares, + But all wold not prevayle. + + Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore, + They bare with them away: + They kist them dead a thousand times, + Ere they were cladd in clay. + + The news was brought to Eddenborrow, + Where Scottlands king did raigne, + That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye + Was with an arrow slaine: + + O heavy newes, King James did say, + Scotland may witnesse bee, + I have not any captaine more + Of such account as hee. + + Like tydings to King Henry came, + Within as short a space, + That Percy of Northumberland + Was slaine in Chevy-Chace: + + Now God be with him, said our king, + Sith it will noe better bee; + I trust I have, within my realme, + Five hundred as good as hee: + + Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, + But I will vengeance take: + I'll be revenged on them all, + For brave Erle Percyes sake. + + This vow full well the king perform'd + After, at Humbledowne; + In one day, fifty knights were slayne, + With lords of great renowne: + + And of the rest, of small acount, + Did many thousands dye: + Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, + Made by the Erle Percy. + + God save our king, and bless this land + With plenty, joy, and peace; + And grant henceforth, that foule debate + 'Twixt noblemen may cease. + + [Illustration] + + + +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE + + [Illustration] + + When Arthur first in court began, + And was approved king, + By force of armes great victorys wanne, + And conquest home did bring, + + Then into England straight he came + With fifty good and able + Knights, that resorted unto him, + And were of his round table: + + And he had justs and turnaments, + Whereto were many prest, + Wherein some knights did far excell + And eke surmount the rest. + + But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, + Who was approved well, + He for his deeds and feats of armes + All others did excell. + + When he had rested him a while, + In play, and game, and sportt, + He said he wold goe prove himselfe + In some adventurous sort. + + He armed rode in a forrest wide, + And met a damsell faire, + Who told him of adventures great, + Whereto he gave great eare. + + Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott: + For that cause came I hither. + Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good, + And I will bring thee thither. + + Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell, + That now is of great fame: + Therefore tell me what wight thou art, + And what may be thy name. + + "My name is Lancelot du Lake." + Quoth she, it likes me than: + Here dwelles a knight who never was + Yet matcht with any man: + + Who has in prison threescore knights + And four, that he did wound; + Knights of King Arthurs court they be, + And of his table round. + + She brought him to a river side, + And also to a tree, + Whereon a copper bason hung, + And many shields to see. + + He struck soe hard, the bason broke; + And Tarquin soon he spyed: + Who drove a horse before him fast, + Whereon a knight lay tyed. + + Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett, + Bring me that horse-load hither, + And lay him downe, and let him rest; + Weel try our force together: + + For, as I understand, thou hast, + So far as thou art able, + Done great despite and shame unto + The knights of the Round Table. + + If thou be of the Table Round, + Quoth Tarquin speedilye, + Both thee and all thy fellowship + I utterly defye. + + That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho, + Defend thee by and by. + They sett their speares unto their steeds, + And eache att other flie. + + They coucht theire speares (their horses ran, + As though there had beene thunder), + And strucke them each immidst their shields, + Wherewith they broke in sunder. + + Their horsses backes brake under them, + The knights were both astound: + To avoyd their horsses they made haste + And light upon the ground. + + They tooke them to their shields full fast, + Their swords they drewe out than, + With mighty strokes most eagerlye + Each at the other ran. + + They wounded were, and bled full sore, + They both for breath did stand, + And leaning on their swords awhile, + Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand, + + And tell to me what I shall aske. + Say on, quoth Lancelot tho. + Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight + That ever I did know: + + And like a knight, that I did hate: + Soe that thou be not hee, + I will deliver all the rest, + And eke accord with thee. + + That is well said, quoth Lancelott; + But sith it must be soe, + What knight is that thou hatest thus + I pray thee to me show. + + His name is Lancelot du Lake, + He slew my brother deere; + Him I suspect of all the rest: + I would I had him here. + + Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne, + I am Lancelot du Lake, + Now knight of Arthurs Table Round; + King Hauds son of Schuwake; + + And I desire thee to do thy worst. + Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho' + One of us two shall ende our lives + Before that we do go. + + If thou be Lancelot du Lake, + Then welcome shalt thou bee: + Wherfore see thou thyself defend, + For now defye I thee. + + They buckled them together so, + Like unto wild boares rashing; + And with their swords and shields they ran + At one another slashing: + + The ground besprinkled was with blood: + Tarquin began to yield; + For he gave backe for wearinesse, + And lowe did beare his shield. + + This soone Sir Lancelot espyde, + He leapt upon him then, + He pull'd him downe upon his knee, + And rushing off his helm, + + Forthwith he strucke his necke in two, + And, when he had soe done, + From prison threescore knights and four + Delivered everye one. + + + +[Illustration] + +GIL MORRICE + + + Gil Morrice was an erles son, + His name it waxed wide; + It was nae for his great riches, + Nor zet his mickle pride; + Bot it was for a lady gay, + That livd on Carron side. + + Quhair sail I get a bonny boy, + That will win hose and shoen; + That will gae to Lord Barnards ha', + And bid his lady cum? + And ze maun rin my errand, Willie; + And ze may rin wi' pride; + Quhen other boys gae on their foot + On horse-back ze sail ride. + + O no! Oh no! my master dear! + I dare nae for my life; + I'll no gae to the bauld baròns, + For to triest furth his wife. + My bird Willie, my boy Willie; + My dear Willie, he sayd: + How can ze strive against the stream? + For I sall be obeyd. + + Bot, O my master dear! he cryd, + In grene wod ze're zour lain; + Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede, + For fear ze should be tain. + Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha', + Bid hir cum here wi speid: + If ze refuse my heigh command, + Ill gar zour body bleid. + + Gae bid hir take this gay mantel, + 'Tis a' gowd hot the hem; + Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, + And bring nane bot hir lain: + And there it is a silken sarke, + Hir ain hand sewd the sleive; + And bid hir cum to Gill Morice, + Speir nae bauld barons leave. + + Yes, I will gae zour black errand, + Though it be to zour cost; + Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd, + In it ze sail find frost. + The baron he is a man of might, + He neir could bide to taunt, + As ze will see before its nicht, + How sma' ze hae to vaunt. + + And sen I maun zour errand rin + Sae sair against my will, + I'se mak a vow and keip it trow, + It sall be done for ill. + And quhen he came to broken brigue, + He bent his bow and swam; + And quhen he came to grass growing, + Set down his feet and ran. + + And quhen he came to Barnards ha', + Would neither chap nor ca': + Bot set his bent bow to his breist, + And lichtly lap the wa'. + He wauld nae tell the man his errand, + Though he stude at the gait; + Bot straiht into the ha' he cam, + Quhair they were set at meit. + + Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! + My message winna waite; + Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod + Before that it be late. + Ze're bidden tak this gay mantèl, + Tis a' gowd bot the hem: + Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode, + Ev'n by your sel alane. + + And there it is, a silken sarke, + Your ain hand sewd the sleive; + Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice: + Speir nae bauld barons leave. + The lady stamped wi' hir foot, + And winked wi' hir ee; + Bot a' that she coud say or do, + Forbidden he wad nae bee. + + Its surely to my bow'r-womàn; + It neir could be to me. + I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; + I trow that ze be she. + Then up and spack the wylie nurse, + (The bairn upon hir knee) + If it be cum frae Gill Morice, + It's deir welcum to mee. + + Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse, + Sae loud I heird zee lee; + I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; + I trow ze be nae shee. + Then up and spack the bauld baròn, + An angry man was hee; + He's tain the table wi' his foot, + Sae has he wi' his knee; + Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish + In flinders he gard flee. + + Gae bring a robe of zour clidìng, + That hings upon the pin; + And I'll gae to the gude grene wode, + And speik wi' zour lemmàn. + O bide at hame, now Lord Barnàrd, + I warde ze bide at hame; + Neir wyte a man for violence, + That neir wate ze wi' nane. + + Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode, + He whistled and he sang: + O what mean a' the folk comìng, + My mother tarries lang. + His hair was like the threeds of gold, + Drawne frae Minerva's loome: + His lipps like roses drapping dew, + His breath was a' perfume. + + His brow was like the mountain snae + Gilt by the morning beam: + His cheeks like living roses glow: + His een like azure stream. The boy was clad in robes of grene, + Sweete as the infant spring: + And like the mavis on the bush, + He gart the vallies ring. + + The baron came to the grene wode, + Wi' mickle dule and care, + And there he first spied Gill Morice + Kameing his zellow hair: + That sweetly wavd around his face, + That face beyond compare: + He sang sae sweet it might dispel + A' rage but fell despair. + + Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morìce, + My lady loed thee weel, + The fairest part of my bodie + Is blacker than thy heel. + Zet neir the less now, Gill Morìce, + For a' thy great beautiè, + Ze's rew the day ze eir was born; + That head sall gae wi' me. + + Now he has drawn his trusty brand, + And slaited on the strae; + And thro' Gill Morice' fair body + He's gar cauld iron gae. + And he has tain Gill Morice's head + And set it on a speir; + The meanest man in a' his train + Has gotten that head to bear. + + And he has tain Gill Morice up, + Laid him across his steid, + And brocht him to his painted bowr, + And laid him on a bed. + The lady sat on castil wa', + Beheld baith dale and doun; + And there she saw Gill Morice' head + Cum trailing to the toun. + + Far better I loe that bluidy head, + Both and that zellow hair, + Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands, + As they lig here and thair. + And she has tain her Gill Morice, + And kissd baith mouth and chin: + I was once as fow of Gill Morice, + As the hip is o' the stean. + + I got ze in my father's house, + Wi' mickle sin and shame; + I brocht thee up in gude grene wode, + Under the heavy rain. + Oft have I by thy cradle sitten, + And fondly seen thee sleip; + But now I gae about thy grave, + The saut tears for to weip. + + And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, + And syne his bluidy chin: + O better I loe my Gill Morice + Than a' my kith and kin! + Away, away, ze ill womàn, + And an il deith mait ze dee: + Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son, + He'd neir bin slain for mee. + + Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard! + Obraid me not for shame! + Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart! + And put me out o' pain. + Since nothing bot Gill Morice head + Thy jelous rage could quell, + Let that saim hand now tak hir life, + That neir to thee did ill. + + To me nae after days nor nichts + Will eir be saft or kind; + I'll fill the air with heavy sighs, + And greet till I am blind. + Enouch of blood by me's been spilt, + Seek not zour death frae mee; + I rather lourd it had been my sel + Than eather him or thee. + + With waefo wae I hear zour plaint; + Sair, sair I rew the deid, + That eir this cursed hand of mine + Had gard his body bleid. + Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, + Ze neir can heal the wound; + Ze see his head upon the speir, + His heart's blude on the ground. + + I curse the hand that did the deid, + The heart that thocht the ill; + The feet that bore me wi' sik speid, + The comely zouth to kill. + I'll ay lament for Gill Morice, + As gin he were mine ain; + I'll neir forget the dreiry day + On which the zouth was slain. + + +[Illustration] + + + +[Illustration] + +The CHILD of ELLE + + + On yondre hill a castle standes + With walles and towres bedight, + And yonder lives the Child of Elle, + A younge and comely knighte. + + The Child of Elle to his garden went, + And stood at his garden pale, + Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page + Come trippinge downe the dale. + + The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, + Y-wis he stoode not stille, + And soone he mette faire Emmelines page + Come climbinge up the hille. + + Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, + Now Christe thee save and see! + Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, + And what may thy tydinges bee? + + My ladye shee is all woe-begone, + And the teares they falle from her eyne; + And aye she laments the deadlye feude + Betweene her house and thine. + + And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe + Bedewde with many a teare, + And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, + Who loved thee so deare. + + And here shee sends thee a ring of golde + The last boone thou mayst have, + And biddes thee weare it for her sake, + Whan she is layde in grave. + + For, ah! her gentle heart is broke, + And in grave soone must shee bee, + Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, + And forbidde her to think of thee. + + Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, + Sir John of the north countràye, + And within three dayes she must him wedde, + Or he vowes he will her slaye. + + Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, + And greet thy ladye from mee, + And telle her that I her owne true love + Will dye, or sette her free. + + Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, + And let thy fair ladye know + This night will I bee at her bowre-windòwe, + Betide me weale or woe. + + The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, + He neither stint ne stayd + Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, + Whan kneeling downe he sayd, + + O ladye, I've been with thine own true love, + And he greets thee well by mee; + This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windòwe, + And dye or sett thee free. + + Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, + And all were fast asleepe, + All save the Ladye Emmeline, + Who sate in her bowre to weepe: + + And soone shee heard her true loves voice + Lowe whispering at the walle, + Awake, awake, my deare ladyè, + Tis I thy true love call. + + Awake, awake, my ladye deare, + Come, mount this faire palfràye: + This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe + He carrye thee hence awaye. + + Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, + Nowe nay, this may not bee; + For aye shold I tint my maiden fame, + If alone I should wend with thee. + + O ladye, thou with a knighte so true + Mayst safelye wend alone, + To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, + Where marriage shall make us one. + + "My father he is a baron bolde, + Of lynage proude and hye; + And what would he saye if his daughtèr + Awaye with a knight should fly + + "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest, + Nor his meate should doe him no goode, + Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle, + And scene thy deare hearts bloode." + + O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, + And a little space him fro, + I would not care for thy cruel fathèr, + Nor the worst that he could doe. + + O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, + And once without this walle, + I would not care for thy cruel fathèr + Nor the worst that might befalle. + + Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, + And aye her heart was woe: + At length he seized her lilly-white hand, + And downe the ladder he drewe: + + And thrice he clasped her to his breste, + And kist her tenderlìe: + The teares that fell from her fair eyes + Ranne like the fountayne free. + + Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, + And her on a fair palfràye, + And slung his bugle about his necke, + And roundlye they rode awaye. + + All this beheard her owne damsèlle, + In her bed whereas shee ley, + Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, + Soe I shall have golde and fee. + + Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! + Awake, my noble dame! + Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle + To doe the deede of shame. + + The baron he woke, the baron he rose, + And called his merrye men all: + "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte, + Thy ladye is carried to thrall." + + Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, + A mile forth of the towne, + When she was aware of her fathers men + Come galloping over the downe: + + And foremost came the carlish knight, + Sir John of the north countràye: + "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitòure, + Nor carry that ladye awaye. + + "For she is come of hye lineàge, + And was of a ladye borne, + And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne, + To carrye her hence to scorne." + + Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, + Nowe thou doest lye of mee; + A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, + Soe never did none by thee + + But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, + Light downe, and hold my steed, + While I and this discourteous knighte + Doe trye this arduous deede. + + But light now downe, my deare ladyè, + Light downe, and hold my horse; + While I and this discourteous knight + Doe trye our valour's force. + + Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, + And aye her heart was woe, + While twixt her love and the carlish knight + Past many a baleful blowe. + + The Child of Elle hee fought so well, + As his weapon he waved amaine, + That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, + And layd him upon the plaine. + + And nowe the baron and all his men + Full fast approached nye: + Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe + Twere nowe no boote to flye. + + Her lover he put his horne to his mouth, + And blew both loud and shrill, + And soone he saw his owne merry men + Come ryding over the hill. + + "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baròn, + I pray thee hold thy hand, + Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts + Fast knit in true love's band. + + Thy daughter I have dearly loved + Full long and many a day; + But with such love as holy kirke + Hath freelye sayd wee may. + + O give consent, shee may be mine, + And blesse a faithfull paire: + My lands and livings are not small, + My house and lineage faire: + + My mother she was an earl's daughtèr, + And a noble knyght my sire-- + The baron he frowned, and turn'd away + With mickle dole and ire. + + Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, + And did all tremblinge stand: + At lengthe she sprang upon her knee, + And held his lifted hand. + + Pardon, my lorde and father deare, + This faire yong knyght and mee: + Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, + I never had fled from thee. + + Oft have you called your Emmeline + Your darling and your joye; + O let not then your harsh resolves + Your Emmeline destroye. + + The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, + And turned his heade asyde + To whipe awaye the starting teare + He proudly strave to hyde. + + In deepe revolving thought he stoode, + And mused a little space; + Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde, + With many a fond embrace. + + Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, + And gave her lillye white hand; + Here take my deare and only child, + And with her half my land: + + Thy father once mine honour wrongde + In dayes of youthful pride; + Do thou the injurye repayre + In fondnesse for thy bride. + + And as thou love her, and hold her deare, + Heaven prosper thee and thine: + And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, + My lovelye Emmeline. + + +[Illustration] + + + + + +CHILD WATERS + + + Childe Waters in his stable stoode + And stroakt his milke white steede: + To him a fayre yonge ladye came + As ever ware womans weede. + + Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters; + Sayes, Christ you save, and see: + My girdle of gold that was too longe, + Is now too short for mee. + + And all is with one chyld of yours, + I feel sturre att my side: + My gowne of greene it is too straighte; + Before, it was too wide. + + If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd, + Be mine, as you tell mee; + Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, + Take them your owne to bee. + + If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd, + Be mine, as you doe sweare; + Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, + And make that child your heyre. + + Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse, + Child Waters, of thy mouth; + Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, + That laye by north and south. + + And I had rather have one twinkling, + Childe Waters, of thine ee; + Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, + To take them mine owne to bee. + + To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde + Farr into the north countrie; + The fairest lady that I can find, + Ellen, must goe with mee. + + 'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre, + 'Yet let me go with thee:' + And ever I pray you, Child Watèrs, + Your foot-page let me bee. + + If you will my foot-page be, Ellen, + As you doe tell to mee; + Then you must cut your gowne of greene, + An inch above your knee: + + Soe must you doe your yellow lockes, + An inch above your ee: + You must tell no man what is my name; + My foot-page then you shall bee. + + Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, + Ran barefoote by his side; + Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte, + To say, Ellen, will you ryde? + + Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, + Ran barefoote thorow the broome; + Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte, + To say, put on your shoone. + + Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters, + Why doe you ryde soe fast? + The childe, which is no mans but thine, + My bodye itt will brast. + + Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen, + That flows from bank to brimme?-- + I trust to God, O Child Waters, + You never will see mee swimme. + + But when shee came to the waters side, + Shee sayled to the chinne: + Except the Lord of heaven be my speed, + Now must I learne to swimme. + + The salt waters bare up her clothes; + Our Ladye bare upp her chinne: + Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord, + To see faire Ellen swimme. + + And when shee over the water was, + Shee then came to his knee: + He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellèn, + Loe yonder what I see. + + Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? + Of redd gold shines the yate; + Of twenty foure faire ladyes there, + The fairest is my mate. + + Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? + Of redd gold shines the towre: + There are twenty four fair ladyes there, + The fairest is my paramoure. + + I see the hall now, Child Waters, + Of redd golde shines the yate: + God give you good now of yourselfe, + And of your worthye mate. + + I see the hall now, Child Waters, + Of redd gold shines the towre: + God give you good now of yourselfe, + And of your paramoure. + + There twenty four fayre ladyes were + A playing att the ball: + And Ellen the fairest ladye there, + Must bring his steed to the stall. + + There twenty four fayre ladyes were + A playinge at the chesse; + And Ellen the fayrest ladye there, + Must bring his horse to gresse. + + And then bespake Childe Waters sister, + These were the wordes said shee: + You have the prettyest foot-page, brother, + That ever I saw with mine ee. + + But that his bellye it is soe bigg, + His girdle goes wonderous hie: + And let him, I pray you, Childe Watères, + Goe into the chamber with mee. + + It is not fit for a little foot-page, + That has run throughe mosse and myre, + To go into the chamber with any ladye, + That weares soe riche attyre. + + It is more meete for a litle foot-page, + That has run throughe mosse and myre, + To take his supper upon his knee, + And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer. + + But when they had supped every one, + To bedd they tooke theyr waye: + He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, + And hearken what I saye. + + Goe thee downe into yonder towne, + And low into the street; + The fayrest ladye that thou can finde, + + Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe, + And take her up in thine armes twaine, + For filinge of her feete. + + Ellen is gone into the towne, + And low into the streete: + The fairest ladye that she cold find, + Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe; + And tooke her up in her armes twayne, + For filing of her feete. + + I pray you nowe, good Child Watèrs, + Let mee lye at your bedds feete: + For there is noe place about this house, + Where I may 'saye a sleepe. + + 'He gave her leave, and faire Ellèn + 'Down at his beds feet laye:' + This done the nighte drove on apace, + And when it was neare the daye, + + Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page, + Give my steede corne and haye; + And soe doe thou the good black oats, + To carry mee better awaye. + + Up then rose the faire Ellèn, + And gave his steede corne and hay: + And soe shee did the good blacke oats, + To carry him the better away. + + Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, + And grievouslye did groane: + Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, + And there shee made her moane. + + And that beheard his mother deere, + Shee heard her there monand. + Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Watèrs, + I think thee a cursed man. + + For in thy stable is a ghost, + That grievouslye doth grone: + Or else some woman laboures of childe, + She is soe woe-begone. + + Up then rose Childe Waters soon, + And did on his shirte of silke; + And then he put on his other clothes, + On his body as white as milke. + + And when he came to the stable dore, + Full still there he did stand, + That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellèn + Howe shee made her monànd. + + Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child, + Lullabye, dere child, dere; + I wold thy father were a king, + Thy mother layd on a biere. + + Peace now, he said, good faire Ellèn, + Be of good cheere, I praye; + And the bridal and the churching both + Shall bee upon one day. + + + + +[Image] + +KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH + + + In summer time, when leaves grow greene, + And blossoms bedecke the tree, + King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, + Some pastime for to see. + + With hawke and hounde he made him bowne, + With horne, and eke with bowe; + To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye, + With all his lordes a rowe. + + And he had ridden ore dale and downe + By eight of clocke in the day, + When he was ware of a bold tannèr, + Come ryding along the waye. + + A fayre russet coat the tanner had on + Fast buttoned under his chin, + And under him a good cow-hide, + And a marc of four shilling. + + Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, + Under the grene wood spraye; + And I will wend to yonder fellowe, + To weet what he will saye. + + God speede, God speede thee, said our king. + Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee. + "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset + I praye thee to shew to mee." + + "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe, + Fro the place where thou dost stand? + The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, + Turne in upon thy right hand." + + That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king, + Thou doest but jest, I see; + Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, + And I pray thee wend with mee. + + Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner: + I hold thee out of thy witt: + All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare, + And I am fasting yett. + + "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset, + No daynties we will spare; + All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, + And I will paye thy fare." + + Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde, + Thou payest no fare of mine: + I trowe I've more nobles in my purse, + Than thou hast pence in thine. + + God give thee joy of them, sayd the king, + And send them well to priefe. + The tanner wolde faine have beene away, + For he weende he had beene a thiefe. + + What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe, + Of thee I am in great feare, + For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back, + Might beseeme a lord to weare. + + I never stole them, quoth our king, + I tell you, Sir, by the roode. + "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, + And standest in midds of thy goode." + + What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge, + As you ryde farre and neare? + "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse, + But that cowe-hides are deare." + + "Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? + I marvell what they bee?" + What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd; + I carry one under mee. + + What craftsman art thou, said the king, + I pray thee tell me trowe. + "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade; + Nowe tell me what art thou?" + + I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he, + That am forth of service worne; + And faine I wolde thy prentise bee, + Thy cunninge for to learne. + + Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, + That thou my prentise were: + Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne + By fortye shilling a yere. + + Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king, + If thou wilt not seeme strange: + Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, + Yet with thee I fain wold change. + + "Why if with me thou faine wilt change, + As change full well maye wee, + By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe + I will have some boot of thee." + + That were against reason, sayd the king, + I sweare, so mote I thee: + My horse is better than thy mare, + And that thou well mayst see. + + "Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild, + And softly she will fare: + Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss; + Aye skipping here and theare." + + What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd; + Now tell me in this stound. + "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye, + But a noble in gold so round. + + "Here's twentye groates of white moneye, + Sith thou will have it of mee." + I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner, + Thou hadst not had one pennie. + + But since we two have made a change, + A change we must abide, + Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare, + Thou gettest not my cowe-hide. + + I will not have it, sayd the kynge, + I sweare, so mought I thee; + Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare, + If thou woldst give it to mee. + + The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, + That of the cow was bilt; + And threwe it upon the king's sadelle, + That was soe fayrelye gilte. + "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe, + 'Tis time that I were gone: + When I come home to Gyllian my wife, + Sheel say I am a gentilmon." + + The king he tooke him up by the legge; + The tanner a f----- lett fall. + Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king, + Thy courtesye is but small. + + When the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle, + And his foote in the stirrup was; + He marvelled greatlye in his minde, + Whether it were golde or brass. + + But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge, + And eke the blacke cowe-horne; + He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, + As the devill had him borne. + + The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, + And held by the pummil fast: + At length the tanner came tumbling downe; + His necke he had well-nye brast. + + Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, + With mee he shall not byde. + "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, + But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide. + + Yet if againe thou faine woldst change, + As change full well may wee, + By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr, + I will have some boote of thee." + + What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd, + Nowe tell me in this stounde. + "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye, + But I will have twentye pound." + + "Here's twentye groates out of my purse; + And twentye I have of thine: + And I have one more, which we will spend + Together at the wine." + + The king set a bugle home to his mouthe, + And blewe both loude and shrille: + And soone came lords, and soone came knights, + Fast ryding over the hille. + + Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, + That ever I sawe this daye! + Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes Will beare my +cowe-hide away. + + They are no thieves, the king replyde, + I sweare, soe mote I thee: + But they are the lords of the north countrèy, + Here come to hunt with mee. + + And soone before our king they came, + And knelt downe on the grounde: + Then might the tanner have beene awaye, + He had lever than twentye pounde. + + A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king, + A coller he loud gan crye: + Then woulde he lever than twentye pound, + He had not beene so nighe. + + A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, + I trowe it will breed sorrowe: + After a coller cometh a halter, + I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe. + + Be not afraid, tanner, said our king; + I tell thee, so mought I thee, + Lo here I make thee the best esquire + That is in the North countrie. + + For Plumpton-parke I will give thee, + With tenements faire beside: + 'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, + To maintaine thy good cowe-hide. + + Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde, + For the favour thou hast me showne; + If ever thou comest to merry Tamwòrth, + Neates leather shall clout thy shoen. + + + + +[Illustration] + +SIR PATRICK SPENS + + + The king sits in Dumferling toune, + Drinking the blude-reid wine: + O quhar will I get guid sailòr, + To sail this schip of mine. + + Up and spak an eldern knicht, + Sat at the kings richt kne: + Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailòr, + That sails upon the se. + + The king has written a braid letter, + And signd it wi' his hand; + And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, + Was walking on the sand. + + The first line that Sir Patrick red, + A loud lauch lauched he: + The next line that Sir Patrick red, + The teir blinded his ee. + + O quha is this has don this deid, + This ill deid don to me; + To send me out this time o' the zeir, + To sail upon the se. + + Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, + Our guid schip sails the morne, + O say na sae, my master deir, + For I feir a deadlie storme. + + Late late yestreen I saw the new moone + Wi' the auld moone in hir arme; + And I feir, I feir, my deir master, + That we will com to harme. + + O our Scots nobles wer richt laith + To weet their cork-heild schoone; + Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, + Thair hats they swam aboone. + + O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit + Wi' thair fans into their hand, + Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens + Cum sailing to the land. + + O lang, lang, may the ladies stand + Wi' thair gold kems in their hair, + Waiting for thair ain deir lords, + For they'll se thame na mair. + + Have owre, have owre to Aberdour, + It's fiftie fadom deip: + And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens, + Wi' the Scots lords at his feit. + + + + +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER + + + It was intill a pleasant time, + Upon a simmer's day, + The noble Earl of Mar's daughter + Went forth to sport and play. + + As thus she did amuse hersell, + Below a green aik tree, + There she saw a sprightly doo + Set on a tower sae hie. + + "O cow-me-doo, my love sae true, + If ye'll come down to me, + Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd + Instead o simple tree: + + "I'll put growd hingers roun your cage, + And siller roun your wa; + I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird + As ony o them a'." + + But she hadnae these words well spoke, + Nor yet these words well said, + Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower + And lighted on her head. + + Then she has brought this pretty bird + Hame to her bowers and ba, + And made him shine as fair a bird + As ony o them a'. + + When day was gane, and night was come, + About the evening tide, + This lady spied a sprightly youth + Stand straight up by her side. + + "From whence came ye, young man?" she said; + "That does surprise me sair; + My door was bolted right secure, + What way hae ye come here?" + + "O had your tongue, ye lady fair, + Lat a' your folly be; + Mind ye not on your turtle-doo + Last day ye brought wi thee?" + + "O tell me mair, young man," she said, + "This does surprise me now; + What country hae ye come frae? + What pedigree are you?" + + "My mither lives on foreign isles, + She has nae mair but me; + She is a queen o wealth and state, + And birth and high degree. + + "Likewise well skilld in magic spells, + As ye may plainly see, + And she transformd me to yon shape, + To charm such maids as thee. + + "I am a doo the live-lang day, + A sprightly youth at night; + This aye gars me appear mair fair + In a fair maiden's sight. + + "And it was but this verra day + That I came ower the sea; + Your lovely face did me enchant; + I'll live and dee wi thee." + + "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, + Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae; + That's never my intent, my luve, + As ye said, it shall be sae." + + "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, + It's time to gae to bed;" + "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow, + It's be as ye hae said." + + Then he has staid in bower wi her + For sax lang years and ane, + Till sax young sons to him she bare, + And the seventh she's brought hame. + + But aye as ever a child was born + He carried them away, + And brought them to his mither's care, + As fast as he coud fly. + + Thus he has staid in bower wi her + For twenty years and three; + There came a lord o high renown + To court this fair ladie. + + But still his proffer she refused, + And a' his presents too; + Says, I'm content to live alane + Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo. + + Her father sware a solemn oath + Amang the nobles all, + "The morn, or ere I eat or drink, + This bird I will gar kill." + + The bird was sitting in his cage, + And heard what they did say; + And when he found they were dismist, + Says, Wae's me for this day! + + "Before that I do langer stay, + And thus to be forlorn, + I'll gang unto my mither's bower, + Where I was bred and born." + + Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew + Beyond the raging sea, + And lighted near his mither's castle, + On a tower o gowd sae hie. + + As his mither was wauking out, + To see what she coud see, + And there she saw her little son, + Set on the tower sae hie. + + "Get dancers here to dance," she said, + "And minstrells for to play; + For here's my young son, Florentine, + Come here wi me to stay." + + "Get nae dancers to dance, mither, + Nor minstrells for to play, + For the mither o my seven sons, + The morn's her wedding-day." + + "O tell me, tell me, Florentine, + Tell me, and tell me true, + Tell me this day without a flaw, + What I will do for you." + + "Instead of dancers to dance, mither, + Or minstrells for to play, + Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men + Like storks in feathers gray; + + "My seven sons in seven swans, + Aboon their heads to flee; + And I mysell a gay gos-hawk, + A bird o high degree." + + Then sichin said the queen hersell, + "That thing's too high for me;" + But she applied to an auld woman, + Who had mair skill than she. + + Instead o dancers to dance a dance, + Or minstrells for to play, + Four-and-twenty wall-wight men + Turnd birds o feathers gray; + + Her seven sons in seven swans, + Aboon their heads to flee; + And he himsell a gay gos-hawk, + A bird o high degree. + + This flock o birds took flight and flew + Beyond the raging sea, + And landed near the Earl Mar's castle, + Took shelter in every tree. + + They were a flock o pretty birds, + Right comely to be seen; + The people viewed them wi surprise, + As they dancd on the green. + + These birds ascended frae the tree + And lighted on the ha, + And at the last wi force did flee + Amang the nobles a'. + + The storks there seized some o the men, + They coud neither fight nor flee; + The swans they bound the bride's best man + Below a green aik tree. + + They lighted next on maidens fair, + Then on the bride's own head, + And wi the twinkling o an ee + The bride and them were fled. + + There's ancient men at weddings been + For sixty years or more, + But sic a curious wedding-day + They never saw before. + + For naething coud the companie do. + Nor naething coud they say + But they saw a flock o pretty birds + That took their bride away. + + When that Earl Mar he came to know + Where his dochter did stay, + He signd a bond o unity, + And visits now they pay. + + + + +EDWARD, EDWARD. + + + Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, + Edward, Edward? + Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid? + And quhy sae sad gang zee, O? + O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid: + And I had nae mair bot hee, O. + + Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, + Edward, Edward. + Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, + My deir son I tell thee, O. + O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, + That erst was sae fair and free, O. + + Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, + Edward, Edward; + Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, + Sum other dule ze drie, O. + O, I hae killed my fadir deir, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my fadir deir, + Alas! and wae is mee, O! + + And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, + Edward, Edward? + And quhatten penance will ze drie for that? + My deir son, now tell mee, O. + He set my feit in zonder boat, + Mither, mither: + He set my feit in zonder boat, + And He fare ovir the sea, O. + + And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', + That were sae fair to see, O? + He let thame stand til they doun fa', + Mither, mither: + He let thame stand til they doun fa', + For here nevir mair maun I bee, O. + + And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, + Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O? + The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, + Mither, mither; + The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, + For thame nevir mair wul I see, O. + + And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir? + My deir son, now tell me, O. + The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, + Mither, mither: + The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, + Sic counseils ze gave to me, O. + + + +KING LEIR & HIS THREE DAUGHTERS + + + King Leir once ruled in this land + With princely power and peace; + And had all things with hearts content, + That might his joys increase. + Amongst those things that nature gave, + Three daughters fair had he, + So princely seeming beautiful, + As fairer could not be. + + So on a time it pleas'd the king + A question thus to move, + Which of his daughters to his grace + Could shew the dearest love: + For to my age you bring content, + Quoth he, then let me hear, + Which of you three in plighted troth + The kindest will appear. + + To whom the eldest thus began; + Dear father, mind, quoth she, + Before your face, to do you good, + My blood shall render'd be: + And for your sake my bleeding heart + Shall here be cut in twain, + Ere that I see your reverend age + The smallest grief sustain. + + And so will I, the second said; + Dear father, for your sake, + The worst of all extremities + I'll gently undertake: + And serve your highness night and day + With diligence and love; + That sweet content and quietness + Discomforts may remove. + + In doing so, you glad my soul, + The aged king reply'd; + But what sayst thou, my youngest girl, + How is thy love ally'd? + My love (quoth young Cordelia then) + Which to your grace I owe, + Shall be the duty of a child, + And that is all I'll show. + + And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he, + Than doth thy duty bind? + I well perceive thy love is small, + When as no more I find. + Henceforth I banish thee my court, + Thou art no child of mine; + Nor any part of this my realm + By favour shall be thine. + + Thy elder sisters loves are more + Then well I can demand, + To whom I equally bestow + My kingdome and my land, + My pompal state and all my goods, + That lovingly I may + With those thy sisters be maintain'd + Until my dying day. + + Thus flattering speeches won renown, + By these two sisters here; + The third had causeless banishment, + Yet was her love more dear: + For poor Cordelia patiently + Went wandring up and down, + Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, + Through many an English town: + + Untill at last in famous France + She gentler fortunes found; + Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd + The fairest on the ground: + Where when the king her virtues heard, + And this fair lady seen, + With full consent of all his court + He made his wife and queen. + + Her father king Leir this while + With his two daughters staid: + Forgetful of their promis'd loves, + Full soon the same decay'd; + And living in queen Ragan's court, + The eldest of the twain, + She took from him his chiefest means, + And most of all his train. + + For whereas twenty men were wont + To wait with bended knee: + She gave allowance but to ten, + And after scarce to three; + Nay, one she thought too much for him; + So took she all away, + In hope that in her court, good king, + He would no longer stay. + + Am I rewarded thus, quoth he, + In giving all I have + Unto my children, and to beg + For what I lately gave? + I'll go unto my Gonorell: + My second child, I know, + Will be more kind and pitiful, + And will relieve my woe. + + Full fast he hies then to her court; + Where when she heard his moan + Return'd him answer, That she griev'd + That all his means were gone: + But no way could relieve his wants; + Yet if that he would stay + Within her kitchen, he should have + What scullions gave away. + + When he had heard, with bitter tears, + He made his answer then; + In what I did let me be made + Example to all men. + I will return again, quoth he, + Unto my Ragan's court; + She will not use me thus, I hope, + But in a kinder sort. + + Where when he came, she gave command + To drive him thence away: + When he was well within her court + (She said) he would not stay. + Then back again to Gonorell + The woeful king did hie, + That in her kitchen he might have + What scullion boy set by. + + But there of that he was deny'd, + Which she had promis'd late: + For once refusing, he should not + Come after to her gate. + Thus twixt his daughters, for relief + He wandred up and down; + Being glad to feed on beggars food, + That lately wore a crown. + + And calling to remembrance then + His youngest daughters words, + That said the duty of a child + Was all that love affords: + But doubting to repair to her, + Whom he had banish'd so, + Grew frantick mad; for in his mind + He bore the wounds of woe: + + Which made him rend his milk-white locks, + And tresses from his head, + And all with blood bestain his cheeks, + With age and honour spread. + To hills and woods and watry founts + He made his hourly moan, + Till hills and woods and sensless things, + Did seem to sigh and groan. + + Even thus possest with discontents, + He passed o're to France, + In hopes from fair Cordelia there, + To find some gentler chance; + Most virtuous dame! which when she heard, + Of this her father's grief, + As duty bound, she quickly sent + Him comfort and relief: + And by a train of noble peers, + In brave and gallant sort, + She gave in charge he should be brought + To Aganippus' court; + Whose royal king, with noble mind + So freely gave consent, + To muster up his knights at arms, + To fame and courage bent. + + And so to England came with speed, + To repossesse king Leir + And drive his daughters from their thrones + By his Cordelia dear. + Where she, true-hearted noble queen, + Was in the battel slain; + Yet he, good king, in his old days, + Possest his crown again. + + But when he heard Cordelia's death, + Who died indeed for love + Of her dear father, in whose cause + She did this battle move; + He swooning fell upon her breast, + From whence he never parted: + But on her bosom left his life, + That was so truly hearted. + + The lords and nobles when they saw + The end of these events, + The other sisters unto death + They doomed by consents; + And being dead, their crowns they left + Unto the next of kin: + Thus have you seen the fall of pride, + And disobedient sin. + + + + +[Illustration] + +HYND HORN + + + "Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free; + Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?" + + "In gude greenwud whare I was born, + And all my friends left me forlorn. + + "I gave my love a gay gowd wand, + That was to rule oure all Scotland. + + "My love gave me a silver ring, + That was to rule abune aw thing. + + "Whan that ring keeps new in hue, + Ye may ken that your love loves you. + + "Whan that ring turns pale and wan, + Ye may ken that your love loves anither man." + + He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he + Till he cam to a foreign cuntree. + + Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan; + Says, I wish I war at hame again. + + He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he + Until he cam till his ain cuntree. + + The first ane that he met with, + It was with a puir auld beggar-man. + + "What news? what news, my puir auld man? + What news hae ye got to tell to me?" + + "Na news, na news," the puir man did say, + "But this is our queen's wedding-day." + + "Ye'll lend me your begging-weed, + And I'll lend you my riding-steed." + "My begging-weed is na for thee, + Your riding-steed is na for me." + + He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man. + + "What is the way that ye use to gae? + And what are the words that ye beg wi?" + + "Whan ye come to yon high hill, + Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until. + + "Whan ye come to yon town-end, + Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun. + + "Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul, + And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all. + + "But tak ye frae nane o them aw + Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O." + + Whan he cam to yon high hill, + He drew his bent bow nigh until. + + And when he cam to yon toun-end, + He loot his bent bow low fall doun. + + He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul, + And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all. + + But he took na frae ane o them aw + Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O. + + The bride cam tripping doun the stair, + Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair. + + Wi a glass o red wine in her hand, + To gie to the puir beggar-man. + + Out he drank his glass o wine, + Into it he dropt the ring. + + "Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land, + Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?" + + "I got na't by sea, I got na't by land, + Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand; + + "But I got it at my wooing, + And I'll gie it to your wedding." + + "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head, + I'll follow you, and beg my bread. + + "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair, + I'll follow you for evermair." + + She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head, + She's followed him, to beg her bread. + + She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair, + And she has followd him evermair. + + Atween the kitchen and the ha, + There he loot his cloutie cloak fa. + + The red gowd shined oure them aw, + And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa. + + + + +JOHN BROWN'S BODY + + + Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, + Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave; + Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, + But his soul is marching on. + + _Chorus_ + + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + His soul is marching on. + + He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true; + His little patriot band into a noble army grew; + He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true, + And his soul is marching on. + + 'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its might, + The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight; + But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight, + Still his soul is marching on. + + John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, + Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love, + John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, + And his soul is marching on. + + + + TIPPERARY + + + Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day, + As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay; + Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square, + Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:-- + +_Chorus_ + + "It's a long way to Tipperary, + It's a long way to go; + It's a long way to Tipperary, + To the sweetest girl I know! + Good-bye Piccadilly, + Farewell, Leicester Square, + It's a long, long way to Tipperary, + But my heart's right there!" + + Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O', + Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know! + "If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he, + "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me." + + Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O', + Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so + Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame, + For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!" + + + + +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON + + + There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, + And he was a squires son: + He loved the bayliffes daughter deare, + That lived in Islington. + + Yet she was coye, and would not believe + That he did love her soe, + Noe nor at any time would she + Any countenance to him showe. + + But when his friendes did understand + His fond and foolish minde, + They sent him up to faire London + An apprentice for to binde. + + And when he had been seven long yeares, + And never his love could see: + Many a teare have I shed for her sake, + When she little thought of mee. + + Then all the maids of Islington + Went forth to sport and playe, + All but the bayliffes daughter deare; + She secretly stole awaye. + + She pulled off her gowne of greene, + And put on ragged attire, + And to faire London she would goe + Her true love to enquire. + + And as she went along the high road, + The weather being hot and drye, + She sat her downe upon a green bank, + And her true love came riding bye. + + She started up, with a colour soe redd, + Catching hold of his bridle-reine; + One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd, + Will ease me of much paine. + + Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, + Praye tell me where you were borne: + At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee, + Where I have had many a scorne. + + I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, + O tell me, whether you knowe + The bayliffes daughter of Islington: + She is dead, Sir, long agoe. + + If she be dead, then take my horse, + My saddle and bridle also; + For I will into some far countrye, + Where noe man shall me knowe. + + O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, + She standeth by thy side; + She is here alive, she is not dead, + And readye to be thy bride. + + O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, + Ten thousand times therefore; + For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, + Whom I thought I should never see more. + + + + +THE THREE RAVENS + + + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + With a downe + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + They were as blacke as they might be + With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe + + The one of them said to his mate, + "Where shall we our breakefast take?" + + "Downe in yonder greene field, + There lies a knight slain vnder his shield. + + "His hounds they lie downe at his feete, + So well they can their master keepe. + + "His haukes they flie so eagerly, + There's no fowle dare him come nie." + + Downe there comes a fallow doe, + As great with yong as she might goe. + + She lift up his bloudy hed, + And kist his wounds that were so red. + + She got him up upon her backe, + And carried him to earthen lake. + + She buried him before the prime, + She was dead herselfe ere even-song time. + + God send every gentleman, + Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman. + + + +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN + + + The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee + Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee, + Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie, + Will ze lodge a silly poor man? + The night was cauld, the carle was wat, + And down azont the ingle he sat; + My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap, + And cadgily ranted and sang. + + O wow! quo he, were I as free, + As first when I saw this countrie, + How blyth and merry wad I bee! + And I wad nevir think lang. + He grew canty, and she grew fain; + But little did her auld minny ken + What thir slee twa togither were say'n, + When wooing they were sa thrang. + + And O! quo he, ann ze were as black, + As evir the crown of your dadyes hat, + Tis I wad lay thee by my backe, + And awa wi' me thou sould gang. + And O! quoth she, ann I were as white, + As evir the snaw lay on the dike, + Ild dead me braw, and lady-like, + And awa with thee Ild gang. + + Between them twa was made a plot; + They raise a wee before the cock, + And wyliely they shot the lock, + And fast to the bent are they gane. + Up the morn the auld wife raise, + And at her leisure put on her claiths, + Syne to the servants bed she gaes + To speir for the silly poor man. + + She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay, + The strae was cauld, he was away, + She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day! + For some of our geir will be gane. + Some ran to coffer, and some to kist, + But nought was stown that could be mist. + She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest, + I have lodgd a leal poor man. + + Since naithings awa, as we can learn, + The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn, + Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, + And bid her come quickly ben. + The servant gaed where the dochter lay, + The sheets was cauld, she was away, + And fast to her goodwife can say, + Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man. + + O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, + And haste ze, find these traitors agen; + For shees be burnt, and hees be slein, + The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man. + Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit + The wife was wood, and out o' her wit; + She could na gang, nor yet could sit, + But ay did curse and did ban. + + Mean time far hind out owre the lee, + For snug in a glen, where nane could see, + The twa, with kindlie sport and glee + Cut frae a new cheese a whang. + The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith, + To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith. + Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith, + My winsome gaberlunzie-man. + + O kend my minny I were wi' zou, + Illfardly wad she crook her mou, + Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow, + Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon. + My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge; + And hae na learnt the beggars tonge, + To follow me frae toun to toun, + And carrie the gaberlunzie on. + + Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread, + And spindles and whorles for them wha need, + Whilk is a gentil trade indeed + The gaberlunzie to carrie--o. + Ill bow my leg and crook my knee, + And draw a black clout owre my ee, + A criple or blind they will cau me: + While we sail sing and be merrie--o. + + + + +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + + + There lived a wife at Usher's Well, + And a wealthy wife was she; + She had three stout and stalwart sons, + And sent them oer the sea. + + They hadna been a week from her, + A week but barely ane, + Whan word came to the carline wife + That her three sons were gane. + + They hadna been a week from her, + A week but barely three, + Whan word came to the carlin wife + That her sons she'd never see. + + "I wish the wind may never cease, + Nor fashes in the flood, + Till my three sons come hame to me, + In earthly flesh and blood." + + It fell about the Martinmass, + When nights are lang and mirk, + The carlin wife's three sons came hame, + And their hats were o the birk. + + It neither grew in syke nor ditch, + Nor yet in ony sheugh; + But at the gates o Paradise, + That birk grew fair eneugh. + + * * * * * + + "Blow up the fire, my maidens, + Bring water from the well; + For a' my house shall feast this night, + Since my three sons are well." + + And she has made to them a bed, + She's made it large and wide, + And she's taen her mantle her about, + Sat down at the bed-side. + + * * * * * + + Up then crew the red, red cock, + And up and crew the gray; + The eldest to the youngest said, + 'Tis time we were away. + + The cock he hadna crawd but once, + And clappd his wings at a', + When the youngest to the eldest said, + Brother, we must awa. + + "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, + The channerin worm doth chide; + Gin we be mist out o our place, + A sair pain we maun bide. + + "Fare ye weel, my mother dear! + Fareweel to barn and byre! + And fare ye weel, the bonny lass + That kindles my mother's fire!" + + + + +THE LYE + + + Goe, soule, the bodies guest, + Upon a thanklesse arrant; + Feare not to touche the best, + The truth shall be thy warrant: + Goe, since I needs must dye, + And give the world the lye. + + Goe tell the court, it glowes + And shines like rotten wood; + Goe tell the church it showes + What's good, and doth no good: + If church and court reply, + Then give them both the lye. + + Tell potentates they live + Acting by others actions; + Not lov'd unlesse they give, + Not strong but by their factions; + If potentates reply, + Give potentates the lye. + + Tell men of high condition, + That rule affairs of state, + Their purpose is ambition, + Their practise onely hate; + And if they once reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell them that brave it most, + They beg for more by spending, + Who in their greatest cost + Seek nothing but commending; + And if they make reply, + Spare not to give the lye. + + Tell zeale, it lacks devotion; + Tell love, it is but lust; + Tell time, it is but motion; + Tell flesh, it is but dust; + And wish them not reply, + For thou must give the lye. + + Tell age, it daily wasteth; + Tell honour, how it alters: + Tell beauty, how she blasteth; + Tell favour, how she falters; + And as they shall reply, + Give each of them the lye. + + Tell wit, how much it wrangles + In tickle points of nicenesse; + Tell wisedome, she entangles + Herselfe in over-wisenesse; + And if they do reply, + Straight give them both the lye. + + Tell physicke of her boldnesse; + Tell skill, it is pretension; + Tell charity of coldness; + Tell law, it is contention; + And as they yield reply, + So give them still the lye. + + Tell fortune of her blindnesse; + Tell nature of decay; + Tell friendship of unkindnesse; + Tell justice of delay: + And if they dare reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell arts, they have no soundnesse, + But vary by esteeming; + Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse; + And stand too much on seeming: + If arts and schooles reply. + Give arts and schooles the lye. + + Tell faith, it's fled the citie; + Tell how the countrey erreth; + Tell, manhood shakes off pitie; + Tell, vertue least preferreth: + And, if they doe reply, + Spare not to give the lye. + + So, when thou hast, as I + Commanded thee, done blabbing, + Although to give the lye + Deserves no less than stabbing, + Yet stab at thee who will, + No stab the soule can kill. + + + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + +I. + + + He did not wear his scarlet coat, + For blood and wine are red, + And blood and wine were on his hands + When they found him with the dead, + The poor dead woman whom he loved, + And murdered in her bed. + + He walked amongst the Trial Men + In a suit of shabby grey; + A cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay; + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every drifting cloud that went + With sails of silver by. + + I walked, with other souls in pain, + Within another ring, + And was wondering if the man had done + A great or little thing, + When a voice behind me whispered low, + _"That fellow's got to swing."_ + + Dear Christ! the very prison walls + Suddenly seemed to reel, + And the sky above my head became + Like a casque of scorching steel; + And, though I was a soul in pain, + My pain I could not feel. + + I only knew what hunted thought + Quickened his step, and why + He looked upon the garish day + With such a wistful eye; + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + * * * * * + + Yet each man kills the thing he loves, + By each let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word. + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + Some kill their love when they are young, + And some when they are old; + Some strangle with the hands of Lust, + Some with the hands of Gold: + The kindest use a knife, because + The dead so soon grow cold. + + Some love too little, some too long, + Some sell, and others buy; + Some do the deed with many tears, + And some without a sigh: + For each man kills the thing he loves, + Yet each man does not die. + + He does not die a death of shame + On a day of dark disgrace, + Nor have a noose about his neck, + Nor a cloth upon his face, + Nor drop feet foremost through the floor + Into an empty space. + + He does not sit with silent men + Who watch him night and day; + Who watch him when he tries to weep, + And when he tries to pray; + Who watch him lest himself should rob + The prison of its prey. + + He does not wake at dawn to see + Dread figures throng his room, + The shivering Chaplain robed in white, + The Sheriff stern with gloom, + And the Governor all in shiny black, + With the yellow face of Doom. + + He does not rise in piteous haste + To put on convict-clothes, + While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes + Each new and nerve-twitched pose, + Fingering a watch whose little ticks + Are like horrible hammer-blows. + + He does not feel that sickening thirst + That sands one's throat, before + The hangman with his gardener's gloves + Comes through the padded door, + And binds one with three leathern thongs, + That the throat may thirst no more. + + He does not bend his head to hear + The Burial Office read, + Nor, while the anguish of his soul + Tells him he is not dead, + Cross his own coffin, as he moves + Into the hideous shed. + + He does not stare upon the air + Through a little roof of glass: + He does not pray with lips of clay + For his agony to pass; + Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek + The kiss of Caiaphas. + + +II + + + Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard + In the suit of shabby grey: + His cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay, + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every wandering cloud that trailed + Its ravelled fleeces by. + + He did not wring his hands, as do + Those witless men who dare + To try to rear the changeling + In the cave of black Despair: + He only looked upon the sun, + And drank the morning air. + + He did not wring his hands nor weep, + Nor did he peek or pine, + But he drank the air as though it held + Some healthful anodyne; + With open mouth he drank the sun + As though it had been wine! + + And I and all the souls in pain, + Who tramped the other ring, + Forgot if we ourselves had done + A great or little thing, + And watched with gaze of dull amaze + The man who had to swing. + + For strange it was to see him pass + With a step so light and gay, + And strange it was to see him look + So wistfully at the day, + And strange it was to think that he + Had such a debt to pay. + + * * * * * + + For oak and elm have pleasant leaves + That in the spring-time shoot: + But grim to see is the gallows-tree, + With its adder-bitten root, + And, green or dry, a man must die + Before it bears its fruit! + + The loftiest place is that seat of grace + For which all worldlings try: + But who would stand in hempen band + Upon a scaffold high, + And through a murderer's collar take + His last look at the sky? + + It is sweet to dance to violins + When Love and Life are fair: + To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes + Is delicate and rare: + But it is not sweet with nimble feet + To dance upon the air! + + So with curious eyes and sick surmise + We watched him day by day, + And wondered if each one of us + Would end the self-same way, + For none can tell to what red Hell + His sightless soul may stray. + + At last the dead man walked no more + Amongst the Trial Men, + And I knew that he was standing up + In the black dock's dreadful pen, + And that never would I see his face + For weal or woe again. + + Like two doomed ships that pass in storm + We had crossed each other's way: + But we made no sign, we said no word, + We had no word to say; + For we did not meet in the holy night, + But in the shameful day. + + A prison wall was round us both, + Two outcast men we were: + The world had thrust us from its heart, + And God from out His care: + And the iron gin that waits for Sin + Had caught us in its snare. + + +III. + + + In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard, + And the dripping wall is high, + So it was there he took the air + Beneath the leaden sky, + And by each side a Warder walked, + For fear the man might die. + + Or else he sat with those who watched + His anguish night and day; + Who watched him when he rose to weep, + And when he crouched to pray; + Who watched him lest himself should rob + Their scaffold of its prey. + + The Governor was strong upon + The Regulations Act: + The Doctor said that Death was but + A scientific fact: + And twice a day the Chaplain called, + And left a little tract. + + And twice a day he smoked his pipe, + And drank his quart of beer: + His soul was resolute, and held + No hiding-place for fear; + He often said that he was glad + The hangman's day was near. + + But why he said so strange a thing + No warder dared to ask: + For he to whom a watcher's doom + Is given as his task, + Must set a lock upon his lips + And make his face a mask. + + Or else he might be moved, and try + To comfort or console: + And what should Human Pity do + Pent up in Murderer's Hole? + What word of grace in such a place + Could help a brother's soul? + + With slouch and swing around the ring + We trod the Fools' Parade! + We did not care: we knew we were + The Devil's Own Brigade: + And shaven head and feet of lead + Make a merry masquerade. + + We tore the tarry rope to shreds + With blunt and bleeding nails; + We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, + And cleaned the shining rails: + And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, + And clattered with the pails. + + We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, + We turned the dusty drill: + We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, + And sweated on the mill: + But in the heart of every man + Terror was lying still. + + So still it lay that every day + Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: + And we forgot the bitter lot + That waits for fool and knave, + Till once, as we tramped in from work, + We passed an open grave. + + With yawning mouth the yellow hole + Gaped for a living thing; + The very mud cried out for blood + To the thirsty asphalte ring: + And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair + Some prisoner had to swing. + + Right in we went, with soul intent + On Death and Dread and Doom: + The hangman, with his little bag, + Went shuffling through the gloom: + And I trembled as I groped my way + Into my numbered tomb. + + * * * * * + + That night the empty corridors + Were full of forms of Fear, + And up and down the iron town + Stole feet we could not hear, + And through the bars that hide the stars + White faces seemed to peer. + + He lay as one who lies and dreams + In a pleasant meadow-land, + The watchers watched him as he slept, + And could not understand + How one could sleep so sweet a sleep + With a hangman close at hand. + + But there is no sleep when men must weep + Who never yet have wept: + So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave-- + That endless vigil kept, + And through each brain on hands of pain + Another's terror crept. + + Alas! it is a fearful thing + To feel another's guilt! + For, right, within, the Sword of Sin + Pierced to its poisoned hilt, + And as molten lead were the tears we shed + For the blood we had not spilt. + + The warders with their shoes of felt + Crept by each padlocked door, + And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, + Grey figures on the floor, + And wondered why men knelt to pray + Who never prayed before. + + All through the night we knelt and prayed, + Mad mourners of a corse! + The troubled plumes of midnight shook + The plumes upon a hearse: + And bitter wine upon a sponge + Was the savour of Remorse. + + * * * * * + + The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, + But never came the day: + And crooked shapes of Terror crouched, + In the corners where we lay: + And each evil sprite that walks by night + Before us seemed to play. + + They glided past, they glided fast, + Like travellers through a mist: + They mocked the moon in a rigadoon + Of delicate turn and twist, + And with formal pace and loathsome grace + The phantoms kept their tryst. + + With mop and mow, we saw them go, + Slim shadows hand in hand: + About, about, in ghostly rout + They trod a saraband: + And the damned grotesques made arabesques, + Like the wind upon the sand! + + With the pirouettes of marionettes, + They tripped on pointed tread: + But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear, + As their grisly masque they led, + And loud they sang, and long they sang, + For they sang to wake the dead. + + _"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide, + But fettered limbs go lame! + And once, or twice, to throw the dice + Is a gentlemanly game, + But he does not win who plays with Sin + In the secret House of Shame."_ + + No things of air these antics were, + That frolicked with such glee: + To men whose lives were held in gyves, + And whose feet might not go free, + Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, + Most terrible to see. + + Around, around, they waltzed and wound; + Some wheeled in smirking pairs; + With the mincing step of a demirep + Some sidled up the stairs: + And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, + Each helped us at our prayers. + + The morning wind began to moan, + But still the night went on: + Through its giant loom the web of gloom + Crept till each thread was spun: + And, as we prayed, we grew afraid + Of the Justice of the Sun. + + The moaning wind went wandering round + The weeping prison-wall: + Till like a wheel of turning steel + We felt the minutes crawl: + O moaning wind! what had we done + To have such a seneschal? + + At last I saw the shadowed bars, + Like a lattice wrought in lead, + Move right across the whitewashed wall + That faced my three-plank bed, + And I knew that somewhere in the world + God's dreadful dawn was red. + + At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, + At seven all was still, + But the sough and swing of a mighty wing + The prison seemed to fill, + For the Lord of Death with icy breath + Had entered in to kill. + + He did not pass in purple pomp, + Nor ride a moon-white steed. + Three yards of cord and a sliding board + Are all the gallows' need: + So with rope of shame the Herald came + To do the secret deed. + + We were as men who through a fen + Of filthy darkness grope: + We did not dare to breathe a prayer, + Or to give our anguish scope: + Something was dead in each of us, + And what was dead was Hope. + + For Man's grim Justice goes its way, + And will not swerve aside: + It slays the weak, it slays the strong, + It has a deadly stride: + With iron heel it slays the strong, + The monstrous parricide! + + We waited for the stroke of eight: + Each tongue was thick with thirst: + For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate + That makes a man accursed, + And Fate will use a running noose + For the best man and the worst. + + We had no other thing to do, + Save to wait for the sign to come: + So, like things of stone in a valley lone, + Quiet we sat and dumb: + But each man's heart beat thick and quick, + Like a madman on a drum! + + With sudden shock the prison-clock + Smote on the shivering air, + And from all the gaol rose up a wail + Of impotent despair, + Like the sound that frightened marches hear + From some leper in his lair. + + And as one sees most fearful things + In the crystal of a dream, + We saw the greasy hempen rope + Hooked to the blackened beam, + And heard the prayer the hangman's snare + Strangled into a scream. + + And all the woe that moved him so + That he gave that bitter cry, + And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, + None knew so well as I: + For he who lives more lives than one + More deaths than one must die. + + +IV + + + There is no chapel on the day + On which they hang a man: + The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, + Or his face is far too wan, + Or there is that written in his eyes + Which none should look upon. + + So they kept us close till nigh on noon, + And then they rang the bell, + And the warders with their jingling keys + Opened each listening cell, + And down the iron stair we tramped, + Each from his separate Hell. + + Out into God's sweet air we went, + But not in wonted way, + For this man's face was white with fear, + And that man's face was grey, + And I never saw sad men who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw sad men who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + We prisoners called the sky, + And at every happy cloud that passed + In such strange freedom by. + + But there were those amongst us all + Who walked with downcast head, + And knew that, had each got his due, + They should have died instead: + He had but killed a thing that lived, + Whilst they had killed the dead. + + For he who sins a second time + Wakes a dead soul to pain, + And draws it from its spotted shroud, + And makes it bleed again, + And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, + And makes it bleed in vain! + + * * * * * + + Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb + With crooked arrows starred, + Silently we went round and round + The slippery asphalte yard; + Silently we went round and round, + And no man spoke a word. + + Silently we went round and round, + And through each hollow mind + The Memory of dreadful things + Rushed like a dreadful wind, + And Horror stalked before each man, + And Terror crept behind. + + * * * * * + + The warders strutted up and down, + And watched their herd of brutes, + Their uniforms were spick and span, + And they wore their Sunday suits, + But we knew the work they had been at, + By the quicklime on their boots. + + For where a grave had opened wide, + There was no grave at all: + Only a stretch of mud and sand + By the hideous prison-wall, + And a little heap of burning lime, + That the man should have his pall. + + For he has a pall, this wretched man, + Such as few men can claim: + Deep down below a prison-yard, + Naked for greater shame, + He lies, with fetters on each foot, + Wrapt in a sheet of flame! + + And all the while the burning lime + Eats flesh and bone away, + It eats the brittle bone by night, + And the soft flesh by day, + It eats the flesh and bone by turns, + But it eats the heart alway. + + * * * * + + For three long years they will not sow + Or root or seedling there: + For three long years the unblessed spot + Will sterile be and bare, + And look upon the wondering sky + With unreproachful stare. + + They think a murderer's heart would taint + Each simple seed they sow. + It is not true! God's kindly earth + Is kindlier than men know, + And the red rose would but blow more red, + The white rose whiter blow. + + Out of his mouth a red, red rose! + Out of his heart a white! + For who can say by what strange way, + Christ brings His will to light, + Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore + Bloomed in the great Pope's sight? + + But neither milk-white rose nor red + May bloom in prison-air; + The shard, the pebble, and the flint, + Are what they give us there: + For flowers have been known to heal + A common man's despair. + + So never will wine-red rose or white, + Petal by petal, fall + On that stretch of mud and sand that lies + By the hideous prison-wall, + To tell the men who tramp the yard + That God's Son died for all. + + Yet though the hideous prison-wall + Still hems him round and round, + And a spirit may not walk by night + That is with fetters bound, + And a spirit may but weep that lies + In such unholy ground. + + He is at peace-this wretched man-- + At peace, or will be soon: + There is no thing to make him mad, + Nor does Terror walk at noon, + For the lampless Earth in which he lies + Has neither Sun nor Moon. + + They hanged him as a beast is hanged: + They did not even toll + A requiem that might have brought + Rest to his startled soul, + But hurriedly they took him out, + And hid him in a hole. + + The warders stripped him of his clothes, + And gave him to the flies: + They mocked the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes: + And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud + In which the convict lies. + + The Chaplain would not kneel to pray + By his dishonoured grave: + Nor mark it with that blessed Cross + That Christ for sinners gave, + Because the man was one of those + Whom Christ came down to save. + + Yet all is well; he has but passed + To Life's appointed bourne: + And alien tears will fill for him + Pity's long-broken urn, + For his mourners will be outcast men, + And outcasts always mourn. + + +V + + + I know not whether Laws be right, + Or whether Laws be wrong; + All that we know who lie in gaol + Is that the wall is strong; + And that each day is like a year, + A year whose days are long. + + But this I know, that every Law + That men have made for Man, + Since first Man took his brother's life, + And the sad world began, + But straws the wheat and saves the chaff + With a most evil fan. + + This too I know--and wise it were + If each could know the same-- + That every prison that men build + Is built with bricks of shame, + And bound with bars lest Christ should see + How men their brothers maim. + + With bars they blur the gracious moon, + And blind the goodly sun: + And they do well to hide their Hell, + For in it things are done + That Son of God nor son of Man + Ever should look upon! + + * * * * * + + The vilest deeds like poison weeds, + Bloom well in prison-air; + It is only what is good in Man + That wastes and withers there: + Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, + And the Warder is Despair. + + For they starve the little frightened child + Till it weeps both night and day: + And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, + And gibe the old and grey, + And some grow mad, and all grow bad, + And none a word may say. + + Each narrow cell in which we dwell + Is a foul and dark latrine, + And the fetid breath of living Death + Chokes up each grated screen, + And all, but Lust, is turned to dust + In humanity's machine. + + The brackish water that we drink + Creeps with a loathsome slime, + And the bitter bread they weigh in scales + Is full of chalk and lime, + And Sleep will not lie down, but walks + Wild-eyed, and cries to Time. + + * * * * * + + But though lean Hunger and green Thirst + Like asp with adder fight, + We have little care of prison fare, + For what chills and kills outright + Is that every stone one lifts by day + Becomes one's heart by night. + + With midnight always in one's heart, + And twilight in one's cell, + We turn the crank, or tear the rope, + Each in his separate Hell, + And the silence is more awful far + Than the sound of a brazen bell. + + And never a human voice comes near + To speak a gentle word: + And the eye that watches through the door + Is pitiless and hard: + And by all forgot, we rot and rot, + With soul and body marred. + + And thus we rust Life's iron chain + Degraded and alone: + And some men curse and some men weep, + And some men make no moan: + But God's eternal Laws are kind + And break the heart of stone. + + And every human heart that breaks, + In prison-cell or yard, + Is as that broken box that gave + Its treasure to the Lord, + And filled the unclean leper's house + With the scent of costliest nard. + + Ah! happy they whose hearts can break + And peace of pardon win! + How else man may make straight his plan + And cleanse his soul from Sin? + How else but through a broken heart + May Lord Christ enter in? + + * * * * * + + And he of the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes, + Waits for the holy hands that took + The Thief to Paradise; + And a broken and a contrite heart + The Lord will not despise. + + The man in red who reads the Law + Gave him three weeks of life, + Three little weeks in which to heal His soul of his soul's strife, + And cleanse from every blot of blood + The hand that held the knife. + + And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, + The hand that held the steel: + For only blood can wipe out blood, + And only tears can heal: + And the crimson stain that was of Cain + Became Christ's snow-white seal. + + +VI + + + In Reading gaol by Reading town + There is a pit of shame, + And in it lies a wretched man + Eaten by teeth of flame, + In a burning winding-sheet he lies, + And his grave has got no name. + + And there, till Christ call forth the dead, + In silence let him lie: + No need to waste the foolish tear, + Or heave the windy sigh: + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + And all men kill the thing they love, + By all let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word, + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + + + +APPENDIX + +_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume I._ + +THE FROLICKSOME DUKE + +Printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection. + + +KING ESTMERE + +This ballad is given from two versions, one in the Percy folio +manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. The original version was +probably written at the end of the fifteenth century. + + +ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE + +One of the earliest known ballads about Robin Hood--from the Percy folio +manuscript. + + +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID + +This ballad is printed from Richard Johnson's _Crown Garland of +Goulden Roses,_ 1612. + + +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY + +This ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient +ballads found throughout the plays of Shakespeare, which Thomas Percy +formed into one. + + +SIR ALDINGAR + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas +added by Thomas Percy to complete the story. + + +EDOM O'GORDON + +A Scottish ballad--this version was printed at Glasgow in 1755 by Robert +and Andrew Foulis. It has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered +from a fragment of the same ballad, from the Percy folio manuscript. + + +THE BALLAD OF CHEVY CHACE + +From the Percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed +in black-letter. Written about the time of Elizabeth. + + +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE + +Given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the +Percy folio manuscript. + + +THE CHILD OF ELLE + +Partly from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas +by Percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated. + + +KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAM WORTH + +The text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. One +in the Bodleian Library, printed at London by John Danter in 1596. The +other copy, without date, is from the Pepys Collection. + + +SIR PATRICK SPENS + +Printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland. It is +possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact. + + +EDWARD, EDWARD + +An old Scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from +Scotland. + + +KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS + +Version from an old copy in the _Golden Garland,_ black-letter, +entitled _A lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his Three +Daughters._ + + +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN + +This ballad is said to have been written by King James V of Scotland. + + + +_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume II._ + + +THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + +Printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections. + + +KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY + +This ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of James I from one +much older, entitled _King John and the Bishop of Canterbury._ The +version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy. + + +BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY + +Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled +_Barbara Alien's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy._ + + +FAIR ROSAMOND + +The version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in +black-letter: two of them in the Pepys' Library. It is by Thomas Delone. +First printed in 1612. + + +THE BOY AND THE MANTLE + +This is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad. + + +THE HEIR OF LINNE + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas +supplied by Thomas Percy. + + +SIR ANDREW BARTON + +This ballad is from the Percy folio manuscript with additions and +amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection. +It was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century. + + +THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and +alterations from two ancient printed copies. + + +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY + +Given from an old black-letter copy. + + +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE + +The version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the +Percy folio manuscript. + + +GIL MORRICE + +The version of this ballad given here was printed at Glasgow in 1755. +Since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added +to the original ballad. + + +CHILD WATERS + +From the Percy folio manuscript, with corrections. + + +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON + +From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection. + + +THE LYE + +By Sir Walter Raleigh. This poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled +_Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books ... +the 4th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme +more pleasing to the reader._ Lond. 1621. + + + +_From "English and Scottish Ballads."_ + + +MAY COLLIN + +From a manuscript at Abbotsford in the Sir Walter Scott Collection, +_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy._ + + +THOMAS THE RHYMER + +_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,_ No. 97, +Abbotsford. From the Sir Walter Scott Collection. Communicated to Sir +Walter by Mrs. Christiana Greenwood, London, May 27th, 1806. + + +YOUNG BEICHAN + +Taken from the Jamieson-Brown manuscript, 1783. + + +CLERK COLVILL + +From a transcript of No. 13 of William Tytler's Brown manuscript. + + +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER + +From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland,_ 1828. + + +HYND HORN + +From Motherwell's manuscript, 1825 and after. + + +THE THREE RAVENS + +_Melismate. Musicall Phansies. Fitting the Court, Cittie and Country +Humours._ London, 1611. (T. Ravenscroft.) + + +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + +Printed from _Ministrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 1802. + + * * * * * + +MANDALAY + +By Rudyard Kipling. + + +JOHN BROWN'S BODY + + +IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY + +By Jack Judge and Harry Williams. + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + +By Oscar Wilde. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS *** + +***** This file should be named 7535-8.txt or 7535-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/5/3/7535/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/7535-8.zip b/old/7535-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2840007 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7535-8.zip diff --git a/old/7535.txt b/old/7535.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..66eaffd --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7535.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8756 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, 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: Book of Old Ballads + +Author: Various + +Editor: Beverly Nichols + +Posting Date: April 29, 2014 [EBook #7535] +Release Date: February, 2005 +First Posted: May 15, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + +A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS + + +Selected and with an Introduction + +by + +BEVERLEY NICHOLS + + + + +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 HEIR OF LINNE +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID +SIR ANDREW BARTON +MAY COLLIN +THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN +THOMAS THE RHYMER +YOUNG BEICHAN +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY +CLERK COLVILL +SIR ALDINGAR +EDOM O' GORDON +CHEVY CHACE +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE +GIL MORRICE +THE CHILD OF ELLE +CHILD WATERS +KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH +SIR PATRICK SPENS +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER +EDWARD, EDWARD +KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS +HYND HORN +JOHN BROWN'S BODY +TIPPERARY +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON +THE THREE RAVENS +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL +THE LYE +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + +_The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix at the end +of this book._ + + + + +LIST OF COLOUR PLATES + + +HYND HORN +KING ESTMERE +BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY +FAIR ROSAMOND +THE BOY AND THE MANTLE +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID +MAY COLLIN +THOMAS THE RHYMER +YOUNG BEICHAN +CLERK COLVILL +GIL MORRICE +CHILD WATERS +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON +THE THREE RAVENS +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + + + + + +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. Coue "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. Coue'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. + + + + +[Illustration] + +MANDALAY + + + 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! + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE FROLICKSOME DUKE + +or + +THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE + + + 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] + + +[Illustration] + +THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + + + 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 daughter, + 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 + + + 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, brother, + 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 England, + Where we might find a messenger + Betwixt us towe to sende. + + Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, brother, + 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 Adland + 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 finger + 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 Estmere, + 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 kempes 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 kempes 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 ladye. + + 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 gramarye, + 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 harper, + That ever tooke harpe in hand; + And I wil be the best singer, + That ever sung in this lande. + + Itt shal be written on our forheads + All and in grammarye, + That we towe are the boldest men, + That are in all Christentye. + + 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 porter + Rearing himselfe thereatt. + + Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud porter; + Sayes, Christ thee save and see. + Nowe you be welcome, sayd the porter, + 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 gramarye, + 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 Gramarye, + 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] + + + + +[Illustration] + +KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY + + + 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 Canterburye; + 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 bodie. + + 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 Canterbury; + 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 + + + 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. + +[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 + + + 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 fellowes + 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 outlawe, 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 garlande: + 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 Barnesdale, + 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: Boy and 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." + + + + +THE HEIR OF LINNE + +PART THE FIRST + + + Lithe and listen, gentlemen, + To sing a song I will beginne: + It is of a lord of faire Scotland, + Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. + + His father was a right good lord, + His mother a lady of high degree; + But they, alas! were dead, him froe, + And he lov'd keeping companie. + + To spend the daye with merry cheare, + To drinke and revell every night, + To card and dice from eve to morne, + It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. + + To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, + To alwaye spend and never spare, + I wott, an' it were the king himselfe, + Of gold and fee he mote be bare. + + Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne + Till all his gold is gone and spent; + And he maun sell his landes so broad, + His house, and landes, and all his rent. + + His father had a keen stewarde, + And John o' the Scales was called hee: + But John is become a gentel-man, + And John has gott both gold and fee. + + Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne, + Let nought disturb thy merry cheere; + Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, + Good store of gold Ile give thee heere, + + My gold is gone, my money is spent; + My lande nowe take it unto thee: + Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, + And thine for aye my lande shall bee. + + Then John he did him to record draw, + And John he cast him a gods-pennie; + But for every pounde that John agreed, + The lande, I wis, was well worth three. + + He told him the gold upon the borde, + He was right glad his land to winne; + The gold is thine, the land is mine, + And now Ile be the lord of Linne. + + Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, + Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, + All but a poore and lonesome lodge, + That stood far off in a lonely glenne. + + For soe he to his father hight. + My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee, + Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, + And thou wilt spend thy gold so free: + + But sweare me nowe upon the roode, + That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; + For when all the world doth frown on thee, + Thou there shalt find a faithful friend. + + The heire of Linne is full of golde: + And come with me, my friends, sayd hee, + Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, + And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. + + They ranted, drank, and merry made, + Till all his gold it waxed thinne; + And then his friendes they slunk away; + They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. + + He had never a penny in his purse, + Never a penny left but three, + And one was brass, another was lead, + And another it was white money. + + Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, + Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, + For when I was the lord of Linne, + I never wanted gold nor fee. + + But many a trustye friend have I, + And why shold I feel dole or care? + Ile borrow of them all by turnes, + Soe need I not be never bare. + + But one, I wis, was not at home; + Another had payd his gold away; + Another call'd him thriftless loone, + And bade him sharpely wend his way. + + Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, + Now well-aday, and woe is me; + For when I had my landes so broad, + On me they liv'd right merrilee. + + To beg my bread from door to door + I wis, it were a brenning shame: + To rob and steale it were a sinne: + To worke my limbs I cannot frame. + + Now Ile away to lonesome lodge, + For there my father bade me wend; + When all the world should frown on mee + I there shold find a trusty friend. + + +PART THE SECOND + + + Away then hyed the heire of Linne + Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne, + Untill he came to lonesome lodge, + That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. + + He looked up, he looked downe, + In hope some comfort for to winne: + But bare and lothly were the walles. + Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne. + + The little windowe dim and darke + Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; + No shimmering sunn here ever shone; + No halesome breeze here ever blew. + + No chair, ne table he mote spye, + No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, + Nought save a rope with renning noose, + That dangling hung up o'er his head. + + And over it in broad letters, + These words were written so plain to see: + "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, + And brought thyselfe to penurie? + + "All this my boding mind misgave, + I therefore left this trusty friend: + Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, + And all thy shame and sorrows end." + + Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, + Sorely shent was the heire of Linne, + His heart, I wis, was near to brast With guilt and sorrowe, shame +and sinne. + + Never a word spake the heire of Linne, + Never a word he spake but three: + "This is a trusty friend indeed, + And is right welcome unto mee." + + Then round his necke the corde he drewe, + And sprung aloft with his bodie: + When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, + And to the ground came tumbling hee. + + Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, + Ne knewe if he were live or dead: + At length he looked, and saw a bille, + And in it a key of gold so redd. + + He took the bill, and lookt it on, + Strait good comfort found he there: + It told him of a hole in the wall, + In which there stood three chests in-fere. + + Two were full of the beaten golde, + The third was full of white money; + And over them in broad letters + These words were written so plaine to see: + + "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere; + Amend thy life and follies past; + For but thou amend thee of thy life, + That rope must be thy end at last." + + And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne; + And let it bee, but if I amend: + For here I will make mine avow, + This reade shall guide me to the end. + + Away then went with a merry cheare, + Away then went the heire of Linne; + I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, + Till John o' the Scales house he did winne. + + And when he came to John o' the Scales, + Upp at the speere then looked hee; + There sate three lords upon a rowe, + Were drinking of the wine so free. + + And John himself sate at the bord-head, + Because now lord of Linne was hee. + I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales, + One forty pence for to lend mee. + + Away, away, thou thriftless loone; + Away, away, this may not bee: + For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, + If ever I trust thee one pennie. + + Then bespake the heire of Linne, + To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: + Madame, some almes on me bestowe, + I pray for sweet Saint Charitie. + + Away, away, thou thriftless loone, + I swear thou gettest no almes of mee; + For if we shold hang any losel heere, + The first we wold begin with thee. + + Then bespake a good fellowe, + Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord + Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne; + Some time thou wast a well good lord; + + Some time a good fellow thou hast been, + And sparedst not thy gold nor fee; + Therefore He lend thee forty pence, + And other forty if need bee. + + And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, + To let him sit in thy companie: + For well I wot thou hadst his land, + And a good bargain it was to thee. + + Up then spake him John o' the Scales, + All wood he answer'd him againe: + Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd, + But I did lose by that bargaine. + + And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, + Before these lords so faire and free, + Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, + By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee. + + I draw you to record, lords, he said. + With that he cast him a gods pennie: + Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne, + And here, good John, is thy money. + + And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, + And layd them down upon the bord: + All woe begone was John o' the Scales, + Soe shent he cold say never a word. + + He told him forth the good red gold, + He told it forth with mickle dinne. + The gold is thine, the land is mine, + And now Ime againe the lord of Linne. + + Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellowe, + Forty pence thou didst lend me: + Now I am againe the lord of Linne, + And forty pounds I will give thee. + + He make the keeper of my forrest, + Both of the wild deere and the tame; + For but I reward thy bounteous heart, + I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame. + + Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales: + Now welladay! and woe is my life! + Yesterday I was lady of Linne, + Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife. + + Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne; + Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee: + Christs curse light on me, if ever again + I bring my lands in jeopardy. + + + + +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID + + + I Read that once in Affrica + A princely wight did raine, + Who had to name Cophetua, + As poets they did faine: + From natures lawes he did decline, + For sure he was not of my mind. + He cared not for women-kinde, + But did them all disdaine. + But, marke, what hapened on a day, + As he out of his window lay, + He saw a beggar all in gray, + The which did cause his paine. + + The blinded boy, that shootes so trim, + From heaven downe did hie; + He drew a dart and shot at him, + In place where he did lye: + Which soone did pierse him to the quicke. + And when he felt the arrow pricke, + Which in his tender heart did sticke, + He looketh as he would dye. + What sudden chance is this, quoth he, + That I to love must subject be, + Which never thereto would agree, + But still did it defie? + + Then from the window he did come, + And laid him on his bed, + A thousand heapes of care did runne + Within his troubled head: + For now he meanes to crave her love, + And now he seekes which way to proove + How he his fancie might remoove, + And not this beggar wed. + But Cupid had him so in snare, + That this poor begger must prepare + A salve to cure him of his care, + Or els he would be dead. + + And, as he musing thus did lye, + He thought for to devise + How he might have her companye, + That so did 'maze his eyes. + In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life; + For surely thou shalt be my wife, + Or else this hand with bloody knife + The Gods shall sure suffice. + Then from his bed he soon arose, + And to his pallace gate he goes; + Full little then this begger knowes + When she the king espies. + + The Gods preserve your majesty, + The beggers all gan cry: + Vouchsafe to give your charity + Our childrens food to buy. + The king to them his pursse did cast, + And they to part it made great haste; + This silly woman was the last + That after them did hye. + The king he cal'd her back againe, + And unto her he gave his chaine; + And said, With us you shal remaine + Till such time as we dye: + + For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife, + And honoured for my queene; + With thee I meane to lead my life, + As shortly shall be seene: + Our wedding shall appointed be, + And every thing in its degree: + Come on, quoth he, and follow me, + Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. + What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he. + Penelophon, O king, quoth she; + With that she made a lowe courtsey; + A trim one as I weene. + + Thus hand in hand along they walke + Unto the king's pallace: + The king with curteous comly talke + This beggar doth imbrace: + The begger blusheth scarlet red, + And straight againe as pale as lead, + But not a word at all she said, + She was in such amaze. + At last she spake with trembling voyce, + And said, O king, I doe rejoyce + That you wil take me from your choyce, + And my degree's so base. + + And when the wedding day was come, + The king commanded strait + The noblemen both all and some + Upon the queene to wait. + And she behaved herself that day, + As if she had never walkt the way; + She had forgot her gown of gray, + Which she did weare of late. + The proverbe old is come to passe, + The priest, when he begins his masse, + Forgets that ever clerke he was; + He knowth not his estate. + + Here you may read, Cophetua, + Though long time fancie-fed, + Compelled by the blinded boy + The begger for to wed: + He that did lovers lookes disdaine, + To do the same was glad and faine, + Or else he would himselfe have slaine, + In storie, as we read. + Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, + But pitty now thy servant heere, + Least that it hap to thee this yeare, + As to that king it did. + + And thus they led a quiet life + Duringe their princely raigne; + And in a tombe were buried both, + As writers sheweth plaine. + The lords they tooke it grievously, + The ladies tooke it heavily, + The commons cryed pitiously, + Their death to them was paine, + Their fame did sound so passingly, + That it did pierce the starry sky, + And throughout all the world did flye + To every princes realme. + +[Illustration: Decorative ] + + + + +[Illustration] + +SIR ANDREW BARTON + + + 'When Flora with her fragrant flowers + Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, + And Neptune with his daintye showers + Came to present the monthe of Maye;' + King Henrye rode to take the ayre, + Over the river of Thames past hee; + When eighty merchants of London came, + And downe they knelt upon their knee. + + "O yee are welcome, rich merchants; + Good saylors, welcome unto mee." + They swore by the rood, they were saylors good, + But rich merchants they cold not bee: + "To France nor Flanders dare we pass: + Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare; + And all for a rover that lyes on the seas, + Who robbs us of our merchant ware." + + King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde, + And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might, + "I thought he had not beene in the world, + Durst have wrought England such unright." + The merchants sighed, and said, alas! + And thus they did their answer frame, + He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas, + And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name. + + The king lookt over his left shoulder, + And an angrye look then looked hee: + "Have I never a lorde in all my realme, + Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?" + Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes; + Yea, that dare I with heart and hand; + If it please your grace to give me leave, + Myselfe wil be the only man. + + Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed: + Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare. + "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail, + Or before my prince I will never appeare." + Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, + And chuse them over my realme so free; + Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, + To guide the great shipp on the sea. + + The first man, that Lord Howard chose, + Was the ablest gunner in all the realm, + Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten; + Good Peter Simon was his name. + Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea, + To bring home a traytor live or dead: + Before all others I have chosen thee; + Of a hundred gunners to be the head. + + If you, my lord, have chosen mee + Of a hundred gunners to be the head, + Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, + If I misse my marke one shilling bread. + My lord then chose a boweman rare, + "Whose active hands had gained fame." + In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne, + And William Horseley was his name. + + Horseley, said he, I must with speede + Go seeke a traytor on the sea, + And now of a hundred bowemen brave + To be the head I have chosen thee. + If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee + Of a hundred bowemen to be the head + On your main-mast He hanged bee, + If I miss twelvescore one penny bread. + + With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold, + This noble Howard is gone to the sea; + With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, + Out at Thames mouth sayled he. + And days he scant had sayled three, + Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand, + But there he mett with a noble shipp, + And stoutely made itt stay and stand. + + Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said, + Now who thou art, and what's thy name; + And shewe me where they dwelling is: + And whither bound, and whence thou came. + My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee + With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; + I and my shipp doe both belong + To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne. + + Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt, + As thou hast sayled by daye and by night, + Of a Scottish rover on the seas; + Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight! + Then ever he sighed, and said alas! + With a grieved mind, and well away! + But over-well I knowe that wight, + I was his prisoner yesterday. + + As I was sayling uppon the sea, + A Burdeaux voyage for to fare; + To his hach-borde he clasped me, + And robd me of all my merchant ware: + And mickle debts, God wot, I owe, + And every man will have his owne; + And I am nowe to London bounde, + Of our gracious king to beg a boone. + + That shall not need, Lord Howard sais; + Lett me but once that robber see, + For every penny tane thee froe + It shall be doubled shillings three. + Nowe God forefend, the merchant said, + That you should seek soe far amisse! + God keepe you out of that traitors hands! + Full litle ye wott what a man hee is. + + Hee is brasse within, and steele without, + With beames on his topcastle stronge; + And eighteen pieces of ordinance + He carries on each side along: + And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight, + St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide; + His pinnace beareth ninescore men, + And fifteen canons on each side. + + Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one; + I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall; + He wold overcome them everye one, + If once his beames they doe downe fall. + This is cold comfort, sais my lord, + To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: + Yet He bring him and his ship to shore, + Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee. + + + Then a noble gunner you must have, + And he must aim well with his ee, + And sinke his pinnace into the sea, + Or else hee never orecome will bee: + And if you chance his shipp to borde, + This counsel I must give withall, + Let no man to his topcastle goe + To strive to let his beams downe fall. + + + And seven pieces of ordinance, + I pray your honour lend to mee, + On each side of my shipp along, + And I will lead you on the sea. + A glasse He sett, that may be seene + Whether you sail by day or night; + And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke + You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton knight. + + + THE SECOND PART + + + The merchant sett my lorde a glasse + Soe well apparent in his sight, + And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke, + He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight. + His hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold, + Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee: + Nowe by my faith, Lord Howarde sais, + This is a gallant sight to see. + + Take in your ancyents, standards eke, + So close that no man may them see; + And put me forth a white willowe wand, + As merchants use to sayle the sea. + But they stirred neither top, nor mast; + Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by. + What English churles are yonder, he sayd, + That can soe little curtesye? + + Now by the roode, three yeares and more + I have beene admirall over the sea; + And never an English nor Portingall + Without my leave can passe this way. + Then called he forth his stout pinnace; + "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee: + I sweare by the masse, yon English churles + Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree." + + With that the pinnace itt shot off, + Full well Lord Howard might it ken; + For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast, + And killed fourteen of his men. + Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord, + Looke that thy word be true, thou said; + For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang, + If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread. + + Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold; + His ordinance he laid right lowe; + He put in chaine full nine yardes long, + With other great shott lesse, and moe; + And he lette goe his great gunnes shott: + Soe well he settled itt with his ee, + The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe, + He see his pinnace sunke in the sea. + + And when he saw his pinnace sunke, + Lord, how his heart with rage did swell! + "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon; + Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell." + When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose, + Within his heart he was full faine: + "Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes, + Sound all your trumpetts out amaine." + + Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais, + Weale howsoever this geere will sway; + Itt is my Lord Admirall of England, + Is come to seeke mee on the sea. + Simon had a sonne, who shott right well, + That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare; + In att his decke he gave a shott, + Killed threescore of his men of warre. + + Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott + Came bravely on the other side, + Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree, + And killed fourscore men beside. + Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed, + What may a man now thinke, or say? + Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee, + He was my prisoner yesterday. + + Come hither to me, thou Gordon good, + That aye wast readye att my call: + I will give thee three hundred markes, + If thou wilt let my beames downe fall. + Lord Howard hee then calld in haste, + "Horseley see thou be true in stead; + For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang, + If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread." + + Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree, + He swarved it with might and maine; + But Horseley with a bearing arrowe, + Stroke the Gordon through the braine; + And he fell unto the haches again, + And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed: + Then word went through Sir Andrews men, + How that the Gordon hee was dead. + + Come hither to mee, James Hambilton, + Thou art my only sisters sonne, + If thou wilt let my beames downe fall + Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne. + With that he swarved the maine-mast tree, + He swarved it with nimble art; + But Horseley with a broad arrowe + Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart: + + And downe he fell upon the deck, + That with his blood did streame amaine: + Then every Scott cryed, Well-away! + Alas! a comelye youth is slaine. + All woe begone was Sir Andrew then, + With griefe and rage his heart did swell: + "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe, + For I will to the topcastle mysell." + + "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe; + That gilded is with gold soe cleare: + God be with my brother John of Barton! + Against the Portingalls hee it ware; + And when he had on this armour of proofe, + He was a gallant sight to see: + Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, + My deere brother, could cope with thee." + + Come hither Horseley, sayes my lord, + And looke your shaft that itt goe right, + Shoot a good shoote in time of need, + And for it thou shalt be made a knight. + Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then, + Your honour shall see, with might and maine; + But if I were hanged at your maine-mast, + I have now left but arrowes twaine. + + Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree, + With right good will he swarved then: + Upon his breast did Horseley hitt, + But the arrow bounded back agen. + Then Horseley spyed a privye place + With a perfect eye in a secrette part; + Under the spole of his right arme + He smote Sir Andrew to the heart. + + "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes, + "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine; + He but lye downe and bleede a while, + And then He rise and fight againe. + Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes, + "And never flinch before the foe; + And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse + Until you heare my whistle blowe." + + They never heard his whistle blow-- + Which made their hearts waxe sore adread: + Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord, + For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead. + They boarded then his noble shipp, + They boarded it with might and maine; + Eighteen score Scots alive they found, + The rest were either maimed or slaine. + + Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand, + And off he smote Sir Andrewes head, + "I must have left England many a daye, + If thou wert alive as thou art dead." + He caused his body to be cast + Over the hatchboard into the sea, + And about his middle three hundred crownes: + "Wherever thou land this will bury thee." + + Thus from the warres Lord Howard came, + And backe he sayled ore the maine, + With mickle joy and triumphing + Into Thames mouth he came againe. + Lord Howard then a letter wrote, + And sealed it with scale and ring; + "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace, + As never did subject to a king: + + "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee; + A braver shipp was never none: + Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr, + Before in England was but one." + King Henryes grace with royall cheere + Welcomed the noble Howard home, + And where, said he, is this rover stout, + That I myselfe may give the doome? + + "The rover, he is safe, my liege, + Full many a fadom in the sea; + If he were alive as he is dead, + I must have left England many a day: + And your grace may thank four men i' the ship + For the victory wee have wonne, + These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt, + And Peter Simon, and his sonne." + + To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd, + In lieu of what was from thee tane, + A noble a day now thou shalt have, + Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne. + And Horseley thou shalt be a knight, + And lands and livings shalt have store; + Howard shall be erle Surrye hight, + As Howards erst have beene before. + + Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old, + I will maintaine thee and thy sonne: + And the men shall have five hundred markes + For the good service they have done. + Then in came the queene with ladyes fair + To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight: + They weend that hee were brought on shore, + And thought to have seen a gallant sight. + + But when they see his deadlye face, + And eyes soe hollow in his head, + I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes, + This man were alive as hee is dead: + Yett for the manfull part hee playd, + Which fought soe well with heart and hand, + His men shall have twelvepence a day, + Till they come to my brother kings high land. + + + + +MAY COLLIN + + + May Collin ... + ... was her father's heir, + And she fell in love with a false priest, + And she rued it ever mair. + + He followd her butt, he followd her benn, + He followd her through the hall, + Till she had neither tongue nor teeth + Nor lips to say him naw. + + "We'll take the steed out where he is, + The gold where eer it be, + And we'll away to some unco land, + And married we shall be." + + They had not riden a mile, a mile, + A mile but barely three, + Till they came to a rank river, + Was raging like the sea. + + "Light off, light off now, May Collin, + It's here that you must die; + Here I have drownd seven king's daughters, + The eight now you must be. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your gown that's of the green; + For it's oer good and oer costly + To rot in the sea-stream. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your coat that's of the black; + For it's oer good and oer costly + To rot in the sea-wreck. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your stays that are well laced; + For thei'r oer good and costly + In the sea's ground to waste. + + "Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,] + Your sark that's of the holland; + For [it's oer good and oer costly] + To rot in the sea-bottom." + + "Turn you about now, falsh Mess John, + To the green leaf of the tree; + It does not fit a mansworn man + A naked woman to see." + + He turnd him quickly round about, + To the green leaf of the tree; + She took him hastly in her arms + And flung him in the sea. + + "Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John, + My mallasin go with thee! + You thought to drown me naked and bare, + But take your cloaths with thee, + And if there be seven king's daughters there + Bear you them company" + + She lap on her milk steed + And fast she bent the way, + And she was at her father's yate + Three long hours or day. + + Up and speaks the wylie parrot, + So wylily and slee: + "Where is the man now, May Collin, + That gaed away wie thee?" + + "Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot, + And tell no tales of me, + And where I gave a pickle befor + It's now I'll give you three." + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN + + +PART THE FIRST + + + Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, + He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; + And many a gallant brave suiter had shee, + For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee. + + And though shee was of favour most faire, + Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre, + Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, + Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee. + + Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say, + Good father, and mother, let me goe away + To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee. + This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee. + + Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright, + All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night + From father and mother alone parted shee; + Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee. + + Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow; + Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe: + With teares shee lamented her hard destinie, + So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee. + + Shee kept on her journey untill it was day, + And went unto Rumford along the hye way; + Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee; + Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee. + + Shee had not beene there a month to an end, + But master and mistress and all was her friend: + And every brave gallant, that once did her see, + Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee. + + Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, + And in their songs daylye her love was extold; + Her beawtye was blazed in every degree; + Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee. + + The young men of Rumford in her had their joy; + Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; + And at her commandment still wold they bee; + Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee. + + Foure suitors att once unto her did goe; + They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe; + I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee. + Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee. + + The first of them was a gallant young knight, + And he came unto her disguisde in the night; + The second a gentleman of good degree, + Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee. + + A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small, + He was the third suiter, and proper withall: + Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, + Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee. + + And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight, + Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight; + My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle, + That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee. + + The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee, + As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee: + My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee; + And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee. + + Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say, + Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay; + My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee, + And I will for ever love pretty Bessee. + + Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say, + My father and mother I meane to obey; + First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee, + And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee. + + To every one this answer shee made, + Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd, + This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; But where dwells thy father, +my prettye Besse? + + My father, shee said, is soone to be seene: + The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene, + That daylye sits begging for charitie, + He is the good father of pretty Bessee. + + His markes and his tokens are knowen very well; + He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell: + A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee, + Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee. + + Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee: + Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee: + I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree, + And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee! + + Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, + I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse, + And bewtye is bewtye in every degree; + Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee. + + With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe. + Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe; + A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, + Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee. + + But soone after this, by breake of the day, + The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away. + The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee, + Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee. + + As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene, + Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene; + And as the knight lighted most courteouslie, + They all fought against him for pretty Bessee. + + But rescew came speedilye over the plaine, + Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine. + This fray being ended, then straitway he see + His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee. + + Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore, + Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore: + Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, + Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle. + + And then, if my gold may better her birthe, + And equall the gold that you lay on the earth, + Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see + The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee. + + But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne, + The gold that you drop shall all be your owne. + With that they replyed, Contented bee wee. + Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee. + + With that an angell he cast on the ground, + And dropped in angels full three thousand pound; + And oftentime itt was proved most plaine, + For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne: + + Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt, + With gold it was covered every whitt. + The gentlemen then having dropt all their store, + Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more. + + Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright. + Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight; + And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe + A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne. + + The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene, + Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene: + And all those, that were her suitors before, + Their fleshe for very anger they tore. + + Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight, + And then made a ladye in others despite: + A fairer ladye there never was seene, + Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene. + + But of their sumptuous marriage and feast, + What brave lords and knights thither were prest, + The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight + With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight. + + +PART THE SECOND + + + Off a blind beggars daughter most bright, + That late was betrothed unto a younge knight; + All the discourse therof you did see; + But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee. + + Within a gorgeous palace most brave, + Adorned with all the cost they cold have, + This wedding was kept most sumptuouslie, + And all for the credit of pretty Bessee. + + All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete + Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; + Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, + Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee. + + This marriage through England was spread by report, + Soe that a great number therto did resort + Of nobles and gentles in every degree; + And all for the fame of prettye Bessee. + + To church then went this gallant younge knight; + His bride followed after, an angell most bright, + With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene + As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene. + + This marryage being solempnized then, + With musicke performed by the skilfullest men, + The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, + Each one admiring the beautiful bryde. + + Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, + To talke, and to reason a number begunn: + They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, + And what with his daughter he gave to the knight. + + Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee, + This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see." + My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, + He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. + + "The prayse of a woman in question to bringe + Before her own face, were a flattering thinge; + But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they, + "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye." + + They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, + But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; + A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee, + And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee. + + He had a daintye lute under his arme, + He touched the strings, which made such a charme, + Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee, + Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee. + + With that his lute he twanged straightway, + And thereon begann most sweetlye to play; + And after that lessons were playd two or three, + He strayn'd out this song most delicatelie. + + "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, + Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene: + A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, + And many one called her pretty Bessee. + + "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land, + But begged for a penny all day with his hand; + And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three, + And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee. + + "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine, + Her father is ready, with might and with maine, + To proove shee is come of noble degree: + Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee." + + With that the lords and the companye round + With harty laughter were readye to swound; + Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see, + The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee. + + On this the bride all blushing did rise, + The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes, + O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee, + That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee. + + If this be thy father, the nobles did say, + Well may he be proud of this happy day; + Yett by his countenance well may wee see, + His birth and his fortune did never agree: + + And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray, + (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say) + Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee; + For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee. + + "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, + One song more to sing, and then I have done; + And if that itt may not winn good report, + Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport. + + "Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee; + Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, + Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, + Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race. + + "When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose, + Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose; + A leader of courage undaunted was hee, + And oft-times he made their enemyes flee. + + "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine + The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine; + Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, + Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee! + + "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde, + His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side, + Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight! + A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight. + + "Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye, + Till evening drewe on of the following daye, + When by a yong ladye discovered was hee; + And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee! + + "A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte + To search for her father, who fell in the fight, + And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye, + Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye. + + "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, + While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine + At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee, + And made him glad father of prettye Bessee. + + "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, + We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; + Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee: + All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee. + + "And here have we lived in fortunes despite, + Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: + Full forty winters thus have I beene + A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene. + + "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song + Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong: + And thus have you learned a secrette from mee, + That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee." + + Now when the faire companye everye one, + Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne, + They all were amazed, as well they might bee, + Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee. + + With that the faire bride they all did embrace, + Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race, + Thy father likewise is of noble degree, + And thou art well worthy a lady to bee. + + Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, + A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte, + In joy and felicitie long lived hee, + All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee. + + +[Illustration: Hand dropping gold coins] + + + + + +THOMAS THE RHYMER + + + Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank, + A spying ferlies wi his eee, + And he did spy a lady gay, + Come riding down by the lang lee. + + Her steed was o the dapple grey, + And at its mane there hung bells nine; + He thought he heard that lady say, + "They gowden bells sall a' be thine." + + Her mantle was o velvet green, + And a' set round wi jewels fine; + Her hawk and hounds were at her side, + And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine. + + Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap, + For to salute this gay lady: + "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn, + And ay weel met ye save and see!" + + "I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas; + I never carried my head sae hee; + For I am but a lady gay, + Come out to hunt in my follee. + + "Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas, + Ye mauna miss my fair bodee; + Then ye may een gang hame and tell + That ye've lain wi a gay ladee." + + "O gin I loe a lady fair, + Nae ill tales o her wad I tell, + And it's wi thee I fain wad gae, + Tho it were een to heavn or hell." + + "Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said, + "Then harp and carp alang wi me; + But it will be seven years and a day + Till ye win back to yere ain countrie." + + The lady rade, True Thomas ran, + Until they cam to a water wan; + O it was night, and nae delight, + And Thomas wade aboon the knee. + + It was dark night, and nae starn-light, + And on they waded lang days three, + And they heard the roaring o a flood, + And Thomas a waefou man was he. + + Then they rade on, and farther on, + Untill they came to a garden green; + To pu an apple he put up his hand, + For the lack o food he was like to tyne. + + "O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried, + "And let that green flourishing be; + For it's the very fruit o hell, + Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie. + + "But look afore ye, True Thomas, + And I shall show ye ferlies three; + Yon is the gate leads to our land, + Where thou and I sae soon shall be. + + "And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas, + That lies out-owr yon lilly lee? + Weel is the man yon gate may gang, + For it leads him straight to the heavens hie. + + "But do you see yon road, Thomas, + That lies out-owr yon frosty fell? + Ill is the man yon gate may gang, + For it leads him straight to the pit o hell. + + "Now when ye come to our court, Thomas, + See that a weel-learned man ye be; + For they will ask ye, one and all, + But ye maun answer nane but me. + + "And when nae answer they obtain, + Then will they come and question me, + And I will answer them again + That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree. + + + * * * * * + + "Ilka seven years, Thomas, + We pay our teindings unto hell, + And ye're sae leesome and sae strang + That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell." + + + + +YOUNG BEICHAN + + + In London city was Bicham born, + He longd strange countries for to see, + But he was taen by a savage Moor, + Who handld him right cruely. + + For thro his shoulder he put a bore, + An thro the bore has pitten a tree, + An he's gard him draw the carts o wine, + Where horse and oxen had wont to be. + + He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep, + Where he coud neither hear nor see; + He's shut him up in a prison strong, + An he's handld him right cruely. + + O this Moor he had but ae daughter, + I wot her name was Shusy Pye; + She's doen her to the prison-house, + And she's calld Young Bicham one word + + "O hae ye ony lands or rents, + Or citys in your ain country, + Coud free you out of prison strong, + An coud mantain a lady free?" + + "O London city is my own, + An other citys twa or three, + Coud loose me out o prison strong, + An coud mantain a lady free." + + O she has bribed her father's men + Wi meikle goud and white money, + She's gotten the key o the prison doors, + An she has set Young Bicham free. + + She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread, + But an a flask o Spanish wine, + An she bad him mind on the ladie's love + That sae kindly freed him out o pine. + + "Go set your foot on good ship-board, + An haste you back to your ain country, + An before that seven years has an end, + Come back again, love, and marry me." + + It was long or seven years had an end + She longd fu sair her love to see; + She's set her foot on good ship-board, + And turnd her back on her ain country. + + She's saild up, so has she doun, + Till she came to the other side; + She's landed at Young Bicham's gates, + An I hop this day she sal be his bride. + + "Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she, + "Or is that noble prince within?" + "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride, + An monny a lord and lady wi him." + + "O has he taen a bonny bride, + An has he clean forgotten me!" + An sighing said that gay lady, + I wish I were in my ain country! + + But she's pitten her han in her pocket, + An gin the porter guineas three; + Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter, + An bid the bridegroom speak to me. + + O whan the porter came up the stair, + He's fa'n low down upon his knee: + "Won up, won up, ye proud porter, + An what makes a' this courtesy?" + + "O I've been porter at your gates + This mair nor seven years an three, + But there is a lady at them now + The like of whom I never did see. + + "For on every finger she has a ring, + An on the mid-finger she has three, + An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow + As woud buy an earldome o lan to me." + + Then up it started Young Bicham, + An sware so loud by Our Lady, + "It can be nane but Shusy Pye, + That has come oer the sea to me." + + O quickly ran he down the stair, + O fifteen steps he has made but three; + He's tane his bonny love in his arms, + An a wot he kissd her tenderly. + + "O hae you tane a bonny bride? + An hae you quite forsaken me? + An hae ye quite forgotten her + That gae you life an liberty? " + She's lookit oer her left shoulder + To hide the tears stood in her ee; + "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says, + "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee." + + "Take back your daughter, madam," he says, + "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi; + For I maun marry my first true love, + That's done and suffered so much for me." + + He's take his bonny love by the ban, + And led her to yon fountain stane; + He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye, + An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane. + + + + +[Illustration] + +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY + + + The fifteenth day of July, + With glistering spear and shield, + A famous fight in Flanders + Was foughten in the field: + The most couragious officers + Were English captains three; + But the bravest man in battel + Was brave Lord Willoughbey. + + The next was Captain Norris, + A valiant man was hee: + The other Captain Turner, + From field would never flee. + With fifteen hundred fighting men, + Alas! there were no more, + They fought with fourteen thousand then, + Upon the bloody shore. + + Stand to it, noble pikemen, + And look you round about: + And shoot you right, you bow-men, + And we will keep them out: + You musquet and calliver men, + Do you prove true to me, + I'le be the formost man in fight, + Says brave Lord Willoughbey. + + And then the bloody enemy + They fiercely did assail, + And fought it out most furiously, + Not doubting to prevail: + The wounded men on both sides fell + Most pitious for to see, + Yet nothing could the courage quell + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + + For seven hours to all mens view + This fight endured sore, + Until our men so feeble grew + That they could fight no more; + And then upon dead horses + Full savourly they eat, + And drank the puddle water, + They could no better get. + + When they had fed so freely, + They kneeled on the ground, + And praised God devoutly + For the favour they had found; + And beating up their colours, + The fight they did renew, + And turning tow'rds the Spaniard, + A thousand more they slew. + + The sharp steel-pointed arrows, + And bullets thick did fly, + Then did our valiant soldiers + Charge on most furiously; + Which made the Spaniards waver, + They thought it best to flee, + They fear'd the stout behaviour + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + + Then quoth the Spanish general, + Come let us march away, + I fear we shall be spoiled all + If here we longer stay; + For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey + With courage fierce and fell, + He will not give one inch of way + For all the devils in hell. + + And then the fearful enemy + Was quickly put to flight, + Our men persued couragiously, + And caught their forces quite; + But at last they gave a shout, + Which ecchoed through the sky, + God, and St. George for England! + The conquerors did cry. + + This news was brought to England + With all the speed might be, + And soon our gracious queen was told + Of this same victory. + O this is brave Lord Willoughbey, + My love that ever won, + Of all the lords of honour + 'Tis he great deeds hath done. + + To the souldiers that were maimed, + And wounded in the fray, + The queen allowed a pension + Of fifteen pence a day; + And from all costs and charges + She quit and set them free: + And this she did all for the sake + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + + Then courage, noble Englishmen, + And never be dismaid; + If that we be but one to ten, + We will not be afraid + To fight with foraign enemies, + And set our nation free. + And thus I end the bloody bout + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE + + + Will you hear a Spanish lady, + How shed wooed an English man? + Garments gay and rich as may be + Decked with jewels she had on. + Of a comely countenance and grace was she, + And by birth and parentage of high degree. + + As his prisoner there he kept her, + In his hands her life did lye! + Cupid's bands did tye them faster + By the liking of an eye. + In his courteous company was all her joy, + To favour him in any thing she was not coy. + + But at last there came commandment + For to set the ladies free, + With their jewels still adorned, + None to do them injury. + Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me; + O let me still sustain this kind captivity! + + Gallant captain, shew some pity + To a ladye in distresse; + Leave me not within this city, + For to dye in heavinesse: + Thou hast this present day my body free, + But my heart in prison still remains with thee. + + "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me, + Whom thou knowest thy country's foe? + Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee: + Serpents lie where flowers grow." + All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight, + God grant the same upon my head may fully light. + Blessed be the time and season, + That you came on Spanish ground; + If our foes you may be termed, + Gentle foes we have you found: + With our city, you have won our hearts eche one, + Then to your country bear away, that is your owne. + + "Rest you still, most gallant lady; + Rest you still, and weep no more; + Of fair lovers there is plenty, + Spain doth yield a wonderous store." + Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, + But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind. + + Leave me not unto a Spaniard, + You alone enjoy my heart: + I am lovely, young, and tender, + Love is likewise my desert: + Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; + The wife of every Englishman is counted blest. + "It wold be a shame, fair lady, + For to bear a woman hence; + English soldiers never carry + Any such without offence." + I'll quickly change myself, if it be so, + And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go. + + "I have neither gold nor silver + To maintain thee in this case, + And to travel is great charges, + As you know in every place." + My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own, + And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown. + + "On the seas are many dangers, + Many storms do there arise, + Which wil be to ladies dreadful, + And force tears from watery eyes." + Well in troth I shall endure extremity, + For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee. + + "Courteous ladye, leave this fancy, + Here comes all that breeds the strife; + I in England have already + A sweet woman to my wife: + I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, + Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain." + + O how happy is that woman + That enjoys so true a friend! + Many happy days God send her; + Of my suit I make an end: + On my knees I pardon crave for my offence, + Which did from love and true affection first commence. + + Commend me to thy lovely lady, + Bear to her this chain of gold; + And these bracelets for a token; + Grieving that I was so bold: + All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, + For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me. + + I will spend my days in prayer, + Love and all her laws defye; + In a nunnery will I shroud mee + Far from any companye: + But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, + To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss. + + Thus farewell, most gallant captain! + Farewell too my heart's content! + Count not Spanish ladies wanton, + Though to thee my love was bent: + Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee! + "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie." + + + + +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY + +[Illustration] + + + It was a friar of orders gray + Walkt forth to tell his beades; + And he met with a lady faire, + Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. + + Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, + I pray thee tell to me, + If ever at yon holy shrine + My true love thou didst see. + + And how should I know your true love + From many another one? + O by his cockle hat, and staff, + And by his sandal shoone. + + But chiefly by his face and mien, + That were so fair to view; + His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, + And eyne of lovely blue. + + O lady, he is dead and gone! + Lady, he's dead and gone! + And at his head a green grass turfe, + And at his heels a stone. + + Within these holy cloysters long + He languisht, and he dyed, + Lamenting of a ladyes love, + And 'playning of her pride. + + Here bore him barefac'd on his bier + Six proper youths and tall, + And many a tear bedew'd his grave + Within yon kirk-yard wall. + + And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! + And art thou dead and gone! + And didst thou die for love of me! + Break, cruel heart of stone! + + O weep not, lady, weep not soe; + Some ghostly comfort seek: + Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, + Ne teares bedew thy cheek. + + O do not, do not, holy friar, + My sorrow now reprove; + For I have lost the sweetest youth, + That e'er wan ladyes love. + + And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, + I'll evermore weep and sigh; + For thee I only wisht to live, + For thee I wish to dye. + + Weep no more, lady, weep no more, + Thy sorrowe is in vaine: + For violets pluckt the sweetest showers + Will ne'er make grow againe. + + Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, + Why then should sorrow last? + Since grief but aggravates thy losse, + Grieve not for what is past. + + O say not soe, thou holy friar; + I pray thee, say not soe: + For since my true-love dyed for mee, + 'Tis meet my tears should flow. + + And will he ne'er come again? + Will he ne'er come again? + Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, + For ever to remain. + + His cheek was redder than the rose; + The comliest youth was he! + But he is dead and laid in his grave: + Alas, and woe is me! + + Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, + Men were deceivers ever: + One foot on sea and one on land, + To one thing constant never. + + Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, + And left thee sad and heavy; + For young men ever were fickle found, + Since summer trees were leafy. + + Now say not so, thou holy friar, + I pray thee say not soe; + My love he had the truest heart: + O he was ever true! + + And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, + And didst thou dye for mee? + Then farewell home; for ever-more + A pilgrim I will bee. + + But first upon my true-loves grave + My weary limbs I'll lay, + And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf, + That wraps his breathless clay. + + Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile + Beneath this cloyster wall: + See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, + And drizzly rain doth fall. + + O stay me not, thou holy friar; + O stay me not, I pray; + No drizzly rain that falls on me, + Can wash my fault away. + + Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, + And dry those pearly tears; + For see beneath this gown of gray + Thy own true-love appears. + + Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, + These holy weeds I sought; + And here amid these lonely walls + To end my days I thought. + + But haply for my year of grace + Is not yet past away, + Might I still hope to win thy love, + No longer would I stay. + + Now farewell grief, and welcome joy + Once more unto my heart; + For since I have found thee, lovely youth, + We never more will part. + + + + +CLERK COLVILL + +[Illustration] + + + Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame + Were walking in the garden green; + The belt around her stately waist + Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen. + + "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill, + Or it will cost ye muckle strife, + Ride never by the wells of Slane, + If ye wad live and brook your life." + + "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, + Now speak nae mair of that to me; + Did I neer see a fair woman, + But I wad sin with her body?" + + He's taen leave o his gay lady, + Nought minding what his lady said, + And he's rode by the wells of Slane, + Where washing was a bonny maid. + + "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, + That wash sae clean your sark of silk;" + "And weel fa you, fair gentleman, + Your body whiter than the milk." + + * * * * * + + Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill, + "O my head it pains me sair;" + "Then take, then take," the maiden said, + "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare." + + Then she's gied him a little bane-knife, + And frae her sark he cut a share; + She's ty'd it round his whey-white face, + But ay his head it aked mair. + + Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville, + "O sairer, sairer akes my head;" + "And sairer, sairer ever will," + The maiden crys, "till you be dead." + + Out then he drew his shining blade, + Thinking to stick her where she stood, + But she was vanished to a fish, + And swam far off, a fair mermaid. + + "O mother, mother, braid my hair; + My lusty lady, make my bed; + O brother, take my sword and spear, + For I have seen the false mermaid." + + +[Illustration] + + + + +SIR ALDINGAR + + + Our king he kept a false stewarde, + Sir Aldingar they him call; + A falser steward than he was one, + Servde not in bower nor hall. + + He wolde have layne by our comelye queene, + Her deere worshippe to betraye: + Our queene she was a good woman, + And evermore said him naye. + + Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind, + With her hee was never content, + Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, + In a fyer to have her brent. + + There came a lazar to the kings gate, + A lazar both blinde and lame: + He tooke the lazar upon his backe, + Him on the queenes bed has layne. + + "Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest, + Looke thou goe not hence away; + He make thee a whole man and a sound + In two howers of the day." + + Then went him forth Sir Aldingar, + And hyed him to our king: + "If I might have grace, as I have space, + Sad tydings I could bring." + + Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar, + Saye on the soothe to mee. + "Our queene hath chosen a new new love, + And shee will have none of thee. + + "If shee had chosen a right good knight, + The lesse had beene her shame; + But she hath chose her a lazar man, + A lazar both blinde and lame." + + If this be true, thou Aldingar, + The tyding thou tellest to me, + Then will I make thee a rich rich knight, + Rich both of golde and fee. + + But if it be false, Sir Aldingar, + As God nowe grant it bee! + Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood, + Shall hang on the gallows tree. + + He brought our king to the queenes chamber, + And opend to him the dore. + A lodlye love, King Harry says, + For our queene dame Elinore! + + If thou were a man, as thou art none, + Here on my sword thoust dye; + But a payre of new gallowes shall be built, + And there shalt thou hang on hye. + + Forth then hyed our king, I wysse, + And an angry man was hee; + And soone he found Queen Elinore, + That bride so bright of blee. + + Now God you save, our queene, madame, + And Christ you save and see; + Heere you have chosen a newe newe love, + And you will have none of mee. + + If you had chosen a right good knight, + The lesse had been your shame; + But you have chose you a lazar man, + A lazar both blinde and lame. + + Therfore a fyer there shalt be built, + And brent all shalt thou bee.-- + Now out alacke! said our comly queene, + Sir Aldingar's false to mee. + + Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene, + My heart with griefe will brast. + I had thought swevens had never been true; + I have proved them true at last. + + I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve, + In my bed whereas I laye. + I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast + Had carryed my crowne awaye; + + My gorgett and my kirtle of golde, + And all my faire head-geere: + And he wold worrye me with his tush + And to his nest y-beare: + + Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke, + A merlin him they call, + Which untill the grounde did strike the grype, + That dead he downe did fall. + + Giffe I were a man, as now I am none, + A battell wold I prove, + To fight with that traitor Aldingar, + Att him I cast my glove. + + But seeing Ime able noe battell to make, + My liege, grant me a knight + To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar, + To maintaine me in my right. + + "Now forty dayes I will give thee + To seeke thee a knight therein: + If thou find not a knight in forty dayes + Thy bodye it must brenn." + + Then shee sent east, and shee sent west, + By north and south bedeene: + But never a champion colde she find, + Wolde fight with that knight soe keene. + + Now twenty dayes were spent and gone, + Noe helpe there might be had; + Many a teare shed our comelye queene + And aye her hart was sad. + + Then came one of the queenes damselles, + And knelt upon her knee, + "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, + I trust yet helpe may be: + + And here I will make mine avowe, + And with the same me binde; + That never will I return to thee, + Till I some helpe may finde." + + Then forth she rode on a faire palfraye + Oer hill and dale about: + But never a champion colde she finde, + Wolde fighte with that knight so stout. + + And nowe the daye drewe on a pace, + When our good queene must dye; + All woe-begone was that faire damselle, + When she found no helpe was nye. + + All woe-begone was that faire damselle, + And the salt teares fell from her eye: + When lo! as she rode by a rivers side, + She met with a tinye boye. + + A tinye boye she mette, God wot, + All clad in mantle of golde; + He seemed noe more in mans likenesse, + Then a childe of four yeere old. + + Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd, + And what doth cause you moane? + The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, + But fast she pricked on. + + Yet turne againe, thou faire damselle + And greete thy queene from mee: + When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest, + Nowe helpe enoughe may bee. + + Bid her remember what she dreamt + In her bedd, wheras shee laye; + How when the grype and grimly beast + Wolde have carried her crowne awaye, + + Even then there came the little gray hawke, + And saved her from his clawes: + Then bidd the queene be merry at hart, + For heaven will fende her cause. + + Back then rode that faire damselle, + And her hart it lept for glee: + And when she told her gracious dame + A gladd woman then was shee: + + But when the appointed day was come, + No helpe appeared nye: + Then woeful, woeful was her hart, + And the teares stood in her eye. + + And nowe a fyer was built of wood; + And a stake was made of tree; + And now Queene Elinor forth was led, + A sorrowful sight to see. + + Three times the herault he waved his hand, + And three times spake on hye: + Giff any good knight will fende this dame, + Come forth, or shee must dye. + + No knight stood forth, no knight there came, + No helpe appeared nye: + And now the fyer was lighted up, + Queen Elinor she must dye. + + And now the fyer was lighted up, + As hot as hot might bee; + When riding upon a little white steed, + The tinye boy they see. + + "Away with that stake, away with those brands, + And loose our comelye queene: + I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar, + And prove him a traitor keene." + + Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar, + But when he saw the chylde, + He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, + And weened he had been beguylde. + + "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar, + And eyther fighte or flee; + I trust that I shall avenge the wronge, + Thoughe I am so small to see." + + The boy pulld forth a well good sworde + So gilt it dazzled the ee; + The first stroke stricken at Aldingar, + Smote off his leggs by the knee. + + "Stand up, stand up, thou false traitor, + And fight upon thy feete, + For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st, + Of height wee shall be meete." + + A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar, + While I am a man alive. + A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar, + Me for to houzle and shrive. + + I wolde have laine by our comlie queene, + Bot shee wolde never consent; + Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge + In a fyer to have her brent. + + There came a lazar to the kings gates, + A lazar both blind and lame: + I tooke the lazar upon my backe, + And on her bedd had him layne. + + Then ranne I to our comlye king, + These tidings sore to tell. + But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar, + Falsing never doth well. + + Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, + The short time I must live. + "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar, + As freely I forgive." + + Here take thy queene, our king Harrye, + And love her as thy life, + For never had a king in Christentye. + A truer and fairer wife. + + King Henrye ran to claspe his queene, + And loosed her full sone: + Then turned to look for the tinye boye; + --The boye was vanisht and gone. + + But first he had touched the lazar man, + And stroakt him with his hand: + The lazar under the gallowes tree + All whole and sounde did stand. + + The lazar under the gallowes tree + Was comelye, straight and tall; + King Henrye made him his head stewarde + To wayte withinn his hall. + +[Illustration] + + + + +EDOM O' GORDON + +[Illustration] + + + It fell about the Martinmas, + Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld, + Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, + We maun draw till a hauld. + + And quhat a hauld sall we draw till, + My mirry men and me? + We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes, + To see that fair ladie. + + The lady stude on her castle wa', + Beheld baith dale and down: + There she was ware of a host of men + Cum ryding towards the toun. + + O see ze nat, my mirry men a'? + O see za nat quhat I see? + Methinks I see a host of men: + I marveil quha they be. + + She weend it had been hir luvely lord, + As he cam ryding hame; + It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon, + Quha reckt nae sin nor shame. + + She had nae sooner buskit hirsel, + And putten on hir goun, + But Edom o' Gordon and his men + Were round about the toun. + + They had nae sooner supper sett, + Nae sooner said the grace, + But Edom o' Gordon and his men + Were light about the place. + + The lady ran up to hir towir head, + Sa fast as she could hie, + To see if by hir fair speeches + She could wi' him agree. + + But quhan he see this lady saif, + And hir yates all locked fast, + He fell into a rage of wrath, + And his look was all aghast. + + Cum doun to me, ze lady gay, + Cum doun, cum doun to me: + This night sall ye lig within mine armes, + To-morrow my bride sall be. + + I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordon, + I winnae cum doun to thee; + I winna forsake my ain dear lord, + That is sae far frae me. + + Give owre zour house, ze lady fair, + Give owre zour house to me, + Or I sall brenn yoursel therein, + Bot and zour babies three. + + I winnae give owre, ze false Gordon, + To nae sik traitor as zee; + And if ze brenn my ain dear babes, + My lord sall make ze drie. + + But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man, + And charge ze weil my gun: + For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, + My babes we been undone. + + She stude upon hir castle wa', + And let twa bullets flee: + She mist that bluidy butchers hart, + And only raz'd his knee. + + Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordon, + All wood wi' dule and ire: + Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid, + As ze bren in the fire. + + Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man, + I paid ze weil zour fee; + Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, + Lets in the reek to me? + + And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man, + I paid ze weil zour hire; + Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, + To me lets in the fire? + + Ze paid me weil my hire, lady; + Ze paid me weil my fee: + But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man, + Maun either doe or die. + + O than bespaik hir little son, + Sate on the nurses knee: + Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house, + For the reek it smithers me. + + I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, + Say wald I a' my fee, + For ane blast o' the western wind, + To blaw the reek frae thee. + + O then bespaik hir dochter dear, + She was baith jimp and sma; + O row me in a pair o' sheits, + And tow me owre the wa. + + They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits, + And towd hir owre the wa: + But on the point of Gordons spear + She gat a deadly fa. + + O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth, + And cherry were her cheiks, + And clear clear was hir zellow hair, + Whereon the reid bluid dreips. + + Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre, + O gin hir face was wan! + He sayd, Ze are the first that eir + I wisht alive again. + + He turnd hir owre and owre againe, + O gin hir skin was whyte! + I might ha spared that bonnie face + To hae been sum mans delyte. + + Busk and boun, my merry men a', + For ill dooms I doe guess; + I cannae luik in that bonnie face, + As it lyes on the grass. + + Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir, + Then freits wil follow thame: + Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon + Was daunted by a dame. + + But quhen the ladye see the fire + Cum flaming owre hir head, + She wept and kist her children twain, + Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead. + + The Gordon then his bougill blew, + And said, Awa', awa'; + This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame, + I hauld it time to ga'. + + O then bespyed hir ain dear lord, + As hee cam owr the lee; + He sied his castle all in blaze Sa far as he could see. + + Then sair, O sair his mind misgave, + And all his hart was wae; + Put on, put on, my wighty men, + So fast as ze can gae. + + Put on, put on, my wighty men, + Sa fast as ze can drie; + For he that is hindmost of the thrang + Sall neir get guid o' me. + + Than sum they rade, and sum they rin, + Fou fast out-owr the bent; + But eir the foremost could get up, + Baith lady and babes were brent. + + He wrang his hands, he rent his hair, + And wept in teenefu' muid: + O traitors, for this cruel deid + Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid. + + And after the Gordon he is gane, + Sa fast as he might drie. + And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid + He's wroken his dear ladie. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHEVY CHASE + +[Illustration] + + God prosper long our noble king, + Our lives and safetyes all; + A woefull hunting once there did + In Chevy-Chace befall; + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Erle Percy took his way, + The child may rue that is unborne, + The hunting of that day. + + The stout Erle of Northumberland + A vow to God did make, + His pleasure in the Scottish woods + Three summers days to take; + + The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace + To kill and beare away. + These tydings to Erle Douglas came, + In Scotland where he lay: + + Who sent Erle Percy present word, + He wold prevent his sport. + The English erle, not fearing that, + Did to the woods resort + + With fifteen hundred bow-men bold; + All chosen men of might, + Who knew full well in time of neede + To ayme their shafts arright. + + The galland greyhounds swiftly ran, + To chase the fallow deere: + On munday they began to hunt, + Ere day-light did appeare; + + And long before high noone they had + An hundred fat buckes slaine; + Then having dined, the drovyers went + To rouze the deare againe. + + The bow-men mustered on the hills, + Well able to endure; + Theire backsides all, with speciall care, + That day were guarded sure. + + The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, + The nimble deere to take, + That with their cryes the hills and dales + An eccho shrill did make. + + Lord Percy to the quarry went, + To view the slaughter'd deere; + Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised + This day to meet me heere: + + But if I thought he wold not come, + Noe longer wold I stay. + With that, a brave younge gentleman + Thus to the Erle did say: + + Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, + His men in armour bright; + Full twenty hundred Scottish speres + All marching in our sight; + + All men of pleasant Tivydale, + Fast by the river Tweede: + O cease your sports, Erle Percy said, + And take your bowes with speede: + + And now with me, my countrymen, + Your courage forth advance; + For there was never champion yett, + In Scotland nor in France, + + That ever did on horsebacke come, + But if my hap it were, + I durst encounter man for man, + With him to break a spere. + + Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, + Most like a baron bolde, + Rode foremost of his company, + Whose armour shone like gold. + + Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, + That hunt soe boldly heere, + That, without my consent, doe chase + And kill my fallow-deere. + + The first man that did answer make + Was noble Percy hee; + Who sayd, Wee list not to declare, + Nor shew whose men wee bee: + Yet wee will spend our deerest blood, + Thy cheefest harts to slay. + Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, + And thus in rage did say, + + Ere thus I will out-braved bee, + One of us two shall dye: + I know thee well, an erle thou art; + Lord Percy, soe am I. + + But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, + And great offence to kill + Any of these our guiltlesse men, + For they have done no ill. + + Let thou and I the battell trye, + And set our men aside. + Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd, + By whome this is denyed. + + Then stept a gallant squier forth, + Witherington was his name, + Who said, I wold not have it told + To Henry our king for shame, + + That ere my captaine fought on foote, + And I stood looking on. + You be two erles, sayd Witherington, + And I a squier alone: + + He doe the best that doe I may, + While I have power to stand: + While I have power to weeld my sword + He fight with hart and hand. + + Our English archers bent their bowes, + Their harts were good and trew; + Att the first flight of arrowes sent, + Full four-score Scots they slew. + + Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, + As Chieftain stout and good. + As valiant Captain, all unmov'd + The shock he firmly stood. + + His host he parted had in three, + As Leader ware and try'd, + And soon his spearmen on their foes + Bare down on every side. + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Douglas bade on the bent + Two captaines moved with mickle might + Their speres to shivers went. + + Throughout the English archery + They dealt full many a wound: + But still our valiant Englishmen + All firmly kept their ground: + + And throwing strait their bows away, + They grasp'd their swords so bright: + And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, + On shields and helmets light. + + They closed full fast on every side, + Noe slackness there was found: + And many a gallant gentleman + Lay gasping on the ground. + + O Christ! it was a griefe to see; + And likewise for to heare, + The cries of men lying in their gore, + And scattered here and there. + + At last these two stout erles did meet, + Like captaines of great might: + Like lyons wood, they layd on lode, + And made a cruell fight: + + They fought untill they both did sweat, + With swords of tempered steele; + Untill the blood, like drops of rain, + They tricklin downe did feele. + + Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd + In faith I will thee bringe, + Where thou shalt high advanced bee + By James our Scottish king: + + Thy ransome I will freely give, + And this report of thee, + Thou art the most couragious knight, + That ever I did see. + + Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then, + Thy proffer I doe scorne; + I will not yeelde to any Scott, + That ever yett was borne. + + With that, there came an arrow keene + Out of an English bow, + Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, + A deepe and deadlye blow: + + Who never spake more words than these, + Fight on, my merry men all; + For why, my life is at an end; + Lord Percy sees my fall. + + Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke + The dead man by the hand; + And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life + Wold I had lost my land. + + O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed + With sorrow for thy sake; + For sure, a more redoubted knight + Mischance cold never take. + + A knight amongst the Scotts there was + Which saw Erle Douglas dye, + Who streight in wrath did vow revenge + Upon the Lord Percye: + + Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd, + Who, with a spere most bright, + Well-mounted on a gallant steed, + Ran fiercely through the fight; + + And past the English archers all, + Without all dread or feare; + And through Earl Percyes body then + He thrust his hatefull spere; + + With such a vehement force and might + He did his body gore, + The staff ran through the other side + A large cloth-yard and more. + + So thus did both these nobles dye, + Whose courage none could staine: + An English archer then perceiv'd + The noble erle was slaine; + + He had a bow bent in his hand, + Made of a trusty tree; + An arrow of a cloth-yard long + Up to the head drew hee: + + Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, + So right the shaft he sett, + The grey goose-winge that was thereon, + In his harts bloode was wette. + + This fight did last from breake of day, + Till setting of the sun; + For when they rang the evening-bell, + The battel scarce was done. + + With stout Erle Percy there was slaine + Sir John of Egerton, + Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, + Sir James that bold barron: + + And with Sir George and stout Sir James, + Both knights of good account, + Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, + Whose prowesse did surmount. + + For Witherington needs must I wayle, + As one in doleful dumpes; + For when his leggs were smitten off, + He fought upon his stumpes. + + And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine + Sir Hugh Montgomerye, + Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld + One foote wold never flee. + + Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, + His sisters sonne was hee; + Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, + Yet saved cold not bee. + + And the Lord Maxwell in like case + Did with Erle Douglas dye: + Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, + Scarce fifty-five did flye. + + Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, + Went home but fifty-three; + The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, + Under the greene woode tree. + + Next day did many widowes come, + Their husbands to bewayle; + They washt their wounds in brinish teares, + But all wold not prevayle. + + Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore, + They bare with them away: + They kist them dead a thousand times, + Ere they were cladd in clay. + + The news was brought to Eddenborrow, + Where Scottlands king did raigne, + That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye + Was with an arrow slaine: + + O heavy newes, King James did say, + Scotland may witnesse bee, + I have not any captaine more + Of such account as hee. + + Like tydings to King Henry came, + Within as short a space, + That Percy of Northumberland + Was slaine in Chevy-Chace: + + Now God be with him, said our king, + Sith it will noe better bee; + I trust I have, within my realme, + Five hundred as good as hee: + + Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, + But I will vengeance take: + I'll be revenged on them all, + For brave Erle Percyes sake. + + This vow full well the king perform'd + After, at Humbledowne; + In one day, fifty knights were slayne, + With lords of great renowne: + + And of the rest, of small acount, + Did many thousands dye: + Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, + Made by the Erle Percy. + + God save our king, and bless this land + With plenty, joy, and peace; + And grant henceforth, that foule debate + 'Twixt noblemen may cease. + + [Illustration] + + + +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE + + [Illustration] + + When Arthur first in court began, + And was approved king, + By force of armes great victorys wanne, + And conquest home did bring, + + Then into England straight he came + With fifty good and able + Knights, that resorted unto him, + And were of his round table: + + And he had justs and turnaments, + Whereto were many prest, + Wherein some knights did far excell + And eke surmount the rest. + + But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, + Who was approved well, + He for his deeds and feats of armes + All others did excell. + + When he had rested him a while, + In play, and game, and sportt, + He said he wold goe prove himselfe + In some adventurous sort. + + He armed rode in a forrest wide, + And met a damsell faire, + Who told him of adventures great, + Whereto he gave great eare. + + Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott: + For that cause came I hither. + Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good, + And I will bring thee thither. + + Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell, + That now is of great fame: + Therefore tell me what wight thou art, + And what may be thy name. + + "My name is Lancelot du Lake." + Quoth she, it likes me than: + Here dwelles a knight who never was + Yet matcht with any man: + + Who has in prison threescore knights + And four, that he did wound; + Knights of King Arthurs court they be, + And of his table round. + + She brought him to a river side, + And also to a tree, + Whereon a copper bason hung, + And many shields to see. + + He struck soe hard, the bason broke; + And Tarquin soon he spyed: + Who drove a horse before him fast, + Whereon a knight lay tyed. + + Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett, + Bring me that horse-load hither, + And lay him downe, and let him rest; + Weel try our force together: + + For, as I understand, thou hast, + So far as thou art able, + Done great despite and shame unto + The knights of the Round Table. + + If thou be of the Table Round, + Quoth Tarquin speedilye, + Both thee and all thy fellowship + I utterly defye. + + That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho, + Defend thee by and by. + They sett their speares unto their steeds, + And eache att other flie. + + They coucht theire speares (their horses ran, + As though there had beene thunder), + And strucke them each immidst their shields, + Wherewith they broke in sunder. + + Their horsses backes brake under them, + The knights were both astound: + To avoyd their horsses they made haste + And light upon the ground. + + They tooke them to their shields full fast, + Their swords they drewe out than, + With mighty strokes most eagerlye + Each at the other ran. + + They wounded were, and bled full sore, + They both for breath did stand, + And leaning on their swords awhile, + Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand, + + And tell to me what I shall aske. + Say on, quoth Lancelot tho. + Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight + That ever I did know: + + And like a knight, that I did hate: + Soe that thou be not hee, + I will deliver all the rest, + And eke accord with thee. + + That is well said, quoth Lancelott; + But sith it must be soe, + What knight is that thou hatest thus + I pray thee to me show. + + His name is Lancelot du Lake, + He slew my brother deere; + Him I suspect of all the rest: + I would I had him here. + + Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne, + I am Lancelot du Lake, + Now knight of Arthurs Table Round; + King Hauds son of Schuwake; + + And I desire thee to do thy worst. + Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho' + One of us two shall ende our lives + Before that we do go. + + If thou be Lancelot du Lake, + Then welcome shalt thou bee: + Wherfore see thou thyself defend, + For now defye I thee. + + They buckled them together so, + Like unto wild boares rashing; + And with their swords and shields they ran + At one another slashing: + + The ground besprinkled was with blood: + Tarquin began to yield; + For he gave backe for wearinesse, + And lowe did beare his shield. + + This soone Sir Lancelot espyde, + He leapt upon him then, + He pull'd him downe upon his knee, + And rushing off his helm, + + Forthwith he strucke his necke in two, + And, when he had soe done, + From prison threescore knights and four + Delivered everye one. + + + +[Illustration] + +GIL MORRICE + + + Gil Morrice was an erles son, + His name it waxed wide; + It was nae for his great riches, + Nor zet his mickle pride; + Bot it was for a lady gay, + That livd on Carron side. + + Quhair sail I get a bonny boy, + That will win hose and shoen; + That will gae to Lord Barnards ha', + And bid his lady cum? + And ze maun rin my errand, Willie; + And ze may rin wi' pride; + Quhen other boys gae on their foot + On horse-back ze sail ride. + + O no! Oh no! my master dear! + I dare nae for my life; + I'll no gae to the bauld barons, + For to triest furth his wife. + My bird Willie, my boy Willie; + My dear Willie, he sayd: + How can ze strive against the stream? + For I sall be obeyd. + + Bot, O my master dear! he cryd, + In grene wod ze're zour lain; + Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede, + For fear ze should be tain. + Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha', + Bid hir cum here wi speid: + If ze refuse my heigh command, + Ill gar zour body bleid. + + Gae bid hir take this gay mantel, + 'Tis a' gowd hot the hem; + Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, + And bring nane bot hir lain: + And there it is a silken sarke, + Hir ain hand sewd the sleive; + And bid hir cum to Gill Morice, + Speir nae bauld barons leave. + + Yes, I will gae zour black errand, + Though it be to zour cost; + Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd, + In it ze sail find frost. + The baron he is a man of might, + He neir could bide to taunt, + As ze will see before its nicht, + How sma' ze hae to vaunt. + + And sen I maun zour errand rin + Sae sair against my will, + I'se mak a vow and keip it trow, + It sall be done for ill. + And quhen he came to broken brigue, + He bent his bow and swam; + And quhen he came to grass growing, + Set down his feet and ran. + + And quhen he came to Barnards ha', + Would neither chap nor ca': + Bot set his bent bow to his breist, + And lichtly lap the wa'. + He wauld nae tell the man his errand, + Though he stude at the gait; + Bot straiht into the ha' he cam, + Quhair they were set at meit. + + Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! + My message winna waite; + Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod + Before that it be late. + Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel, + Tis a' gowd bot the hem: + Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode, + Ev'n by your sel alane. + + And there it is, a silken sarke, + Your ain hand sewd the sleive; + Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice: + Speir nae bauld barons leave. + The lady stamped wi' hir foot, + And winked wi' hir ee; + Bot a' that she coud say or do, + Forbidden he wad nae bee. + + Its surely to my bow'r-woman; + It neir could be to me. + I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; + I trow that ze be she. + Then up and spack the wylie nurse, + (The bairn upon hir knee) + If it be cum frae Gill Morice, + It's deir welcum to mee. + + Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse, + Sae loud I heird zee lee; + I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; + I trow ze be nae shee. + Then up and spack the bauld baron, + An angry man was hee; + He's tain the table wi' his foot, + Sae has he wi' his knee; + Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish + In flinders he gard flee. + + Gae bring a robe of zour cliding, + That hings upon the pin; + And I'll gae to the gude grene wode, + And speik wi' zour lemman. + O bide at hame, now Lord Barnard, + I warde ze bide at hame; + Neir wyte a man for violence, + That neir wate ze wi' nane. + + Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode, + He whistled and he sang: + O what mean a' the folk coming, + My mother tarries lang. + His hair was like the threeds of gold, + Drawne frae Minerva's loome: + His lipps like roses drapping dew, + His breath was a' perfume. + + His brow was like the mountain snae + Gilt by the morning beam: + His cheeks like living roses glow: + His een like azure stream. The boy was clad in robes of grene, + Sweete as the infant spring: + And like the mavis on the bush, + He gart the vallies ring. + + The baron came to the grene wode, + Wi' mickle dule and care, + And there he first spied Gill Morice + Kameing his zellow hair: + That sweetly wavd around his face, + That face beyond compare: + He sang sae sweet it might dispel + A' rage but fell despair. + + Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice, + My lady loed thee weel, + The fairest part of my bodie + Is blacker than thy heel. + Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice, + For a' thy great beautie, + Ze's rew the day ze eir was born; + That head sall gae wi' me. + + Now he has drawn his trusty brand, + And slaited on the strae; + And thro' Gill Morice' fair body + He's gar cauld iron gae. + And he has tain Gill Morice's head + And set it on a speir; + The meanest man in a' his train + Has gotten that head to bear. + + And he has tain Gill Morice up, + Laid him across his steid, + And brocht him to his painted bowr, + And laid him on a bed. + The lady sat on castil wa', + Beheld baith dale and doun; + And there she saw Gill Morice' head + Cum trailing to the toun. + + Far better I loe that bluidy head, + Both and that zellow hair, + Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands, + As they lig here and thair. + And she has tain her Gill Morice, + And kissd baith mouth and chin: + I was once as fow of Gill Morice, + As the hip is o' the stean. + + I got ze in my father's house, + Wi' mickle sin and shame; + I brocht thee up in gude grene wode, + Under the heavy rain. + Oft have I by thy cradle sitten, + And fondly seen thee sleip; + But now I gae about thy grave, + The saut tears for to weip. + + And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, + And syne his bluidy chin: + O better I loe my Gill Morice + Than a' my kith and kin! + Away, away, ze ill woman, + And an il deith mait ze dee: + Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son, + He'd neir bin slain for mee. + + Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard! + Obraid me not for shame! + Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart! + And put me out o' pain. + Since nothing bot Gill Morice head + Thy jelous rage could quell, + Let that saim hand now tak hir life, + That neir to thee did ill. + + To me nae after days nor nichts + Will eir be saft or kind; + I'll fill the air with heavy sighs, + And greet till I am blind. + Enouch of blood by me's been spilt, + Seek not zour death frae mee; + I rather lourd it had been my sel + Than eather him or thee. + + With waefo wae I hear zour plaint; + Sair, sair I rew the deid, + That eir this cursed hand of mine + Had gard his body bleid. + Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, + Ze neir can heal the wound; + Ze see his head upon the speir, + His heart's blude on the ground. + + I curse the hand that did the deid, + The heart that thocht the ill; + The feet that bore me wi' sik speid, + The comely zouth to kill. + I'll ay lament for Gill Morice, + As gin he were mine ain; + I'll neir forget the dreiry day + On which the zouth was slain. + + +[Illustration] + + + +[Illustration] + +The CHILD of ELLE + + + On yondre hill a castle standes + With walles and towres bedight, + And yonder lives the Child of Elle, + A younge and comely knighte. + + The Child of Elle to his garden went, + And stood at his garden pale, + Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page + Come trippinge downe the dale. + + The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, + Y-wis he stoode not stille, + And soone he mette faire Emmelines page + Come climbinge up the hille. + + Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, + Now Christe thee save and see! + Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, + And what may thy tydinges bee? + + My ladye shee is all woe-begone, + And the teares they falle from her eyne; + And aye she laments the deadlye feude + Betweene her house and thine. + + And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe + Bedewde with many a teare, + And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, + Who loved thee so deare. + + And here shee sends thee a ring of golde + The last boone thou mayst have, + And biddes thee weare it for her sake, + Whan she is layde in grave. + + For, ah! her gentle heart is broke, + And in grave soone must shee bee, + Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, + And forbidde her to think of thee. + + Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, + Sir John of the north countraye, + And within three dayes she must him wedde, + Or he vowes he will her slaye. + + Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, + And greet thy ladye from mee, + And telle her that I her owne true love + Will dye, or sette her free. + + Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, + And let thy fair ladye know + This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe, + Betide me weale or woe. + + The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, + He neither stint ne stayd + Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, + Whan kneeling downe he sayd, + + O ladye, I've been with thine own true love, + And he greets thee well by mee; + This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windowe, + And dye or sett thee free. + + Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, + And all were fast asleepe, + All save the Ladye Emmeline, + Who sate in her bowre to weepe: + + And soone shee heard her true loves voice + Lowe whispering at the walle, + Awake, awake, my deare ladye, + Tis I thy true love call. + + Awake, awake, my ladye deare, + Come, mount this faire palfraye: + This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe + He carrye thee hence awaye. + + Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, + Nowe nay, this may not bee; + For aye shold I tint my maiden fame, + If alone I should wend with thee. + + O ladye, thou with a knighte so true + Mayst safelye wend alone, + To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, + Where marriage shall make us one. + + "My father he is a baron bolde, + Of lynage proude and hye; + And what would he saye if his daughter + Awaye with a knight should fly + + "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest, + Nor his meate should doe him no goode, + Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle, + And scene thy deare hearts bloode." + + O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, + And a little space him fro, + I would not care for thy cruel father, + Nor the worst that he could doe. + + O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, + And once without this walle, + I would not care for thy cruel father + Nor the worst that might befalle. + + Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, + And aye her heart was woe: + At length he seized her lilly-white hand, + And downe the ladder he drewe: + + And thrice he clasped her to his breste, + And kist her tenderlie: + The teares that fell from her fair eyes + Ranne like the fountayne free. + + Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, + And her on a fair palfraye, + And slung his bugle about his necke, + And roundlye they rode awaye. + + All this beheard her owne damselle, + In her bed whereas shee ley, + Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, + Soe I shall have golde and fee. + + Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! + Awake, my noble dame! + Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle + To doe the deede of shame. + + The baron he woke, the baron he rose, + And called his merrye men all: + "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte, + Thy ladye is carried to thrall." + + Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, + A mile forth of the towne, + When she was aware of her fathers men + Come galloping over the downe: + + And foremost came the carlish knight, + Sir John of the north countraye: + "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure, + Nor carry that ladye awaye. + + "For she is come of hye lineage, + And was of a ladye borne, + And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne, + To carrye her hence to scorne." + + Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, + Nowe thou doest lye of mee; + A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, + Soe never did none by thee + + But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, + Light downe, and hold my steed, + While I and this discourteous knighte + Doe trye this arduous deede. + + But light now downe, my deare ladye, + Light downe, and hold my horse; + While I and this discourteous knight + Doe trye our valour's force. + + Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, + And aye her heart was woe, + While twixt her love and the carlish knight + Past many a baleful blowe. + + The Child of Elle hee fought so well, + As his weapon he waved amaine, + That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, + And layd him upon the plaine. + + And nowe the baron and all his men + Full fast approached nye: + Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe + Twere nowe no boote to flye. + + Her lover he put his horne to his mouth, + And blew both loud and shrill, + And soone he saw his owne merry men + Come ryding over the hill. + + "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, + I pray thee hold thy hand, + Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts + Fast knit in true love's band. + + Thy daughter I have dearly loved + Full long and many a day; + But with such love as holy kirke + Hath freelye sayd wee may. + + O give consent, shee may be mine, + And blesse a faithfull paire: + My lands and livings are not small, + My house and lineage faire: + + My mother she was an earl's daughter, + And a noble knyght my sire-- + The baron he frowned, and turn'd away + With mickle dole and ire. + + Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, + And did all tremblinge stand: + At lengthe she sprang upon her knee, + And held his lifted hand. + + Pardon, my lorde and father deare, + This faire yong knyght and mee: + Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, + I never had fled from thee. + + Oft have you called your Emmeline + Your darling and your joye; + O let not then your harsh resolves + Your Emmeline destroye. + + The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, + And turned his heade asyde + To whipe awaye the starting teare + He proudly strave to hyde. + + In deepe revolving thought he stoode, + And mused a little space; + Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde, + With many a fond embrace. + + Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, + And gave her lillye white hand; + Here take my deare and only child, + And with her half my land: + + Thy father once mine honour wrongde + In dayes of youthful pride; + Do thou the injurye repayre + In fondnesse for thy bride. + + And as thou love her, and hold her deare, + Heaven prosper thee and thine: + And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, + My lovelye Emmeline. + + +[Illustration] + + + + + +CHILD WATERS + + + Childe Waters in his stable stoode + And stroakt his milke white steede: + To him a fayre yonge ladye came + As ever ware womans weede. + + Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters; + Sayes, Christ you save, and see: + My girdle of gold that was too longe, + Is now too short for mee. + + And all is with one chyld of yours, + I feel sturre att my side: + My gowne of greene it is too straighte; + Before, it was too wide. + + If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd, + Be mine, as you tell mee; + Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, + Take them your owne to bee. + + If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd, + Be mine, as you doe sweare; + Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, + And make that child your heyre. + + Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse, + Child Waters, of thy mouth; + Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, + That laye by north and south. + + And I had rather have one twinkling, + Childe Waters, of thine ee; + Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, + To take them mine owne to bee. + + To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde + Farr into the north countrie; + The fairest lady that I can find, + Ellen, must goe with mee. + + 'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre, + 'Yet let me go with thee:' + And ever I pray you, Child Waters, + Your foot-page let me bee. + + If you will my foot-page be, Ellen, + As you doe tell to mee; + Then you must cut your gowne of greene, + An inch above your knee: + + Soe must you doe your yellow lockes, + An inch above your ee: + You must tell no man what is my name; + My foot-page then you shall bee. + + Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, + Ran barefoote by his side; + Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte, + To say, Ellen, will you ryde? + + Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, + Ran barefoote thorow the broome; + Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte, + To say, put on your shoone. + + Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters, + Why doe you ryde soe fast? + The childe, which is no mans but thine, + My bodye itt will brast. + + Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen, + That flows from bank to brimme?-- + I trust to God, O Child Waters, + You never will see mee swimme. + + But when shee came to the waters side, + Shee sayled to the chinne: + Except the Lord of heaven be my speed, + Now must I learne to swimme. + + The salt waters bare up her clothes; + Our Ladye bare upp her chinne: + Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord, + To see faire Ellen swimme. + + And when shee over the water was, + Shee then came to his knee: + He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellen, + Loe yonder what I see. + + Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? + Of redd gold shines the yate; + Of twenty foure faire ladyes there, + The fairest is my mate. + + Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? + Of redd gold shines the towre: + There are twenty four fair ladyes there, + The fairest is my paramoure. + + I see the hall now, Child Waters, + Of redd golde shines the yate: + God give you good now of yourselfe, + And of your worthye mate. + + I see the hall now, Child Waters, + Of redd gold shines the towre: + God give you good now of yourselfe, + And of your paramoure. + + There twenty four fayre ladyes were + A playing att the ball: + And Ellen the fairest ladye there, + Must bring his steed to the stall. + + There twenty four fayre ladyes were + A playinge at the chesse; + And Ellen the fayrest ladye there, + Must bring his horse to gresse. + + And then bespake Childe Waters sister, + These were the wordes said shee: + You have the prettyest foot-page, brother, + That ever I saw with mine ee. + + But that his bellye it is soe bigg, + His girdle goes wonderous hie: + And let him, I pray you, Childe Wateres, + Goe into the chamber with mee. + + It is not fit for a little foot-page, + That has run throughe mosse and myre, + To go into the chamber with any ladye, + That weares soe riche attyre. + + It is more meete for a litle foot-page, + That has run throughe mosse and myre, + To take his supper upon his knee, + And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer. + + But when they had supped every one, + To bedd they tooke theyr waye: + He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, + And hearken what I saye. + + Goe thee downe into yonder towne, + And low into the street; + The fayrest ladye that thou can finde, + + Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe, + And take her up in thine armes twaine, + For filinge of her feete. + + Ellen is gone into the towne, + And low into the streete: + The fairest ladye that she cold find, + Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe; + And tooke her up in her armes twayne, + For filing of her feete. + + I pray you nowe, good Child Waters, + Let mee lye at your bedds feete: + For there is noe place about this house, + Where I may 'saye a sleepe. + + 'He gave her leave, and faire Ellen + 'Down at his beds feet laye:' + This done the nighte drove on apace, + And when it was neare the daye, + + Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page, + Give my steede corne and haye; + And soe doe thou the good black oats, + To carry mee better awaye. + + Up then rose the faire Ellen, + And gave his steede corne and hay: + And soe shee did the good blacke oats, + To carry him the better away. + + Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, + And grievouslye did groane: + Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, + And there shee made her moane. + + And that beheard his mother deere, + Shee heard her there monand. + Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Waters, + I think thee a cursed man. + + For in thy stable is a ghost, + That grievouslye doth grone: + Or else some woman laboures of childe, + She is soe woe-begone. + + Up then rose Childe Waters soon, + And did on his shirte of silke; + And then he put on his other clothes, + On his body as white as milke. + + And when he came to the stable dore, + Full still there he did stand, + That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellen + Howe shee made her monand. + + Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child, + Lullabye, dere child, dere; + I wold thy father were a king, + Thy mother layd on a biere. + + Peace now, he said, good faire Ellen, + Be of good cheere, I praye; + And the bridal and the churching both + Shall bee upon one day. + + + + +[Image] + +KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH + + + In summer time, when leaves grow greene, + And blossoms bedecke the tree, + King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, + Some pastime for to see. + + With hawke and hounde he made him bowne, + With horne, and eke with bowe; + To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye, + With all his lordes a rowe. + + And he had ridden ore dale and downe + By eight of clocke in the day, + When he was ware of a bold tanner, + Come ryding along the waye. + + A fayre russet coat the tanner had on + Fast buttoned under his chin, + And under him a good cow-hide, + And a marc of four shilling. + + Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, + Under the grene wood spraye; + And I will wend to yonder fellowe, + To weet what he will saye. + + God speede, God speede thee, said our king. + Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee. + "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset + I praye thee to shew to mee." + + "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe, + Fro the place where thou dost stand? + The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, + Turne in upon thy right hand." + + That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king, + Thou doest but jest, I see; + Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, + And I pray thee wend with mee. + + Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner: + I hold thee out of thy witt: + All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare, + And I am fasting yett. + + "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset, + No daynties we will spare; + All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, + And I will paye thy fare." + + Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde, + Thou payest no fare of mine: + I trowe I've more nobles in my purse, + Than thou hast pence in thine. + + God give thee joy of them, sayd the king, + And send them well to priefe. + The tanner wolde faine have beene away, + For he weende he had beene a thiefe. + + What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe, + Of thee I am in great feare, + For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back, + Might beseeme a lord to weare. + + I never stole them, quoth our king, + I tell you, Sir, by the roode. + "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, + And standest in midds of thy goode." + + What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge, + As you ryde farre and neare? + "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse, + But that cowe-hides are deare." + + "Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? + I marvell what they bee?" + What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd; + I carry one under mee. + + What craftsman art thou, said the king, + I pray thee tell me trowe. + "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade; + Nowe tell me what art thou?" + + I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he, + That am forth of service worne; + And faine I wolde thy prentise bee, + Thy cunninge for to learne. + + Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, + That thou my prentise were: + Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne + By fortye shilling a yere. + + Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king, + If thou wilt not seeme strange: + Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, + Yet with thee I fain wold change. + + "Why if with me thou faine wilt change, + As change full well maye wee, + By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe + I will have some boot of thee." + + That were against reason, sayd the king, + I sweare, so mote I thee: + My horse is better than thy mare, + And that thou well mayst see. + + "Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild, + And softly she will fare: + Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss; + Aye skipping here and theare." + + What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd; + Now tell me in this stound. + "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye, + But a noble in gold so round. + + "Here's twentye groates of white moneye, + Sith thou will have it of mee." + I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner, + Thou hadst not had one pennie. + + But since we two have made a change, + A change we must abide, + Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare, + Thou gettest not my cowe-hide. + + I will not have it, sayd the kynge, + I sweare, so mought I thee; + Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare, + If thou woldst give it to mee. + + The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, + That of the cow was bilt; + And threwe it upon the king's sadelle, + That was soe fayrelye gilte. + "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe, + 'Tis time that I were gone: + When I come home to Gyllian my wife, + Sheel say I am a gentilmon." + + The king he tooke him up by the legge; + The tanner a f----- lett fall. + Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king, + Thy courtesye is but small. + + When the tanner he was in the kinges sadelle, + And his foote in the stirrup was; + He marvelled greatlye in his minde, + Whether it were golde or brass. + + But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge, + And eke the blacke cowe-horne; + He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, + As the devill had him borne. + + The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, + And held by the pummil fast: + At length the tanner came tumbling downe; + His necke he had well-nye brast. + + Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, + With mee he shall not byde. + "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, + But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide. + + Yet if againe thou faine woldst change, + As change full well may wee, + By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tanner, + I will have some boote of thee." + + What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd, + Nowe tell me in this stounde. + "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye, + But I will have twentye pound." + + "Here's twentye groates out of my purse; + And twentye I have of thine: + And I have one more, which we will spend + Together at the wine." + + The king set a bugle home to his mouthe, + And blewe both loude and shrille: + And soone came lords, and soone came knights, + Fast ryding over the hille. + + Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, + That ever I sawe this daye! + Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes Will beare my +cowe-hide away. + + They are no thieves, the king replyde, + I sweare, soe mote I thee: + But they are the lords of the north countrey, + Here come to hunt with mee. + + And soone before our king they came, + And knelt downe on the grounde: + Then might the tanner have beene awaye, + He had lever than twentye pounde. + + A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king, + A coller he loud gan crye: + Then woulde he lever than twentye pound, + He had not beene so nighe. + + A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, + I trowe it will breed sorrowe: + After a coller cometh a halter, + I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe. + + Be not afraid, tanner, said our king; + I tell thee, so mought I thee, + Lo here I make thee the best esquire + That is in the North countrie. + + For Plumpton-parke I will give thee, + With tenements faire beside: + 'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, + To maintaine thy good cowe-hide. + + Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde, + For the favour thou hast me showne; + If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth, + Neates leather shall clout thy shoen. + + + + +[Illustration] + +SIR PATRICK SPENS + + + The king sits in Dumferling toune, + Drinking the blude-reid wine: + O quhar will I get guid sailor, + To sail this schip of mine. + + Up and spak an eldern knicht, + Sat at the kings richt kne: + Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, + That sails upon the se. + + The king has written a braid letter, + And signd it wi' his hand; + And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, + Was walking on the sand. + + The first line that Sir Patrick red, + A loud lauch lauched he: + The next line that Sir Patrick red, + The teir blinded his ee. + + O quha is this has don this deid, + This ill deid don to me; + To send me out this time o' the zeir, + To sail upon the se. + + Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, + Our guid schip sails the morne, + O say na sae, my master deir, + For I feir a deadlie storme. + + Late late yestreen I saw the new moone + Wi' the auld moone in hir arme; + And I feir, I feir, my deir master, + That we will com to harme. + + O our Scots nobles wer richt laith + To weet their cork-heild schoone; + Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, + Thair hats they swam aboone. + + O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit + Wi' thair fans into their hand, + Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens + Cum sailing to the land. + + O lang, lang, may the ladies stand + Wi' thair gold kems in their hair, + Waiting for thair ain deir lords, + For they'll se thame na mair. + + Have owre, have owre to Aberdour, + It's fiftie fadom deip: + And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens, + Wi' the Scots lords at his feit. + + + + +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER + + + It was intill a pleasant time, + Upon a simmer's day, + The noble Earl of Mar's daughter + Went forth to sport and play. + + As thus she did amuse hersell, + Below a green aik tree, + There she saw a sprightly doo + Set on a tower sae hie. + + "O cow-me-doo, my love sae true, + If ye'll come down to me, + Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd + Instead o simple tree: + + "I'll put growd hingers roun your cage, + And siller roun your wa; + I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird + As ony o them a'." + + But she hadnae these words well spoke, + Nor yet these words well said, + Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower + And lighted on her head. + + Then she has brought this pretty bird + Hame to her bowers and ba, + And made him shine as fair a bird + As ony o them a'. + + When day was gane, and night was come, + About the evening tide, + This lady spied a sprightly youth + Stand straight up by her side. + + "From whence came ye, young man?" she said; + "That does surprise me sair; + My door was bolted right secure, + What way hae ye come here?" + + "O had your tongue, ye lady fair, + Lat a' your folly be; + Mind ye not on your turtle-doo + Last day ye brought wi thee?" + + "O tell me mair, young man," she said, + "This does surprise me now; + What country hae ye come frae? + What pedigree are you?" + + "My mither lives on foreign isles, + She has nae mair but me; + She is a queen o wealth and state, + And birth and high degree. + + "Likewise well skilld in magic spells, + As ye may plainly see, + And she transformd me to yon shape, + To charm such maids as thee. + + "I am a doo the live-lang day, + A sprightly youth at night; + This aye gars me appear mair fair + In a fair maiden's sight. + + "And it was but this verra day + That I came ower the sea; + Your lovely face did me enchant; + I'll live and dee wi thee." + + "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, + Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae; + That's never my intent, my luve, + As ye said, it shall be sae." + + "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, + It's time to gae to bed;" + "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow, + It's be as ye hae said." + + Then he has staid in bower wi her + For sax lang years and ane, + Till sax young sons to him she bare, + And the seventh she's brought hame. + + But aye as ever a child was born + He carried them away, + And brought them to his mither's care, + As fast as he coud fly. + + Thus he has staid in bower wi her + For twenty years and three; + There came a lord o high renown + To court this fair ladie. + + But still his proffer she refused, + And a' his presents too; + Says, I'm content to live alane + Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo. + + Her father sware a solemn oath + Amang the nobles all, + "The morn, or ere I eat or drink, + This bird I will gar kill." + + The bird was sitting in his cage, + And heard what they did say; + And when he found they were dismist, + Says, Wae's me for this day! + + "Before that I do langer stay, + And thus to be forlorn, + I'll gang unto my mither's bower, + Where I was bred and born." + + Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew + Beyond the raging sea, + And lighted near his mither's castle, + On a tower o gowd sae hie. + + As his mither was wauking out, + To see what she coud see, + And there she saw her little son, + Set on the tower sae hie. + + "Get dancers here to dance," she said, + "And minstrells for to play; + For here's my young son, Florentine, + Come here wi me to stay." + + "Get nae dancers to dance, mither, + Nor minstrells for to play, + For the mither o my seven sons, + The morn's her wedding-day." + + "O tell me, tell me, Florentine, + Tell me, and tell me true, + Tell me this day without a flaw, + What I will do for you." + + "Instead of dancers to dance, mither, + Or minstrells for to play, + Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men + Like storks in feathers gray; + + "My seven sons in seven swans, + Aboon their heads to flee; + And I mysell a gay gos-hawk, + A bird o high degree." + + Then sichin said the queen hersell, + "That thing's too high for me;" + But she applied to an auld woman, + Who had mair skill than she. + + Instead o dancers to dance a dance, + Or minstrells for to play, + Four-and-twenty wall-wight men + Turnd birds o feathers gray; + + Her seven sons in seven swans, + Aboon their heads to flee; + And he himsell a gay gos-hawk, + A bird o high degree. + + This flock o birds took flight and flew + Beyond the raging sea, + And landed near the Earl Mar's castle, + Took shelter in every tree. + + They were a flock o pretty birds, + Right comely to be seen; + The people viewed them wi surprise, + As they dancd on the green. + + These birds ascended frae the tree + And lighted on the ha, + And at the last wi force did flee + Amang the nobles a'. + + The storks there seized some o the men, + They coud neither fight nor flee; + The swans they bound the bride's best man + Below a green aik tree. + + They lighted next on maidens fair, + Then on the bride's own head, + And wi the twinkling o an ee + The bride and them were fled. + + There's ancient men at weddings been + For sixty years or more, + But sic a curious wedding-day + They never saw before. + + For naething coud the companie do. + Nor naething coud they say + But they saw a flock o pretty birds + That took their bride away. + + When that Earl Mar he came to know + Where his dochter did stay, + He signd a bond o unity, + And visits now they pay. + + + + +EDWARD, EDWARD. + + + Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, + Edward, Edward? + Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid? + And quhy sae sad gang zee, O? + O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid: + And I had nae mair bot hee, O. + + Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, + Edward, Edward. + Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, + My deir son I tell thee, O. + O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, + That erst was sae fair and free, O. + + Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, + Edward, Edward; + Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, + Sum other dule ze drie, O. + O, I hae killed my fadir deir, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my fadir deir, + Alas! and wae is mee, O! + + And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, + Edward, Edward? + And quhatten penance will ze drie for that? + My deir son, now tell mee, O. + He set my feit in zonder boat, + Mither, mither: + He set my feit in zonder boat, + And He fare ovir the sea, O. + + And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', + That were sae fair to see, O? + He let thame stand til they doun fa', + Mither, mither: + He let thame stand til they doun fa', + For here nevir mair maun I bee, O. + + And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, + Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O? + The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, + Mither, mither; + The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, + For thame nevir mair wul I see, O. + + And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir? + My deir son, now tell me, O. + The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, + Mither, mither: + The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, + Sic counseils ze gave to me, O. + + + +KING LEIR & HIS THREE DAUGHTERS + + + King Leir once ruled in this land + With princely power and peace; + And had all things with hearts content, + That might his joys increase. + Amongst those things that nature gave, + Three daughters fair had he, + So princely seeming beautiful, + As fairer could not be. + + So on a time it pleas'd the king + A question thus to move, + Which of his daughters to his grace + Could shew the dearest love: + For to my age you bring content, + Quoth he, then let me hear, + Which of you three in plighted troth + The kindest will appear. + + To whom the eldest thus began; + Dear father, mind, quoth she, + Before your face, to do you good, + My blood shall render'd be: + And for your sake my bleeding heart + Shall here be cut in twain, + Ere that I see your reverend age + The smallest grief sustain. + + And so will I, the second said; + Dear father, for your sake, + The worst of all extremities + I'll gently undertake: + And serve your highness night and day + With diligence and love; + That sweet content and quietness + Discomforts may remove. + + In doing so, you glad my soul, + The aged king reply'd; + But what sayst thou, my youngest girl, + How is thy love ally'd? + My love (quoth young Cordelia then) + Which to your grace I owe, + Shall be the duty of a child, + And that is all I'll show. + + And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he, + Than doth thy duty bind? + I well perceive thy love is small, + When as no more I find. + Henceforth I banish thee my court, + Thou art no child of mine; + Nor any part of this my realm + By favour shall be thine. + + Thy elder sisters loves are more + Then well I can demand, + To whom I equally bestow + My kingdome and my land, + My pompal state and all my goods, + That lovingly I may + With those thy sisters be maintain'd + Until my dying day. + + Thus flattering speeches won renown, + By these two sisters here; + The third had causeless banishment, + Yet was her love more dear: + For poor Cordelia patiently + Went wandring up and down, + Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, + Through many an English town: + + Untill at last in famous France + She gentler fortunes found; + Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd + The fairest on the ground: + Where when the king her virtues heard, + And this fair lady seen, + With full consent of all his court + He made his wife and queen. + + Her father king Leir this while + With his two daughters staid: + Forgetful of their promis'd loves, + Full soon the same decay'd; + And living in queen Ragan's court, + The eldest of the twain, + She took from him his chiefest means, + And most of all his train. + + For whereas twenty men were wont + To wait with bended knee: + She gave allowance but to ten, + And after scarce to three; + Nay, one she thought too much for him; + So took she all away, + In hope that in her court, good king, + He would no longer stay. + + Am I rewarded thus, quoth he, + In giving all I have + Unto my children, and to beg + For what I lately gave? + I'll go unto my Gonorell: + My second child, I know, + Will be more kind and pitiful, + And will relieve my woe. + + Full fast he hies then to her court; + Where when she heard his moan + Return'd him answer, That she griev'd + That all his means were gone: + But no way could relieve his wants; + Yet if that he would stay + Within her kitchen, he should have + What scullions gave away. + + When he had heard, with bitter tears, + He made his answer then; + In what I did let me be made + Example to all men. + I will return again, quoth he, + Unto my Ragan's court; + She will not use me thus, I hope, + But in a kinder sort. + + Where when he came, she gave command + To drive him thence away: + When he was well within her court + (She said) he would not stay. + Then back again to Gonorell + The woeful king did hie, + That in her kitchen he might have + What scullion boy set by. + + But there of that he was deny'd, + Which she had promis'd late: + For once refusing, he should not + Come after to her gate. + Thus twixt his daughters, for relief + He wandred up and down; + Being glad to feed on beggars food, + That lately wore a crown. + + And calling to remembrance then + His youngest daughters words, + That said the duty of a child + Was all that love affords: + But doubting to repair to her, + Whom he had banish'd so, + Grew frantick mad; for in his mind + He bore the wounds of woe: + + Which made him rend his milk-white locks, + And tresses from his head, + And all with blood bestain his cheeks, + With age and honour spread. + To hills and woods and watry founts + He made his hourly moan, + Till hills and woods and sensless things, + Did seem to sigh and groan. + + Even thus possest with discontents, + He passed o're to France, + In hopes from fair Cordelia there, + To find some gentler chance; + Most virtuous dame! which when she heard, + Of this her father's grief, + As duty bound, she quickly sent + Him comfort and relief: + And by a train of noble peers, + In brave and gallant sort, + She gave in charge he should be brought + To Aganippus' court; + Whose royal king, with noble mind + So freely gave consent, + To muster up his knights at arms, + To fame and courage bent. + + And so to England came with speed, + To repossesse king Leir + And drive his daughters from their thrones + By his Cordelia dear. + Where she, true-hearted noble queen, + Was in the battel slain; + Yet he, good king, in his old days, + Possest his crown again. + + But when he heard Cordelia's death, + Who died indeed for love + Of her dear father, in whose cause + She did this battle move; + He swooning fell upon her breast, + From whence he never parted: + But on her bosom left his life, + That was so truly hearted. + + The lords and nobles when they saw + The end of these events, + The other sisters unto death + They doomed by consents; + And being dead, their crowns they left + Unto the next of kin: + Thus have you seen the fall of pride, + And disobedient sin. + + + + +[Illustration] + +HYND HORN + + + "Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free; + Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?" + + "In gude greenwud whare I was born, + And all my friends left me forlorn. + + "I gave my love a gay gowd wand, + That was to rule oure all Scotland. + + "My love gave me a silver ring, + That was to rule abune aw thing. + + "Whan that ring keeps new in hue, + Ye may ken that your love loves you. + + "Whan that ring turns pale and wan, + Ye may ken that your love loves anither man." + + He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he + Till he cam to a foreign cuntree. + + Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan; + Says, I wish I war at hame again. + + He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he + Until he cam till his ain cuntree. + + The first ane that he met with, + It was with a puir auld beggar-man. + + "What news? what news, my puir auld man? + What news hae ye got to tell to me?" + + "Na news, na news," the puir man did say, + "But this is our queen's wedding-day." + + "Ye'll lend me your begging-weed, + And I'll lend you my riding-steed." + "My begging-weed is na for thee, + Your riding-steed is na for me." + + He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man. + + "What is the way that ye use to gae? + And what are the words that ye beg wi?" + + "Whan ye come to yon high hill, + Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until. + + "Whan ye come to yon town-end, + Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun. + + "Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul, + And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all. + + "But tak ye frae nane o them aw + Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O." + + Whan he cam to yon high hill, + He drew his bent bow nigh until. + + And when he cam to yon toun-end, + He loot his bent bow low fall doun. + + He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul, + And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all. + + But he took na frae ane o them aw + Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O. + + The bride cam tripping doun the stair, + Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair. + + Wi a glass o red wine in her hand, + To gie to the puir beggar-man. + + Out he drank his glass o wine, + Into it he dropt the ring. + + "Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land, + Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?" + + "I got na't by sea, I got na't by land, + Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand; + + "But I got it at my wooing, + And I'll gie it to your wedding." + + "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head, + I'll follow you, and beg my bread. + + "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair, + I'll follow you for evermair." + + She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head, + She's followed him, to beg her bread. + + She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair, + And she has followd him evermair. + + Atween the kitchen and the ha, + There he loot his cloutie cloak fa. + + The red gowd shined oure them aw, + And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa. + + + + +JOHN BROWN'S BODY + + + Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, + Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave; + Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, + But his soul is marching on. + + _Chorus_ + + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + His soul is marching on. + + He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true; + His little patriot band into a noble army grew; + He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true, + And his soul is marching on. + + 'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its might, + The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight; + But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight, + Still his soul is marching on. + + John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, + Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love, + John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, + And his soul is marching on. + + + + TIPPERARY + + + Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day, + As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay; + Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square, + Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:-- + +_Chorus_ + + "It's a long way to Tipperary, + It's a long way to go; + It's a long way to Tipperary, + To the sweetest girl I know! + Good-bye Piccadilly, + Farewell, Leicester Square, + It's a long, long way to Tipperary, + But my heart's right there!" + + Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O', + Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know! + "If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he, + "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me." + + Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O', + Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so + Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame, + For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!" + + + + +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON + + + There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, + And he was a squires son: + He loved the bayliffes daughter deare, + That lived in Islington. + + Yet she was coye, and would not believe + That he did love her soe, + Noe nor at any time would she + Any countenance to him showe. + + But when his friendes did understand + His fond and foolish minde, + They sent him up to faire London + An apprentice for to binde. + + And when he had been seven long yeares, + And never his love could see: + Many a teare have I shed for her sake, + When she little thought of mee. + + Then all the maids of Islington + Went forth to sport and playe, + All but the bayliffes daughter deare; + She secretly stole awaye. + + She pulled off her gowne of greene, + And put on ragged attire, + And to faire London she would goe + Her true love to enquire. + + And as she went along the high road, + The weather being hot and drye, + She sat her downe upon a green bank, + And her true love came riding bye. + + She started up, with a colour soe redd, + Catching hold of his bridle-reine; + One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd, + Will ease me of much paine. + + Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, + Praye tell me where you were borne: + At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee, + Where I have had many a scorne. + + I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, + O tell me, whether you knowe + The bayliffes daughter of Islington: + She is dead, Sir, long agoe. + + If she be dead, then take my horse, + My saddle and bridle also; + For I will into some far countrye, + Where noe man shall me knowe. + + O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, + She standeth by thy side; + She is here alive, she is not dead, + And readye to be thy bride. + + O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, + Ten thousand times therefore; + For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, + Whom I thought I should never see more. + + + + +THE THREE RAVENS + + + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + With a downe + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + They were as blacke as they might be + With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe + + The one of them said to his mate, + "Where shall we our breakefast take?" + + "Downe in yonder greene field, + There lies a knight slain vnder his shield. + + "His hounds they lie downe at his feete, + So well they can their master keepe. + + "His haukes they flie so eagerly, + There's no fowle dare him come nie." + + Downe there comes a fallow doe, + As great with yong as she might goe. + + She lift up his bloudy hed, + And kist his wounds that were so red. + + She got him up upon her backe, + And carried him to earthen lake. + + She buried him before the prime, + She was dead herselfe ere even-song time. + + God send every gentleman, + Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman. + + + +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN + + + The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee + Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee, + Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie, + Will ze lodge a silly poor man? + The night was cauld, the carle was wat, + And down azont the ingle he sat; + My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap, + And cadgily ranted and sang. + + O wow! quo he, were I as free, + As first when I saw this countrie, + How blyth and merry wad I bee! + And I wad nevir think lang. + He grew canty, and she grew fain; + But little did her auld minny ken + What thir slee twa togither were say'n, + When wooing they were sa thrang. + + And O! quo he, ann ze were as black, + As evir the crown of your dadyes hat, + Tis I wad lay thee by my backe, + And awa wi' me thou sould gang. + And O! quoth she, ann I were as white, + As evir the snaw lay on the dike, + Ild dead me braw, and lady-like, + And awa with thee Ild gang. + + Between them twa was made a plot; + They raise a wee before the cock, + And wyliely they shot the lock, + And fast to the bent are they gane. + Up the morn the auld wife raise, + And at her leisure put on her claiths, + Syne to the servants bed she gaes + To speir for the silly poor man. + + She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay, + The strae was cauld, he was away, + She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day! + For some of our geir will be gane. + Some ran to coffer, and some to kist, + But nought was stown that could be mist. + She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest, + I have lodgd a leal poor man. + + Since naithings awa, as we can learn, + The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn, + Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, + And bid her come quickly ben. + The servant gaed where the dochter lay, + The sheets was cauld, she was away, + And fast to her goodwife can say, + Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man. + + O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, + And haste ze, find these traitors agen; + For shees be burnt, and hees be slein, + The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man. + Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit + The wife was wood, and out o' her wit; + She could na gang, nor yet could sit, + But ay did curse and did ban. + + Mean time far hind out owre the lee, + For snug in a glen, where nane could see, + The twa, with kindlie sport and glee + Cut frae a new cheese a whang. + The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith, + To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith. + Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith, + My winsome gaberlunzie-man. + + O kend my minny I were wi' zou, + Illfardly wad she crook her mou, + Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow, + Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon. + My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge; + And hae na learnt the beggars tonge, + To follow me frae toun to toun, + And carrie the gaberlunzie on. + + Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread, + And spindles and whorles for them wha need, + Whilk is a gentil trade indeed + The gaberlunzie to carrie--o. + Ill bow my leg and crook my knee, + And draw a black clout owre my ee, + A criple or blind they will cau me: + While we sail sing and be merrie--o. + + + + +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + + + There lived a wife at Usher's Well, + And a wealthy wife was she; + She had three stout and stalwart sons, + And sent them oer the sea. + + They hadna been a week from her, + A week but barely ane, + Whan word came to the carline wife + That her three sons were gane. + + They hadna been a week from her, + A week but barely three, + Whan word came to the carlin wife + That her sons she'd never see. + + "I wish the wind may never cease, + Nor fashes in the flood, + Till my three sons come hame to me, + In earthly flesh and blood." + + It fell about the Martinmass, + When nights are lang and mirk, + The carlin wife's three sons came hame, + And their hats were o the birk. + + It neither grew in syke nor ditch, + Nor yet in ony sheugh; + But at the gates o Paradise, + That birk grew fair eneugh. + + * * * * * + + "Blow up the fire, my maidens, + Bring water from the well; + For a' my house shall feast this night, + Since my three sons are well." + + And she has made to them a bed, + She's made it large and wide, + And she's taen her mantle her about, + Sat down at the bed-side. + + * * * * * + + Up then crew the red, red cock, + And up and crew the gray; + The eldest to the youngest said, + 'Tis time we were away. + + The cock he hadna crawd but once, + And clappd his wings at a', + When the youngest to the eldest said, + Brother, we must awa. + + "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, + The channerin worm doth chide; + Gin we be mist out o our place, + A sair pain we maun bide. + + "Fare ye weel, my mother dear! + Fareweel to barn and byre! + And fare ye weel, the bonny lass + That kindles my mother's fire!" + + + + +THE LYE + + + Goe, soule, the bodies guest, + Upon a thanklesse arrant; + Feare not to touche the best, + The truth shall be thy warrant: + Goe, since I needs must dye, + And give the world the lye. + + Goe tell the court, it glowes + And shines like rotten wood; + Goe tell the church it showes + What's good, and doth no good: + If church and court reply, + Then give them both the lye. + + Tell potentates they live + Acting by others actions; + Not lov'd unlesse they give, + Not strong but by their factions; + If potentates reply, + Give potentates the lye. + + Tell men of high condition, + That rule affairs of state, + Their purpose is ambition, + Their practise onely hate; + And if they once reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell them that brave it most, + They beg for more by spending, + Who in their greatest cost + Seek nothing but commending; + And if they make reply, + Spare not to give the lye. + + Tell zeale, it lacks devotion; + Tell love, it is but lust; + Tell time, it is but motion; + Tell flesh, it is but dust; + And wish them not reply, + For thou must give the lye. + + Tell age, it daily wasteth; + Tell honour, how it alters: + Tell beauty, how she blasteth; + Tell favour, how she falters; + And as they shall reply, + Give each of them the lye. + + Tell wit, how much it wrangles + In tickle points of nicenesse; + Tell wisedome, she entangles + Herselfe in over-wisenesse; + And if they do reply, + Straight give them both the lye. + + Tell physicke of her boldnesse; + Tell skill, it is pretension; + Tell charity of coldness; + Tell law, it is contention; + And as they yield reply, + So give them still the lye. + + Tell fortune of her blindnesse; + Tell nature of decay; + Tell friendship of unkindnesse; + Tell justice of delay: + And if they dare reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell arts, they have no soundnesse, + But vary by esteeming; + Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse; + And stand too much on seeming: + If arts and schooles reply. + Give arts and schooles the lye. + + Tell faith, it's fled the citie; + Tell how the countrey erreth; + Tell, manhood shakes off pitie; + Tell, vertue least preferreth: + And, if they doe reply, + Spare not to give the lye. + + So, when thou hast, as I + Commanded thee, done blabbing, + Although to give the lye + Deserves no less than stabbing, + Yet stab at thee who will, + No stab the soule can kill. + + + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + +I. + + + He did not wear his scarlet coat, + For blood and wine are red, + And blood and wine were on his hands + When they found him with the dead, + The poor dead woman whom he loved, + And murdered in her bed. + + He walked amongst the Trial Men + In a suit of shabby grey; + A cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay; + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every drifting cloud that went + With sails of silver by. + + I walked, with other souls in pain, + Within another ring, + And was wondering if the man had done + A great or little thing, + When a voice behind me whispered low, + _"That fellow's got to swing."_ + + Dear Christ! the very prison walls + Suddenly seemed to reel, + And the sky above my head became + Like a casque of scorching steel; + And, though I was a soul in pain, + My pain I could not feel. + + I only knew what hunted thought + Quickened his step, and why + He looked upon the garish day + With such a wistful eye; + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + * * * * * + + Yet each man kills the thing he loves, + By each let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word. + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + Some kill their love when they are young, + And some when they are old; + Some strangle with the hands of Lust, + Some with the hands of Gold: + The kindest use a knife, because + The dead so soon grow cold. + + Some love too little, some too long, + Some sell, and others buy; + Some do the deed with many tears, + And some without a sigh: + For each man kills the thing he loves, + Yet each man does not die. + + He does not die a death of shame + On a day of dark disgrace, + Nor have a noose about his neck, + Nor a cloth upon his face, + Nor drop feet foremost through the floor + Into an empty space. + + He does not sit with silent men + Who watch him night and day; + Who watch him when he tries to weep, + And when he tries to pray; + Who watch him lest himself should rob + The prison of its prey. + + He does not wake at dawn to see + Dread figures throng his room, + The shivering Chaplain robed in white, + The Sheriff stern with gloom, + And the Governor all in shiny black, + With the yellow face of Doom. + + He does not rise in piteous haste + To put on convict-clothes, + While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes + Each new and nerve-twitched pose, + Fingering a watch whose little ticks + Are like horrible hammer-blows. + + He does not feel that sickening thirst + That sands one's throat, before + The hangman with his gardener's gloves + Comes through the padded door, + And binds one with three leathern thongs, + That the throat may thirst no more. + + He does not bend his head to hear + The Burial Office read, + Nor, while the anguish of his soul + Tells him he is not dead, + Cross his own coffin, as he moves + Into the hideous shed. + + He does not stare upon the air + Through a little roof of glass: + He does not pray with lips of clay + For his agony to pass; + Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek + The kiss of Caiaphas. + + +II + + + Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard + In the suit of shabby grey: + His cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay, + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every wandering cloud that trailed + Its ravelled fleeces by. + + He did not wring his hands, as do + Those witless men who dare + To try to rear the changeling + In the cave of black Despair: + He only looked upon the sun, + And drank the morning air. + + He did not wring his hands nor weep, + Nor did he peek or pine, + But he drank the air as though it held + Some healthful anodyne; + With open mouth he drank the sun + As though it had been wine! + + And I and all the souls in pain, + Who tramped the other ring, + Forgot if we ourselves had done + A great or little thing, + And watched with gaze of dull amaze + The man who had to swing. + + For strange it was to see him pass + With a step so light and gay, + And strange it was to see him look + So wistfully at the day, + And strange it was to think that he + Had such a debt to pay. + + * * * * * + + For oak and elm have pleasant leaves + That in the spring-time shoot: + But grim to see is the gallows-tree, + With its adder-bitten root, + And, green or dry, a man must die + Before it bears its fruit! + + The loftiest place is that seat of grace + For which all worldlings try: + But who would stand in hempen band + Upon a scaffold high, + And through a murderer's collar take + His last look at the sky? + + It is sweet to dance to violins + When Love and Life are fair: + To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes + Is delicate and rare: + But it is not sweet with nimble feet + To dance upon the air! + + So with curious eyes and sick surmise + We watched him day by day, + And wondered if each one of us + Would end the self-same way, + For none can tell to what red Hell + His sightless soul may stray. + + At last the dead man walked no more + Amongst the Trial Men, + And I knew that he was standing up + In the black dock's dreadful pen, + And that never would I see his face + For weal or woe again. + + Like two doomed ships that pass in storm + We had crossed each other's way: + But we made no sign, we said no word, + We had no word to say; + For we did not meet in the holy night, + But in the shameful day. + + A prison wall was round us both, + Two outcast men we were: + The world had thrust us from its heart, + And God from out His care: + And the iron gin that waits for Sin + Had caught us in its snare. + + +III. + + + In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard, + And the dripping wall is high, + So it was there he took the air + Beneath the leaden sky, + And by each side a Warder walked, + For fear the man might die. + + Or else he sat with those who watched + His anguish night and day; + Who watched him when he rose to weep, + And when he crouched to pray; + Who watched him lest himself should rob + Their scaffold of its prey. + + The Governor was strong upon + The Regulations Act: + The Doctor said that Death was but + A scientific fact: + And twice a day the Chaplain called, + And left a little tract. + + And twice a day he smoked his pipe, + And drank his quart of beer: + His soul was resolute, and held + No hiding-place for fear; + He often said that he was glad + The hangman's day was near. + + But why he said so strange a thing + No warder dared to ask: + For he to whom a watcher's doom + Is given as his task, + Must set a lock upon his lips + And make his face a mask. + + Or else he might be moved, and try + To comfort or console: + And what should Human Pity do + Pent up in Murderer's Hole? + What word of grace in such a place + Could help a brother's soul? + + With slouch and swing around the ring + We trod the Fools' Parade! + We did not care: we knew we were + The Devil's Own Brigade: + And shaven head and feet of lead + Make a merry masquerade. + + We tore the tarry rope to shreds + With blunt and bleeding nails; + We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, + And cleaned the shining rails: + And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, + And clattered with the pails. + + We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, + We turned the dusty drill: + We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, + And sweated on the mill: + But in the heart of every man + Terror was lying still. + + So still it lay that every day + Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: + And we forgot the bitter lot + That waits for fool and knave, + Till once, as we tramped in from work, + We passed an open grave. + + With yawning mouth the yellow hole + Gaped for a living thing; + The very mud cried out for blood + To the thirsty asphalte ring: + And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair + Some prisoner had to swing. + + Right in we went, with soul intent + On Death and Dread and Doom: + The hangman, with his little bag, + Went shuffling through the gloom: + And I trembled as I groped my way + Into my numbered tomb. + + * * * * * + + That night the empty corridors + Were full of forms of Fear, + And up and down the iron town + Stole feet we could not hear, + And through the bars that hide the stars + White faces seemed to peer. + + He lay as one who lies and dreams + In a pleasant meadow-land, + The watchers watched him as he slept, + And could not understand + How one could sleep so sweet a sleep + With a hangman close at hand. + + But there is no sleep when men must weep + Who never yet have wept: + So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave-- + That endless vigil kept, + And through each brain on hands of pain + Another's terror crept. + + Alas! it is a fearful thing + To feel another's guilt! + For, right, within, the Sword of Sin + Pierced to its poisoned hilt, + And as molten lead were the tears we shed + For the blood we had not spilt. + + The warders with their shoes of felt + Crept by each padlocked door, + And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, + Grey figures on the floor, + And wondered why men knelt to pray + Who never prayed before. + + All through the night we knelt and prayed, + Mad mourners of a corse! + The troubled plumes of midnight shook + The plumes upon a hearse: + And bitter wine upon a sponge + Was the savour of Remorse. + + * * * * * + + The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, + But never came the day: + And crooked shapes of Terror crouched, + In the corners where we lay: + And each evil sprite that walks by night + Before us seemed to play. + + They glided past, they glided fast, + Like travellers through a mist: + They mocked the moon in a rigadoon + Of delicate turn and twist, + And with formal pace and loathsome grace + The phantoms kept their tryst. + + With mop and mow, we saw them go, + Slim shadows hand in hand: + About, about, in ghostly rout + They trod a saraband: + And the damned grotesques made arabesques, + Like the wind upon the sand! + + With the pirouettes of marionettes, + They tripped on pointed tread: + But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear, + As their grisly masque they led, + And loud they sang, and long they sang, + For they sang to wake the dead. + + _"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide, + But fettered limbs go lame! + And once, or twice, to throw the dice + Is a gentlemanly game, + But he does not win who plays with Sin + In the secret House of Shame."_ + + No things of air these antics were, + That frolicked with such glee: + To men whose lives were held in gyves, + And whose feet might not go free, + Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, + Most terrible to see. + + Around, around, they waltzed and wound; + Some wheeled in smirking pairs; + With the mincing step of a demirep + Some sidled up the stairs: + And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, + Each helped us at our prayers. + + The morning wind began to moan, + But still the night went on: + Through its giant loom the web of gloom + Crept till each thread was spun: + And, as we prayed, we grew afraid + Of the Justice of the Sun. + + The moaning wind went wandering round + The weeping prison-wall: + Till like a wheel of turning steel + We felt the minutes crawl: + O moaning wind! what had we done + To have such a seneschal? + + At last I saw the shadowed bars, + Like a lattice wrought in lead, + Move right across the whitewashed wall + That faced my three-plank bed, + And I knew that somewhere in the world + God's dreadful dawn was red. + + At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, + At seven all was still, + But the sough and swing of a mighty wing + The prison seemed to fill, + For the Lord of Death with icy breath + Had entered in to kill. + + He did not pass in purple pomp, + Nor ride a moon-white steed. + Three yards of cord and a sliding board + Are all the gallows' need: + So with rope of shame the Herald came + To do the secret deed. + + We were as men who through a fen + Of filthy darkness grope: + We did not dare to breathe a prayer, + Or to give our anguish scope: + Something was dead in each of us, + And what was dead was Hope. + + For Man's grim Justice goes its way, + And will not swerve aside: + It slays the weak, it slays the strong, + It has a deadly stride: + With iron heel it slays the strong, + The monstrous parricide! + + We waited for the stroke of eight: + Each tongue was thick with thirst: + For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate + That makes a man accursed, + And Fate will use a running noose + For the best man and the worst. + + We had no other thing to do, + Save to wait for the sign to come: + So, like things of stone in a valley lone, + Quiet we sat and dumb: + But each man's heart beat thick and quick, + Like a madman on a drum! + + With sudden shock the prison-clock + Smote on the shivering air, + And from all the gaol rose up a wail + Of impotent despair, + Like the sound that frightened marches hear + From some leper in his lair. + + And as one sees most fearful things + In the crystal of a dream, + We saw the greasy hempen rope + Hooked to the blackened beam, + And heard the prayer the hangman's snare + Strangled into a scream. + + And all the woe that moved him so + That he gave that bitter cry, + And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, + None knew so well as I: + For he who lives more lives than one + More deaths than one must die. + + +IV + + + There is no chapel on the day + On which they hang a man: + The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, + Or his face is far too wan, + Or there is that written in his eyes + Which none should look upon. + + So they kept us close till nigh on noon, + And then they rang the bell, + And the warders with their jingling keys + Opened each listening cell, + And down the iron stair we tramped, + Each from his separate Hell. + + Out into God's sweet air we went, + But not in wonted way, + For this man's face was white with fear, + And that man's face was grey, + And I never saw sad men who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw sad men who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + We prisoners called the sky, + And at every happy cloud that passed + In such strange freedom by. + + But there were those amongst us all + Who walked with downcast head, + And knew that, had each got his due, + They should have died instead: + He had but killed a thing that lived, + Whilst they had killed the dead. + + For he who sins a second time + Wakes a dead soul to pain, + And draws it from its spotted shroud, + And makes it bleed again, + And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, + And makes it bleed in vain! + + * * * * * + + Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb + With crooked arrows starred, + Silently we went round and round + The slippery asphalte yard; + Silently we went round and round, + And no man spoke a word. + + Silently we went round and round, + And through each hollow mind + The Memory of dreadful things + Rushed like a dreadful wind, + And Horror stalked before each man, + And Terror crept behind. + + * * * * * + + The warders strutted up and down, + And watched their herd of brutes, + Their uniforms were spick and span, + And they wore their Sunday suits, + But we knew the work they had been at, + By the quicklime on their boots. + + For where a grave had opened wide, + There was no grave at all: + Only a stretch of mud and sand + By the hideous prison-wall, + And a little heap of burning lime, + That the man should have his pall. + + For he has a pall, this wretched man, + Such as few men can claim: + Deep down below a prison-yard, + Naked for greater shame, + He lies, with fetters on each foot, + Wrapt in a sheet of flame! + + And all the while the burning lime + Eats flesh and bone away, + It eats the brittle bone by night, + And the soft flesh by day, + It eats the flesh and bone by turns, + But it eats the heart alway. + + * * * * + + For three long years they will not sow + Or root or seedling there: + For three long years the unblessed spot + Will sterile be and bare, + And look upon the wondering sky + With unreproachful stare. + + They think a murderer's heart would taint + Each simple seed they sow. + It is not true! God's kindly earth + Is kindlier than men know, + And the red rose would but blow more red, + The white rose whiter blow. + + Out of his mouth a red, red rose! + Out of his heart a white! + For who can say by what strange way, + Christ brings His will to light, + Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore + Bloomed in the great Pope's sight? + + But neither milk-white rose nor red + May bloom in prison-air; + The shard, the pebble, and the flint, + Are what they give us there: + For flowers have been known to heal + A common man's despair. + + So never will wine-red rose or white, + Petal by petal, fall + On that stretch of mud and sand that lies + By the hideous prison-wall, + To tell the men who tramp the yard + That God's Son died for all. + + Yet though the hideous prison-wall + Still hems him round and round, + And a spirit may not walk by night + That is with fetters bound, + And a spirit may but weep that lies + In such unholy ground. + + He is at peace-this wretched man-- + At peace, or will be soon: + There is no thing to make him mad, + Nor does Terror walk at noon, + For the lampless Earth in which he lies + Has neither Sun nor Moon. + + They hanged him as a beast is hanged: + They did not even toll + A requiem that might have brought + Rest to his startled soul, + But hurriedly they took him out, + And hid him in a hole. + + The warders stripped him of his clothes, + And gave him to the flies: + They mocked the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes: + And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud + In which the convict lies. + + The Chaplain would not kneel to pray + By his dishonoured grave: + Nor mark it with that blessed Cross + That Christ for sinners gave, + Because the man was one of those + Whom Christ came down to save. + + Yet all is well; he has but passed + To Life's appointed bourne: + And alien tears will fill for him + Pity's long-broken urn, + For his mourners will be outcast men, + And outcasts always mourn. + + +V + + + I know not whether Laws be right, + Or whether Laws be wrong; + All that we know who lie in gaol + Is that the wall is strong; + And that each day is like a year, + A year whose days are long. + + But this I know, that every Law + That men have made for Man, + Since first Man took his brother's life, + And the sad world began, + But straws the wheat and saves the chaff + With a most evil fan. + + This too I know--and wise it were + If each could know the same-- + That every prison that men build + Is built with bricks of shame, + And bound with bars lest Christ should see + How men their brothers maim. + + With bars they blur the gracious moon, + And blind the goodly sun: + And they do well to hide their Hell, + For in it things are done + That Son of God nor son of Man + Ever should look upon! + + * * * * * + + The vilest deeds like poison weeds, + Bloom well in prison-air; + It is only what is good in Man + That wastes and withers there: + Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, + And the Warder is Despair. + + For they starve the little frightened child + Till it weeps both night and day: + And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, + And gibe the old and grey, + And some grow mad, and all grow bad, + And none a word may say. + + Each narrow cell in which we dwell + Is a foul and dark latrine, + And the fetid breath of living Death + Chokes up each grated screen, + And all, but Lust, is turned to dust + In humanity's machine. + + The brackish water that we drink + Creeps with a loathsome slime, + And the bitter bread they weigh in scales + Is full of chalk and lime, + And Sleep will not lie down, but walks + Wild-eyed, and cries to Time. + + * * * * * + + But though lean Hunger and green Thirst + Like asp with adder fight, + We have little care of prison fare, + For what chills and kills outright + Is that every stone one lifts by day + Becomes one's heart by night. + + With midnight always in one's heart, + And twilight in one's cell, + We turn the crank, or tear the rope, + Each in his separate Hell, + And the silence is more awful far + Than the sound of a brazen bell. + + And never a human voice comes near + To speak a gentle word: + And the eye that watches through the door + Is pitiless and hard: + And by all forgot, we rot and rot, + With soul and body marred. + + And thus we rust Life's iron chain + Degraded and alone: + And some men curse and some men weep, + And some men make no moan: + But God's eternal Laws are kind + And break the heart of stone. + + And every human heart that breaks, + In prison-cell or yard, + Is as that broken box that gave + Its treasure to the Lord, + And filled the unclean leper's house + With the scent of costliest nard. + + Ah! happy they whose hearts can break + And peace of pardon win! + How else man may make straight his plan + And cleanse his soul from Sin? + How else but through a broken heart + May Lord Christ enter in? + + * * * * * + + And he of the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes, + Waits for the holy hands that took + The Thief to Paradise; + And a broken and a contrite heart + The Lord will not despise. + + The man in red who reads the Law + Gave him three weeks of life, + Three little weeks in which to heal His soul of his soul's strife, + And cleanse from every blot of blood + The hand that held the knife. + + And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, + The hand that held the steel: + For only blood can wipe out blood, + And only tears can heal: + And the crimson stain that was of Cain + Became Christ's snow-white seal. + + +VI + + + In Reading gaol by Reading town + There is a pit of shame, + And in it lies a wretched man + Eaten by teeth of flame, + In a burning winding-sheet he lies, + And his grave has got no name. + + And there, till Christ call forth the dead, + In silence let him lie: + No need to waste the foolish tear, + Or heave the windy sigh: + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + And all men kill the thing they love, + By all let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word, + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + + + +APPENDIX + +_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume I._ + +THE FROLICKSOME DUKE + +Printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection. + + +KING ESTMERE + +This ballad is given from two versions, one in the Percy folio +manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. The original version was +probably written at the end of the fifteenth century. + + +ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE + +One of the earliest known ballads about Robin Hood--from the Percy folio +manuscript. + + +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID + +This ballad is printed from Richard Johnson's _Crown Garland of +Goulden Roses,_ 1612. + + +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY + +This ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient +ballads found throughout the plays of Shakespeare, which Thomas Percy +formed into one. + + +SIR ALDINGAR + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas +added by Thomas Percy to complete the story. + + +EDOM O'GORDON + +A Scottish ballad--this version was printed at Glasgow in 1755 by Robert +and Andrew Foulis. It has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered +from a fragment of the same ballad, from the Percy folio manuscript. + + +THE BALLAD OF CHEVY CHACE + +From the Percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed +in black-letter. Written about the time of Elizabeth. + + +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE + +Given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the +Percy folio manuscript. + + +THE CHILD OF ELLE + +Partly from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas +by Percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated. + + +KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAM WORTH + +The text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. One +in the Bodleian Library, printed at London by John Danter in 1596. The +other copy, without date, is from the Pepys Collection. + + +SIR PATRICK SPENS + +Printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland. It is +possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact. + + +EDWARD, EDWARD + +An old Scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from +Scotland. + + +KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS + +Version from an old copy in the _Golden Garland,_ black-letter, +entitled _A lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his Three +Daughters._ + + +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN + +This ballad is said to have been written by King James V of Scotland. + + + +_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume II._ + + +THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + +Printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections. + + +KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY + +This ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of James I from one +much older, entitled _King John and the Bishop of Canterbury._ The +version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy. + + +BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY + +Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled +_Barbara Alien's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy._ + + +FAIR ROSAMOND + +The version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in +black-letter: two of them in the Pepys' Library. It is by Thomas Delone. +First printed in 1612. + + +THE BOY AND THE MANTLE + +This is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad. + + +THE HEIR OF LINNE + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas +supplied by Thomas Percy. + + +SIR ANDREW BARTON + +This ballad is from the Percy folio manuscript with additions and +amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection. +It was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century. + + +THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and +alterations from two ancient printed copies. + + +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY + +Given from an old black-letter copy. + + +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE + +The version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the +Percy folio manuscript. + + +GIL MORRICE + +The version of this ballad given here was printed at Glasgow in 1755. +Since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added +to the original ballad. + + +CHILD WATERS + +From the Percy folio manuscript, with corrections. + + +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON + +From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection. + + +THE LYE + +By Sir Walter Raleigh. This poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled +_Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books ... +the 4th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme +more pleasing to the reader._ Lond. 1621. + + + +_From "English and Scottish Ballads."_ + + +MAY COLLIN + +From a manuscript at Abbotsford in the Sir Walter Scott Collection, +_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy._ + + +THOMAS THE RHYMER + +_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,_ No. 97, +Abbotsford. From the Sir Walter Scott Collection. Communicated to Sir +Walter by Mrs. Christiana Greenwood, London, May 27th, 1806. + + +YOUNG BEICHAN + +Taken from the Jamieson-Brown manuscript, 1783. + + +CLERK COLVILL + +From a transcript of No. 13 of William Tytler's Brown manuscript. + + +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER + +From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland,_ 1828. + + +HYND HORN + +From Motherwell's manuscript, 1825 and after. + + +THE THREE RAVENS + +_Melismate. Musicall Phansies. Fitting the Court, Cittie and Country +Humours._ London, 1611. (T. Ravenscroft.) + + +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + +Printed from _Ministrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 1802. + + * * * * * + +MANDALAY + +By Rudyard Kipling. + + +JOHN BROWN'S BODY + + +IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY + +By Jack Judge and Harry Williams. + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + +By Oscar Wilde. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS *** + +***** This file should be named 7535.txt or 7535.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/5/3/7535/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Book of Old Ballads + +Author: Selected by Beverly Nichols + +Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7535] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on May 14, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS + + +Selected and with an Introduction + +by + +BEVERLEY NICHOLS + + + + +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 HEIR OF LINNE +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID +SIR ANDREW BARTON +MAY COLLIN +THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN +THOMAS THE RHYMER +YOUNG BEICHAN +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY +CLERK COLVILL +SIR ALDINGAR +EDOM O' GORDON +CHEVY CHACE +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE +GIL MORRICE +THE CHILD OF ELLE +CHILD WATERS +KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH +SIR PATRICK SPENS +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER +EDWARD, EDWARD +KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS +HYND HORN +JOHN BROWN'S BODY +TIPPERARY +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON +THE THREE RAVENS +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL +THE LYE +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + +_The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix at the end +of this book._ + + + + +LIST OF COLOUR PLATES + + +HYND HORN +KING ESTMERE +BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY +FAIR ROSAMOND +THE BOY AND THE MANTLE +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID +MAY COLLIN +THOMAS THE RHYMER +YOUNG BEICHAN +CLERK COLVILL +GIL MORRICE +CHILD WATERS +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON +THE THREE RAVENS +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + + + + + +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. Coue "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. Coue'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. + + + + +[Illustration] + +MANDALAY + + + 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! + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE FROLICKSOME DUKE + +or + +THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE + + + 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] + + +[Illustration] + +THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + + + 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 daughter, + 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 + + + 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, brother, + 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 England, + Where we might find a messenger + Betwixt us towe to sende. + + Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, brother, + 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 Adland + 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 finger + 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 Estmere, + 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 kempes 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 kempes 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 ladye. + + 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 gramarye, + 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 harper, + That ever tooke harpe in hand; + And I wil be the best singer, + That ever sung in this lande. + + Itt shal be written on our forheads + All and in grammarye, + That we towe are the boldest men, + That are in all Christentye. + + 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 porter + Rearing himselfe thereatt. + + Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud porter; + Sayes, Christ thee save and see. + Nowe you be welcome, sayd the porter, + 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 gramarye, + 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 Gramarye, + 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] + + + + +[Illustration] + +KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY + + + 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 Canterburye; + 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 bodie. + + 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 Canterbury; + 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 + + + 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. + +[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 + + + 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 fellowes + 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 outlawe, 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 garlande: + 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 Barnesdale, + 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: Boy and 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." + + + + +THE HEIR OF LINNE + +PART THE FIRST + + + Lithe and listen, gentlemen, + To sing a song I will beginne: + It is of a lord of faire Scotland, + Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. + + His father was a right good lord, + His mother a lady of high degree; + But they, alas! were dead, him froe, + And he lov'd keeping companie. + + To spend the daye with merry cheare, + To drinke and revell every night, + To card and dice from eve to morne, + It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. + + To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, + To alwaye spend and never spare, + I wott, an' it were the king himselfe, + Of gold and fee he mote be bare. + + Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne + Till all his gold is gone and spent; + And he maun sell his landes so broad, + His house, and landes, and all his rent. + + His father had a keen stewarde, + And John o' the Scales was called hee: + But John is become a gentel-man, + And John has gott both gold and fee. + + Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne, + Let nought disturb thy merry cheere; + Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, + Good store of gold Ile give thee heere, + + My gold is gone, my money is spent; + My lande nowe take it unto thee: + Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, + And thine for aye my lande shall bee. + + Then John he did him to record draw, + And John he cast him a gods-pennie; + But for every pounde that John agreed, + The lande, I wis, was well worth three. + + He told him the gold upon the borde, + He was right glad his land to winne; + The gold is thine, the land is mine, + And now Ile be the lord of Linne. + + Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, + Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, + All but a poore and lonesome lodge, + That stood far off in a lonely glenne. + + For soe he to his father hight. + My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee, + Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, + And thou wilt spend thy gold so free: + + But sweare me nowe upon the roode, + That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; + For when all the world doth frown on thee, + Thou there shalt find a faithful friend. + + The heire of Linne is full of golde: + And come with me, my friends, sayd hee, + Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, + And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. + + They ranted, drank, and merry made, + Till all his gold it waxed thinne; + And then his friendes they slunk away; + They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. + + He had never a penny in his purse, + Never a penny left but three, + And one was brass, another was lead, + And another it was white money. + + Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, + Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, + For when I was the lord of Linne, + I never wanted gold nor fee. + + But many a trustye friend have I, + And why shold I feel dole or care? + Ile borrow of them all by turnes, + Soe need I not be never bare. + + But one, I wis, was not at home; + Another had payd his gold away; + Another call'd him thriftless loone, + And bade him sharpely wend his way. + + Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, + Now well-aday, and woe is me; + For when I had my landes so broad, + On me they liv'd right merrilee. + + To beg my bread from door to door + I wis, it were a brenning shame: + To rob and steale it were a sinne: + To worke my limbs I cannot frame. + + Now Ile away to lonesome lodge, + For there my father bade me wend; + When all the world should frown on mee + I there shold find a trusty friend. + + +PART THE SECOND + + + Away then hyed the heire of Linne + Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne, + Untill he came to lonesome lodge, + That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. + + He looked up, he looked downe, + In hope some comfort for to winne: + But bare and lothly were the walles. + Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne. + + The little windowe dim and darke + Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; + No shimmering sunn here ever shone; + No halesome breeze here ever blew. + + No chair, ne table he mote spye, + No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, + Nought save a rope with renning noose, + That dangling hung up o'er his head. + + And over it in broad letters, + These words were written so plain to see: + "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, + And brought thyselfe to penurie? + + "All this my boding mind misgave, + I therefore left this trusty friend: + Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, + And all thy shame and sorrows end." + + Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, + Sorely shent was the heire of Linne, + His heart, I wis, was near to brast With guilt and sorrowe, shame +and sinne. + + Never a word spake the heire of Linne, + Never a word he spake but three: + "This is a trusty friend indeed, + And is right welcome unto mee." + + Then round his necke the corde he drewe, + And sprung aloft with his bodie: + When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, + And to the ground came tumbling hee. + + Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, + Ne knewe if he were live or dead: + At length he looked, and saw a bille, + And in it a key of gold so redd. + + He took the bill, and lookt it on, + Strait good comfort found he there: + It told him of a hole in the wall, + In which there stood three chests in-fere. + + Two were full of the beaten golde, + The third was full of white money; + And over them in broad letters + These words were written so plaine to see: + + "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere; + Amend thy life and follies past; + For but thou amend thee of thy life, + That rope must be thy end at last." + + And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne; + And let it bee, but if I amend: + For here I will make mine avow, + This reade shall guide me to the end. + + Away then went with a merry cheare, + Away then went the heire of Linne; + I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, + Till John o' the Scales house he did winne. + + And when he came to John o' the Scales, + Upp at the speere then looked hee; + There sate three lords upon a rowe, + Were drinking of the wine so free. + + And John himself sate at the bord-head, + Because now lord of Linne was hee. + I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales, + One forty pence for to lend mee. + + Away, away, thou thriftless loone; + Away, away, this may not bee: + For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, + If ever I trust thee one pennie. + + Then bespake the heire of Linne, + To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: + Madame, some almes on me bestowe, + I pray for sweet Saint Charitie. + + Away, away, thou thriftless loone, + I swear thou gettest no almes of mee; + For if we shold hang any losel heere, + The first we wold begin with thee. + + Then bespake a good fellowe, + Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord + Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne; + Some time thou wast a well good lord; + + Some time a good fellow thou hast been, + And sparedst not thy gold nor fee; + Therefore He lend thee forty pence, + And other forty if need bee. + + And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, + To let him sit in thy companie: + For well I wot thou hadst his land, + And a good bargain it was to thee. + + Up then spake him John o' the Scales, + All wood he answer'd him againe: + Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd, + But I did lose by that bargaine. + + And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, + Before these lords so faire and free, + Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, + By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee. + + I draw you to record, lords, he said. + With that he cast him a gods pennie: + Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne, + And here, good John, is thy money. + + And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, + And layd them down upon the bord: + All woe begone was John o' the Scales, + Soe shent he cold say never a word. + + He told him forth the good red gold, + He told it forth with mickle dinne. + The gold is thine, the land is mine, + And now Ime againe the lord of Linne. + + Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellowe, + Forty pence thou didst lend me: + Now I am againe the lord of Linne, + And forty pounds I will give thee. + + He make the keeper of my forrest, + Both of the wild deere and the tame; + For but I reward thy bounteous heart, + I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame. + + Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales: + Now welladay! and woe is my life! + Yesterday I was lady of Linne, + Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife. + + Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne; + Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee: + Christs curse light on me, if ever again + I bring my lands in jeopardy. + + + + +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID + + + I Read that once in Affrica + A princely wight did raine, + Who had to name Cophetua, + As poets they did faine: + From natures lawes he did decline, + For sure he was not of my mind. + He cared not for women-kinde, + But did them all disdaine. + But, marke, what hapened on a day, + As he out of his window lay, + He saw a beggar all in gray, + The which did cause his paine. + + The blinded boy, that shootes so trim, + From heaven downe did hie; + He drew a dart and shot at him, + In place where he did lye: + Which soone did pierse him to the quicke. + And when he felt the arrow pricke, + Which in his tender heart did sticke, + He looketh as he would dye. + What sudden chance is this, quoth he, + That I to love must subject be, + Which never thereto would agree, + But still did it defie? + + Then from the window he did come, + And laid him on his bed, + A thousand heapes of care did runne + Within his troubled head: + For now he meanes to crave her love, + And now he seekes which way to proove + How he his fancie might remoove, + And not this beggar wed. + But Cupid had him so in snare, + That this poor begger must prepare + A salve to cure him of his care, + Or els he would be dead. + + And, as he musing thus did lye, + He thought for to devise + How he might have her companye, + That so did 'maze his eyes. + In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life; + For surely thou shalt be my wife, + Or else this hand with bloody knife + The Gods shall sure suffice. + Then from his bed he soon arose, + And to his pallace gate he goes; + Full little then this begger knowes + When she the king espies. + + The Gods preserve your majesty, + The beggers all gan cry: + Vouchsafe to give your charity + Our childrens food to buy. + The king to them his pursse did cast, + And they to part it made great haste; + This silly woman was the last + That after them did hye. + The king he cal'd her back againe, + And unto her he gave his chaine; + And said, With us you shal remaine + Till such time as we dye: + + For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife, + And honoured for my queene; + With thee I meane to lead my life, + As shortly shall be seene: + Our wedding shall appointed be, + And every thing in its degree: + Come on, quoth he, and follow me, + Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. + What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he. + Penelophon, O king, quoth she; + With that she made a lowe courtsey; + A trim one as I weene. + + Thus hand in hand along they walke + Unto the king's pallace: + The king with curteous comly talke + This beggar doth imbrace: + The begger blusheth scarlet red, + And straight againe as pale as lead, + But not a word at all she said, + She was in such amaze. + At last she spake with trembling voyce, + And said, O king, I doe rejoyce + That you wil take me from your choyce, + And my degree's so base. + + And when the wedding day was come, + The king commanded strait + The noblemen both all and some + Upon the queene to wait. + And she behaved herself that day, + As if she had never walkt the way; + She had forgot her gown of gray, + Which she did weare of late. + The proverbe old is come to passe, + The priest, when he begins his masse, + Forgets that ever clerke he was; + He knowth not his estate. + + Here you may read, Cophetua, + Though long time fancie-fed, + Compelled by the blinded boy + The begger for to wed: + He that did lovers lookes disdaine, + To do the same was glad and faine, + Or else he would himselfe have slaine, + In storie, as we read. + Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, + But pitty now thy servant heere, + Least that it hap to thee this yeare, + As to that king it did. + + And thus they led a quiet life + Duringe their princely raigne; + And in a tombe were buried both, + As writers sheweth plaine. + The lords they tooke it grievously, + The ladies tooke it heavily, + The commons cryed pitiously, + Their death to them was paine, + Their fame did sound so passingly, + That it did pierce the starry sky, + And throughout all the world did flye + To every princes realme. + +[Illustration: Decorative ] + + + + +[Illustration] + +SIR ANDREW BARTON + + + 'When Flora with her fragrant flowers + Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, + And Neptune with his daintye showers + Came to present the monthe of Maye;' + King Henrye rode to take the ayre, + Over the river of Thames past hee; + When eighty merchants of London came, + And downe they knelt upon their knee. + + "O yee are welcome, rich merchants; + Good saylors, welcome unto mee." + They swore by the rood, they were saylors good, + But rich merchants they cold not bee: + "To France nor Flanders dare we pass: + Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare; + And all for a rover that lyes on the seas, + Who robbs us of our merchant ware." + + King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde, + And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might, + "I thought he had not beene in the world, + Durst have wrought England such unright." + The merchants sighed, and said, alas! + And thus they did their answer frame, + He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas, + And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name. + + The king lookt over his left shoulder, + And an angrye look then looked hee: + "Have I never a lorde in all my realme, + Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?" + Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes; + Yea, that dare I with heart and hand; + If it please your grace to give me leave, + Myselfe wil be the only man. + + Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed: + Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare. + "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail, + Or before my prince I will never appeare." + Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, + And chuse them over my realme so free; + Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, + To guide the great shipp on the sea. + + The first man, that Lord Howard chose, + Was the ablest gunner in all the realm, + Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten; + Good Peter Simon was his name. + Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea, + To bring home a traytor live or dead: + Before all others I have chosen thee; + Of a hundred gunners to be the head. + + If you, my lord, have chosen mee + Of a hundred gunners to be the head, + Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, + If I misse my marke one shilling bread. + My lord then chose a boweman rare, + "Whose active hands had gained fame." + In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne, + And William Horseley was his name. + + Horseley, said he, I must with speede + Go seeke a traytor on the sea, + And now of a hundred bowemen brave + To be the head I have chosen thee. + If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee + Of a hundred bowemen to be the head + On your main-mast He hanged bee, + If I miss twelvescore one penny bread. + + With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold, + This noble Howard is gone to the sea; + With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, + Out at Thames mouth sayled he. + And days he scant had sayled three, + Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand, + But there he mett with a noble shipp, + And stoutely made itt stay and stand. + + Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said, + Now who thou art, and what's thy name; + And shewe me where they dwelling is: + And whither bound, and whence thou came. + My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee + With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; + I and my shipp doe both belong + To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne. + + Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt, + As thou hast sayled by daye and by night, + Of a Scottish rover on the seas; + Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight! + Then ever he sighed, and said alas! + With a grieved mind, and well away! + But over-well I knowe that wight, + I was his prisoner yesterday. + + As I was sayling uppon the sea, + A Burdeaux voyage for to fare; + To his hach-borde he clasped me, + And robd me of all my merchant ware: + And mickle debts, God wot, I owe, + And every man will have his owne; + And I am nowe to London bounde, + Of our gracious king to beg a boone. + + That shall not need, Lord Howard sais; + Lett me but once that robber see, + For every penny tane thee froe + It shall be doubled shillings three. + Nowe God forefend, the merchant said, + That you should seek soe far amisse! + God keepe you out of that traitors hands! + Full litle ye wott what a man hee is. + + Hee is brasse within, and steele without, + With beames on his topcastle stronge; + And eighteen pieces of ordinance + He carries on each side along: + And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight, + St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide; + His pinnace beareth ninescore men, + And fifteen canons on each side. + + Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one; + I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall; + He wold overcome them everye one, + If once his beames they doe downe fall. + This is cold comfort, sais my lord, + To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: + Yet He bring him and his ship to shore, + Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee. + + + Then a noble gunner you must have, + And he must aim well with his ee, + And sinke his pinnace into the sea, + Or else hee never orecome will bee: + And if you chance his shipp to borde, + This counsel I must give withall, + Let no man to his topcastle goe + To strive to let his beams downe fall. + + + And seven pieces of ordinance, + I pray your honour lend to mee, + On each side of my shipp along, + And I will lead you on the sea. + A glasse He sett, that may be seene + Whether you sail by day or night; + And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke + You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton knight. + + + THE SECOND PART + + + The merchant sett my lorde a glasse + Soe well apparent in his sight, + And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke, + He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight. + His hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold, + Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee: + Nowe by my faith, Lord Howarde sais, + This is a gallant sight to see. + + Take in your ancyents, standards eke, + So close that no man may them see; + And put me forth a white willowe wand, + As merchants use to sayle the sea. + But they stirred neither top, nor mast; + Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by. + What English churles are yonder, he sayd, + That can soe little curtesye? + + Now by the roode, three yeares and more + I have beene admirall over the sea; + And never an English nor Portingall + Without my leave can passe this way. + Then called he forth his stout pinnace; + "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee: + I sweare by the masse, yon English churles + Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree." + + With that the pinnace itt shot off, + Full well Lord Howard might it ken; + For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast, + And killed fourteen of his men. + Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord, + Looke that thy word be true, thou said; + For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang, + If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread. + + Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold; + His ordinance he laid right lowe; + He put in chaine full nine yardes long, + With other great shott lesse, and moe; + And he lette goe his great gunnes shott: + Soe well he settled itt with his ee, + The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe, + He see his pinnace sunke in the sea. + + And when he saw his pinnace sunke, + Lord, how his heart with rage did swell! + "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon; + Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell." + When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose, + Within his heart he was full faine: + "Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes, + Sound all your trumpetts out amaine." + + Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais, + Weale howsoever this geere will sway; + Itt is my Lord Admirall of England, + Is come to seeke mee on the sea. + Simon had a sonne, who shott right well, + That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare; + In att his decke he gave a shott, + Killed threescore of his men of warre. + + Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott + Came bravely on the other side, + Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree, + And killed fourscore men beside. + Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed, + What may a man now thinke, or say? + Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee, + He was my prisoner yesterday. + + Come hither to me, thou Gordon good, + That aye wast readye att my call: + I will give thee three hundred markes, + If thou wilt let my beames downe fall. + Lord Howard hee then calld in haste, + "Horseley see thou be true in stead; + For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang, + If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread." + + Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree, + He swarved it with might and maine; + But Horseley with a bearing arrowe, + Stroke the Gordon through the braine; + And he fell unto the haches again, + And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed: + Then word went through Sir Andrews men, + How that the Gordon hee was dead. + + Come hither to mee, James Hambilton, + Thou art my only sisters sonne, + If thou wilt let my beames downe fall + Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne. + With that he swarved the maine-mast tree, + He swarved it with nimble art; + But Horseley with a broad arrowe + Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart: + + And downe he fell upon the deck, + That with his blood did streame amaine: + Then every Scott cryed, Well-away! + Alas! a comelye youth is slaine. + All woe begone was Sir Andrew then, + With griefe and rage his heart did swell: + "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe, + For I will to the topcastle mysell." + + "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe; + That gilded is with gold soe cleare: + God be with my brother John of Barton! + Against the Portingalls hee it ware; + And when he had on this armour of proofe, + He was a gallant sight to see: + Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, + My deere brother, could cope with thee." + + Come hither Horseley, sayes my lord, + And looke your shaft that itt goe right, + Shoot a good shoote in time of need, + And for it thou shalt be made a knight. + Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then, + Your honour shall see, with might and maine; + But if I were hanged at your maine-mast, + I have now left but arrowes twaine. + + Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree, + With right good will he swarved then: + Upon his breast did Horseley hitt, + But the arrow bounded back agen. + Then Horseley spyed a privye place + With a perfect eye in a secrette part; + Under the spole of his right arme + He smote Sir Andrew to the heart. + + "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes, + "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine; + He but lye downe and bleede a while, + And then He rise and fight againe. + Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes, + "And never flinch before the foe; + And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse + Until you heare my whistle blowe." + + They never heard his whistle blow-- + Which made their hearts waxe sore adread: + Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord, + For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead. + They boarded then his noble shipp, + They boarded it with might and maine; + Eighteen score Scots alive they found, + The rest were either maimed or slaine. + + Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand, + And off he smote Sir Andrewes head, + "I must have left England many a daye, + If thou wert alive as thou art dead." + He caused his body to be cast + Over the hatchboard into the sea, + And about his middle three hundred crownes: + "Wherever thou land this will bury thee." + + Thus from the warres Lord Howard came, + And backe he sayled ore the maine, + With mickle joy and triumphing + Into Thames mouth he came againe. + Lord Howard then a letter wrote, + And sealed it with scale and ring; + "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace, + As never did subject to a king: + + "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee; + A braver shipp was never none: + Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr, + Before in England was but one." + King Henryes grace with royall cheere + Welcomed the noble Howard home, + And where, said he, is this rover stout, + That I myselfe may give the doome? + + "The rover, he is safe, my liege, + Full many a fadom in the sea; + If he were alive as he is dead, + I must have left England many a day: + And your grace may thank four men i' the ship + For the victory wee have wonne, + These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt, + And Peter Simon, and his sonne." + + To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd, + In lieu of what was from thee tane, + A noble a day now thou shalt have, + Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne. + And Horseley thou shalt be a knight, + And lands and livings shalt have store; + Howard shall be erle Surrye hight, + As Howards erst have beene before. + + Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old, + I will maintaine thee and thy sonne: + And the men shall have five hundred markes + For the good service they have done. + Then in came the queene with ladyes fair + To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight: + They weend that hee were brought on shore, + And thought to have seen a gallant sight. + + But when they see his deadlye face, + And eyes soe hollow in his head, + I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes, + This man were alive as hee is dead: + Yett for the manfull part hee playd, + Which fought soe well with heart and hand, + His men shall have twelvepence a day, + Till they come to my brother kings high land. + + + + +MAY COLLIN + + + May Collin ... + ... was her father's heir, + And she fell in love with a false priest, + And she rued it ever mair. + + He followd her butt, he followd her benn, + He followd her through the hall, + Till she had neither tongue nor teeth + Nor lips to say him naw. + + "We'll take the steed out where he is, + The gold where eer it be, + And we'll away to some unco land, + And married we shall be." + + They had not riden a mile, a mile, + A mile but barely three, + Till they came to a rank river, + Was raging like the sea. + + "Light off, light off now, May Collin, + It's here that you must die; + Here I have drownd seven king's daughters, + The eight now you must be. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your gown that's of the green; + For it's oer good and oer costly + To rot in the sea-stream. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your coat that's of the black; + For it's oer good and oer costly + To rot in the sea-wreck. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your stays that are well laced; + For thei'r oer good and costly + In the sea's ground to waste. + + "Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,] + Your sark that's of the holland; + For [it's oer good and oer costly] + To rot in the sea-bottom." + + "Turn you about now, falsh Mess John, + To the green leaf of the tree; + It does not fit a mansworn man + A naked woman to see." + + He turnd him quickly round about, + To the green leaf of the tree; + She took him hastly in her arms + And flung him in the sea. + + "Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John, + My mallasin go with thee! + You thought to drown me naked and bare, + But take your cloaths with thee, + And if there be seven king's daughters there + Bear you them company" + + She lap on her milk steed + And fast she bent the way, + And she was at her father's yate + Three long hours or day. + + Up and speaks the wylie parrot, + So wylily and slee: + "Where is the man now, May Collin, + That gaed away wie thee?" + + "Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot, + And tell no tales of me, + And where I gave a pickle befor + It's now I'll give you three." + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN + + +PART THE FIRST + + + Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, + He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; + And many a gallant brave suiter had shee, + For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee. + + And though shee was of favour most faire, + Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre, + Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, + Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee. + + Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say, + Good father, and mother, let me goe away + To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee. + This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee. + + Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright, + All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night + From father and mother alone parted shee; + Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee. + + Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow; + Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe: + With teares shee lamented her hard destinie, + So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee. + + Shee kept on her journey untill it was day, + And went unto Rumford along the hye way; + Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee; + Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee. + + Shee had not beene there a month to an end, + But master and mistress and all was her friend: + And every brave gallant, that once did her see, + Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee. + + Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, + And in their songs daylye her love was extold; + Her beawtye was blazed in every degree; + Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee. + + The young men of Rumford in her had their joy; + Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; + And at her commandment still wold they bee; + Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee. + + Foure suitors att once unto her did goe; + They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe; + I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee. + Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee. + + The first of them was a gallant young knight, + And he came unto her disguisde in the night; + The second a gentleman of good degree, + Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee. + + A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small, + He was the third suiter, and proper withall: + Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, + Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee. + + And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight, + Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight; + My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle, + That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee. + + The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee, + As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee: + My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee; + And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee. + + Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say, + Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay; + My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee, + And I will for ever love pretty Bessee. + + Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say, + My father and mother I meane to obey; + First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee, + And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee. + + To every one this answer shee made, + Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd, + This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; But where dwells thy father, +my prettye Besse? + + My father, shee said, is soone to be seene: + The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene, + That daylye sits begging for charitie, + He is the good father of pretty Bessee. + + His markes and his tokens are knowen very well; + He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell: + A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee, + Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee. + + Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee: + Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee: + I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree, + And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee! + + Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, + I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse, + And bewtye is bewtye in every degree; + Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee. + + With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe. + Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe; + A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, + Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee. + + But soone after this, by breake of the day, + The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away. + The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee, + Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee. + + As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene, + Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene; + And as the knight lighted most courteouslie, + They all fought against him for pretty Bessee. + + But rescew came speedilye over the plaine, + Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine. + This fray being ended, then straitway he see + His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee. + + Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore, + Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore: + Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, + Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle. + + And then, if my gold may better her birthe, + And equall the gold that you lay on the earth, + Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see + The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee. + + But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne, + The gold that you drop shall all be your owne. + With that they replyed, Contented bee wee. + Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee. + + With that an angell he cast on the ground, + And dropped in angels full three thousand pound; + And oftentime itt was proved most plaine, + For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne: + + Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt, + With gold it was covered every whitt. + The gentlemen then having dropt all their store, + Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more. + + Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright. + Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight; + And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe + A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne. + + The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene, + Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene: + And all those, that were her suitors before, + Their fleshe for very anger they tore. + + Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight, + And then made a ladye in others despite: + A fairer ladye there never was seene, + Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene. + + But of their sumptuous marriage and feast, + What brave lords and knights thither were prest, + The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight + With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight. + + +PART THE SECOND + + + Off a blind beggars daughter most bright, + That late was betrothed unto a younge knight; + All the discourse therof you did see; + But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee. + + Within a gorgeous palace most brave, + Adorned with all the cost they cold have, + This wedding was kept most sumptuouslie, + And all for the credit of pretty Bessee. + + All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete + Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; + Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, + Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee. + + This marriage through England was spread by report, + Soe that a great number therto did resort + Of nobles and gentles in every degree; + And all for the fame of prettye Bessee. + + To church then went this gallant younge knight; + His bride followed after, an angell most bright, + With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene + As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene. + + This marryage being solempnized then, + With musicke performed by the skilfullest men, + The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, + Each one admiring the beautiful bryde. + + Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, + To talke, and to reason a number begunn: + They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, + And what with his daughter he gave to the knight. + + Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee, + This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see." + My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, + He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. + + "The prayse of a woman in question to bringe + Before her own face, were a flattering thinge; + But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they, + "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye." + + They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, + But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; + A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee, + And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee. + + He had a daintye lute under his arme, + He touched the strings, which made such a charme, + Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee, + Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee. + + With that his lute he twanged straightway, + And thereon begann most sweetlye to play; + And after that lessons were playd two or three, + He strayn'd out this song most delicatelie. + + "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, + Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene: + A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, + And many one called her pretty Bessee. + + "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land, + But begged for a penny all day with his hand; + And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three, + And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee. + + "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine, + Her father is ready, with might and with maine, + To proove shee is come of noble degree: + Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee." + + With that the lords and the companye round + With harty laughter were readye to swound; + Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see, + The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee. + + On this the bride all blushing did rise, + The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes, + O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee, + That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee. + + If this be thy father, the nobles did say, + Well may he be proud of this happy day; + Yett by his countenance well may wee see, + His birth and his fortune did never agree: + + And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray, + (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say) + Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee; + For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee. + + "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, + One song more to sing, and then I have done; + And if that itt may not winn good report, + Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport. + + "Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee; + Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, + Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, + Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race. + + "When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose, + Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose; + A leader of courage undaunted was hee, + And oft-times he made their enemyes flee. + + "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine + The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine; + Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, + Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee! + + "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde, + His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side, + Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight! + A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight. + + "Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye, + Till evening drewe on of the following daye, + When by a yong ladye discovered was hee; + And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee! + + "A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte + To search for her father, who fell in the fight, + And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye, + Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye. + + "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, + While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine + At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee, + And made him glad father of prettye Bessee. + + "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, + We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; + Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee: + All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee. + + "And here have we lived in fortunes despite, + Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: + Full forty winters thus have I beene + A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene. + + "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song + Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong: + And thus have you learned a secrette from mee, + That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee." + + Now when the faire companye everye one, + Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne, + They all were amazed, as well they might bee, + Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee. + + With that the faire bride they all did embrace, + Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race, + Thy father likewise is of noble degree, + And thou art well worthy a lady to bee. + + Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, + A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte, + In joy and felicitie long lived hee, + All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee. + + +[Illustration: Hand dropping gold coins] + + + + + +THOMAS THE RHYMER + + + Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank, + A spying ferlies wi his eee, + And he did spy a lady gay, + Come riding down by the lang lee. + + Her steed was o the dapple grey, + And at its mane there hung bells nine; + He thought he heard that lady say, + "They gowden bells sall a' be thine." + + Her mantle was o velvet green, + And a' set round wi jewels fine; + Her hawk and hounds were at her side, + And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine. + + Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap, + For to salute this gay lady: + "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn, + And ay weel met ye save and see!" + + "I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas; + I never carried my head sae hee; + For I am but a lady gay, + Come out to hunt in my follee. + + "Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas, + Ye mauna miss my fair bodee; + Then ye may een gang hame and tell + That ye've lain wi a gay ladee." + + "O gin I loe a lady fair, + Nae ill tales o her wad I tell, + And it's wi thee I fain wad gae, + Tho it were een to heavn or hell." + + "Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said, + "Then harp and carp alang wi me; + But it will be seven years and a day + Till ye win back to yere ain countrie." + + The lady rade, True Thomas ran, + Until they cam to a water wan; + O it was night, and nae delight, + And Thomas wade aboon the knee. + + It was dark night, and nae starn-light, + And on they waded lang days three, + And they heard the roaring o a flood, + And Thomas a waefou man was he. + + Then they rade on, and farther on, + Untill they came to a garden green; + To pu an apple he put up his hand, + For the lack o food he was like to tyne. + + "O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried, + "And let that green flourishing be; + For it's the very fruit o hell, + Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie. + + "But look afore ye, True Thomas, + And I shall show ye ferlies three; + Yon is the gate leads to our land, + Where thou and I sae soon shall be. + + "And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas, + That lies out-owr yon lilly lee? + Weel is the man yon gate may gang, + For it leads him straight to the heavens hie. + + "But do you see yon road, Thomas, + That lies out-owr yon frosty fell? + Ill is the man yon gate may gang, + For it leads him straight to the pit o hell. + + "Now when ye come to our court, Thomas, + See that a weel-learned man ye be; + For they will ask ye, one and all, + But ye maun answer nane but me. + + "And when nae answer they obtain, + Then will they come and question me, + And I will answer them again + That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree. + + + * * * * * + + "Ilka seven years, Thomas, + We pay our teindings unto hell, + And ye're sae leesome and sae strang + That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell." + + + + +YOUNG BEICHAN + + + In London city was Bicham born, + He longd strange countries for to see, + But he was taen by a savage Moor, + Who handld him right cruely. + + For thro his shoulder he put a bore, + An thro the bore has pitten a tree, + An he's gard him draw the carts o wine, + Where horse and oxen had wont to be. + + He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep, + Where he coud neither hear nor see; + He's shut him up in a prison strong, + An he's handld him right cruely. + + O this Moor he had but ae daughter, + I wot her name was Shusy Pye; + She's doen her to the prison-house, + And she's calld Young Bicham one word + + "O hae ye ony lands or rents, + Or citys in your ain country, + Coud free you out of prison strong, + An coud mantain a lady free?" + + "O London city is my own, + An other citys twa or three, + Coud loose me out o prison strong, + An coud mantain a lady free." + + O she has bribed her father's men + Wi meikle goud and white money, + She's gotten the key o the prison doors, + An she has set Young Bicham free. + + She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread, + But an a flask o Spanish wine, + An she bad him mind on the ladie's love + That sae kindly freed him out o pine. + + "Go set your foot on good ship-board, + An haste you back to your ain country, + An before that seven years has an end, + Come back again, love, and marry me." + + It was long or seven years had an end + She longd fu sair her love to see; + She's set her foot on good ship-board, + And turnd her back on her ain country. + + She's saild up, so has she doun, + Till she came to the other side; + She's landed at Young Bicham's gates, + An I hop this day she sal be his bride. + + "Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she, + "Or is that noble prince within?" + "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride, + An monny a lord and lady wi him." + + "O has he taen a bonny bride, + An has he clean forgotten me!" + An sighing said that gay lady, + I wish I were in my ain country! + + But she's pitten her han in her pocket, + An gin the porter guineas three; + Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter, + An bid the bridegroom speak to me. + + O whan the porter came up the stair, + He's fa'n low down upon his knee: + "Won up, won up, ye proud porter, + An what makes a' this courtesy?" + + "O I've been porter at your gates + This mair nor seven years an three, + But there is a lady at them now + The like of whom I never did see. + + "For on every finger she has a ring, + An on the mid-finger she has three, + An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow + As woud buy an earldome o lan to me." + + Then up it started Young Bicham, + An sware so loud by Our Lady, + "It can be nane but Shusy Pye, + That has come oer the sea to me." + + O quickly ran he down the stair, + O fifteen steps he has made but three; + He's tane his bonny love in his arms, + An a wot he kissd her tenderly. + + "O hae you tane a bonny bride? + An hae you quite forsaken me? + An hae ye quite forgotten her + That gae you life an liberty? " + She's lookit oer her left shoulder + To hide the tears stood in her ee; + "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says, + "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee." + + "Take back your daughter, madam," he says, + "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi; + For I maun marry my first true love, + That's done and suffered so much for me." + + He's take his bonny love by the ban, + And led her to yon fountain stane; + He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye, + An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane. + + + + +[Illustration] + +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY + + + The fifteenth day of July, + With glistering spear and shield, + A famous fight in Flanders + Was foughten in the field: + The most couragious officers + Were English captains three; + But the bravest man in battel + Was brave Lord Willoughbey. + + The next was Captain Norris, + A valiant man was hee: + The other Captain Turner, + From field would never flee. + With fifteen hundred fighting men, + Alas! there were no more, + They fought with fourteen thousand then, + Upon the bloody shore. + + Stand to it, noble pikemen, + And look you round about: + And shoot you right, you bow-men, + And we will keep them out: + You musquet and calliver men, + Do you prove true to me, + I'le be the formost man in fight, + Says brave Lord Willoughbey. + + And then the bloody enemy + They fiercely did assail, + And fought it out most furiously, + Not doubting to prevail: + The wounded men on both sides fell + Most pitious for to see, + Yet nothing could the courage quell + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + + For seven hours to all mens view + This fight endured sore, + Until our men so feeble grew + That they could fight no more; + And then upon dead horses + Full savourly they eat, + And drank the puddle water, + They could no better get. + + When they had fed so freely, + They kneeled on the ground, + And praised God devoutly + For the favour they had found; + And beating up their colours, + The fight they did renew, + And turning tow'rds the Spaniard, + A thousand more they slew. + + The sharp steel-pointed arrows, + And bullets thick did fly, + Then did our valiant soldiers + Charge on most furiously; + Which made the Spaniards waver, + They thought it best to flee, + They fear'd the stout behaviour + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + + Then quoth the Spanish general, + Come let us march away, + I fear we shall be spoiled all + If here we longer stay; + For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey + With courage fierce and fell, + He will not give one inch of way + For all the devils in hell. + + And then the fearful enemy + Was quickly put to flight, + Our men persued couragiously, + And caught their forces quite; + But at last they gave a shout, + Which ecchoed through the sky, + God, and St. George for England! + The conquerors did cry. + + This news was brought to England + With all the speed might be, + And soon our gracious queen was told + Of this same victory. + O this is brave Lord Willoughbey, + My love that ever won, + Of all the lords of honour + 'Tis he great deeds hath done. + + To the souldiers that were maimed, + And wounded in the fray, + The queen allowed a pension + Of fifteen pence a day; + And from all costs and charges + She quit and set them free: + And this she did all for the sake + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + + Then courage, noble Englishmen, + And never be dismaid; + If that we be but one to ten, + We will not be afraid + To fight with foraign enemies, + And set our nation free. + And thus I end the bloody bout + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE + + + Will you hear a Spanish lady, + How shed wooed an English man? + Garments gay and rich as may be + Decked with jewels she had on. + Of a comely countenance and grace was she, + And by birth and parentage of high degree. + + As his prisoner there he kept her, + In his hands her life did lye! + Cupid's bands did tye them faster + By the liking of an eye. + In his courteous company was all her joy, + To favour him in any thing she was not coy. + + But at last there came commandment + For to set the ladies free, + With their jewels still adorned, + None to do them injury. + Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me; + O let me still sustain this kind captivity! + + Gallant captain, shew some pity + To a ladye in distresse; + Leave me not within this city, + For to dye in heavinesse: + Thou hast this present day my body free, + But my heart in prison still remains with thee. + + "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me, + Whom thou knowest thy country's foe? + Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee: + Serpents lie where flowers grow." + All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight, + God grant the same upon my head may fully light. + Blessed be the time and season, + That you came on Spanish ground; + If our foes you may be termed, + Gentle foes we have you found: + With our city, you have won our hearts eche one, + Then to your country bear away, that is your owne. + + "Rest you still, most gallant lady; + Rest you still, and weep no more; + Of fair lovers there is plenty, + Spain doth yield a wonderous store." + Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, + But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind. + + Leave me not unto a Spaniard, + You alone enjoy my heart: + I am lovely, young, and tender, + Love is likewise my desert: + Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; + The wife of every Englishman is counted blest. + "It wold be a shame, fair lady, + For to bear a woman hence; + English soldiers never carry + Any such without offence." + I'll quickly change myself, if it be so, + And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go. + + "I have neither gold nor silver + To maintain thee in this case, + And to travel is great charges, + As you know in every place." + My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own, + And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown. + + "On the seas are many dangers, + Many storms do there arise, + Which wil be to ladies dreadful, + And force tears from watery eyes." + Well in troth I shall endure extremity, + For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee. + + "Courteous ladye, leave this fancy, + Here comes all that breeds the strife; + I in England have already + A sweet woman to my wife: + I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, + Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain." + + O how happy is that woman + That enjoys so true a friend! + Many happy days God send her; + Of my suit I make an end: + On my knees I pardon crave for my offence, + Which did from love and true affection first commence. + + Commend me to thy lovely lady, + Bear to her this chain of gold; + And these bracelets for a token; + Grieving that I was so bold: + All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, + For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me. + + I will spend my days in prayer, + Love and all her laws defye; + In a nunnery will I shroud mee + Far from any companye: + But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, + To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss. + + Thus farewell, most gallant captain! + Farewell too my heart's content! + Count not Spanish ladies wanton, + Though to thee my love was bent: + Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee! + "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie." + + + + +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY + +[Illustration] + + + It was a friar of orders gray + Walkt forth to tell his beades; + And he met with a lady faire, + Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. + + Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, + I pray thee tell to me, + If ever at yon holy shrine + My true love thou didst see. + + And how should I know your true love + From many another one? + O by his cockle hat, and staff, + And by his sandal shoone. + + But chiefly by his face and mien, + That were so fair to view; + His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, + And eyne of lovely blue. + + O lady, he is dead and gone! + Lady, he's dead and gone! + And at his head a green grass turfe, + And at his heels a stone. + + Within these holy cloysters long + He languisht, and he dyed, + Lamenting of a ladyes love, + And 'playning of her pride. + + Here bore him barefac'd on his bier + Six proper youths and tall, + And many a tear bedew'd his grave + Within yon kirk-yard wall. + + And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! + And art thou dead and gone! + And didst thou die for love of me! + Break, cruel heart of stone! + + O weep not, lady, weep not soe; + Some ghostly comfort seek: + Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, + Ne teares bedew thy cheek. + + O do not, do not, holy friar, + My sorrow now reprove; + For I have lost the sweetest youth, + That e'er wan ladyes love. + + And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, + I'll evermore weep and sigh; + For thee I only wisht to live, + For thee I wish to dye. + + Weep no more, lady, weep no more, + Thy sorrowe is in vaine: + For violets pluckt the sweetest showers + Will ne'er make grow againe. + + Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, + Why then should sorrow last? + Since grief but aggravates thy losse, + Grieve not for what is past. + + O say not soe, thou holy friar; + I pray thee, say not soe: + For since my true-love dyed for mee, + 'Tis meet my tears should flow. + + And will he ne'er come again? + Will he ne'er come again? + Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, + For ever to remain. + + His cheek was redder than the rose; + The comliest youth was he! + But he is dead and laid in his grave: + Alas, and woe is me! + + Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, + Men were deceivers ever: + One foot on sea and one on land, + To one thing constant never. + + Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, + And left thee sad and heavy; + For young men ever were fickle found, + Since summer trees were leafy. + + Now say not so, thou holy friar, + I pray thee say not soe; + My love he had the truest heart: + O he was ever true! + + And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, + And didst thou dye for mee? + Then farewell home; for ever-more + A pilgrim I will bee. + + But first upon my true-loves grave + My weary limbs I'll lay, + And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf, + That wraps his breathless clay. + + Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile + Beneath this cloyster wall: + See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, + And drizzly rain doth fall. + + O stay me not, thou holy friar; + O stay me not, I pray; + No drizzly rain that falls on me, + Can wash my fault away. + + Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, + And dry those pearly tears; + For see beneath this gown of gray + Thy own true-love appears. + + Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, + These holy weeds I sought; + And here amid these lonely walls + To end my days I thought. + + But haply for my year of grace + Is not yet past away, + Might I still hope to win thy love, + No longer would I stay. + + Now farewell grief, and welcome joy + Once more unto my heart; + For since I have found thee, lovely youth, + We never more will part. + + + + +CLERK COLVILL + +[Illustration] + + + Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame + Were walking in the garden green; + The belt around her stately waist + Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen. + + "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill, + Or it will cost ye muckle strife, + Ride never by the wells of Slane, + If ye wad live and brook your life." + + "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, + Now speak nae mair of that to me; + Did I neer see a fair woman, + But I wad sin with her body?" + + He's taen leave o his gay lady, + Nought minding what his lady said, + And he's rode by the wells of Slane, + Where washing was a bonny maid. + + "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, + That wash sae clean your sark of silk;" + "And weel fa you, fair gentleman, + Your body whiter than the milk." + + * * * * * + + Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill, + "O my head it pains me sair;" + "Then take, then take," the maiden said, + "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare." + + Then she's gied him a little bane-knife, + And frae her sark he cut a share; + She's ty'd it round his whey-white face, + But ay his head it aked mair. + + Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville, + "O sairer, sairer akes my head;" + "And sairer, sairer ever will," + The maiden crys, "till you be dead." + + Out then he drew his shining blade, + Thinking to stick her where she stood, + But she was vanished to a fish, + And swam far off, a fair mermaid. + + "O mother, mother, braid my hair; + My lusty lady, make my bed; + O brother, take my sword and spear, + For I have seen the false mermaid." + + +[Illustration] + + + + +SIR ALDINGAR + + + Our king he kept a false stewarde, + Sir Aldingar they him call; + A falser steward than he was one, + Servde not in bower nor hall. + + He wolde have layne by our comelye queene, + Her deere worshippe to betraye: + Our queene she was a good woman, + And evermore said him naye. + + Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind, + With her hee was never content, + Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, + In a fyer to have her brent. + + There came a lazar to the kings gate, + A lazar both blinde and lame: + He tooke the lazar upon his backe, + Him on the queenes bed has layne. + + "Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest, + Looke thou goe not hence away; + He make thee a whole man and a sound + In two howers of the day." + + Then went him forth Sir Aldingar, + And hyed him to our king: + "If I might have grace, as I have space, + Sad tydings I could bring." + + Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar, + Saye on the soothe to mee. + "Our queene hath chosen a new new love, + And shee will have none of thee. + + "If shee had chosen a right good knight, + The lesse had beene her shame; + But she hath chose her a lazar man, + A lazar both blinde and lame." + + If this be true, thou Aldingar, + The tyding thou tellest to me, + Then will I make thee a rich rich knight, + Rich both of golde and fee. + + But if it be false, Sir Aldingar, + As God nowe grant it bee! + Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood, + Shall hang on the gallows tree. + + He brought our king to the queenes chamber, + And opend to him the dore. + A lodlye love, King Harry says, + For our queene dame Elinore! + + If thou were a man, as thou art none, + Here on my sword thoust dye; + But a payre of new gallowes shall be built, + And there shalt thou hang on hye. + + Forth then hyed our king, I wysse, + And an angry man was hee; + And soone he found Queen Elinore, + That bride so bright of blee. + + Now God you save, our queene, madame, + And Christ you save and see; + Heere you have chosen a newe newe love, + And you will have none of mee. + + If you had chosen a right good knight, + The lesse had been your shame; + But you have chose you a lazar man, + A lazar both blinde and lame. + + Therfore a fyer there shalt be built, + And brent all shalt thou bee.-- + Now out alacke! said our comly queene, + Sir Aldingar's false to mee. + + Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene, + My heart with griefe will brast. + I had thought swevens had never been true; + I have proved them true at last. + + I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve, + In my bed whereas I laye. + I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast + Had carryed my crowne awaye; + + My gorgett and my kirtle of golde, + And all my faire head-geere: + And he wold worrye me with his tush + And to his nest y-beare: + + Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke, + A merlin him they call, + Which untill the grounde did strike the grype, + That dead he downe did fall. + + Giffe I were a man, as now I am none, + A battell wold I prove, + To fight with that traitor Aldingar, + Att him I cast my glove. + + But seeing Ime able noe battell to make, + My liege, grant me a knight + To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar, + To maintaine me in my right. + + "Now forty dayes I will give thee + To seeke thee a knight therein: + If thou find not a knight in forty dayes + Thy bodye it must brenn." + + Then shee sent east, and shee sent west, + By north and south bedeene: + But never a champion colde she find, + Wolde fight with that knight soe keene. + + Now twenty dayes were spent and gone, + Noe helpe there might be had; + Many a teare shed our comelye queene + And aye her hart was sad. + + Then came one of the queenes damselles, + And knelt upon her knee, + "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, + I trust yet helpe may be: + + And here I will make mine avowe, + And with the same me binde; + That never will I return to thee, + Till I some helpe may finde." + + Then forth she rode on a faire palfraye + Oer hill and dale about: + But never a champion colde she finde, + Wolde fighte with that knight so stout. + + And nowe the daye drewe on a pace, + When our good queene must dye; + All woe-begone was that faire damselle, + When she found no helpe was nye. + + All woe-begone was that faire damselle, + And the salt teares fell from her eye: + When lo! as she rode by a rivers side, + She met with a tinye boye. + + A tinye boye she mette, God wot, + All clad in mantle of golde; + He seemed noe more in mans likenesse, + Then a childe of four yeere old. + + Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd, + And what doth cause you moane? + The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, + But fast she pricked on. + + Yet turne againe, thou faire damselle + And greete thy queene from mee: + When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest, + Nowe helpe enoughe may bee. + + Bid her remember what she dreamt + In her bedd, wheras shee laye; + How when the grype and grimly beast + Wolde have carried her crowne awaye, + + Even then there came the little gray hawke, + And saved her from his clawes: + Then bidd the queene be merry at hart, + For heaven will fende her cause. + + Back then rode that faire damselle, + And her hart it lept for glee: + And when she told her gracious dame + A gladd woman then was shee: + + But when the appointed day was come, + No helpe appeared nye: + Then woeful, woeful was her hart, + And the teares stood in her eye. + + And nowe a fyer was built of wood; + And a stake was made of tree; + And now Queene Elinor forth was led, + A sorrowful sight to see. + + Three times the herault he waved his hand, + And three times spake on hye: + Giff any good knight will fende this dame, + Come forth, or shee must dye. + + No knight stood forth, no knight there came, + No helpe appeared nye: + And now the fyer was lighted up, + Queen Elinor she must dye. + + And now the fyer was lighted up, + As hot as hot might bee; + When riding upon a little white steed, + The tinye boy they see. + + "Away with that stake, away with those brands, + And loose our comelye queene: + I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar, + And prove him a traitor keene." + + Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar, + But when he saw the chylde, + He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, + And weened he had been beguylde. + + "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar, + And eyther fighte or flee; + I trust that I shall avenge the wronge, + Thoughe I am so small to see." + + The boy pulld forth a well good sworde + So gilt it dazzled the ee; + The first stroke stricken at Aldingar, + Smote off his leggs by the knee. + + "Stand up, stand up, thou false traitor, + And fight upon thy feete, + For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st, + Of height wee shall be meete." + + A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar, + While I am a man alive. + A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar, + Me for to houzle and shrive. + + I wolde have laine by our comlie queene, + Bot shee wolde never consent; + Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge + In a fyer to have her brent. + + There came a lazar to the kings gates, + A lazar both blind and lame: + I tooke the lazar upon my backe, + And on her bedd had him layne. + + Then ranne I to our comlye king, + These tidings sore to tell. + But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar, + Falsing never doth well. + + Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, + The short time I must live. + "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar, + As freely I forgive." + + Here take thy queene, our king Harrye, + And love her as thy life, + For never had a king in Christentye. + A truer and fairer wife. + + King Henrye ran to claspe his queene, + And loosed her full sone: + Then turned to look for the tinye boye; + --The boye was vanisht and gone. + + But first he had touched the lazar man, + And stroakt him with his hand: + The lazar under the gallowes tree + All whole and sounde did stand. + + The lazar under the gallowes tree + Was comelye, straight and tall; + King Henrye made him his head stewarde + To wayte withinn his hall. + +[Illustration] + + + + +EDOM O' GORDON + +[Illustration] + + + It fell about the Martinmas, + Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld, + Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, + We maun draw till a hauld. + + And quhat a hauld sall we draw till, + My mirry men and me? + We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes, + To see that fair ladie. + + The lady stude on her castle wa', + Beheld baith dale and down: + There she was ware of a host of men + Cum ryding towards the toun. + + O see ze nat, my mirry men a'? + O see za nat quhat I see? + Methinks I see a host of men: + I marveil quha they be. + + She weend it had been hir luvely lord, + As he cam ryding hame; + It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon, + Quha reckt nae sin nor shame. + + She had nae sooner buskit hirsel, + And putten on hir goun, + But Edom o' Gordon and his men + Were round about the toun. + + They had nae sooner supper sett, + Nae sooner said the grace, + But Edom o' Gordon and his men + Were light about the place. + + The lady ran up to hir towir head, + Sa fast as she could hie, + To see if by hir fair speeches + She could wi' him agree. + + But quhan he see this lady saif, + And hir yates all locked fast, + He fell into a rage of wrath, + And his look was all aghast. + + Cum doun to me, ze lady gay, + Cum doun, cum doun to me: + This night sall ye lig within mine armes, + To-morrow my bride sall be. + + I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordon, + I winnae cum doun to thee; + I winna forsake my ain dear lord, + That is sae far frae me. + + Give owre zour house, ze lady fair, + Give owre zour house to me, + Or I sall brenn yoursel therein, + Bot and zour babies three. + + I winnae give owre, ze false Gordon, + To nae sik traitor as zee; + And if ze brenn my ain dear babes, + My lord sall make ze drie. + + But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man, + And charge ze weil my gun: + For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, + My babes we been undone. + + She stude upon hir castle wa', + And let twa bullets flee: + She mist that bluidy butchers hart, + And only raz'd his knee. + + Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordon, + All wood wi' dule and ire: + Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid, + As ze bren in the fire. + + Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man, + I paid ze weil zour fee; + Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, + Lets in the reek to me? + + And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man, + I paid ze weil zour hire; + Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, + To me lets in the fire? + + Ze paid me weil my hire, lady; + Ze paid me weil my fee: + But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man, + Maun either doe or die. + + O than bespaik hir little son, + Sate on the nurses knee: + Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house, + For the reek it smithers me. + + I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, + Say wald I a' my fee, + For ane blast o' the western wind, + To blaw the reek frae thee. + + O then bespaik hir dochter dear, + She was baith jimp and sma; + O row me in a pair o' sheits, + And tow me owre the wa. + + They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits, + And towd hir owre the wa: + But on the point of Gordons spear + She gat a deadly fa. + + O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth, + And cherry were her cheiks, + And clear clear was hir zellow hair, + Whereon the reid bluid dreips. + + Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre, + O gin hir face was wan! + He sayd, Ze are the first that eir + I wisht alive again. + + He turnd hir owre and owre againe, + O gin hir skin was whyte! + I might ha spared that bonnie face + To hae been sum mans delyte. + + Busk and boun, my merry men a', + For ill dooms I doe guess; + I cannae luik in that bonnie face, + As it lyes on the grass. + + Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir, + Then freits wil follow thame: + Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon + Was daunted by a dame. + + But quhen the ladye see the fire + Cum flaming owre hir head, + She wept and kist her children twain, + Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead. + + The Gordon then his bougill blew, + And said, Awa', awa'; + This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame, + I hauld it time to ga'. + + O then bespyed hir ain dear lord, + As hee cam owr the lee; + He sied his castle all in blaze Sa far as he could see. + + Then sair, O sair his mind misgave, + And all his hart was wae; + Put on, put on, my wighty men, + So fast as ze can gae. + + Put on, put on, my wighty men, + Sa fast as ze can drie; + For he that is hindmost of the thrang + Sall neir get guid o' me. + + Than sum they rade, and sum they rin, + Fou fast out-owr the bent; + But eir the foremost could get up, + Baith lady and babes were brent. + + He wrang his hands, he rent his hair, + And wept in teenefu' muid: + O traitors, for this cruel deid + Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid. + + And after the Gordon he is gane, + Sa fast as he might drie. + And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid + He's wroken his dear ladie. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHEVY CHASE + +[Illustration] + + God prosper long our noble king, + Our lives and safetyes all; + A woefull hunting once there did + In Chevy-Chace befall; + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Erle Percy took his way, + The child may rue that is unborne, + The hunting of that day. + + The stout Erle of Northumberland + A vow to God did make, + His pleasure in the Scottish woods + Three summers days to take; + + The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace + To kill and beare away. + These tydings to Erle Douglas came, + In Scotland where he lay: + + Who sent Erle Percy present word, + He wold prevent his sport. + The English erle, not fearing that, + Did to the woods resort + + With fifteen hundred bow-men bold; + All chosen men of might, + Who knew full well in time of neede + To ayme their shafts arright. + + The galland greyhounds swiftly ran, + To chase the fallow deere: + On munday they began to hunt, + Ere day-light did appeare; + + And long before high noone they had + An hundred fat buckes slaine; + Then having dined, the drovyers went + To rouze the deare againe. + + The bow-men mustered on the hills, + Well able to endure; + Theire backsides all, with speciall care, + That day were guarded sure. + + The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, + The nimble deere to take, + That with their cryes the hills and dales + An eccho shrill did make. + + Lord Percy to the quarry went, + To view the slaughter'd deere; + Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised + This day to meet me heere: + + But if I thought he wold not come, + Noe longer wold I stay. + With that, a brave younge gentleman + Thus to the Erle did say: + + Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, + His men in armour bright; + Full twenty hundred Scottish speres + All marching in our sight; + + All men of pleasant Tivydale, + Fast by the river Tweede: + O cease your sports, Erle Percy said, + And take your bowes with speede: + + And now with me, my countrymen, + Your courage forth advance; + For there was never champion yett, + In Scotland nor in France, + + That ever did on horsebacke come, + But if my hap it were, + I durst encounter man for man, + With him to break a spere. + + Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, + Most like a baron bolde, + Rode foremost of his company, + Whose armour shone like gold. + + Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, + That hunt soe boldly heere, + That, without my consent, doe chase + And kill my fallow-deere. + + The first man that did answer make + Was noble Percy hee; + Who sayd, Wee list not to declare, + Nor shew whose men wee bee: + Yet wee will spend our deerest blood, + Thy cheefest harts to slay. + Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, + And thus in rage did say, + + Ere thus I will out-braved bee, + One of us two shall dye: + I know thee well, an erle thou art; + Lord Percy, soe am I. + + But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, + And great offence to kill + Any of these our guiltlesse men, + For they have done no ill. + + Let thou and I the battell trye, + And set our men aside. + Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd, + By whome this is denyed. + + Then stept a gallant squier forth, + Witherington was his name, + Who said, I wold not have it told + To Henry our king for shame, + + That ere my captaine fought on foote, + And I stood looking on. + You be two erles, sayd Witherington, + And I a squier alone: + + He doe the best that doe I may, + While I have power to stand: + While I have power to weeld my sword + He fight with hart and hand. + + Our English archers bent their bowes, + Their harts were good and trew; + Att the first flight of arrowes sent, + Full four-score Scots they slew. + + Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, + As Chieftain stout and good. + As valiant Captain, all unmov'd + The shock he firmly stood. + + His host he parted had in three, + As Leader ware and try'd, + And soon his spearmen on their foes + Bare down on every side. + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Douglas bade on the bent + Two captaines moved with mickle might + Their speres to shivers went. + + Throughout the English archery + They dealt full many a wound: + But still our valiant Englishmen + All firmly kept their ground: + + And throwing strait their bows away, + They grasp'd their swords so bright: + And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, + On shields and helmets light. + + They closed full fast on every side, + Noe slackness there was found: + And many a gallant gentleman + Lay gasping on the ground. + + O Christ! it was a griefe to see; + And likewise for to heare, + The cries of men lying in their gore, + And scattered here and there. + + At last these two stout erles did meet, + Like captaines of great might: + Like lyons wood, they layd on lode, + And made a cruell fight: + + They fought untill they both did sweat, + With swords of tempered steele; + Untill the blood, like drops of rain, + They tricklin downe did feele. + + Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd + In faith I will thee bringe, + Where thou shalt high advanced bee + By James our Scottish king: + + Thy ransome I will freely give, + And this report of thee, + Thou art the most couragious knight, + That ever I did see. + + Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then, + Thy proffer I doe scorne; + I will not yeelde to any Scott, + That ever yett was borne. + + With that, there came an arrow keene + Out of an English bow, + Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, + A deepe and deadlye blow: + + Who never spake more words than these, + Fight on, my merry men all; + For why, my life is at an end; + Lord Percy sees my fall. + + Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke + The dead man by the hand; + And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life + Wold I had lost my land. + + O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed + With sorrow for thy sake; + For sure, a more redoubted knight + Mischance cold never take. + + A knight amongst the Scotts there was + Which saw Erle Douglas dye, + Who streight in wrath did vow revenge + Upon the Lord Percye: + + Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd, + Who, with a spere most bright, + Well-mounted on a gallant steed, + Ran fiercely through the fight; + + And past the English archers all, + Without all dread or feare; + And through Earl Percyes body then + He thrust his hatefull spere; + + With such a vehement force and might + He did his body gore, + The staff ran through the other side + A large cloth-yard and more. + + So thus did both these nobles dye, + Whose courage none could staine: + An English archer then perceiv'd + The noble erle was slaine; + + He had a bow bent in his hand, + Made of a trusty tree; + An arrow of a cloth-yard long + Up to the head drew hee: + + Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, + So right the shaft he sett, + The grey goose-winge that was thereon, + In his harts bloode was wette. + + This fight did last from breake of day, + Till setting of the sun; + For when they rang the evening-bell, + The battel scarce was done. + + With stout Erle Percy there was slaine + Sir John of Egerton, + Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, + Sir James that bold barron: + + And with Sir George and stout Sir James, + Both knights of good account, + Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, + Whose prowesse did surmount. + + For Witherington needs must I wayle, + As one in doleful dumpes; + For when his leggs were smitten off, + He fought upon his stumpes. + + And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine + Sir Hugh Montgomerye, + Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld + One foote wold never flee. + + Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, + His sisters sonne was hee; + Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, + Yet saved cold not bee. + + And the Lord Maxwell in like case + Did with Erle Douglas dye: + Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, + Scarce fifty-five did flye. + + Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, + Went home but fifty-three; + The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, + Under the greene woode tree. + + Next day did many widowes come, + Their husbands to bewayle; + They washt their wounds in brinish teares, + But all wold not prevayle. + + Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore, + They bare with them away: + They kist them dead a thousand times, + Ere they were cladd in clay. + + The news was brought to Eddenborrow, + Where Scottlands king did raigne, + That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye + Was with an arrow slaine: + + O heavy newes, King James did say, + Scotland may witnesse bee, + I have not any captaine more + Of such account as hee. + + Like tydings to King Henry came, + Within as short a space, + That Percy of Northumberland + Was slaine in Chevy-Chace: + + Now God be with him, said our king, + Sith it will noe better bee; + I trust I have, within my realme, + Five hundred as good as hee: + + Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, + But I will vengeance take: + I'll be revenged on them all, + For brave Erle Percyes sake. + + This vow full well the king perform'd + After, at Humbledowne; + In one day, fifty knights were slayne, + With lords of great renowne: + + And of the rest, of small acount, + Did many thousands dye: + Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, + Made by the Erle Percy. + + God save our king, and bless this land + With plenty, joy, and peace; + And grant henceforth, that foule debate + 'Twixt noblemen may cease. + + [Illustration] + + + +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE + + [Illustration] + + When Arthur first in court began, + And was approved king, + By force of armes great victorys wanne, + And conquest home did bring, + + Then into England straight he came + With fifty good and able + Knights, that resorted unto him, + And were of his round table: + + And he had justs and turnaments, + Whereto were many prest, + Wherein some knights did far excell + And eke surmount the rest. + + But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, + Who was approved well, + He for his deeds and feats of armes + All others did excell. + + When he had rested him a while, + In play, and game, and sportt, + He said he wold goe prove himselfe + In some adventurous sort. + + He armed rode in a forrest wide, + And met a damsell faire, + Who told him of adventures great, + Whereto he gave great eare. + + Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott: + For that cause came I hither. + Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good, + And I will bring thee thither. + + Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell, + That now is of great fame: + Therefore tell me what wight thou art, + And what may be thy name. + + "My name is Lancelot du Lake." + Quoth she, it likes me than: + Here dwelles a knight who never was + Yet matcht with any man: + + Who has in prison threescore knights + And four, that he did wound; + Knights of King Arthurs court they be, + And of his table round. + + She brought him to a river side, + And also to a tree, + Whereon a copper bason hung, + And many shields to see. + + He struck soe hard, the bason broke; + And Tarquin soon he spyed: + Who drove a horse before him fast, + Whereon a knight lay tyed. + + Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett, + Bring me that horse-load hither, + And lay him downe, and let him rest; + Weel try our force together: + + For, as I understand, thou hast, + So far as thou art able, + Done great despite and shame unto + The knights of the Round Table. + + If thou be of the Table Round, + Quoth Tarquin speedilye, + Both thee and all thy fellowship + I utterly defye. + + That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho, + Defend thee by and by. + They sett their speares unto their steeds, + And eache att other flie. + + They coucht theire speares (their horses ran, + As though there had beene thunder), + And strucke them each immidst their shields, + Wherewith they broke in sunder. + + Their horsses backes brake under them, + The knights were both astound: + To avoyd their horsses they made haste + And light upon the ground. + + They tooke them to their shields full fast, + Their swords they drewe out than, + With mighty strokes most eagerlye + Each at the other ran. + + They wounded were, and bled full sore, + They both for breath did stand, + And leaning on their swords awhile, + Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand, + + And tell to me what I shall aske. + Say on, quoth Lancelot tho. + Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight + That ever I did know: + + And like a knight, that I did hate: + Soe that thou be not hee, + I will deliver all the rest, + And eke accord with thee. + + That is well said, quoth Lancelott; + But sith it must be soe, + What knight is that thou hatest thus + I pray thee to me show. + + His name is Lancelot du Lake, + He slew my brother deere; + Him I suspect of all the rest: + I would I had him here. + + Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne, + I am Lancelot du Lake, + Now knight of Arthurs Table Round; + King Hauds son of Schuwake; + + And I desire thee to do thy worst. + Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho' + One of us two shall ende our lives + Before that we do go. + + If thou be Lancelot du Lake, + Then welcome shalt thou bee: + Wherfore see thou thyself defend, + For now defye I thee. + + They buckled them together so, + Like unto wild boares rashing; + And with their swords and shields they ran + At one another slashing: + + The ground besprinkled was with blood: + Tarquin began to yield; + For he gave backe for wearinesse, + And lowe did beare his shield. + + This soone Sir Lancelot espyde, + He leapt upon him then, + He pull'd him downe upon his knee, + And rushing off his helm, + + Forthwith he strucke his necke in two, + And, when he had soe done, + From prison threescore knights and four + Delivered everye one. + + + +[Illustration] + +GIL MORRICE + + + Gil Morrice was an erles son, + His name it waxed wide; + It was nae for his great riches, + Nor zet his mickle pride; + Bot it was for a lady gay, + That livd on Carron side. + + Quhair sail I get a bonny boy, + That will win hose and shoen; + That will gae to Lord Barnards ha', + And bid his lady cum? + And ze maun rin my errand, Willie; + And ze may rin wi' pride; + Quhen other boys gae on their foot + On horse-back ze sail ride. + + O no! Oh no! my master dear! + I dare nae for my life; + I'll no gae to the bauld barons, + For to triest furth his wife. + My bird Willie, my boy Willie; + My dear Willie, he sayd: + How can ze strive against the stream? + For I sall be obeyd. + + Bot, O my master dear! he cryd, + In grene wod ze're zour lain; + Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede, + For fear ze should be tain. + Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha', + Bid hir cum here wi speid: + If ze refuse my heigh command, + Ill gar zour body bleid. + + Gae bid hir take this gay mantel, + 'Tis a' gowd hot the hem; + Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, + And bring nane bot hir lain: + And there it is a silken sarke, + Hir ain hand sewd the sleive; + And bid hir cum to Gill Morice, + Speir nae bauld barons leave. + + Yes, I will gae zour black errand, + Though it be to zour cost; + Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd, + In it ze sail find frost. + The baron he is a man of might, + He neir could bide to taunt, + As ze will see before its nicht, + How sma' ze hae to vaunt. + + And sen I maun zour errand rin + Sae sair against my will, + I'se mak a vow and keip it trow, + It sall be done for ill. + And quhen he came to broken brigue, + He bent his bow and swam; + And quhen he came to grass growing, + Set down his feet and ran. + + And quhen he came to Barnards ha', + Would neither chap nor ca': + Bot set his bent bow to his breist, + And lichtly lap the wa'. + He wauld nae tell the man his errand, + Though he stude at the gait; + Bot straiht into the ha' he cam, + Quhair they were set at meit. + + Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! + My message winna waite; + Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod + Before that it be late. + Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel, + Tis a' gowd bot the hem: + Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode, + Ev'n by your sel alane. + + And there it is, a silken sarke, + Your ain hand sewd the sleive; + Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice: + Speir nae bauld barons leave. + The lady stamped wi' hir foot, + And winked wi' hir ee; + Bot a' that she coud say or do, + Forbidden he wad nae bee. + + Its surely to my bow'r-woman; + It neir could be to me. + I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; + I trow that ze be she. + Then up and spack the wylie nurse, + (The bairn upon hir knee) + If it be cum frae Gill Morice, + It's deir welcum to mee. + + Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse, + Sae loud I heird zee lee; + I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; + I trow ze be nae shee. + Then up and spack the bauld baron, + An angry man was hee; + He's tain the table wi' his foot, + Sae has he wi' his knee; + Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish + In flinders he gard flee. + + Gae bring a robe of zour cliding, + That hings upon the pin; + And I'll gae to the gude grene wode, + And speik wi' zour lemman. + O bide at hame, now Lord Barnard, + I warde ze bide at hame; + Neir wyte a man for violence, + That neir wate ze wi' nane. + + Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode, + He whistled and he sang: + O what mean a' the folk coming, + My mother tarries lang. + His hair was like the threeds of gold, + Drawne frae Minerva's loome: + His lipps like roses drapping dew, + His breath was a' perfume. + + His brow was like the mountain snae + Gilt by the morning beam: + His cheeks like living roses glow: + His een like azure stream. The boy was clad in robes of grene, + Sweete as the infant spring: + And like the mavis on the bush, + He gart the vallies ring. + + The baron came to the grene wode, + Wi' mickle dule and care, + And there he first spied Gill Morice + Kameing his zellow hair: + That sweetly wavd around his face, + That face beyond compare: + He sang sae sweet it might dispel + A' rage but fell despair. + + Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice, + My lady loed thee weel, + The fairest part of my bodie + Is blacker than thy heel. + Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice, + For a' thy great beautie, + Ze's rew the day ze eir was born; + That head sall gae wi' me. + + Now he has drawn his trusty brand, + And slaited on the strae; + And thro' Gill Morice' fair body + He's gar cauld iron gae. + And he has tain Gill Morice's head + And set it on a speir; + The meanest man in a' his train + Has gotten that head to bear. + + And he has tain Gill Morice up, + Laid him across his steid, + And brocht him to his painted bowr, + And laid him on a bed. + The lady sat on castil wa', + Beheld baith dale and doun; + And there she saw Gill Morice' head + Cum trailing to the toun. + + Far better I loe that bluidy head, + Both and that zellow hair, + Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands, + As they lig here and thair. + And she has tain her Gill Morice, + And kissd baith mouth and chin: + I was once as fow of Gill Morice, + As the hip is o' the stean. + + I got ze in my father's house, + Wi' mickle sin and shame; + I brocht thee up in gude grene wode, + Under the heavy rain. + Oft have I by thy cradle sitten, + And fondly seen thee sleip; + But now I gae about thy grave, + The saut tears for to weip. + + And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, + And syne his bluidy chin: + O better I loe my Gill Morice + Than a' my kith and kin! + Away, away, ze ill woman, + And an il deith mait ze dee: + Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son, + He'd neir bin slain for mee. + + Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard! + Obraid me not for shame! + Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart! + And put me out o' pain. + Since nothing bot Gill Morice head + Thy jelous rage could quell, + Let that saim hand now tak hir life, + That neir to thee did ill. + + To me nae after days nor nichts + Will eir be saft or kind; + I'll fill the air with heavy sighs, + And greet till I am blind. + Enouch of blood by me's been spilt, + Seek not zour death frae mee; + I rather lourd it had been my sel + Than eather him or thee. + + With waefo wae I hear zour plaint; + Sair, sair I rew the deid, + That eir this cursed hand of mine + Had gard his body bleid. + Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, + Ze neir can heal the wound; + Ze see his head upon the speir, + His heart's blude on the ground. + + I curse the hand that did the deid, + The heart that thocht the ill; + The feet that bore me wi' sik speid, + The comely zouth to kill. + I'll ay lament for Gill Morice, + As gin he were mine ain; + I'll neir forget the dreiry day + On which the zouth was slain. + + +[Illustration] + + + +[Illustration] + +The CHILD of ELLE + + + On yondre hill a castle standes + With walles and towres bedight, + And yonder lives the Child of Elle, + A younge and comely knighte. + + The Child of Elle to his garden went, + And stood at his garden pale, + Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page + Come trippinge downe the dale. + + The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, + Y-wis he stoode not stille, + And soone he mette faire Emmelines page + Come climbinge up the hille. + + Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, + Now Christe thee save and see! + Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, + And what may thy tydinges bee? + + My ladye shee is all woe-begone, + And the teares they falle from her eyne; + And aye she laments the deadlye feude + Betweene her house and thine. + + And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe + Bedewde with many a teare, + And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, + Who loved thee so deare. + + And here shee sends thee a ring of golde + The last boone thou mayst have, + And biddes thee weare it for her sake, + Whan she is layde in grave. + + For, ah! her gentle heart is broke, + And in grave soone must shee bee, + Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, + And forbidde her to think of thee. + + Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, + Sir John of the north countraye, + And within three dayes she must him wedde, + Or he vowes he will her slaye. + + Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, + And greet thy ladye from mee, + And telle her that I her owne true love + Will dye, or sette her free. + + Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, + And let thy fair ladye know + This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe, + Betide me weale or woe. + + The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, + He neither stint ne stayd + Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, + Whan kneeling downe he sayd, + + O ladye, I've been with thine own true love, + And he greets thee well by mee; + This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windowe, + And dye or sett thee free. + + Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, + And all were fast asleepe, + All save the Ladye Emmeline, + Who sate in her bowre to weepe: + + And soone shee heard her true loves voice + Lowe whispering at the walle, + Awake, awake, my deare ladye, + Tis I thy true love call. + + Awake, awake, my ladye deare, + Come, mount this faire palfraye: + This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe + He carrye thee hence awaye. + + Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, + Nowe nay, this may not bee; + For aye shold I tint my maiden fame, + If alone I should wend with thee. + + O ladye, thou with a knighte so true + Mayst safelye wend alone, + To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, + Where marriage shall make us one. + + "My father he is a baron bolde, + Of lynage proude and hye; + And what would he saye if his daughter + Awaye with a knight should fly + + "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest, + Nor his meate should doe him no goode, + Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle, + And scene thy deare hearts bloode." + + O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, + And a little space him fro, + I would not care for thy cruel father, + Nor the worst that he could doe. + + O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, + And once without this walle, + I would not care for thy cruel father + Nor the worst that might befalle. + + Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, + And aye her heart was woe: + At length he seized her lilly-white hand, + And downe the ladder he drewe: + + And thrice he clasped her to his breste, + And kist her tenderlie: + The teares that fell from her fair eyes + Ranne like the fountayne free. + + Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, + And her on a fair palfraye, + And slung his bugle about his necke, + And roundlye they rode awaye. + + All this beheard her owne damselle, + In her bed whereas shee ley, + Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, + Soe I shall have golde and fee. + + Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! + Awake, my noble dame! + Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle + To doe the deede of shame. + + The baron he woke, the baron he rose, + And called his merrye men all: + "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte, + Thy ladye is carried to thrall." + + Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, + A mile forth of the towne, + When she was aware of her fathers men + Come galloping over the downe: + + And foremost came the carlish knight, + Sir John of the north countraye: + "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure, + Nor carry that ladye awaye. + + "For she is come of hye lineage, + And was of a ladye borne, + And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne, + To carrye her hence to scorne." + + Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, + Nowe thou doest lye of mee; + A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, + Soe never did none by thee + + But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, + Light downe, and hold my steed, + While I and this discourteous knighte + Doe trye this arduous deede. + + But light now downe, my deare ladye, + Light downe, and hold my horse; + While I and this discourteous knight + Doe trye our valour's force. + + Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, + And aye her heart was woe, + While twixt her love and the carlish knight + Past many a baleful blowe. + + The Child of Elle hee fought so well, + As his weapon he waved amaine, + That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, + And layd him upon the plaine. + + And nowe the baron and all his men + Full fast approached nye: + Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe + Twere nowe no boote to flye. + + Her lover he put his horne to his mouth, + And blew both loud and shrill, + And soone he saw his owne merry men + Come ryding over the hill. + + "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, + I pray thee hold thy hand, + Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts + Fast knit in true love's band. + + Thy daughter I have dearly loved + Full long and many a day; + But with such love as holy kirke + Hath freelye sayd wee may. + + O give consent, shee may be mine, + And blesse a faithfull paire: + My lands and livings are not small, + My house and lineage faire: + + My mother she was an earl's daughter, + And a noble knyght my sire-- + The baron he frowned, and turn'd away + With mickle dole and ire. + + Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, + And did all tremblinge stand: + At lengthe she sprang upon her knee, + And held his lifted hand. + + Pardon, my lorde and father deare, + This faire yong knyght and mee: + Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, + I never had fled from thee. + + Oft have you called your Emmeline + Your darling and your joye; + O let not then your harsh resolves + Your Emmeline destroye. + + The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, + And turned his heade asyde + To whipe awaye the starting teare + He proudly strave to hyde. + + In deepe revolving thought he stoode, + And mused a little space; + Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde, + With many a fond embrace. + + Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, + And gave her lillye white hand; + Here take my deare and only child, + And with her half my land: + + Thy father once mine honour wrongde + In dayes of youthful pride; + Do thou the injurye repayre + In fondnesse for thy bride. + + And as thou love her, and hold her deare, + Heaven prosper thee and thine: + And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, + My lovelye Emmeline. + + +[Illustration] + + + + + +CHILD WATERS + + + Childe Waters in his stable stoode + And stroakt his milke white steede: + To him a fayre yonge ladye came + As ever ware womans weede. + + Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters; + Sayes, Christ you save, and see: + My girdle of gold that was too longe, + Is now too short for mee. + + And all is with one chyld of yours, + I feel sturre att my side: + My gowne of greene it is too straighte; + Before, it was too wide. + + If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd, + Be mine, as you tell mee; + Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, + Take them your owne to bee. + + If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd, + Be mine, as you doe sweare; + Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, + And make that child your heyre. + + Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse, + Child Waters, of thy mouth; + Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, + That laye by north and south. + + And I had rather have one twinkling, + Childe Waters, of thine ee; + Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, + To take them mine owne to bee. + + To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde + Farr into the north countrie; + The fairest lady that I can find, + Ellen, must goe with mee. + + 'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre, + 'Yet let me go with thee:' + And ever I pray you, Child Waters, + Your foot-page let me bee. + + If you will my foot-page be, Ellen, + As you doe tell to mee; + Then you must cut your gowne of greene, + An inch above your knee: + + Soe must you doe your yellow lockes, + An inch above your ee: + You must tell no man what is my name; + My foot-page then you shall bee. + + Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, + Ran barefoote by his side; + Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte, + To say, Ellen, will you ryde? + + Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, + Ran barefoote thorow the broome; + Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte, + To say, put on your shoone. + + Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters, + Why doe you ryde soe fast? + The childe, which is no mans but thine, + My bodye itt will brast. + + Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen, + That flows from bank to brimme?-- + I trust to God, O Child Waters, + You never will see mee swimme. + + But when shee came to the waters side, + Shee sayled to the chinne: + Except the Lord of heaven be my speed, + Now must I learne to swimme. + + The salt waters bare up her clothes; + Our Ladye bare upp her chinne: + Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord, + To see faire Ellen swimme. + + And when shee over the water was, + Shee then came to his knee: + He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellen, + Loe yonder what I see. + + Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? + Of redd gold shines the yate; + Of twenty foure faire ladyes there, + The fairest is my mate. + + Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? + Of redd gold shines the towre: + There are twenty four fair ladyes there, + The fairest is my paramoure. + + I see the hall now, Child Waters, + Of redd golde shines the yate: + God give you good now of yourselfe, + And of your worthye mate. + + I see the hall now, Child Waters, + Of redd gold shines the towre: + God give you good now of yourselfe, + And of your paramoure. + + There twenty four fayre ladyes were + A playing att the ball: + And Ellen the fairest ladye there, + Must bring his steed to the stall. + + There twenty four fayre ladyes were + A playinge at the chesse; + And Ellen the fayrest ladye there, + Must bring his horse to gresse. + + And then bespake Childe Waters sister, + These were the wordes said shee: + You have the prettyest foot-page, brother, + That ever I saw with mine ee. + + But that his bellye it is soe bigg, + His girdle goes wonderous hie: + And let him, I pray you, Childe Wateres, + Goe into the chamber with mee. + + It is not fit for a little foot-page, + That has run throughe mosse and myre, + To go into the chamber with any ladye, + That weares soe riche attyre. + + It is more meete for a litle foot-page, + That has run throughe mosse and myre, + To take his supper upon his knee, + And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer. + + But when they had supped every one, + To bedd they tooke theyr waye: + He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, + And hearken what I saye. + + Goe thee downe into yonder towne, + And low into the street; + The fayrest ladye that thou can finde, + + Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe, + And take her up in thine armes twaine, + For filinge of her feete. + + Ellen is gone into the towne, + And low into the streete: + The fairest ladye that she cold find, + Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe; + And tooke her up in her armes twayne, + For filing of her feete. + + I pray you nowe, good Child Waters, + Let mee lye at your bedds feete: + For there is noe place about this house, + Where I may 'saye a sleepe. + + 'He gave her leave, and faire Ellen + 'Down at his beds feet laye:' + This done the nighte drove on apace, + And when it was neare the daye, + + Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page, + Give my steede corne and haye; + And soe doe thou the good black oats, + To carry mee better awaye. + + Up then rose the faire Ellen, + And gave his steede corne and hay: + And soe shee did the good blacke oats, + To carry him the better away. + + Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, + And grievouslye did groane: + Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, + And there shee made her moane. + + And that beheard his mother deere, + Shee heard her there monand. + Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Waters, + I think thee a cursed man. + + For in thy stable is a ghost, + That grievouslye doth grone: + Or else some woman laboures of childe, + She is soe woe-begone. + + Up then rose Childe Waters soon, + And did on his shirte of silke; + And then he put on his other clothes, + On his body as white as milke. + + And when he came to the stable dore, + Full still there he did stand, + That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellen + Howe shee made her monand. + + Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child, + Lullabye, dere child, dere; + I wold thy father were a king, + Thy mother layd on a biere. + + Peace now, he said, good faire Ellen, + Be of good cheere, I praye; + And the bridal and the churching both + Shall bee upon one day. + + + + +[Image] + +KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH + + + In summer time, when leaves grow greene, + And blossoms bedecke the tree, + King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, + Some pastime for to see. + + With hawke and hounde he made him bowne, + With horne, and eke with bowe; + To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye, + With all his lordes a rowe. + + And he had ridden ore dale and downe + By eight of clocke in the day, + When he was ware of a bold tanner, + Come ryding along the waye. + + A fayre russet coat the tanner had on + Fast buttoned under his chin, + And under him a good cow-hide, + And a marc of four shilling. + + Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, + Under the grene wood spraye; + And I will wend to yonder fellowe, + To weet what he will saye. + + God speede, God speede thee, said our king. + Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee. + "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset + I praye thee to shew to mee." + + "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe, + Fro the place where thou dost stand? + The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, + Turne in upon thy right hand." + + That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king, + Thou doest but jest, I see; + Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, + And I pray thee wend with mee. + + Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner: + I hold thee out of thy witt: + All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare, + And I am fasting yett. + + "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset, + No daynties we will spare; + All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, + And I will paye thy fare." + + Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde, + Thou payest no fare of mine: + I trowe I've more nobles in my purse, + Than thou hast pence in thine. + + God give thee joy of them, sayd the king, + And send them well to priefe. + The tanner wolde faine have beene away, + For he weende he had beene a thiefe. + + What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe, + Of thee I am in great feare, + For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back, + Might beseeme a lord to weare. + + I never stole them, quoth our king, + I tell you, Sir, by the roode. + "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, + And standest in midds of thy goode." + + What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge, + As you ryde farre and neare? + "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse, + But that cowe-hides are deare." + + "Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? + I marvell what they bee?" + What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd; + I carry one under mee. + + What craftsman art thou, said the king, + I pray thee tell me trowe. + "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade; + Nowe tell me what art thou?" + + I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he, + That am forth of service worne; + And faine I wolde thy prentise bee, + Thy cunninge for to learne. + + Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, + That thou my prentise were: + Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne + By fortye shilling a yere. + + Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king, + If thou wilt not seeme strange: + Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, + Yet with thee I fain wold change. + + "Why if with me thou faine wilt change, + As change full well maye wee, + By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe + I will have some boot of thee." + + That were against reason, sayd the king, + I sweare, so mote I thee: + My horse is better than thy mare, + And that thou well mayst see. + + "Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild, + And softly she will fare: + Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss; + Aye skipping here and theare." + + What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd; + Now tell me in this stound. + "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye, + But a noble in gold so round. + + "Here's twentye groates of white moneye, + Sith thou will have it of mee." + I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner, + Thou hadst not had one pennie. + + But since we two have made a change, + A change we must abide, + Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare, + Thou gettest not my cowe-hide. + + I will not have it, sayd the kynge, + I sweare, so mought I thee; + Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare, + If thou woldst give it to mee. + + The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, + That of the cow was bilt; + And threwe it upon the king's sadelle, + That was soe fayrelye gilte. + "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe, + 'Tis time that I were gone: + When I come home to Gyllian my wife, + Sheel say I am a gentilmon." + + The king he tooke him up by the legge; + The tanner a f----- lett fall. + Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king, + Thy courtesye is but small. + + When the tanner he was in the kinges sadelle, + And his foote in the stirrup was; + He marvelled greatlye in his minde, + Whether it were golde or brass. + + But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge, + And eke the blacke cowe-horne; + He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, + As the devill had him borne. + + The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, + And held by the pummil fast: + At length the tanner came tumbling downe; + His necke he had well-nye brast. + + Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, + With mee he shall not byde. + "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, + But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide. + + Yet if againe thou faine woldst change, + As change full well may wee, + By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tanner, + I will have some boote of thee." + + What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd, + Nowe tell me in this stounde. + "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye, + But I will have twentye pound." + + "Here's twentye groates out of my purse; + And twentye I have of thine: + And I have one more, which we will spend + Together at the wine." + + The king set a bugle home to his mouthe, + And blewe both loude and shrille: + And soone came lords, and soone came knights, + Fast ryding over the hille. + + Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, + That ever I sawe this daye! + Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes Will beare my +cowe-hide away. + + They are no thieves, the king replyde, + I sweare, soe mote I thee: + But they are the lords of the north countrey, + Here come to hunt with mee. + + And soone before our king they came, + And knelt downe on the grounde: + Then might the tanner have beene awaye, + He had lever than twentye pounde. + + A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king, + A coller he loud gan crye: + Then woulde he lever than twentye pound, + He had not beene so nighe. + + A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, + I trowe it will breed sorrowe: + After a coller cometh a halter, + I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe. + + Be not afraid, tanner, said our king; + I tell thee, so mought I thee, + Lo here I make thee the best esquire + That is in the North countrie. + + For Plumpton-parke I will give thee, + With tenements faire beside: + 'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, + To maintaine thy good cowe-hide. + + Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde, + For the favour thou hast me showne; + If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth, + Neates leather shall clout thy shoen. + + + + +[Illustration] + +SIR PATRICK SPENS + + + The king sits in Dumferling toune, + Drinking the blude-reid wine: + O quhar will I get guid sailor, + To sail this schip of mine. + + Up and spak an eldern knicht, + Sat at the kings richt kne: + Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, + That sails upon the se. + + The king has written a braid letter, + And signd it wi' his hand; + And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, + Was walking on the sand. + + The first line that Sir Patrick red, + A loud lauch lauched he: + The next line that Sir Patrick red, + The teir blinded his ee. + + O quha is this has don this deid, + This ill deid don to me; + To send me out this time o' the zeir, + To sail upon the se. + + Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, + Our guid schip sails the morne, + O say na sae, my master deir, + For I feir a deadlie storme. + + Late late yestreen I saw the new moone + Wi' the auld moone in hir arme; + And I feir, I feir, my deir master, + That we will com to harme. + + O our Scots nobles wer richt laith + To weet their cork-heild schoone; + Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, + Thair hats they swam aboone. + + O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit + Wi' thair fans into their hand, + Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens + Cum sailing to the land. + + O lang, lang, may the ladies stand + Wi' thair gold kems in their hair, + Waiting for thair ain deir lords, + For they'll se thame na mair. + + Have owre, have owre to Aberdour, + It's fiftie fadom deip: + And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens, + Wi' the Scots lords at his feit. + + + + +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER + + + It was intill a pleasant time, + Upon a simmer's day, + The noble Earl of Mar's daughter + Went forth to sport and play. + + As thus she did amuse hersell, + Below a green aik tree, + There she saw a sprightly doo + Set on a tower sae hie. + + "O cow-me-doo, my love sae true, + If ye'll come down to me, + Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd + Instead o simple tree: + + "I'll put growd hingers roun your cage, + And siller roun your wa; + I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird + As ony o them a'." + + But she hadnae these words well spoke, + Nor yet these words well said, + Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower + And lighted on her head. + + Then she has brought this pretty bird + Hame to her bowers and ba, + And made him shine as fair a bird + As ony o them a'. + + When day was gane, and night was come, + About the evening tide, + This lady spied a sprightly youth + Stand straight up by her side. + + "From whence came ye, young man?" she said; + "That does surprise me sair; + My door was bolted right secure, + What way hae ye come here?" + + "O had your tongue, ye lady fair, + Lat a' your folly be; + Mind ye not on your turtle-doo + Last day ye brought wi thee?" + + "O tell me mair, young man," she said, + "This does surprise me now; + What country hae ye come frae? + What pedigree are you?" + + "My mither lives on foreign isles, + She has nae mair but me; + She is a queen o wealth and state, + And birth and high degree. + + "Likewise well skilld in magic spells, + As ye may plainly see, + And she transformd me to yon shape, + To charm such maids as thee. + + "I am a doo the live-lang day, + A sprightly youth at night; + This aye gars me appear mair fair + In a fair maiden's sight. + + "And it was but this verra day + That I came ower the sea; + Your lovely face did me enchant; + I'll live and dee wi thee." + + "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, + Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae; + That's never my intent, my luve, + As ye said, it shall be sae." + + "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, + It's time to gae to bed;" + "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow, + It's be as ye hae said." + + Then he has staid in bower wi her + For sax lang years and ane, + Till sax young sons to him she bare, + And the seventh she's brought hame. + + But aye as ever a child was born + He carried them away, + And brought them to his mither's care, + As fast as he coud fly. + + Thus he has staid in bower wi her + For twenty years and three; + There came a lord o high renown + To court this fair ladie. + + But still his proffer she refused, + And a' his presents too; + Says, I'm content to live alane + Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo. + + Her father sware a solemn oath + Amang the nobles all, + "The morn, or ere I eat or drink, + This bird I will gar kill." + + The bird was sitting in his cage, + And heard what they did say; + And when he found they were dismist, + Says, Wae's me for this day! + + "Before that I do langer stay, + And thus to be forlorn, + I'll gang unto my mither's bower, + Where I was bred and born." + + Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew + Beyond the raging sea, + And lighted near his mither's castle, + On a tower o gowd sae hie. + + As his mither was wauking out, + To see what she coud see, + And there she saw her little son, + Set on the tower sae hie. + + "Get dancers here to dance," she said, + "And minstrells for to play; + For here's my young son, Florentine, + Come here wi me to stay." + + "Get nae dancers to dance, mither, + Nor minstrells for to play, + For the mither o my seven sons, + The morn's her wedding-day." + + "O tell me, tell me, Florentine, + Tell me, and tell me true, + Tell me this day without a flaw, + What I will do for you." + + "Instead of dancers to dance, mither, + Or minstrells for to play, + Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men + Like storks in feathers gray; + + "My seven sons in seven swans, + Aboon their heads to flee; + And I mysell a gay gos-hawk, + A bird o high degree." + + Then sichin said the queen hersell, + "That thing's too high for me;" + But she applied to an auld woman, + Who had mair skill than she. + + Instead o dancers to dance a dance, + Or minstrells for to play, + Four-and-twenty wall-wight men + Turnd birds o feathers gray; + + Her seven sons in seven swans, + Aboon their heads to flee; + And he himsell a gay gos-hawk, + A bird o high degree. + + This flock o birds took flight and flew + Beyond the raging sea, + And landed near the Earl Mar's castle, + Took shelter in every tree. + + They were a flock o pretty birds, + Right comely to be seen; + The people viewed them wi surprise, + As they dancd on the green. + + These birds ascended frae the tree + And lighted on the ha, + And at the last wi force did flee + Amang the nobles a'. + + The storks there seized some o the men, + They coud neither fight nor flee; + The swans they bound the bride's best man + Below a green aik tree. + + They lighted next on maidens fair, + Then on the bride's own head, + And wi the twinkling o an ee + The bride and them were fled. + + There's ancient men at weddings been + For sixty years or more, + But sic a curious wedding-day + They never saw before. + + For naething coud the companie do. + Nor naething coud they say + But they saw a flock o pretty birds + That took their bride away. + + When that Earl Mar he came to know + Where his dochter did stay, + He signd a bond o unity, + And visits now they pay. + + + + +EDWARD, EDWARD. + + + Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, + Edward, Edward? + Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid? + And quhy sae sad gang zee, O? + O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid: + And I had nae mair bot hee, O. + + Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, + Edward, Edward. + Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, + My deir son I tell thee, O. + O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, + That erst was sae fair and free, O. + + Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, + Edward, Edward; + Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, + Sum other dule ze drie, O. + O, I hae killed my fadir deir, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my fadir deir, + Alas! and wae is mee, O! + + And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, + Edward, Edward? + And quhatten penance will ze drie for that? + My deir son, now tell mee, O. + He set my feit in zonder boat, + Mither, mither: + He set my feit in zonder boat, + And He fare ovir the sea, O. + + And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', + That were sae fair to see, O? + He let thame stand til they doun fa', + Mither, mither: + He let thame stand til they doun fa', + For here nevir mair maun I bee, O. + + And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, + Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O? + The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, + Mither, mither; + The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, + For thame nevir mair wul I see, O. + + And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir? + My deir son, now tell me, O. + The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, + Mither, mither: + The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, + Sic counseils ze gave to me, O. + + + +KING LEIR & HIS THREE DAUGHTERS + + + King Leir once ruled in this land + With princely power and peace; + And had all things with hearts content, + That might his joys increase. + Amongst those things that nature gave, + Three daughters fair had he, + So princely seeming beautiful, + As fairer could not be. + + So on a time it pleas'd the king + A question thus to move, + Which of his daughters to his grace + Could shew the dearest love: + For to my age you bring content, + Quoth he, then let me hear, + Which of you three in plighted troth + The kindest will appear. + + To whom the eldest thus began; + Dear father, mind, quoth she, + Before your face, to do you good, + My blood shall render'd be: + And for your sake my bleeding heart + Shall here be cut in twain, + Ere that I see your reverend age + The smallest grief sustain. + + And so will I, the second said; + Dear father, for your sake, + The worst of all extremities + I'll gently undertake: + And serve your highness night and day + With diligence and love; + That sweet content and quietness + Discomforts may remove. + + In doing so, you glad my soul, + The aged king reply'd; + But what sayst thou, my youngest girl, + How is thy love ally'd? + My love (quoth young Cordelia then) + Which to your grace I owe, + Shall be the duty of a child, + And that is all I'll show. + + And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he, + Than doth thy duty bind? + I well perceive thy love is small, + When as no more I find. + Henceforth I banish thee my court, + Thou art no child of mine; + Nor any part of this my realm + By favour shall be thine. + + Thy elder sisters loves are more + Then well I can demand, + To whom I equally bestow + My kingdome and my land, + My pompal state and all my goods, + That lovingly I may + With those thy sisters be maintain'd + Until my dying day. + + Thus flattering speeches won renown, + By these two sisters here; + The third had causeless banishment, + Yet was her love more dear: + For poor Cordelia patiently + Went wandring up and down, + Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, + Through many an English town: + + Untill at last in famous France + She gentler fortunes found; + Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd + The fairest on the ground: + Where when the king her virtues heard, + And this fair lady seen, + With full consent of all his court + He made his wife and queen. + + Her father king Leir this while + With his two daughters staid: + Forgetful of their promis'd loves, + Full soon the same decay'd; + And living in queen Ragan's court, + The eldest of the twain, + She took from him his chiefest means, + And most of all his train. + + For whereas twenty men were wont + To wait with bended knee: + She gave allowance but to ten, + And after scarce to three; + Nay, one she thought too much for him; + So took she all away, + In hope that in her court, good king, + He would no longer stay. + + Am I rewarded thus, quoth he, + In giving all I have + Unto my children, and to beg + For what I lately gave? + I'll go unto my Gonorell: + My second child, I know, + Will be more kind and pitiful, + And will relieve my woe. + + Full fast he hies then to her court; + Where when she heard his moan + Return'd him answer, That she griev'd + That all his means were gone: + But no way could relieve his wants; + Yet if that he would stay + Within her kitchen, he should have + What scullions gave away. + + When he had heard, with bitter tears, + He made his answer then; + In what I did let me be made + Example to all men. + I will return again, quoth he, + Unto my Ragan's court; + She will not use me thus, I hope, + But in a kinder sort. + + Where when he came, she gave command + To drive him thence away: + When he was well within her court + (She said) he would not stay. + Then back again to Gonorell + The woeful king did hie, + That in her kitchen he might have + What scullion boy set by. + + But there of that he was deny'd, + Which she had promis'd late: + For once refusing, he should not + Come after to her gate. + Thus twixt his daughters, for relief + He wandred up and down; + Being glad to feed on beggars food, + That lately wore a crown. + + And calling to remembrance then + His youngest daughters words, + That said the duty of a child + Was all that love affords: + But doubting to repair to her, + Whom he had banish'd so, + Grew frantick mad; for in his mind + He bore the wounds of woe: + + Which made him rend his milk-white locks, + And tresses from his head, + And all with blood bestain his cheeks, + With age and honour spread. + To hills and woods and watry founts + He made his hourly moan, + Till hills and woods and sensless things, + Did seem to sigh and groan. + + Even thus possest with discontents, + He passed o're to France, + In hopes from fair Cordelia there, + To find some gentler chance; + Most virtuous dame! which when she heard, + Of this her father's grief, + As duty bound, she quickly sent + Him comfort and relief: + And by a train of noble peers, + In brave and gallant sort, + She gave in charge he should be brought + To Aganippus' court; + Whose royal king, with noble mind + So freely gave consent, + To muster up his knights at arms, + To fame and courage bent. + + And so to England came with speed, + To repossesse king Leir + And drive his daughters from their thrones + By his Cordelia dear. + Where she, true-hearted noble queen, + Was in the battel slain; + Yet he, good king, in his old days, + Possest his crown again. + + But when he heard Cordelia's death, + Who died indeed for love + Of her dear father, in whose cause + She did this battle move; + He swooning fell upon her breast, + From whence he never parted: + But on her bosom left his life, + That was so truly hearted. + + The lords and nobles when they saw + The end of these events, + The other sisters unto death + They doomed by consents; + And being dead, their crowns they left + Unto the next of kin: + Thus have you seen the fall of pride, + And disobedient sin. + + + + +[Illustration] + +HYND HORN + + + "Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free; + Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?" + + "In gude greenwud whare I was born, + And all my friends left me forlorn. + + "I gave my love a gay gowd wand, + That was to rule oure all Scotland. + + "My love gave me a silver ring, + That was to rule abune aw thing. + + "Whan that ring keeps new in hue, + Ye may ken that your love loves you. + + "Whan that ring turns pale and wan, + Ye may ken that your love loves anither man." + + He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he + Till he cam to a foreign cuntree. + + Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan; + Says, I wish I war at hame again. + + He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he + Until he cam till his ain cuntree. + + The first ane that he met with, + It was with a puir auld beggar-man. + + "What news? what news, my puir auld man? + What news hae ye got to tell to me?" + + "Na news, na news," the puir man did say, + "But this is our queen's wedding-day." + + "Ye'll lend me your begging-weed, + And I'll lend you my riding-steed." + "My begging-weed is na for thee, + Your riding-steed is na for me." + + He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man. + + "What is the way that ye use to gae? + And what are the words that ye beg wi?" + + "Whan ye come to yon high hill, + Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until. + + "Whan ye come to yon town-end, + Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun. + + "Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul, + And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all. + + "But tak ye frae nane o them aw + Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O." + + Whan he cam to yon high hill, + He drew his bent bow nigh until. + + And when he cam to yon toun-end, + He loot his bent bow low fall doun. + + He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul, + And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all. + + But he took na frae ane o them aw + Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O. + + The bride cam tripping doun the stair, + Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair. + + Wi a glass o red wine in her hand, + To gie to the puir beggar-man. + + Out he drank his glass o wine, + Into it he dropt the ring. + + "Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land, + Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?" + + "I got na't by sea, I got na't by land, + Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand; + + "But I got it at my wooing, + And I'll gie it to your wedding." + + "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head, + I'll follow you, and beg my bread. + + "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair, + I'll follow you for evermair." + + She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head, + She's followed him, to beg her bread. + + She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair, + And she has followd him evermair. + + Atween the kitchen and the ha, + There he loot his cloutie cloak fa. + + The red gowd shined oure them aw, + And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa. + + + + +JOHN BROWN'S BODY + + + Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, + Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave; + Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, + But his soul is marching on. + + _Chorus_ + + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + His soul is marching on. + + He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true; + His little patriot band into a noble army grew; + He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true, + And his soul is marching on. + + 'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its might, + The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight; + But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight, + Still his soul is marching on. + + John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, + Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love, + John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, + And his soul is marching on. + + + + TIPPERARY + + + Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day, + As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay; + Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square, + Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:-- + +_Chorus_ + + "It's a long way to Tipperary, + It's a long way to go; + It's a long way to Tipperary, + To the sweetest girl I know! + Good-bye Piccadilly, + Farewell, Leicester Square, + It's a long, long way to Tipperary, + But my heart's right there!" + + Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O', + Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know! + "If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he, + "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me." + + Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O', + Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so + Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame, + For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!" + + + + +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON + + + There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, + And he was a squires son: + He loved the bayliffes daughter deare, + That lived in Islington. + + Yet she was coye, and would not believe + That he did love her soe, + Noe nor at any time would she + Any countenance to him showe. + + But when his friendes did understand + His fond and foolish minde, + They sent him up to faire London + An apprentice for to binde. + + And when he had been seven long yeares, + And never his love could see: + Many a teare have I shed for her sake, + When she little thought of mee. + + Then all the maids of Islington + Went forth to sport and playe, + All but the bayliffes daughter deare; + She secretly stole awaye. + + She pulled off her gowne of greene, + And put on ragged attire, + And to faire London she would goe + Her true love to enquire. + + And as she went along the high road, + The weather being hot and drye, + She sat her downe upon a green bank, + And her true love came riding bye. + + She started up, with a colour soe redd, + Catching hold of his bridle-reine; + One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd, + Will ease me of much paine. + + Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, + Praye tell me where you were borne: + At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee, + Where I have had many a scorne. + + I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, + O tell me, whether you knowe + The bayliffes daughter of Islington: + She is dead, Sir, long agoe. + + If she be dead, then take my horse, + My saddle and bridle also; + For I will into some far countrye, + Where noe man shall me knowe. + + O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, + She standeth by thy side; + She is here alive, she is not dead, + And readye to be thy bride. + + O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, + Ten thousand times therefore; + For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, + Whom I thought I should never see more. + + + + +THE THREE RAVENS + + + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + With a downe + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + They were as blacke as they might be + With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe + + The one of them said to his mate, + "Where shall we our breakefast take?" + + "Downe in yonder greene field, + There lies a knight slain vnder his shield. + + "His hounds they lie downe at his feete, + So well they can their master keepe. + + "His haukes they flie so eagerly, + There's no fowle dare him come nie." + + Downe there comes a fallow doe, + As great with yong as she might goe. + + She lift up his bloudy hed, + And kist his wounds that were so red. + + She got him up upon her backe, + And carried him to earthen lake. + + She buried him before the prime, + She was dead herselfe ere even-song time. + + God send every gentleman, + Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman. + + + +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN + + + The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee + Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee, + Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie, + Will ze lodge a silly poor man? + The night was cauld, the carle was wat, + And down azont the ingle he sat; + My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap, + And cadgily ranted and sang. + + O wow! quo he, were I as free, + As first when I saw this countrie, + How blyth and merry wad I bee! + And I wad nevir think lang. + He grew canty, and she grew fain; + But little did her auld minny ken + What thir slee twa togither were say'n, + When wooing they were sa thrang. + + And O! quo he, ann ze were as black, + As evir the crown of your dadyes hat, + Tis I wad lay thee by my backe, + And awa wi' me thou sould gang. + And O! quoth she, ann I were as white, + As evir the snaw lay on the dike, + Ild dead me braw, and lady-like, + And awa with thee Ild gang. + + Between them twa was made a plot; + They raise a wee before the cock, + And wyliely they shot the lock, + And fast to the bent are they gane. + Up the morn the auld wife raise, + And at her leisure put on her claiths, + Syne to the servants bed she gaes + To speir for the silly poor man. + + She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay, + The strae was cauld, he was away, + She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day! + For some of our geir will be gane. + Some ran to coffer, and some to kist, + But nought was stown that could be mist. + She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest, + I have lodgd a leal poor man. + + Since naithings awa, as we can learn, + The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn, + Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, + And bid her come quickly ben. + The servant gaed where the dochter lay, + The sheets was cauld, she was away, + And fast to her goodwife can say, + Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man. + + O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, + And haste ze, find these traitors agen; + For shees be burnt, and hees be slein, + The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man. + Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit + The wife was wood, and out o' her wit; + She could na gang, nor yet could sit, + But ay did curse and did ban. + + Mean time far hind out owre the lee, + For snug in a glen, where nane could see, + The twa, with kindlie sport and glee + Cut frae a new cheese a whang. + The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith, + To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith. + Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith, + My winsome gaberlunzie-man. + + O kend my minny I were wi' zou, + Illfardly wad she crook her mou, + Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow, + Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon. + My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge; + And hae na learnt the beggars tonge, + To follow me frae toun to toun, + And carrie the gaberlunzie on. + + Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread, + And spindles and whorles for them wha need, + Whilk is a gentil trade indeed + The gaberlunzie to carrie--o. + Ill bow my leg and crook my knee, + And draw a black clout owre my ee, + A criple or blind they will cau me: + While we sail sing and be merrie--o. + + + + +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + + + There lived a wife at Usher's Well, + And a wealthy wife was she; + She had three stout and stalwart sons, + And sent them oer the sea. + + They hadna been a week from her, + A week but barely ane, + Whan word came to the carline wife + That her three sons were gane. + + They hadna been a week from her, + A week but barely three, + Whan word came to the carlin wife + That her sons she'd never see. + + "I wish the wind may never cease, + Nor fashes in the flood, + Till my three sons come hame to me, + In earthly flesh and blood." + + It fell about the Martinmass, + When nights are lang and mirk, + The carlin wife's three sons came hame, + And their hats were o the birk. + + It neither grew in syke nor ditch, + Nor yet in ony sheugh; + But at the gates o Paradise, + That birk grew fair eneugh. + + * * * * * + + "Blow up the fire, my maidens, + Bring water from the well; + For a' my house shall feast this night, + Since my three sons are well." + + And she has made to them a bed, + She's made it large and wide, + And she's taen her mantle her about, + Sat down at the bed-side. + + * * * * * + + Up then crew the red, red cock, + And up and crew the gray; + The eldest to the youngest said, + 'Tis time we were away. + + The cock he hadna crawd but once, + And clappd his wings at a', + When the youngest to the eldest said, + Brother, we must awa. + + "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, + The channerin worm doth chide; + Gin we be mist out o our place, + A sair pain we maun bide. + + "Fare ye weel, my mother dear! + Fareweel to barn and byre! + And fare ye weel, the bonny lass + That kindles my mother's fire!" + + + + +THE LYE + + + Goe, soule, the bodies guest, + Upon a thanklesse arrant; + Feare not to touche the best, + The truth shall be thy warrant: + Goe, since I needs must dye, + And give the world the lye. + + Goe tell the court, it glowes + And shines like rotten wood; + Goe tell the church it showes + What's good, and doth no good: + If church and court reply, + Then give them both the lye. + + Tell potentates they live + Acting by others actions; + Not lov'd unlesse they give, + Not strong but by their factions; + If potentates reply, + Give potentates the lye. + + Tell men of high condition, + That rule affairs of state, + Their purpose is ambition, + Their practise onely hate; + And if they once reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell them that brave it most, + They beg for more by spending, + Who in their greatest cost + Seek nothing but commending; + And if they make reply, + Spare not to give the lye. + + Tell zeale, it lacks devotion; + Tell love, it is but lust; + Tell time, it is but motion; + Tell flesh, it is but dust; + And wish them not reply, + For thou must give the lye. + + Tell age, it daily wasteth; + Tell honour, how it alters: + Tell beauty, how she blasteth; + Tell favour, how she falters; + And as they shall reply, + Give each of them the lye. + + Tell wit, how much it wrangles + In tickle points of nicenesse; + Tell wisedome, she entangles + Herselfe in over-wisenesse; + And if they do reply, + Straight give them both the lye. + + Tell physicke of her boldnesse; + Tell skill, it is pretension; + Tell charity of coldness; + Tell law, it is contention; + And as they yield reply, + So give them still the lye. + + Tell fortune of her blindnesse; + Tell nature of decay; + Tell friendship of unkindnesse; + Tell justice of delay: + And if they dare reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell arts, they have no soundnesse, + But vary by esteeming; + Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse; + And stand too much on seeming: + If arts and schooles reply. + Give arts and schooles the lye. + + Tell faith, it's fled the citie; + Tell how the countrey erreth; + Tell, manhood shakes off pitie; + Tell, vertue least preferreth: + And, if they doe reply, + Spare not to give the lye. + + So, when thou hast, as I + Commanded thee, done blabbing, + Although to give the lye + Deserves no less than stabbing, + Yet stab at thee who will, + No stab the soule can kill. + + + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + +I. + + + He did not wear his scarlet coat, + For blood and wine are red, + And blood and wine were on his hands + When they found him with the dead, + The poor dead woman whom he loved, + And murdered in her bed. + + He walked amongst the Trial Men + In a suit of shabby grey; + A cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay; + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every drifting cloud that went + With sails of silver by. + + I walked, with other souls in pain, + Within another ring, + And was wondering if the man had done + A great or little thing, + When a voice behind me whispered low, + _"That fellow's got to swing."_ + + Dear Christ! the very prison walls + Suddenly seemed to reel, + And the sky above my head became + Like a casque of scorching steel; + And, though I was a soul in pain, + My pain I could not feel. + + I only knew what hunted thought + Quickened his step, and why + He looked upon the garish day + With such a wistful eye; + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + * * * * * + + Yet each man kills the thing he loves, + By each let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word. + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + Some kill their love when they are young, + And some when they are old; + Some strangle with the hands of Lust, + Some with the hands of Gold: + The kindest use a knife, because + The dead so soon grow cold. + + Some love too little, some too long, + Some sell, and others buy; + Some do the deed with many tears, + And some without a sigh: + For each man kills the thing he loves, + Yet each man does not die. + + He does not die a death of shame + On a day of dark disgrace, + Nor have a noose about his neck, + Nor a cloth upon his face, + Nor drop feet foremost through the floor + Into an empty space. + + He does not sit with silent men + Who watch him night and day; + Who watch him when he tries to weep, + And when he tries to pray; + Who watch him lest himself should rob + The prison of its prey. + + He does not wake at dawn to see + Dread figures throng his room, + The shivering Chaplain robed in white, + The Sheriff stern with gloom, + And the Governor all in shiny black, + With the yellow face of Doom. + + He does not rise in piteous haste + To put on convict-clothes, + While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes + Each new and nerve-twitched pose, + Fingering a watch whose little ticks + Are like horrible hammer-blows. + + He does not feel that sickening thirst + That sands one's throat, before + The hangman with his gardener's gloves + Comes through the padded door, + And binds one with three leathern thongs, + That the throat may thirst no more. + + He does not bend his head to hear + The Burial Office read, + Nor, while the anguish of his soul + Tells him he is not dead, + Cross his own coffin, as he moves + Into the hideous shed. + + He does not stare upon the air + Through a little roof of glass: + He does not pray with lips of clay + For his agony to pass; + Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek + The kiss of Caiaphas. + + +II + + + Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard + In the suit of shabby grey: + His cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay, + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every wandering cloud that trailed + Its ravelled fleeces by. + + He did not wring his hands, as do + Those witless men who dare + To try to rear the changeling + In the cave of black Despair: + He only looked upon the sun, + And drank the morning air. + + He did not wring his hands nor weep, + Nor did he peek or pine, + But he drank the air as though it held + Some healthful anodyne; + With open mouth he drank the sun + As though it had been wine! + + And I and all the souls in pain, + Who tramped the other ring, + Forgot if we ourselves had done + A great or little thing, + And watched with gaze of dull amaze + The man who had to swing. + + For strange it was to see him pass + With a step so light and gay, + And strange it was to see him look + So wistfully at the day, + And strange it was to think that he + Had such a debt to pay. + + * * * * * + + For oak and elm have pleasant leaves + That in the spring-time shoot: + But grim to see is the gallows-tree, + With its adder-bitten root, + And, green or dry, a man must die + Before it bears its fruit! + + The loftiest place is that seat of grace + For which all worldlings try: + But who would stand in hempen band + Upon a scaffold high, + And through a murderer's collar take + His last look at the sky? + + It is sweet to dance to violins + When Love and Life are fair: + To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes + Is delicate and rare: + But it is not sweet with nimble feet + To dance upon the air! + + So with curious eyes and sick surmise + We watched him day by day, + And wondered if each one of us + Would end the self-same way, + For none can tell to what red Hell + His sightless soul may stray. + + At last the dead man walked no more + Amongst the Trial Men, + And I knew that he was standing up + In the black dock's dreadful pen, + And that never would I see his face + For weal or woe again. + + Like two doomed ships that pass in storm + We had crossed each other's way: + But we made no sign, we said no word, + We had no word to say; + For we did not meet in the holy night, + But in the shameful day. + + A prison wall was round us both, + Two outcast men we were: + The world had thrust us from its heart, + And God from out His care: + And the iron gin that waits for Sin + Had caught us in its snare. + + +III. + + + In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard, + And the dripping wall is high, + So it was there he took the air + Beneath the leaden sky, + And by each side a Warder walked, + For fear the man might die. + + Or else he sat with those who watched + His anguish night and day; + Who watched him when he rose to weep, + And when he crouched to pray; + Who watched him lest himself should rob + Their scaffold of its prey. + + The Governor was strong upon + The Regulations Act: + The Doctor said that Death was but + A scientific fact: + And twice a day the Chaplain called, + And left a little tract. + + And twice a day he smoked his pipe, + And drank his quart of beer: + His soul was resolute, and held + No hiding-place for fear; + He often said that he was glad + The hangman's day was near. + + But why he said so strange a thing + No warder dared to ask: + For he to whom a watcher's doom + Is given as his task, + Must set a lock upon his lips + And make his face a mask. + + Or else he might be moved, and try + To comfort or console: + And what should Human Pity do + Pent up in Murderer's Hole? + What word of grace in such a place + Could help a brother's soul? + + With slouch and swing around the ring + We trod the Fools' Parade! + We did not care: we knew we were + The Devil's Own Brigade: + And shaven head and feet of lead + Make a merry masquerade. + + We tore the tarry rope to shreds + With blunt and bleeding nails; + We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, + And cleaned the shining rails: + And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, + And clattered with the pails. + + We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, + We turned the dusty drill: + We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, + And sweated on the mill: + But in the heart of every man + Terror was lying still. + + So still it lay that every day + Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: + And we forgot the bitter lot + That waits for fool and knave, + Till once, as we tramped in from work, + We passed an open grave. + + With yawning mouth the yellow hole + Gaped for a living thing; + The very mud cried out for blood + To the thirsty asphalte ring: + And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair + Some prisoner had to swing. + + Right in we went, with soul intent + On Death and Dread and Doom: + The hangman, with his little bag, + Went shuffling through the gloom: + And I trembled as I groped my way + Into my numbered tomb. + + * * * * * + + That night the empty corridors + Were full of forms of Fear, + And up and down the iron town + Stole feet we could not hear, + And through the bars that hide the stars + White faces seemed to peer. + + He lay as one who lies and dreams + In a pleasant meadow-land, + The watchers watched him as he slept, + And could not understand + How one could sleep so sweet a sleep + With a hangman close at hand. + + But there is no sleep when men must weep + Who never yet have wept: + So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave-- + That endless vigil kept, + And through each brain on hands of pain + Another's terror crept. + + Alas! it is a fearful thing + To feel another's guilt! + For, right, within, the Sword of Sin + Pierced to its poisoned hilt, + And as molten lead were the tears we shed + For the blood we had not spilt. + + The warders with their shoes of felt + Crept by each padlocked door, + And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, + Grey figures on the floor, + And wondered why men knelt to pray + Who never prayed before. + + All through the night we knelt and prayed, + Mad mourners of a corse! + The troubled plumes of midnight shook + The plumes upon a hearse: + And bitter wine upon a sponge + Was the savour of Remorse. + + * * * * * + + The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, + But never came the day: + And crooked shapes of Terror crouched, + In the corners where we lay: + And each evil sprite that walks by night + Before us seemed to play. + + They glided past, they glided fast, + Like travellers through a mist: + They mocked the moon in a rigadoon + Of delicate turn and twist, + And with formal pace and loathsome grace + The phantoms kept their tryst. + + With mop and mow, we saw them go, + Slim shadows hand in hand: + About, about, in ghostly rout + They trod a saraband: + And the damned grotesques made arabesques, + Like the wind upon the sand! + + With the pirouettes of marionettes, + They tripped on pointed tread: + But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear, + As their grisly masque they led, + And loud they sang, and long they sang, + For they sang to wake the dead. + + _"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide, + But fettered limbs go lame! + And once, or twice, to throw the dice + Is a gentlemanly game, + But he does not win who plays with Sin + In the secret House of Shame."_ + + No things of air these antics were, + That frolicked with such glee: + To men whose lives were held in gyves, + And whose feet might not go free, + Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, + Most terrible to see. + + Around, around, they waltzed and wound; + Some wheeled in smirking pairs; + With the mincing step of a demirep + Some sidled up the stairs: + And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, + Each helped us at our prayers. + + The morning wind began to moan, + But still the night went on: + Through its giant loom the web of gloom + Crept till each thread was spun: + And, as we prayed, we grew afraid + Of the Justice of the Sun. + + The moaning wind went wandering round + The weeping prison-wall: + Till like a wheel of turning steel + We felt the minutes crawl: + O moaning wind! what had we done + To have such a seneschal? + + At last I saw the shadowed bars, + Like a lattice wrought in lead, + Move right across the whitewashed wall + That faced my three-plank bed, + And I knew that somewhere in the world + God's dreadful dawn was red. + + At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, + At seven all was still, + But the sough and swing of a mighty wing + The prison seemed to fill, + For the Lord of Death with icy breath + Had entered in to kill. + + He did not pass in purple pomp, + Nor ride a moon-white steed. + Three yards of cord and a sliding board + Are all the gallows' need: + So with rope of shame the Herald came + To do the secret deed. + + We were as men who through a fen + Of filthy darkness grope: + We did not dare to breathe a prayer, + Or to give our anguish scope: + Something was dead in each of us, + And what was dead was Hope. + + For Man's grim Justice goes its way, + And will not swerve aside: + It slays the weak, it slays the strong, + It has a deadly stride: + With iron heel it slays the strong, + The monstrous parricide! + + We waited for the stroke of eight: + Each tongue was thick with thirst: + For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate + That makes a man accursed, + And Fate will use a running noose + For the best man and the worst. + + We had no other thing to do, + Save to wait for the sign to come: + So, like things of stone in a valley lone, + Quiet we sat and dumb: + But each man's heart beat thick and quick, + Like a madman on a drum! + + With sudden shock the prison-clock + Smote on the shivering air, + And from all the gaol rose up a wail + Of impotent despair, + Like the sound that frightened marches hear + From some leper in his lair. + + And as one sees most fearful things + In the crystal of a dream, + We saw the greasy hempen rope + Hooked to the blackened beam, + And heard the prayer the hangman's snare + Strangled into a scream. + + And all the woe that moved him so + That he gave that bitter cry, + And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, + None knew so well as I: + For he who lives more lives than one + More deaths than one must die. + + +IV + + + There is no chapel on the day + On which they hang a man: + The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, + Or his face is far too wan, + Or there is that written in his eyes + Which none should look upon. + + So they kept us close till nigh on noon, + And then they rang the bell, + And the warders with their jingling keys + Opened each listening cell, + And down the iron stair we tramped, + Each from his separate Hell. + + Out into God's sweet air we went, + But not in wonted way, + For this man's face was white with fear, + And that man's face was grey, + And I never saw sad men who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw sad men who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + We prisoners called the sky, + And at every happy cloud that passed + In such strange freedom by. + + But there were those amongst us all + Who walked with downcast head, + And knew that, had each got his due, + They should have died instead: + He had but killed a thing that lived, + Whilst they had killed the dead. + + For he who sins a second time + Wakes a dead soul to pain, + And draws it from its spotted shroud, + And makes it bleed again, + And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, + And makes it bleed in vain! + + * * * * * + + Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb + With crooked arrows starred, + Silently we went round and round + The slippery asphalte yard; + Silently we went round and round, + And no man spoke a word. + + Silently we went round and round, + And through each hollow mind + The Memory of dreadful things + Rushed like a dreadful wind, + And Horror stalked before each man, + And Terror crept behind. + + * * * * * + + The warders strutted up and down, + And watched their herd of brutes, + Their uniforms were spick and span, + And they wore their Sunday suits, + But we knew the work they had been at, + By the quicklime on their boots. + + For where a grave had opened wide, + There was no grave at all: + Only a stretch of mud and sand + By the hideous prison-wall, + And a little heap of burning lime, + That the man should have his pall. + + For he has a pall, this wretched man, + Such as few men can claim: + Deep down below a prison-yard, + Naked for greater shame, + He lies, with fetters on each foot, + Wrapt in a sheet of flame! + + And all the while the burning lime + Eats flesh and bone away, + It eats the brittle bone by night, + And the soft flesh by day, + It eats the flesh and bone by turns, + But it eats the heart alway. + + * * * * + + For three long years they will not sow + Or root or seedling there: + For three long years the unblessed spot + Will sterile be and bare, + And look upon the wondering sky + With unreproachful stare. + + They think a murderer's heart would taint + Each simple seed they sow. + It is not true! God's kindly earth + Is kindlier than men know, + And the red rose would but blow more red, + The white rose whiter blow. + + Out of his mouth a red, red rose! + Out of his heart a white! + For who can say by what strange way, + Christ brings His will to light, + Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore + Bloomed in the great Pope's sight? + + But neither milk-white rose nor red + May bloom in prison-air; + The shard, the pebble, and the flint, + Are what they give us there: + For flowers have been known to heal + A common man's despair. + + So never will wine-red rose or white, + Petal by petal, fall + On that stretch of mud and sand that lies + By the hideous prison-wall, + To tell the men who tramp the yard + That God's Son died for all. + + Yet though the hideous prison-wall + Still hems him round and round, + And a spirit may not walk by night + That is with fetters bound, + And a spirit may but weep that lies + In such unholy ground. + + He is at peace-this wretched man-- + At peace, or will be soon: + There is no thing to make him mad, + Nor does Terror walk at noon, + For the lampless Earth in which he lies + Has neither Sun nor Moon. + + They hanged him as a beast is hanged: + They did not even toll + A requiem that might have brought + Rest to his startled soul, + But hurriedly they took him out, + And hid him in a hole. + + The warders stripped him of his clothes, + And gave him to the flies: + They mocked the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes: + And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud + In which the convict lies. + + The Chaplain would not kneel to pray + By his dishonoured grave: + Nor mark it with that blessed Cross + That Christ for sinners gave, + Because the man was one of those + Whom Christ came down to save. + + Yet all is well; he has but passed + To Life's appointed bourne: + And alien tears will fill for him + Pity's long-broken urn, + For his mourners will be outcast men, + And outcasts always mourn. + + +V + + + I know not whether Laws be right, + Or whether Laws be wrong; + All that we know who lie in gaol + Is that the wall is strong; + And that each day is like a year, + A year whose days are long. + + But this I know, that every Law + That men have made for Man, + Since first Man took his brother's life, + And the sad world began, + But straws the wheat and saves the chaff + With a most evil fan. + + This too I know--and wise it were + If each could know the same-- + That every prison that men build + Is built with bricks of shame, + And bound with bars lest Christ should see + How men their brothers maim. + + With bars they blur the gracious moon, + And blind the goodly sun: + And they do well to hide their Hell, + For in it things are done + That Son of God nor son of Man + Ever should look upon! + + * * * * * + + The vilest deeds like poison weeds, + Bloom well in prison-air; + It is only what is good in Man + That wastes and withers there: + Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, + And the Warder is Despair. + + For they starve the little frightened child + Till it weeps both night and day: + And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, + And gibe the old and grey, + And some grow mad, and all grow bad, + And none a word may say. + + Each narrow cell in which we dwell + Is a foul and dark latrine, + And the fetid breath of living Death + Chokes up each grated screen, + And all, but Lust, is turned to dust + In humanity's machine. + + The brackish water that we drink + Creeps with a loathsome slime, + And the bitter bread they weigh in scales + Is full of chalk and lime, + And Sleep will not lie down, but walks + Wild-eyed, and cries to Time. + + * * * * * + + But though lean Hunger and green Thirst + Like asp with adder fight, + We have little care of prison fare, + For what chills and kills outright + Is that every stone one lifts by day + Becomes one's heart by night. + + With midnight always in one's heart, + And twilight in one's cell, + We turn the crank, or tear the rope, + Each in his separate Hell, + And the silence is more awful far + Than the sound of a brazen bell. + + And never a human voice comes near + To speak a gentle word: + And the eye that watches through the door + Is pitiless and hard: + And by all forgot, we rot and rot, + With soul and body marred. + + And thus we rust Life's iron chain + Degraded and alone: + And some men curse and some men weep, + And some men make no moan: + But God's eternal Laws are kind + And break the heart of stone. + + And every human heart that breaks, + In prison-cell or yard, + Is as that broken box that gave + Its treasure to the Lord, + And filled the unclean leper's house + With the scent of costliest nard. + + Ah! happy they whose hearts can break + And peace of pardon win! + How else man may make straight his plan + And cleanse his soul from Sin? + How else but through a broken heart + May Lord Christ enter in? + + * * * * * + + And he of the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes, + Waits for the holy hands that took + The Thief to Paradise; + And a broken and a contrite heart + The Lord will not despise. + + The man in red who reads the Law + Gave him three weeks of life, + Three little weeks in which to heal His soul of his soul's strife, + And cleanse from every blot of blood + The hand that held the knife. + + And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, + The hand that held the steel: + For only blood can wipe out blood, + And only tears can heal: + And the crimson stain that was of Cain + Became Christ's snow-white seal. + + +VI + + + In Reading gaol by Reading town + There is a pit of shame, + And in it lies a wretched man + Eaten by teeth of flame, + In a burning winding-sheet he lies, + And his grave has got no name. + + And there, till Christ call forth the dead, + In silence let him lie: + No need to waste the foolish tear, + Or heave the windy sigh: + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + And all men kill the thing they love, + By all let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word, + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + + + +APPENDIX + +_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume I._ + +THE FROLICKSOME DUKE + +Printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection. + + +KING ESTMERE + +This ballad is given from two versions, one in the Percy folio +manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. The original version was +probably written at the end of the fifteenth century. + + +ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE + +One of the earliest known ballads about Robin Hood--from the Percy folio +manuscript. + + +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID + +This ballad is printed from Richard Johnson's _Crown Garland of +Goulden Roses,_ 1612. + + +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY + +This ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient +ballads found throughout the plays of Shakespeare, which Thomas Percy +formed into one. + + +SIR ALDINGAR + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas +added by Thomas Percy to complete the story. + + +EDOM O'GORDON + +A Scottish ballad--this version was printed at Glasgow in 1755 by Robert +and Andrew Foulis. It has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered +from a fragment of the same ballad, from the Percy folio manuscript. + + +THE BALLAD OF CHEVY CHACE + +From the Percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed +in black-letter. Written about the time of Elizabeth. + + +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE + +Given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the +Percy folio manuscript. + + +THE CHILD OF ELLE + +Partly from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas +by Percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated. + + +KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAM WORTH + +The text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. One +in the Bodleian Library, printed at London by John Danter in 1596. The +other copy, without date, is from the Pepys Collection. + + +SIR PATRICK SPENS + +Printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland. It is +possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact. + + +EDWARD, EDWARD + +An old Scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from +Scotland. + + +KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS + +Version from an old copy in the _Golden Garland,_ black-letter, +entitled _A lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his Three +Daughters._ + + +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN + +This ballad is said to have been written by King James V of Scotland. + + + +_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume II._ + + +THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + +Printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections. + + +KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY + +This ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of James I from one +much older, entitled _King John and the Bishop of Canterbury._ The +version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy. + + +BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY + +Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled +_Barbara Alien's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy._ + + +FAIR ROSAMOND + +The version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in +black-letter: two of them in the Pepys' Library. It is by Thomas Delone. +First printed in 1612. + + +THE BOY AND THE MANTLE + +This is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad. + + +THE HEIR OF LINNE + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas +supplied by Thomas Percy. + + +SIR ANDREW BARTON + +This ballad is from the Percy folio manuscript with additions and +amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection. +It was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century. + + +THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and +alterations from two ancient printed copies. + + +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY + +Given from an old black-letter copy. + + +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE + +The version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the +Percy folio manuscript. + + +GIL MORRICE + +The version of this ballad given here was printed at Glasgow in 1755. +Since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added +to the original ballad. + + +CHILD WATERS + +From the Percy folio manuscript, with corrections. + + +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON + +From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection. + + +THE LYE + +By Sir Walter Raleigh. This poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled +_Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books ... +the 4th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme +more pleasing to the reader._ Lond. 1621. + + + +_From "English and Scottish Ballads."_ + + +MAY COLLIN + +From a manuscript at Abbotsford in the Sir Walter Scott Collection, +_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy._ + + +THOMAS THE RHYMER + +_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,_ No. 97, +Abbotsford. From the Sir Walter Scott Collection. Communicated to Sir +Walter by Mrs. Christiana Greenwood, London, May 27th, 1806. + + +YOUNG BEICHAN + +Taken from the Jamieson-Brown manuscript, 1783. + + +CLERK COLVILL + +From a transcript of No. 13 of William Tytler's Brown manuscript. + + +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER + +From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland,_ 1828. + + +HYND HORN + +From Motherwell's manuscript, 1825 and after. + + +THE THREE RAVENS + +_Melismate. Musicall Phansies. Fitting the Court, Cittie and Country +Humours._ London, 1611. (T. Ravenscroft.) + + +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + +Printed from _Ministrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 1802. + + * * * * * + +MANDALAY + +By Rudyard Kipling. + + +JOHN BROWN'S BODY + + +IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY + +By Jack Judge and Harry Williams. + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + +By Oscar Wilde. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Book of Old Ballads, +Selected by Beverly Nichols + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS *** + +This file should be named 7bld510.txt or 7bld510.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7bld511.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7bld510a.txt + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Book of Old Ballads + +Author: Selected by Beverly Nichols + +Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7535] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on May 15, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: iso-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS + + +Selected and with an Introduction + +by + +BEVERLEY NICHOLS + + + + +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 HEIR OF LINNE +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID +SIR ANDREW BARTON +MAY COLLIN +THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN +THOMAS THE RHYMER +YOUNG BEICHAN +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY +CLERK COLVILL +SIR ALDINGAR +EDOM O' GORDON +CHEVY CHACE +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE +GIL MORRICE +THE CHILD OF ELLE +CHILD WATERS +KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH +SIR PATRICK SPENS +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER +EDWARD, EDWARD +KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS +HYND HORN +JOHN BROWN'S BODY +TIPPERARY +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON +THE THREE RAVENS +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL +THE LYE +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + +_The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix at the end +of this book._ + + + + +LIST OF COLOUR PLATES + + +HYND HORN +KING ESTMERE +BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY +FAIR ROSAMOND +THE BOY AND THE MANTLE +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID +MAY COLLIN +THOMAS THE RHYMER +YOUNG BEICHAN +CLERK COLVILL +GIL MORRICE +CHILD WATERS +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON +THE THREE RAVENS +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + + + + + +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. + + + + +[Illustration] + +MANDALAY + + + 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! + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE FROLICKSOME DUKE + +or + +THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE + + + 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] + + +[Illustration] + +THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + + + 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 + + + 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] + + + + +[Illustration] + +KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY + + + 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 + + + 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. + +[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 + + + 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: Boy and 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." + + + + +THE HEIR OF LINNE + +PART THE FIRST + + + Lithe and listen, gentlemen, + To sing a song I will beginne: + It is of a lord of faire Scotland, + Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. + + His father was a right good lord, + His mother a lady of high degree; + But they, alas! were dead, him froe, + And he lov'd keeping companie. + + To spend the daye with merry cheare, + To drinke and revell every night, + To card and dice from eve to morne, + It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. + + To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, + To alwaye spend and never spare, + I wott, an' it were the king himselfe, + Of gold and fee he mote be bare. + + Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne + Till all his gold is gone and spent; + And he maun sell his landes so broad, + His house, and landes, and all his rent. + + His father had a keen stewarde, + And John o' the Scales was called hee: + But John is become a gentel-man, + And John has gott both gold and fee. + + Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne, + Let nought disturb thy merry cheere; + Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, + Good store of gold Ile give thee heere, + + My gold is gone, my money is spent; + My lande nowe take it unto thee: + Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, + And thine for aye my lande shall bee. + + Then John he did him to record draw, + And John he cast him a gods-pennie; + But for every pounde that John agreed, + The lande, I wis, was well worth three. + + He told him the gold upon the borde, + He was right glad his land to winne; + The gold is thine, the land is mine, + And now Ile be the lord of Linne. + + Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, + Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, + All but a poore and lonesome lodge, + That stood far off in a lonely glenne. + + For soe he to his father hight. + My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee, + Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, + And thou wilt spend thy gold so free: + + But sweare me nowe upon the roode, + That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; + For when all the world doth frown on thee, + Thou there shalt find a faithful friend. + + The heire of Linne is full of golde: + And come with me, my friends, sayd hee, + Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, + And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. + + They ranted, drank, and merry made, + Till all his gold it waxed thinne; + And then his friendes they slunk away; + They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. + + He had never a penny in his purse, + Never a penny left but three, + And one was brass, another was lead, + And another it was white money. + + Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, + Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, + For when I was the lord of Linne, + I never wanted gold nor fee. + + But many a trustye friend have I, + And why shold I feel dole or care? + Ile borrow of them all by turnes, + Soe need I not be never bare. + + But one, I wis, was not at home; + Another had payd his gold away; + Another call'd him thriftless loone, + And bade him sharpely wend his way. + + Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, + Now well-aday, and woe is me; + For when I had my landes so broad, + On me they liv'd right merrilee. + + To beg my bread from door to door + I wis, it were a brenning shame: + To rob and steale it were a sinne: + To worke my limbs I cannot frame. + + Now Ile away to lonesome lodge, + For there my father bade me wend; + When all the world should frown on mee + I there shold find a trusty friend. + + +PART THE SECOND + + + Away then hyed the heire of Linne + Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne, + Untill he came to lonesome lodge, + That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. + + He looked up, he looked downe, + In hope some comfort for to winne: + But bare and lothly were the walles. + Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne. + + The little windowe dim and darke + Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; + No shimmering sunn here ever shone; + No halesome breeze here ever blew. + + No chair, ne table he mote spye, + No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, + Nought save a rope with renning noose, + That dangling hung up o'er his head. + + And over it in broad letters, + These words were written so plain to see: + "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, + And brought thyselfe to penurie? + + "All this my boding mind misgave, + I therefore left this trusty friend: + Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, + And all thy shame and sorrows end." + + Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, + Sorely shent was the heire of Linne, + His heart, I wis, was near to brast With guilt and sorrowe, shame +and sinne. + + Never a word spake the heire of Linne, + Never a word he spake but three: + "This is a trusty friend indeed, + And is right welcome unto mee." + + Then round his necke the corde he drewe, + And sprung aloft with his bodie: + When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, + And to the ground came tumbling hee. + + Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, + Ne knewe if he were live or dead: + At length he looked, and saw a bille, + And in it a key of gold so redd. + + He took the bill, and lookt it on, + Strait good comfort found he there: + It told him of a hole in the wall, + In which there stood three chests in-fere. + + Two were full of the beaten golde, + The third was full of white money; + And over them in broad letters + These words were written so plaine to see: + + "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere; + Amend thy life and follies past; + For but thou amend thee of thy life, + That rope must be thy end at last." + + And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne; + And let it bee, but if I amend: + For here I will make mine avow, + This reade shall guide me to the end. + + Away then went with a merry cheare, + Away then went the heire of Linne; + I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, + Till John o' the Scales house he did winne. + + And when he came to John o' the Scales, + Upp at the speere then looked hee; + There sate three lords upon a rowe, + Were drinking of the wine so free. + + And John himself sate at the bord-head, + Because now lord of Linne was hee. + I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales, + One forty pence for to lend mee. + + Away, away, thou thriftless loone; + Away, away, this may not bee: + For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, + If ever I trust thee one pennìe. + + Then bespake the heire of Linne, + To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: + Madame, some almes on me bestowe, + I pray for sweet Saint Charitìe. + + Away, away, thou thriftless loone, + I swear thou gettest no almes of mee; + For if we shold hang any losel heere, + The first we wold begin with thee. + + Then bespake a good fellòwe, + Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord + Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne; + Some time thou wast a well good lord; + + Some time a good fellow thou hast been, + And sparedst not thy gold nor fee; + Therefore He lend thee forty pence, + And other forty if need bee. + + And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, + To let him sit in thy companie: + For well I wot thou hadst his land, + And a good bargain it was to thee. + + Up then spake him John o' the Scales, + All wood he answer'd him againe: + Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd, + But I did lose by that bargàine. + + And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, + Before these lords so faire and free, + Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, + By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee. + + I draw you to record, lords, he said. + With that he cast him a gods pennie: + Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne, + And here, good John, is thy monèy. + + And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, + And layd them down upon the bord: + All woe begone was John o' the Scales, + Soe shent he cold say never a word. + + He told him forth the good red gold, + He told it forth with mickle dinne. + The gold is thine, the land is mine, + And now Ime againe the lord of Linne. + + Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe, + Forty pence thou didst lend me: + Now I am againe the lord of Linne, + And forty pounds I will give thee. + + He make the keeper of my forrest, + Both of the wild deere and the tame; + For but I reward thy bounteous heart, + I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame. + + Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales: + Now welladay! and woe is my life! + Yesterday I was lady of Linne, + Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife. + + Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne; + Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee: + Christs curse light on me, if ever again + I bring my lands in jeopardy. + + + + +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID + + + I Read that once in Affrica + A princely wight did raine, + Who had to name Cophetua, + As poets they did faine: + From natures lawes he did decline, + For sure he was not of my mind. + He cared not for women-kinde, + But did them all disdaine. + But, marke, what hapened on a day, + As he out of his window lay, + He saw a beggar all in gray, + The which did cause his paine. + + The blinded boy, that shootes so trim, + From heaven downe did hie; + He drew a dart and shot at him, + In place where he did lye: + Which soone did pierse him to the quicke. + And when he felt the arrow pricke, + Which in his tender heart did sticke, + He looketh as he would dye. + What sudden chance is this, quoth he, + That I to love must subject be, + Which never thereto would agree, + But still did it defie? + + Then from the window he did come, + And laid him on his bed, + A thousand heapes of care did runne + Within his troubled head: + For now he meanes to crave her love, + And now he seekes which way to proove + How he his fancie might remoove, + And not this beggar wed. + But Cupid had him so in snare, + That this poor begger must prepare + A salve to cure him of his care, + Or els he would be dead. + + And, as he musing thus did lye, + He thought for to devise + How he might have her companye, + That so did 'maze his eyes. + In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life; + For surely thou shalt be my wife, + Or else this hand with bloody knife + The Gods shall sure suffice. + Then from his bed he soon arose, + And to his pallace gate he goes; + Full little then this begger knowes + When she the king espies. + + The Gods preserve your majesty, + The beggers all gan cry: + Vouchsafe to give your charity + Our childrens food to buy. + The king to them his pursse did cast, + And they to part it made great haste; + This silly woman was the last + That after them did hye. + The king he cal'd her back againe, + And unto her he gave his chaine; + And said, With us you shal remaine + Till such time as we dye: + + For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife, + And honoured for my queene; + With thee I meane to lead my life, + As shortly shall be seene: + Our wedding shall appointed be, + And every thing in its degree: + Come on, quoth he, and follow me, + Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. + What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he. + Penelophon, O king, quoth she; + With that she made a lowe courtsey; + A trim one as I weene. + + Thus hand in hand along they walke + Unto the king's pallace: + The king with curteous comly talke + This beggar doth imbrace: + The begger blusheth scarlet red, + And straight againe as pale as lead, + But not a word at all she said, + She was in such amaze. + At last she spake with trembling voyce, + And said, O king, I doe rejoyce + That you wil take me from your choyce, + And my degree's so base. + + And when the wedding day was come, + The king commanded strait + The noblemen both all and some + Upon the queene to wait. + And she behaved herself that day, + As if she had never walkt the way; + She had forgot her gown of gray, + Which she did weare of late. + The proverbe old is come to passe, + The priest, when he begins his masse, + Forgets that ever clerke he was; + He knowth not his estate. + + Here you may read, Cophetua, + Though long time fancie-fed, + Compelled by the blinded boy + The begger for to wed: + He that did lovers lookes disdaine, + To do the same was glad and faine, + Or else he would himselfe have slaine, + In storie, as we read. + Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, + But pitty now thy servant heere, + Least that it hap to thee this yeare, + As to that king it did. + + And thus they led a quiet life + Duringe their princely raigne; + And in a tombe were buried both, + As writers sheweth plaine. + The lords they tooke it grievously, + The ladies tooke it heavily, + The commons cryed pitiously, + Their death to them was paine, + Their fame did sound so passingly, + That it did pierce the starry sky, + And throughout all the world did flye + To every princes realme. + +[Illustration: Decorative ] + + + + +[Illustration] + +SIR ANDREW BARTON + + + 'When Flora with her fragrant flowers + Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, + And Neptune with his daintye showers + Came to present the monthe of Maye;' + King Henrye rode to take the ayre, + Over the river of Thames past hee; + When eighty merchants of London came, + And downe they knelt upon their knee. + + "O yee are welcome, rich merchants; + Good saylors, welcome unto mee." + They swore by the rood, they were saylors good, + But rich merchànts they cold not bee: + "To France nor Flanders dare we pass: + Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare; + And all for a rover that lyes on the seas, + Who robbs us of our merchant ware." + + King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde, + And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might, + "I thought he had not beene in the world, + Durst have wrought England such unright." + The merchants sighed, and said, alas! + And thus they did their answer frame, + He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas, + And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name. + + The king lookt over his left shoulder, + And an angrye look then looked hee: + "Have I never a lorde in all my realme, + Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?" + Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes; + Yea, that dare I with heart and hand; + If it please your grace to give me leave, + Myselfe wil be the only man. + + Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed: + Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare. + "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail, + Or before my prince I will never appeare." + Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, + And chuse them over my realme so free; + Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, + To guide the great shipp on the sea. + + The first man, that Lord Howard chose, + Was the ablest gunner in all the realm, + Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten; + Good Peter Simon was his name. + Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea, + To bring home a traytor live or dead: + Before all others I have chosen thee; + Of a hundred gunners to be the head. + + If you, my lord, have chosen mee + Of a hundred gunners to be the head, + Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, + If I misse my marke one shilling bread. + My lord then chose a boweman rare, + "Whose active hands had gained fame." + In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne, + And William Horseley was his name. + + Horseley, said he, I must with speede + Go seeke a traytor on the sea, + And now of a hundred bowemen brave + To be the head I have chosen thee. + If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee + Of a hundred bowemen to be the head + On your main-mast He hanged bee, + If I miss twelvescore one penny bread. + + With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold, + This noble Howard is gone to the sea; + With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, + Out at Thames mouth sayled he. + And days he scant had sayled three, + Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand, + But there he mett with a noble shipp, + And stoutely made itt stay and stand. + + Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said, + Now who thou art, and what's thy name; + And shewe me where they dwelling is: + And whither bound, and whence thou came. + My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee + With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; + I and my shipp doe both belong + To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne. + + Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt, + As thou hast sayled by daye and by night, + Of a Scottish rover on the seas; + Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight! + Then ever he sighed, and said alas! + With a grieved mind, and well away! + But over-well I knowe that wight, + I was his prisoner yesterday. + + As I was sayling uppon the sea, + A Burdeaux voyage for to fare; + To his hach-borde he clasped me, + And robd me of all my merchant ware: + And mickle debts, God wot, I owe, + And every man will have his owne; + And I am nowe to London bounde, + Of our gracious king to beg a boone. + + That shall not need, Lord Howard sais; + Lett me but once that robber see, + For every penny tane thee froe + It shall be doubled shillings three. + Nowe God forefend, the merchant said, + That you should seek soe far amisse! + God keepe you out of that traitors hands! + Full litle ye wott what a man hee is. + + Hee is brasse within, and steele without, + With beames on his topcastle stronge; + And eighteen pieces of ordinance + He carries on each side along: + And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight, + St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide; + His pinnace beareth ninescore men, + And fifteen canons on each side. + + Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one; + I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall; + He wold overcome them everye one, + If once his beames they doe downe fall. + This is cold comfort, sais my lord, + To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: + Yet He bring him and his ship to shore, + Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee. + + + Then a noble gunner you must have, + And he must aim well with his ee, + And sinke his pinnace into the sea, + Or else hee never orecome will bee: + And if you chance his shipp to borde, + This counsel I must give withall, + Let no man to his topcastle goe + To strive to let his beams downe fall. + + + And seven pieces of ordinance, + I pray your honour lend to mee, + On each side of my shipp along, + And I will lead you on the sea. + A glasse He sett, that may be seene + Whether you sail by day or night; + And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke + You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton knight. + + + THE SECOND PART + + + The merchant sett my lorde a glasse + Soe well apparent in his sight, + And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke, + He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight. + His hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold, + Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee: + Nowe by my faith, Lord Howarde sais, + This is a gallant sight to see. + + Take in your ancyents, standards eke, + So close that no man may them see; + And put me forth a white willowe wand, + As merchants use to sayle the sea. + But they stirred neither top, nor mast; + Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by. + What English churles are yonder, he sayd, + That can soe little curtesye? + + Now by the roode, three yeares and more + I have beene admirall over the sea; + And never an English nor Portingall + Without my leave can passe this way. + Then called he forth his stout pinnace; + "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee: + I sweare by the masse, yon English churles + Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree." + + With that the pinnace itt shot off, + Full well Lord Howard might it ken; + For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast, + And killed fourteen of his men. + Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord, + Looke that thy word be true, thou said; + For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang, + If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread. + + Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold; + His ordinance he laid right lowe; + He put in chaine full nine yardes long, + With other great shott lesse, and moe; + And he lette goe his great gunnes shott: + Soe well he settled itt with his ee, + The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe, + He see his pinnace sunke in the sea. + + And when he saw his pinnace sunke, + Lord, how his heart with rage did swell! + "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon; + Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell." + When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose, + Within his heart he was full faine: + "Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes, + Sound all your trumpetts out amaine." + + Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais, + Weale howsoever this geere will sway; + Itt is my Lord Admirall of England, + Is come to seeke mee on the sea. + Simon had a sonne, who shott right well, + That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare; + In att his decke he gave a shott, + Killed threescore of his men of warre. + + Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott + Came bravely on the other side, + Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree, + And killed fourscore men beside. + Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed, + What may a man now thinke, or say? + Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee, + He was my prisoner yesterday. + + Come hither to me, thou Gordon good, + That aye wast readye att my call: + I will give thee three hundred markes, + If thou wilt let my beames downe fall. + Lord Howard hee then calld in haste, + "Horseley see thou be true in stead; + For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang, + If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread." + + Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree, + He swarved it with might and maine; + But Horseley with a bearing arrowe, + Stroke the Gordon through the braine; + And he fell unto the haches again, + And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed: + Then word went through Sir Andrews men, + How that the Gordon hee was dead. + + Come hither to mee, James Hambilton, + Thou art my only sisters sonne, + If thou wilt let my beames downe fall + Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne. + With that he swarved the maine-mast tree, + He swarved it with nimble art; + But Horseley with a broad arròwe + Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart: + + And downe he fell upon the deck, + That with his blood did streame amaine: + Then every Scott cryed, Well-away! + Alas! a comelye youth is slaine. + All woe begone was Sir Andrew then, + With griefe and rage his heart did swell: + "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe, + For I will to the topcastle mysell." + + "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe; + That gilded is with gold soe cleare: + God be with my brother John of Barton! + Against the Portingalls hee it ware; + And when he had on this armour of proofe, + He was a gallant sight to see: + Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, + My deere brother, could cope with thee." + + Come hither Horseley, sayes my lord, + And looke your shaft that itt goe right, + Shoot a good shoote in time of need, + And for it thou shalt be made a knight. + Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then, + Your honour shall see, with might and maine; + But if I were hanged at your maine-mast, + I have now left but arrowes twaine. + + Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree, + With right good will he swarved then: + Upon his breast did Horseley hitt, + But the arrow bounded back agen. + Then Horseley spyed a privye place + With a perfect eye in a secrette part; + Under the spole of his right arme + He smote Sir Andrew to the heart. + + "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes, + "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine; + He but lye downe and bleede a while, + And then He rise and fight againe. + Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes, + "And never flinch before the foe; + And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse + Until you heare my whistle blowe." + + They never heard his whistle blow-- + Which made their hearts waxe sore adread: + Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord, + For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead. + They boarded then his noble shipp, + They boarded it with might and maine; + Eighteen score Scots alive they found, + The rest were either maimed or slaine. + + Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand, + And off he smote Sir Andrewes head, + "I must have left England many a daye, + If thou wert alive as thou art dead." + He caused his body to be cast + Over the hatchboard into the sea, + And about his middle three hundred crownes: + "Wherever thou land this will bury thee." + + Thus from the warres Lord Howard came, + And backe he sayled ore the maine, + With mickle joy and triumphing + Into Thames mouth he came againe. + Lord Howard then a letter wrote, + And sealed it with scale and ring; + "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace, + As never did subject to a king: + + "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee; + A braver shipp was never none: + Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr, + Before in England was but one." + King Henryes grace with royall cheere + Welcomed the noble Howard home, + And where, said he, is this rover stout, + That I myselfe may give the doome? + + "The rover, he is safe, my liege, + Full many a fadom in the sea; + If he were alive as he is dead, + I must have left England many a day: + And your grace may thank four men i' the ship + For the victory wee have wonne, + These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt, + And Peter Simon, and his sonne." + + To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd, + In lieu of what was from thee tane, + A noble a day now thou shalt have, + Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne. + And Horseley thou shalt be a knight, + And lands and livings shalt have store; + Howard shall be erle Surrye hight, + As Howards erst have beene before. + + Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old, + I will maintaine thee and thy sonne: + And the men shall have five hundred markes + For the good service they have done. + Then in came the queene with ladyes fair + To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight: + They weend that hee were brought on shore, + And thought to have seen a gallant sight. + + But when they see his deadlye face, + And eyes soe hollow in his head, + I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes, + This man were alive as hee is dead: + Yett for the manfull part hee playd, + Which fought soe well with heart and hand, + His men shall have twelvepence a day, + Till they come to my brother kings high land. + + + + +MAY COLLIN + + + May Collin ... + ... was her father's heir, + And she fell in love with a false priest, + And she rued it ever mair. + + He followd her butt, he followd her benn, + He followd her through the hall, + Till she had neither tongue nor teeth + Nor lips to say him naw. + + "We'll take the steed out where he is, + The gold where eer it be, + And we'll away to some unco land, + And married we shall be." + + They had not riden a mile, a mile, + A mile but barely three, + Till they came to a rank river, + Was raging like the sea. + + "Light off, light off now, May Collin, + It's here that you must die; + Here I have drownd seven king's daughters, + The eight now you must be. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your gown that's of the green; + For it's oer good and oer costly + To rot in the sea-stream. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your coat that's of the black; + For it's oer good and oer costly + To rot in the sea-wreck. + + "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, + Your stays that are well laced; + For thei'r oer good and costly + In the sea's ground to waste. + + "Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,] + Your sark that's of the holland; + For [it's oer good and oer costly] + To rot in the sea-bottom." + + "Turn you about now, falsh Mess John, + To the green leaf of the tree; + It does not fit a mansworn man + A naked woman to see." + + He turnd him quickly round about, + To the green leaf of the tree; + She took him hastly in her arms + And flung him in the sea. + + "Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John, + My mallasin go with thee! + You thought to drown me naked and bare, + But take your cloaths with thee, + And if there be seven king's daughters there + Bear you them company" + + She lap on her milk steed + And fast she bent the way, + And she was at her father's yate + Three long hours or day. + + Up and speaks the wylie parrot, + So wylily and slee: + "Where is the man now, May Collin, + That gaed away wie thee?" + + "Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot, + And tell no tales of me, + And where I gave a pickle befor + It's now I'll give you three." + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN + + +PART THE FIRST + + + Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, + He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; + And many a gallant brave suiter had shee, + For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee. + + And though shee was of favour most faire, + Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre, + Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, + Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee. + + Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say, + Good father, and mother, let me goe away + To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee. + This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee. + + Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright, + All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night + From father and mother alone parted shee; + Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee. + + Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow; + Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe: + With teares shee lamented her hard destinie, + So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee. + + Shee kept on her journey untill it was day, + And went unto Rumford along the hye way; + Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee; + Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee. + + Shee had not beene there a month to an end, + But master and mistress and all was her friend: + And every brave gallant, that once did her see, + Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee. + + Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, + And in their songs daylye her love was extold; + Her beawtye was blazed in every degree; + Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee. + + The young men of Rumford in her had their joy; + Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; + And at her commandment still wold they bee; + Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee. + + Foure suitors att once unto her did goe; + They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe; + I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee. + Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee. + + The first of them was a gallant young knight, + And he came unto her disguisde in the night; + The second a gentleman of good degree, + Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee. + + A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small, + He was the third suiter, and proper withall: + Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, + Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee. + + And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight, + Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight; + My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle, + That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee. + + The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee, + As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee: + My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee; + And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee. + + Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say, + Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay; + My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee, + And I will for ever love pretty Bessee. + + Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say, + My father and mother I meane to obey; + First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee, + And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee. + + To every one this answer shee made, + Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd, + This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; But where dwells thy father, +my prettye Besse? + + My father, shee said, is soone to be seene: + The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene, + That daylye sits begging for charitie, + He is the good father of pretty Bessee. + + His markes and his tokens are knowen very well; + He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell: + A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee, + Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee. + + Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee: + Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee: + I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree, + And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee! + + Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, + I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse, + And bewtye is bewtye in every degree; + Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee. + + With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe. + Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe; + A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, + Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee. + + But soone after this, by breake of the day, + The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away. + The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee, + Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee. + + As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene, + Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene; + And as the knight lighted most courteouslìe, + They all fought against him for pretty Bessee. + + But rescew came speedilye over the plaine, + Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine. + This fray being ended, then straitway he see + His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee. + + Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore, + Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore: + Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, + Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle. + + And then, if my gold may better her birthe, + And equall the gold that you lay on the earth, + Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see + The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee. + + But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne, + The gold that you drop shall all be your owne. + With that they replyed, Contented bee wee. + Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee. + + With that an angell he cast on the ground, + And dropped in angels full three thousand pound; + And oftentime itt was proved most plaine, + For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne: + + Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt, + With gold it was covered every whitt. + The gentlemen then having dropt all their store, + Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more. + + Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright. + Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight; + And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe + A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne. + + The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene, + Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene: + And all those, that were her suitors before, + Their fleshe for very anger they tore. + + Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight, + And then made a ladye in others despite: + A fairer ladye there never was seene, + Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene. + + But of their sumptuous marriage and feast, + What brave lords and knights thither were prest, + The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight + With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight. + + +PART THE SECOND + + + Off a blind beggars daughter most bright, + That late was betrothed unto a younge knight; + All the discourse therof you did see; + But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee. + + Within a gorgeous palace most brave, + Adorned with all the cost they cold have, + This wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe, + And all for the credit of pretty Bessee. + + All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete + Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; + Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, + Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee. + + This marriage through England was spread by report, + Soe that a great number therto did resort + Of nobles and gentles in every degree; + And all for the fame of prettye Bessee. + + To church then went this gallant younge knight; + His bride followed after, an angell most bright, + With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene + As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene. + + This marryage being solempnized then, + With musicke performed by the skilfullest men, + The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, + Each one admiring the beautiful bryde. + + Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, + To talke, and to reason a number begunn: + They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, + And what with his daughter he gave to the knight. + + Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee, + This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see." + My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, + He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. + + "The prayse of a woman in question to bringe + Before her own face, were a flattering thinge; + But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they, + "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye." + + They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, + But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; + A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee, + And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee. + + He had a daintye lute under his arme, + He touched the strings, which made such a charme, + Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee, + Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee. + + With that his lute he twanged straightway, + And thereon begann most sweetlye to play; + And after that lessons were playd two or three, + He strayn'd out this song most delicatelìe. + + "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, + Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene: + A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, + And many one called her pretty Bessee. + + "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land, + But begged for a penny all day with his hand; + And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three, + And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee. + + "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine, + Her father is ready, with might and with maine, + To proove shee is come of noble degree: + Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee." + + With that the lords and the companye round + With harty laughter were readye to swound; + Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see, + The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee. + + On this the bride all blushing did rise, + The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes, + O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee, + That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee. + + If this be thy father, the nobles did say, + Well may he be proud of this happy day; + Yett by his countenance well may wee see, + His birth and his fortune did never agree: + + And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray, + (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say) + Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee; + For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee. + + "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, + One song more to sing, and then I have done; + And if that itt may not winn good report, + Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport. + + "Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee; + Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, + Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, + Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race. + + "When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose, + Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose; + A leader of courage undaunted was hee, + And oft-times he made their enemyes flee. + + "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine + The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine; + Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, + Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee! + + "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde, + His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side, + Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight! + A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight. + + "Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye, + Till evening drewe on of the following daye, + When by a yong ladye discovered was hee; + And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee! + + "A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte + To search for her father, who fell in the fight, + And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye, + Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye. + + "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, + While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine + At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee, + And made him glad father of prettye Bessee. + + "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, + We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; + Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee: + All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee. + + "And here have we lived in fortunes despite, + Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: + Full forty winters thus have I beene + A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene. + + "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song + Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong: + And thus have you learned a secrette from mee, + That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee." + + Now when the faire companye everye one, + Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne, + They all were amazed, as well they might bee, + Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee. + + With that the faire bride they all did embrace, + Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race, + Thy father likewise is of noble degree, + And thou art well worthy a lady to bee. + + Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, + A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte, + In joy and felicitie long lived hee, + All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee. + + +[Illustration: Hand dropping gold coins] + + + + + +THOMAS THE RHYMER + + + Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank, + A spying ferlies wi his eee, + And he did spy a lady gay, + Come riding down by the lang lee. + + Her steed was o the dapple grey, + And at its mane there hung bells nine; + He thought he heard that lady say, + "They gowden bells sall a' be thine." + + Her mantle was o velvet green, + And a' set round wi jewels fine; + Her hawk and hounds were at her side, + And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine. + + Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap, + For to salute this gay lady: + "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn, + And ay weel met ye save and see!" + + "I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas; + I never carried my head sae hee; + For I am but a lady gay, + Come out to hunt in my follee. + + "Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas, + Ye mauna miss my fair bodee; + Then ye may een gang hame and tell + That ye've lain wi a gay ladee." + + "O gin I loe a lady fair, + Nae ill tales o her wad I tell, + And it's wi thee I fain wad gae, + Tho it were een to heavn or hell." + + "Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said, + "Then harp and carp alang wi me; + But it will be seven years and a day + Till ye win back to yere ain countrie." + + The lady rade, True Thomas ran, + Until they cam to a water wan; + O it was night, and nae delight, + And Thomas wade aboon the knee. + + It was dark night, and nae starn-light, + And on they waded lang days three, + And they heard the roaring o a flood, + And Thomas a waefou man was he. + + Then they rade on, and farther on, + Untill they came to a garden green; + To pu an apple he put up his hand, + For the lack o food he was like to tyne. + + "O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried, + "And let that green flourishing be; + For it's the very fruit o hell, + Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie. + + "But look afore ye, True Thomas, + And I shall show ye ferlies three; + Yon is the gate leads to our land, + Where thou and I sae soon shall be. + + "And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas, + That lies out-owr yon lilly lee? + Weel is the man yon gate may gang, + For it leads him straight to the heavens hie. + + "But do you see yon road, Thomas, + That lies out-owr yon frosty fell? + Ill is the man yon gate may gang, + For it leads him straight to the pit o hell. + + "Now when ye come to our court, Thomas, + See that a weel-learned man ye be; + For they will ask ye, one and all, + But ye maun answer nane but me. + + "And when nae answer they obtain, + Then will they come and question me, + And I will answer them again + That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree. + + + * * * * * + + "Ilka seven years, Thomas, + We pay our teindings unto hell, + And ye're sae leesome and sae strang + That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell." + + + + +YOUNG BEICHAN + + + In London city was Bicham born, + He longd strange countries for to see, + But he was taen by a savage Moor, + Who handld him right cruely. + + For thro his shoulder he put a bore, + An thro the bore has pitten a tree, + An he's gard him draw the carts o wine, + Where horse and oxen had wont to be. + + He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep, + Where he coud neither hear nor see; + He's shut him up in a prison strong, + An he's handld him right cruely. + + O this Moor he had but ae daughter, + I wot her name was Shusy Pye; + She's doen her to the prison-house, + And she's calld Young Bicham one word + + "O hae ye ony lands or rents, + Or citys in your ain country, + Coud free you out of prison strong, + An coud mantain a lady free?" + + "O London city is my own, + An other citys twa or three, + Coud loose me out o prison strong, + An coud mantain a lady free." + + O she has bribed her father's men + Wi meikle goud and white money, + She's gotten the key o the prison doors, + An she has set Young Bicham free. + + She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread, + But an a flask o Spanish wine, + An she bad him mind on the ladie's love + That sae kindly freed him out o pine. + + "Go set your foot on good ship-board, + An haste you back to your ain country, + An before that seven years has an end, + Come back again, love, and marry me." + + It was long or seven years had an end + She longd fu sair her love to see; + She's set her foot on good ship-board, + And turnd her back on her ain country. + + She's saild up, so has she doun, + Till she came to the other side; + She's landed at Young Bicham's gates, + An I hop this day she sal be his bride. + + "Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she, + "Or is that noble prince within?" + "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride, + An monny a lord and lady wi him." + + "O has he taen a bonny bride, + An has he clean forgotten me!" + An sighing said that gay lady, + I wish I were in my ain country! + + But she's pitten her han in her pocket, + An gin the porter guineas three; + Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter, + An bid the bridegroom speak to me. + + O whan the porter came up the stair, + He's fa'n low down upon his knee: + "Won up, won up, ye proud porter, + An what makes a' this courtesy?" + + "O I've been porter at your gates + This mair nor seven years an three, + But there is a lady at them now + The like of whom I never did see. + + "For on every finger she has a ring, + An on the mid-finger she has three, + An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow + As woud buy an earldome o lan to me." + + Then up it started Young Bicham, + An sware so loud by Our Lady, + "It can be nane but Shusy Pye, + That has come oer the sea to me." + + O quickly ran he down the stair, + O fifteen steps he has made but three; + He's tane his bonny love in his arms, + An a wot he kissd her tenderly. + + "O hae you tane a bonny bride? + An hae you quite forsaken me? + An hae ye quite forgotten her + That gae you life an liberty? " + She's lookit oer her left shoulder + To hide the tears stood in her ee; + "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says, + "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee." + + "Take back your daughter, madam," he says, + "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi; + For I maun marry my first true love, + That's done and suffered so much for me." + + He's take his bonny love by the ban, + And led her to yon fountain stane; + He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye, + An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane. + + + + +[Illustration] + +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY + + + The fifteenth day of July, + With glistering spear and shield, + A famous fight in Flanders + Was foughten in the field: + The most couragious officers + Were English captains three; + But the bravest man in battel + Was brave Lord Willoughbèy. + + The next was Captain Norris, + A valiant man was hee: + The other Captain Turner, + From field would never flee. + With fifteen hundred fighting men, + Alas! there were no more, + They fought with fourteen thousand then, + Upon the bloody shore. + + Stand to it, noble pikemen, + And look you round about: + And shoot you right, you bow-men, + And we will keep them out: + You musquet and callìver men, + Do you prove true to me, + I'le be the formost man in fight, + Says brave Lord Willoughbèy. + + And then the bloody enemy + They fiercely did assail, + And fought it out most furiously, + Not doubting to prevail: + The wounded men on both sides fell + Most pitious for to see, + Yet nothing could the courage quell + Of brave Lord Willoughbèy. + + For seven hours to all mens view + This fight endured sore, + Until our men so feeble grew + That they could fight no more; + And then upon dead horses + Full savourly they eat, + And drank the puddle water, + They could no better get. + + When they had fed so freely, + They kneeled on the ground, + And praised God devoutly + For the favour they had found; + And beating up their colours, + The fight they did renew, + And turning tow'rds the Spaniard, + A thousand more they slew. + + The sharp steel-pointed arrows, + And bullets thick did fly, + Then did our valiant soldiers + Charge on most furiously; + Which made the Spaniards waver, + They thought it best to flee, + They fear'd the stout behaviour + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + + Then quoth the Spanish general, + Come let us march away, + I fear we shall be spoiled all + If here we longer stay; + For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey + With courage fierce and fell, + He will not give one inch of way + For all the devils in hell. + + And then the fearful enemy + Was quickly put to flight, + Our men persued couragiously, + And caught their forces quite; + But at last they gave a shout, + Which ecchoed through the sky, + God, and St. George for England! + The conquerors did cry. + + This news was brought to England + With all the speed might be, + And soon our gracious queen was told + Of this same victory. + O this is brave Lord Willoughbey, + My love that ever won, + Of all the lords of honour + 'Tis he great deeds hath done. + + To the souldiers that were maimed, + And wounded in the fray, + The queen allowed a pension + Of fifteen pence a day; + And from all costs and charges + She quit and set them free: + And this she did all for the sake + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + + Then courage, noble Englishmen, + And never be dismaid; + If that we be but one to ten, + We will not be afraid + To fight with foraign enemies, + And set our nation free. + And thus I end the bloody bout + Of brave Lord Willoughbey. + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE + + + Will you hear a Spanish lady, + How shed wooed an English man? + Garments gay and rich as may be + Decked with jewels she had on. + Of a comely countenance and grace was she, + And by birth and parentage of high degree. + + As his prisoner there he kept her, + In his hands her life did lye! + Cupid's bands did tye them faster + By the liking of an eye. + In his courteous company was all her joy, + To favour him in any thing she was not coy. + + But at last there came commandment + For to set the ladies free, + With their jewels still adorned, + None to do them injury. + Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me; + O let me still sustain this kind captivity! + + Gallant captain, shew some pity + To a ladye in distresse; + Leave me not within this city, + For to dye in heavinesse: + Thou hast this present day my body free, + But my heart in prison still remains with thee. + + "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me, + Whom thou knowest thy country's foe? + Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee: + Serpents lie where flowers grow." + All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight, + God grant the same upon my head may fully light. + Blessed be the time and season, + That you came on Spanish ground; + If our foes you may be termed, + Gentle foes we have you found: + With our city, you have won our hearts eche one, + Then to your country bear away, that is your owne. + + "Rest you still, most gallant lady; + Rest you still, and weep no more; + Of fair lovers there is plenty, + Spain doth yield a wonderous store." + Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, + But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind. + + Leave me not unto a Spaniard, + You alone enjoy my heart: + I am lovely, young, and tender, + Love is likewise my desert: + Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; + The wife of every Englishman is counted blest. + "It wold be a shame, fair lady, + For to bear a woman hence; + English soldiers never carry + Any such without offence." + I'll quickly change myself, if it be so, + And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go. + + "I have neither gold nor silver + To maintain thee in this case, + And to travel is great charges, + As you know in every place." + My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own, + And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown. + + "On the seas are many dangers, + Many storms do there arise, + Which wil be to ladies dreadful, + And force tears from watery eyes." + Well in troth I shall endure extremity, + For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee. + + "Courteous ladye, leave this fancy, + Here comes all that breeds the strife; + I in England have already + A sweet woman to my wife: + I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, + Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain." + + O how happy is that woman + That enjoys so true a friend! + Many happy days God send her; + Of my suit I make an end: + On my knees I pardon crave for my offence, + Which did from love and true affection first commence. + + Commend me to thy lovely lady, + Bear to her this chain of gold; + And these bracelets for a token; + Grieving that I was so bold: + All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, + For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me. + + I will spend my days in prayer, + Love and all her laws defye; + In a nunnery will I shroud mee + Far from any companye: + But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, + To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss. + + Thus farewell, most gallant captain! + Farewell too my heart's content! + Count not Spanish ladies wanton, + Though to thee my love was bent: + Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee! + "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie." + + + + +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY + +[Illustration] + + + It was a friar of orders gray + Walkt forth to tell his beades; + And he met with a lady faire, + Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. + + Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, + I pray thee tell to me, + If ever at yon holy shrine + My true love thou didst see. + + And how should I know your true love + From many another one? + O by his cockle hat, and staff, + And by his sandal shoone. + + But chiefly by his face and mien, + That were so fair to view; + His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, + And eyne of lovely blue. + + O lady, he is dead and gone! + Lady, he's dead and gone! + And at his head a green grass turfe, + And at his heels a stone. + + Within these holy cloysters long + He languisht, and he dyed, + Lamenting of a ladyes love, + And 'playning of her pride. + + Here bore him barefac'd on his bier + Six proper youths and tall, + And many a tear bedew'd his grave + Within yon kirk-yard wall. + + And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! + And art thou dead and gone! + And didst thou die for love of me! + Break, cruel heart of stone! + + O weep not, lady, weep not soe; + Some ghostly comfort seek: + Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, + Ne teares bedew thy cheek. + + O do not, do not, holy friar, + My sorrow now reprove; + For I have lost the sweetest youth, + That e'er wan ladyes love. + + And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, + I'll evermore weep and sigh; + For thee I only wisht to live, + For thee I wish to dye. + + Weep no more, lady, weep no more, + Thy sorrowe is in vaine: + For violets pluckt the sweetest showers + Will ne'er make grow againe. + + Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, + Why then should sorrow last? + Since grief but aggravates thy losse, + Grieve not for what is past. + + O say not soe, thou holy friar; + I pray thee, say not soe: + For since my true-love dyed for mee, + 'Tis meet my tears should flow. + + And will he ne'er come again? + Will he ne'er come again? + Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, + For ever to remain. + + His cheek was redder than the rose; + The comliest youth was he! + But he is dead and laid in his grave: + Alas, and woe is me! + + Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, + Men were deceivers ever: + One foot on sea and one on land, + To one thing constant never. + + Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, + And left thee sad and heavy; + For young men ever were fickle found, + Since summer trees were leafy. + + Now say not so, thou holy friar, + I pray thee say not soe; + My love he had the truest heart: + O he was ever true! + + And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, + And didst thou dye for mee? + Then farewell home; for ever-more + A pilgrim I will bee. + + But first upon my true-loves grave + My weary limbs I'll lay, + And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf, + That wraps his breathless clay. + + Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile + Beneath this cloyster wall: + See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, + And drizzly rain doth fall. + + O stay me not, thou holy friar; + O stay me not, I pray; + No drizzly rain that falls on me, + Can wash my fault away. + + Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, + And dry those pearly tears; + For see beneath this gown of gray + Thy own true-love appears. + + Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, + These holy weeds I sought; + And here amid these lonely walls + To end my days I thought. + + But haply for my year of grace + Is not yet past away, + Might I still hope to win thy love, + No longer would I stay. + + Now farewell grief, and welcome joy + Once more unto my heart; + For since I have found thee, lovely youth, + We never more will part. + + + + +CLERK COLVILL + +[Illustration] + + + Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame + Were walking in the garden green; + The belt around her stately waist + Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen. + + "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill, + Or it will cost ye muckle strife, + Ride never by the wells of Slane, + If ye wad live and brook your life." + + "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, + Now speak nae mair of that to me; + Did I neer see a fair woman, + But I wad sin with her body?" + + He's taen leave o his gay lady, + Nought minding what his lady said, + And he's rode by the wells of Slane, + Where washing was a bonny maid. + + "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, + That wash sae clean your sark of silk;" + "And weel fa you, fair gentleman, + Your body whiter than the milk." + + * * * * * + + Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill, + "O my head it pains me sair;" + "Then take, then take," the maiden said, + "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare." + + Then she's gied him a little bane-knife, + And frae her sark he cut a share; + She's ty'd it round his whey-white face, + But ay his head it aked mair. + + Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville, + "O sairer, sairer akes my head;" + "And sairer, sairer ever will," + The maiden crys, "till you be dead." + + Out then he drew his shining blade, + Thinking to stick her where she stood, + But she was vanished to a fish, + And swam far off, a fair mermaid. + + "O mother, mother, braid my hair; + My lusty lady, make my bed; + O brother, take my sword and spear, + For I have seen the false mermaid." + + +[Illustration] + + + + +SIR ALDINGAR + + + Our king he kept a false stewàrde, + Sir Aldingar they him call; + A falser steward than he was one, + Servde not in bower nor hall. + + He wolde have layne by our comelye queene, + Her deere worshippe to betraye: + Our queene she was a good womàn, + And evermore said him naye. + + Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind, + With her hee was never content, + Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, + In a fyer to have her brent. + + There came a lazar to the kings gate, + A lazar both blinde and lame: + He tooke the lazar upon his backe, + Him on the queenes bed has layne. + + "Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest, + Looke thou goe not hence away; + He make thee a whole man and a sound + In two howers of the day." + + Then went him forth Sir Aldingar, + And hyed him to our king: + "If I might have grace, as I have space, + Sad tydings I could bring." + + Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar, + Saye on the soothe to mee. + "Our queene hath chosen a new new love, + And shee will have none of thee. + + "If shee had chosen a right good knight, + The lesse had beene her shame; + But she hath chose her a lazar man, + A lazar both blinde and lame." + + If this be true, thou Aldingar, + The tyding thou tellest to me, + Then will I make thee a rich rich knight, + Rich both of golde and fee. + + But if it be false, Sir Aldingar, + As God nowe grant it bee! + Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood, + Shall hang on the gallows tree. + + He brought our king to the queenes chambèr, + And opend to him the dore. + A lodlye love, King Harry says, + For our queene dame Elinore! + + If thou were a man, as thou art none, + Here on my sword thoust dye; + But a payre of new gallowes shall be built, + And there shalt thou hang on hye. + + Forth then hyed our king, I wysse, + And an angry man was hee; + And soone he found Queen Elinore, + That bride so bright of blee. + + Now God you save, our queene, madame, + And Christ you save and see; + Heere you have chosen a newe newe love, + And you will have none of mee. + + If you had chosen a right good knight, + The lesse had been your shame; + But you have chose you a lazar man, + A lazar both blinde and lame. + + Therfore a fyer there shalt be built, + And brent all shalt thou bee.-- + Now out alacke! said our comly queene, + Sir Aldingar's false to mee. + + Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene, + My heart with griefe will brast. + I had thought swevens had never been true; + I have proved them true at last. + + I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve, + In my bed whereas I laye. + I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast + Had carryed my crowne awaye; + + My gorgett and my kirtle of golde, + And all my faire head-geere: + And he wold worrye me with his tush + And to his nest y-beare: + + Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke, + A merlin him they call, + Which untill the grounde did strike the grype, + That dead he downe did fall. + + Giffe I were a man, as now I am none, + A battell wold I prove, + To fight with that traitor Aldingar, + Att him I cast my glove. + + But seeing Ime able noe battell to make, + My liege, grant me a knight + To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar, + To maintaine me in my right. + + "Now forty dayes I will give thee + To seeke thee a knight therein: + If thou find not a knight in forty dayes + Thy bodye it must brenn." + + Then shee sent east, and shee sent west, + By north and south bedeene: + But never a champion colde she find, + Wolde fight with that knight soe keene. + + Now twenty dayes were spent and gone, + Noe helpe there might be had; + Many a teare shed our comelye queene + And aye her hart was sad. + + Then came one of the queenes damsèlles, + And knelt upon her knee, + "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, + I trust yet helpe may be: + + And here I will make mine avowe, + And with the same me binde; + That never will I return to thee, + Till I some helpe may finde." + + Then forth she rode on a faire palfràye + Oer hill and dale about: + But never a champion colde she finde, + Wolde fighte with that knight so stout. + + And nowe the daye drewe on a pace, + When our good queene must dye; + All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle, + When she found no helpe was nye. + + All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle, + And the salt teares fell from her eye: + When lo! as she rode by a rivers side, + She met with a tinye boye. + + A tinye boye she mette, God wot, + All clad in mantle of golde; + He seemed noe more in mans likenèsse, + Then a childe of four yeere old. + + Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd, + And what doth cause you moane? + The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, + But fast she pricked on. + + Yet turne againe, thou faire damsèlle + And greete thy queene from mee: + When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest, + Nowe helpe enoughe may bee. + + Bid her remember what she dreamt + In her bedd, wheras shee laye; + How when the grype and grimly beast + Wolde have carried her crowne awaye, + + Even then there came the little gray hawke, + And saved her from his clawes: + Then bidd the queene be merry at hart, + For heaven will fende her cause. + + Back then rode that faire damsèlle, + And her hart it lept for glee: + And when she told her gracious dame + A gladd woman then was shee: + + But when the appointed day was come, + No helpe appeared nye: + Then woeful, woeful was her hart, + And the teares stood in her eye. + + And nowe a fyer was built of wood; + And a stake was made of tree; + And now Queene Elinor forth was led, + A sorrowful sight to see. + + Three times the herault he waved his hand, + And three times spake on hye: + Giff any good knight will fende this dame, + Come forth, or shee must dye. + + No knight stood forth, no knight there came, + No helpe appeared nye: + And now the fyer was lighted up, + Queen Elinor she must dye. + + And now the fyer was lighted up, + As hot as hot might bee; + When riding upon a little white steed, + The tinye boy they see. + + "Away with that stake, away with those brands, + And loose our comelye queene: + I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar, + And prove him a traitor keene." + + Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar, + But when he saw the chylde, + He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, + And weened he had been beguylde. + + "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar, + And eyther fighte or flee; + I trust that I shall avenge the wronge, + Thoughe I am so small to see." + + The boy pulld forth a well good sworde + So gilt it dazzled the ee; + The first stroke stricken at Aldingar, + Smote off his leggs by the knee. + + "Stand up, stand up, thou false traitòr, + And fight upon thy feete, + For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st, + Of height wee shall be meete." + + A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr, + While I am a man alive. + A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr, + Me for to houzle and shrive. + + I wolde have laine by our comlie queene, + Bot shee wolde never consent; + Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge + In a fyer to have her brent. + + There came a lazar to the kings gates, + A lazar both blind and lame: + I tooke the lazar upon my backe, + And on her bedd had him layne. + + Then ranne I to our comlye king, + These tidings sore to tell. + But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar, + Falsing never doth well. + + Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, + The short time I must live. + "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar, + As freely I forgive." + + Here take thy queene, our king Harryè, + And love her as thy life, + For never had a king in Christentye. + A truer and fairer wife. + + King Henrye ran to claspe his queene, + And loosed her full sone: + Then turned to look for the tinye boye; + --The boye was vanisht and gone. + + But first he had touched the lazar man, + And stroakt him with his hand: + The lazar under the gallowes tree + All whole and sounde did stand. + + The lazar under the gallowes tree + Was comelye, straight and tall; + King Henrye made him his head stewàrde + To wayte withinn his hall. + +[Illustration] + + + + +EDOM O' GORDON + +[Illustration] + + + It fell about the Martinmas, + Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld, + Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, + We maun draw till a hauld. + + And quhat a hauld sall we draw till, + My mirry men and me? + We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes, + To see that fair ladie. + + The lady stude on her castle wa', + Beheld baith dale and down: + There she was ware of a host of men + Cum ryding towards the toun. + + O see ze nat, my mirry men a'? + O see za nat quhat I see? + Methinks I see a host of men: + I marveil quha they be. + + She weend it had been hir luvely lord, + As he cam ryding hame; + It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon, + Quha reckt nae sin nor shame. + + She had nae sooner buskit hirsel, + And putten on hir goun, + But Edom o' Gordon and his men + Were round about the toun. + + They had nae sooner supper sett, + Nae sooner said the grace, + But Edom o' Gordon and his men + Were light about the place. + + The lady ran up to hir towir head, + Sa fast as she could hie, + To see if by hir fair speechès + She could wi' him agree. + + But quhan he see this lady saif, + And hir yates all locked fast, + He fell into a rage of wrath, + And his look was all aghast. + + Cum doun to me, ze lady gay, + Cum doun, cum doun to me: + This night sall ye lig within mine armes, + To-morrow my bride sall be. + + I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordòn, + I winnae cum doun to thee; + I winna forsake my ain dear lord, + That is sae far frae me. + + Give owre zour house, ze lady fair, + Give owre zour house to me, + Or I sall brenn yoursel therein, + Bot and zour babies three. + + I winnae give owre, ze false Gordòn, + To nae sik traitor as zee; + And if ze brenn my ain dear babes, + My lord sall make ze drie. + + But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man, + And charge ze weil my gun: + For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, + My babes we been undone. + + She stude upon hir castle wa', + And let twa bullets flee: + She mist that bluidy butchers hart, + And only raz'd his knee. + + Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordòn, + All wood wi' dule and ire: + Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid, + As ze bren in the fire. + + Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man, + I paid ze weil zour fee; + Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, + Lets in the reek to me? + + And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man, + I paid ze weil zour hire; + Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, + To me lets in the fire? + + Ze paid me weil my hire, lady; + Ze paid me weil my fee: + But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man, + Maun either doe or die. + + O than bespaik hir little son, + Sate on the nurses knee: + Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house, + For the reek it smithers me. + + I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, + Say wald I a' my fee, + For ane blast o' the western wind, + To blaw the reek frae thee. + + O then bespaik hir dochter dear, + She was baith jimp and sma; + O row me in a pair o' sheits, + And tow me owre the wa. + + They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits, + And towd hir owre the wa: + But on the point of Gordons spear + She gat a deadly fa. + + O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth, + And cherry were her cheiks, + And clear clear was hir zellow hair, + Whereon the reid bluid dreips. + + Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre, + O gin hir face was wan! + He sayd, Ze are the first that eir + I wisht alive again. + + He turnd hir owre and owre againe, + O gin hir skin was whyte! + I might ha spared that bonnie face + To hae been sum mans delyte. + + Busk and boun, my merry men a', + For ill dooms I doe guess; + I cannae luik in that bonnie face, + As it lyes on the grass. + + Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir, + Then freits wil follow thame: + Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon + Was daunted by a dame. + + But quhen the ladye see the fire + Cum flaming owre hir head, + She wept and kist her children twain, + Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead. + + The Gordon then his bougill blew, + And said, Awa', awa'; + This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame, + I hauld it time to ga'. + + O then bespyed hir ain dear lord, + As hee cam owr the lee; + He sied his castle all in blaze Sa far as he could see. + + Then sair, O sair his mind misgave, + And all his hart was wae; + Put on, put on, my wighty men, + So fast as ze can gae. + + Put on, put on, my wighty men, + Sa fast as ze can drie; + For he that is hindmost of the thrang + Sall neir get guid o' me. + + Than sum they rade, and sum they rin, + Fou fast out-owr the bent; + But eir the foremost could get up, + Baith lady and babes were brent. + + He wrang his hands, he rent his hair, + And wept in teenefu' muid: + O traitors, for this cruel deid + Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid. + + And after the Gordon he is gane, + Sa fast as he might drie. + And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid + He's wroken his dear ladie. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHEVY CHASE + +[Illustration] + + God prosper long our noble king, + Our lives and safetyes all; + A woefull hunting once there did + In Chevy-Chace befall; + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Erle Percy took his way, + The child may rue that is unborne, + The hunting of that day. + + The stout Erle of Northumberland + A vow to God did make, + His pleasure in the Scottish woods + Three summers days to take; + + The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace + To kill and beare away. + These tydings to Erle Douglas came, + In Scotland where he lay: + + Who sent Erle Percy present word, + He wold prevent his sport. + The English erle, not fearing that, + Did to the woods resort + + With fifteen hundred bow-men bold; + All chosen men of might, + Who knew full well in time of neede + To ayme their shafts arright. + + The galland greyhounds swiftly ran, + To chase the fallow deere: + On munday they began to hunt, + Ere day-light did appeare; + + And long before high noone they had + An hundred fat buckes slaine; + Then having dined, the drovyers went + To rouze the deare againe. + + The bow-men mustered on the hills, + Well able to endure; + Theire backsides all, with speciall care, + That day were guarded sure. + + The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, + The nimble deere to take, + That with their cryes the hills and dales + An eccho shrill did make. + + Lord Percy to the quarry went, + To view the slaughter'd deere; + Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised + This day to meet me heere: + + But if I thought he wold not come, + Noe longer wold I stay. + With that, a brave younge gentleman + Thus to the Erle did say: + + Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, + His men in armour bright; + Full twenty hundred Scottish speres + All marching in our sight; + + All men of pleasant Tivydale, + Fast by the river Tweede: + O cease your sports, Erle Percy said, + And take your bowes with speede: + + And now with me, my countrymen, + Your courage forth advance; + For there was never champion yett, + In Scotland nor in France, + + That ever did on horsebacke come, + But if my hap it were, + I durst encounter man for man, + With him to break a spere. + + Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, + Most like a baron bolde, + Rode foremost of his company, + Whose armour shone like gold. + + Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, + That hunt soe boldly heere, + That, without my consent, doe chase + And kill my fallow-deere. + + The first man that did answer make + Was noble Percy hee; + Who sayd, Wee list not to declare, + Nor shew whose men wee bee: + Yet wee will spend our deerest blood, + Thy cheefest harts to slay. + Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, + And thus in rage did say, + + Ere thus I will out-braved bee, + One of us two shall dye: + I know thee well, an erle thou art; + Lord Percy, soe am I. + + But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, + And great offence to kill + Any of these our guiltlesse men, + For they have done no ill. + + Let thou and I the battell trye, + And set our men aside. + Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd, + By whome this is denyed. + + Then stept a gallant squier forth, + Witherington was his name, + Who said, I wold not have it told + To Henry our king for shame, + + That ere my captaine fought on foote, + And I stood looking on. + You be two erles, sayd Witherington, + And I a squier alone: + + He doe the best that doe I may, + While I have power to stand: + While I have power to weeld my sword + He fight with hart and hand. + + Our English archers bent their bowes, + Their harts were good and trew; + Att the first flight of arrowes sent, + Full four-score Scots they slew. + + Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, + As Chieftain stout and good. + As valiant Captain, all unmov'd + The shock he firmly stood. + + His host he parted had in three, + As Leader ware and try'd, + And soon his spearmen on their foes + Bare down on every side. + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Douglas bade on the bent + Two captaines moved with mickle might + Their speres to shivers went. + + Throughout the English archery + They dealt full many a wound: + But still our valiant Englishmen + All firmly kept their ground: + + And throwing strait their bows away, + They grasp'd their swords so bright: + And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, + On shields and helmets light. + + They closed full fast on every side, + Noe slackness there was found: + And many a gallant gentleman + Lay gasping on the ground. + + O Christ! it was a griefe to see; + And likewise for to heare, + The cries of men lying in their gore, + And scattered here and there. + + At last these two stout erles did meet, + Like captaines of great might: + Like lyons wood, they layd on lode, + And made a cruell fight: + + They fought untill they both did sweat, + With swords of tempered steele; + Untill the blood, like drops of rain, + They tricklin downe did feele. + + Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd + In faith I will thee bringe, + Where thou shalt high advanced bee + By James our Scottish king: + + Thy ransome I will freely give, + And this report of thee, + Thou art the most couragious knight, + That ever I did see. + + Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then, + Thy proffer I doe scorne; + I will not yeelde to any Scott, + That ever yett was borne. + + With that, there came an arrow keene + Out of an English bow, + Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, + A deepe and deadlye blow: + + Who never spake more words than these, + Fight on, my merry men all; + For why, my life is at an end; + Lord Percy sees my fall. + + Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke + The dead man by the hand; + And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life + Wold I had lost my land. + + O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed + With sorrow for thy sake; + For sure, a more redoubted knight + Mischance cold never take. + + A knight amongst the Scotts there was + Which saw Erle Douglas dye, + Who streight in wrath did vow revenge + Upon the Lord Percye: + + Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd, + Who, with a spere most bright, + Well-mounted on a gallant steed, + Ran fiercely through the fight; + + And past the English archers all, + Without all dread or feare; + And through Earl Percyes body then + He thrust his hatefull spere; + + With such a vehement force and might + He did his body gore, + The staff ran through the other side + A large cloth-yard and more. + + So thus did both these nobles dye, + Whose courage none could staine: + An English archer then perceiv'd + The noble erle was slaine; + + He had a bow bent in his hand, + Made of a trusty tree; + An arrow of a cloth-yard long + Up to the head drew hee: + + Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, + So right the shaft he sett, + The grey goose-winge that was thereon, + In his harts bloode was wette. + + This fight did last from breake of day, + Till setting of the sun; + For when they rang the evening-bell, + The battel scarce was done. + + With stout Erle Percy there was slaine + Sir John of Egerton, + Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, + Sir James that bold barròn: + + And with Sir George and stout Sir James, + Both knights of good account, + Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, + Whose prowesse did surmount. + + For Witherington needs must I wayle, + As one in doleful dumpes; + For when his leggs were smitten off, + He fought upon his stumpes. + + And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine + Sir Hugh Montgomerye, + Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld + One foote wold never flee. + + Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, + His sisters sonne was hee; + Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, + Yet saved cold not bee. + + And the Lord Maxwell in like case + Did with Erle Douglas dye: + Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, + Scarce fifty-five did flye. + + Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, + Went home but fifty-three; + The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, + Under the greene woode tree. + + Next day did many widowes come, + Their husbands to bewayle; + They washt their wounds in brinish teares, + But all wold not prevayle. + + Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore, + They bare with them away: + They kist them dead a thousand times, + Ere they were cladd in clay. + + The news was brought to Eddenborrow, + Where Scottlands king did raigne, + That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye + Was with an arrow slaine: + + O heavy newes, King James did say, + Scotland may witnesse bee, + I have not any captaine more + Of such account as hee. + + Like tydings to King Henry came, + Within as short a space, + That Percy of Northumberland + Was slaine in Chevy-Chace: + + Now God be with him, said our king, + Sith it will noe better bee; + I trust I have, within my realme, + Five hundred as good as hee: + + Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, + But I will vengeance take: + I'll be revenged on them all, + For brave Erle Percyes sake. + + This vow full well the king perform'd + After, at Humbledowne; + In one day, fifty knights were slayne, + With lords of great renowne: + + And of the rest, of small acount, + Did many thousands dye: + Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, + Made by the Erle Percy. + + God save our king, and bless this land + With plenty, joy, and peace; + And grant henceforth, that foule debate + 'Twixt noblemen may cease. + + [Illustration] + + + +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE + + [Illustration] + + When Arthur first in court began, + And was approved king, + By force of armes great victorys wanne, + And conquest home did bring, + + Then into England straight he came + With fifty good and able + Knights, that resorted unto him, + And were of his round table: + + And he had justs and turnaments, + Whereto were many prest, + Wherein some knights did far excell + And eke surmount the rest. + + But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, + Who was approved well, + He for his deeds and feats of armes + All others did excell. + + When he had rested him a while, + In play, and game, and sportt, + He said he wold goe prove himselfe + In some adventurous sort. + + He armed rode in a forrest wide, + And met a damsell faire, + Who told him of adventures great, + Whereto he gave great eare. + + Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott: + For that cause came I hither. + Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good, + And I will bring thee thither. + + Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell, + That now is of great fame: + Therefore tell me what wight thou art, + And what may be thy name. + + "My name is Lancelot du Lake." + Quoth she, it likes me than: + Here dwelles a knight who never was + Yet matcht with any man: + + Who has in prison threescore knights + And four, that he did wound; + Knights of King Arthurs court they be, + And of his table round. + + She brought him to a river side, + And also to a tree, + Whereon a copper bason hung, + And many shields to see. + + He struck soe hard, the bason broke; + And Tarquin soon he spyed: + Who drove a horse before him fast, + Whereon a knight lay tyed. + + Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett, + Bring me that horse-load hither, + And lay him downe, and let him rest; + Weel try our force together: + + For, as I understand, thou hast, + So far as thou art able, + Done great despite and shame unto + The knights of the Round Table. + + If thou be of the Table Round, + Quoth Tarquin speedilye, + Both thee and all thy fellowship + I utterly defye. + + That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho, + Defend thee by and by. + They sett their speares unto their steeds, + And eache att other flie. + + They coucht theire speares (their horses ran, + As though there had beene thunder), + And strucke them each immidst their shields, + Wherewith they broke in sunder. + + Their horsses backes brake under them, + The knights were both astound: + To avoyd their horsses they made haste + And light upon the ground. + + They tooke them to their shields full fast, + Their swords they drewe out than, + With mighty strokes most eagerlye + Each at the other ran. + + They wounded were, and bled full sore, + They both for breath did stand, + And leaning on their swords awhile, + Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand, + + And tell to me what I shall aske. + Say on, quoth Lancelot tho. + Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight + That ever I did know: + + And like a knight, that I did hate: + Soe that thou be not hee, + I will deliver all the rest, + And eke accord with thee. + + That is well said, quoth Lancelott; + But sith it must be soe, + What knight is that thou hatest thus + I pray thee to me show. + + His name is Lancelot du Lake, + He slew my brother deere; + Him I suspect of all the rest: + I would I had him here. + + Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne, + I am Lancelot du Lake, + Now knight of Arthurs Table Round; + King Hauds son of Schuwake; + + And I desire thee to do thy worst. + Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho' + One of us two shall ende our lives + Before that we do go. + + If thou be Lancelot du Lake, + Then welcome shalt thou bee: + Wherfore see thou thyself defend, + For now defye I thee. + + They buckled them together so, + Like unto wild boares rashing; + And with their swords and shields they ran + At one another slashing: + + The ground besprinkled was with blood: + Tarquin began to yield; + For he gave backe for wearinesse, + And lowe did beare his shield. + + This soone Sir Lancelot espyde, + He leapt upon him then, + He pull'd him downe upon his knee, + And rushing off his helm, + + Forthwith he strucke his necke in two, + And, when he had soe done, + From prison threescore knights and four + Delivered everye one. + + + +[Illustration] + +GIL MORRICE + + + Gil Morrice was an erles son, + His name it waxed wide; + It was nae for his great riches, + Nor zet his mickle pride; + Bot it was for a lady gay, + That livd on Carron side. + + Quhair sail I get a bonny boy, + That will win hose and shoen; + That will gae to Lord Barnards ha', + And bid his lady cum? + And ze maun rin my errand, Willie; + And ze may rin wi' pride; + Quhen other boys gae on their foot + On horse-back ze sail ride. + + O no! Oh no! my master dear! + I dare nae for my life; + I'll no gae to the bauld baròns, + For to triest furth his wife. + My bird Willie, my boy Willie; + My dear Willie, he sayd: + How can ze strive against the stream? + For I sall be obeyd. + + Bot, O my master dear! he cryd, + In grene wod ze're zour lain; + Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede, + For fear ze should be tain. + Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha', + Bid hir cum here wi speid: + If ze refuse my heigh command, + Ill gar zour body bleid. + + Gae bid hir take this gay mantel, + 'Tis a' gowd hot the hem; + Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, + And bring nane bot hir lain: + And there it is a silken sarke, + Hir ain hand sewd the sleive; + And bid hir cum to Gill Morice, + Speir nae bauld barons leave. + + Yes, I will gae zour black errand, + Though it be to zour cost; + Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd, + In it ze sail find frost. + The baron he is a man of might, + He neir could bide to taunt, + As ze will see before its nicht, + How sma' ze hae to vaunt. + + And sen I maun zour errand rin + Sae sair against my will, + I'se mak a vow and keip it trow, + It sall be done for ill. + And quhen he came to broken brigue, + He bent his bow and swam; + And quhen he came to grass growing, + Set down his feet and ran. + + And quhen he came to Barnards ha', + Would neither chap nor ca': + Bot set his bent bow to his breist, + And lichtly lap the wa'. + He wauld nae tell the man his errand, + Though he stude at the gait; + Bot straiht into the ha' he cam, + Quhair they were set at meit. + + Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! + My message winna waite; + Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod + Before that it be late. + Ze're bidden tak this gay mantèl, + Tis a' gowd bot the hem: + Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode, + Ev'n by your sel alane. + + And there it is, a silken sarke, + Your ain hand sewd the sleive; + Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice: + Speir nae bauld barons leave. + The lady stamped wi' hir foot, + And winked wi' hir ee; + Bot a' that she coud say or do, + Forbidden he wad nae bee. + + Its surely to my bow'r-womàn; + It neir could be to me. + I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; + I trow that ze be she. + Then up and spack the wylie nurse, + (The bairn upon hir knee) + If it be cum frae Gill Morice, + It's deir welcum to mee. + + Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse, + Sae loud I heird zee lee; + I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; + I trow ze be nae shee. + Then up and spack the bauld baròn, + An angry man was hee; + He's tain the table wi' his foot, + Sae has he wi' his knee; + Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish + In flinders he gard flee. + + Gae bring a robe of zour clidìng, + That hings upon the pin; + And I'll gae to the gude grene wode, + And speik wi' zour lemmàn. + O bide at hame, now Lord Barnàrd, + I warde ze bide at hame; + Neir wyte a man for violence, + That neir wate ze wi' nane. + + Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode, + He whistled and he sang: + O what mean a' the folk comìng, + My mother tarries lang. + His hair was like the threeds of gold, + Drawne frae Minerva's loome: + His lipps like roses drapping dew, + His breath was a' perfume. + + His brow was like the mountain snae + Gilt by the morning beam: + His cheeks like living roses glow: + His een like azure stream. The boy was clad in robes of grene, + Sweete as the infant spring: + And like the mavis on the bush, + He gart the vallies ring. + + The baron came to the grene wode, + Wi' mickle dule and care, + And there he first spied Gill Morice + Kameing his zellow hair: + That sweetly wavd around his face, + That face beyond compare: + He sang sae sweet it might dispel + A' rage but fell despair. + + Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morìce, + My lady loed thee weel, + The fairest part of my bodie + Is blacker than thy heel. + Zet neir the less now, Gill Morìce, + For a' thy great beautiè, + Ze's rew the day ze eir was born; + That head sall gae wi' me. + + Now he has drawn his trusty brand, + And slaited on the strae; + And thro' Gill Morice' fair body + He's gar cauld iron gae. + And he has tain Gill Morice's head + And set it on a speir; + The meanest man in a' his train + Has gotten that head to bear. + + And he has tain Gill Morice up, + Laid him across his steid, + And brocht him to his painted bowr, + And laid him on a bed. + The lady sat on castil wa', + Beheld baith dale and doun; + And there she saw Gill Morice' head + Cum trailing to the toun. + + Far better I loe that bluidy head, + Both and that zellow hair, + Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands, + As they lig here and thair. + And she has tain her Gill Morice, + And kissd baith mouth and chin: + I was once as fow of Gill Morice, + As the hip is o' the stean. + + I got ze in my father's house, + Wi' mickle sin and shame; + I brocht thee up in gude grene wode, + Under the heavy rain. + Oft have I by thy cradle sitten, + And fondly seen thee sleip; + But now I gae about thy grave, + The saut tears for to weip. + + And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, + And syne his bluidy chin: + O better I loe my Gill Morice + Than a' my kith and kin! + Away, away, ze ill womàn, + And an il deith mait ze dee: + Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son, + He'd neir bin slain for mee. + + Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard! + Obraid me not for shame! + Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart! + And put me out o' pain. + Since nothing bot Gill Morice head + Thy jelous rage could quell, + Let that saim hand now tak hir life, + That neir to thee did ill. + + To me nae after days nor nichts + Will eir be saft or kind; + I'll fill the air with heavy sighs, + And greet till I am blind. + Enouch of blood by me's been spilt, + Seek not zour death frae mee; + I rather lourd it had been my sel + Than eather him or thee. + + With waefo wae I hear zour plaint; + Sair, sair I rew the deid, + That eir this cursed hand of mine + Had gard his body bleid. + Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, + Ze neir can heal the wound; + Ze see his head upon the speir, + His heart's blude on the ground. + + I curse the hand that did the deid, + The heart that thocht the ill; + The feet that bore me wi' sik speid, + The comely zouth to kill. + I'll ay lament for Gill Morice, + As gin he were mine ain; + I'll neir forget the dreiry day + On which the zouth was slain. + + +[Illustration] + + + +[Illustration] + +The CHILD of ELLE + + + On yondre hill a castle standes + With walles and towres bedight, + And yonder lives the Child of Elle, + A younge and comely knighte. + + The Child of Elle to his garden went, + And stood at his garden pale, + Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page + Come trippinge downe the dale. + + The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, + Y-wis he stoode not stille, + And soone he mette faire Emmelines page + Come climbinge up the hille. + + Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, + Now Christe thee save and see! + Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, + And what may thy tydinges bee? + + My ladye shee is all woe-begone, + And the teares they falle from her eyne; + And aye she laments the deadlye feude + Betweene her house and thine. + + And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe + Bedewde with many a teare, + And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, + Who loved thee so deare. + + And here shee sends thee a ring of golde + The last boone thou mayst have, + And biddes thee weare it for her sake, + Whan she is layde in grave. + + For, ah! her gentle heart is broke, + And in grave soone must shee bee, + Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, + And forbidde her to think of thee. + + Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, + Sir John of the north countràye, + And within three dayes she must him wedde, + Or he vowes he will her slaye. + + Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, + And greet thy ladye from mee, + And telle her that I her owne true love + Will dye, or sette her free. + + Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, + And let thy fair ladye know + This night will I bee at her bowre-windòwe, + Betide me weale or woe. + + The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, + He neither stint ne stayd + Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, + Whan kneeling downe he sayd, + + O ladye, I've been with thine own true love, + And he greets thee well by mee; + This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windòwe, + And dye or sett thee free. + + Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, + And all were fast asleepe, + All save the Ladye Emmeline, + Who sate in her bowre to weepe: + + And soone shee heard her true loves voice + Lowe whispering at the walle, + Awake, awake, my deare ladyè, + Tis I thy true love call. + + Awake, awake, my ladye deare, + Come, mount this faire palfràye: + This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe + He carrye thee hence awaye. + + Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, + Nowe nay, this may not bee; + For aye shold I tint my maiden fame, + If alone I should wend with thee. + + O ladye, thou with a knighte so true + Mayst safelye wend alone, + To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, + Where marriage shall make us one. + + "My father he is a baron bolde, + Of lynage proude and hye; + And what would he saye if his daughtèr + Awaye with a knight should fly + + "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest, + Nor his meate should doe him no goode, + Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle, + And scene thy deare hearts bloode." + + O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, + And a little space him fro, + I would not care for thy cruel fathèr, + Nor the worst that he could doe. + + O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, + And once without this walle, + I would not care for thy cruel fathèr + Nor the worst that might befalle. + + Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, + And aye her heart was woe: + At length he seized her lilly-white hand, + And downe the ladder he drewe: + + And thrice he clasped her to his breste, + And kist her tenderlìe: + The teares that fell from her fair eyes + Ranne like the fountayne free. + + Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, + And her on a fair palfràye, + And slung his bugle about his necke, + And roundlye they rode awaye. + + All this beheard her owne damsèlle, + In her bed whereas shee ley, + Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, + Soe I shall have golde and fee. + + Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! + Awake, my noble dame! + Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle + To doe the deede of shame. + + The baron he woke, the baron he rose, + And called his merrye men all: + "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte, + Thy ladye is carried to thrall." + + Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, + A mile forth of the towne, + When she was aware of her fathers men + Come galloping over the downe: + + And foremost came the carlish knight, + Sir John of the north countràye: + "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitòure, + Nor carry that ladye awaye. + + "For she is come of hye lineàge, + And was of a ladye borne, + And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne, + To carrye her hence to scorne." + + Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, + Nowe thou doest lye of mee; + A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, + Soe never did none by thee + + But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, + Light downe, and hold my steed, + While I and this discourteous knighte + Doe trye this arduous deede. + + But light now downe, my deare ladyè, + Light downe, and hold my horse; + While I and this discourteous knight + Doe trye our valour's force. + + Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, + And aye her heart was woe, + While twixt her love and the carlish knight + Past many a baleful blowe. + + The Child of Elle hee fought so well, + As his weapon he waved amaine, + That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, + And layd him upon the plaine. + + And nowe the baron and all his men + Full fast approached nye: + Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe + Twere nowe no boote to flye. + + Her lover he put his horne to his mouth, + And blew both loud and shrill, + And soone he saw his owne merry men + Come ryding over the hill. + + "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baròn, + I pray thee hold thy hand, + Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts + Fast knit in true love's band. + + Thy daughter I have dearly loved + Full long and many a day; + But with such love as holy kirke + Hath freelye sayd wee may. + + O give consent, shee may be mine, + And blesse a faithfull paire: + My lands and livings are not small, + My house and lineage faire: + + My mother she was an earl's daughtèr, + And a noble knyght my sire-- + The baron he frowned, and turn'd away + With mickle dole and ire. + + Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, + And did all tremblinge stand: + At lengthe she sprang upon her knee, + And held his lifted hand. + + Pardon, my lorde and father deare, + This faire yong knyght and mee: + Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, + I never had fled from thee. + + Oft have you called your Emmeline + Your darling and your joye; + O let not then your harsh resolves + Your Emmeline destroye. + + The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, + And turned his heade asyde + To whipe awaye the starting teare + He proudly strave to hyde. + + In deepe revolving thought he stoode, + And mused a little space; + Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde, + With many a fond embrace. + + Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, + And gave her lillye white hand; + Here take my deare and only child, + And with her half my land: + + Thy father once mine honour wrongde + In dayes of youthful pride; + Do thou the injurye repayre + In fondnesse for thy bride. + + And as thou love her, and hold her deare, + Heaven prosper thee and thine: + And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, + My lovelye Emmeline. + + +[Illustration] + + + + + +CHILD WATERS + + + Childe Waters in his stable stoode + And stroakt his milke white steede: + To him a fayre yonge ladye came + As ever ware womans weede. + + Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters; + Sayes, Christ you save, and see: + My girdle of gold that was too longe, + Is now too short for mee. + + And all is with one chyld of yours, + I feel sturre att my side: + My gowne of greene it is too straighte; + Before, it was too wide. + + If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd, + Be mine, as you tell mee; + Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, + Take them your owne to bee. + + If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd, + Be mine, as you doe sweare; + Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, + And make that child your heyre. + + Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse, + Child Waters, of thy mouth; + Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, + That laye by north and south. + + And I had rather have one twinkling, + Childe Waters, of thine ee; + Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, + To take them mine owne to bee. + + To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde + Farr into the north countrie; + The fairest lady that I can find, + Ellen, must goe with mee. + + 'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre, + 'Yet let me go with thee:' + And ever I pray you, Child Watèrs, + Your foot-page let me bee. + + If you will my foot-page be, Ellen, + As you doe tell to mee; + Then you must cut your gowne of greene, + An inch above your knee: + + Soe must you doe your yellow lockes, + An inch above your ee: + You must tell no man what is my name; + My foot-page then you shall bee. + + Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, + Ran barefoote by his side; + Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte, + To say, Ellen, will you ryde? + + Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, + Ran barefoote thorow the broome; + Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte, + To say, put on your shoone. + + Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters, + Why doe you ryde soe fast? + The childe, which is no mans but thine, + My bodye itt will brast. + + Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen, + That flows from bank to brimme?-- + I trust to God, O Child Waters, + You never will see mee swimme. + + But when shee came to the waters side, + Shee sayled to the chinne: + Except the Lord of heaven be my speed, + Now must I learne to swimme. + + The salt waters bare up her clothes; + Our Ladye bare upp her chinne: + Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord, + To see faire Ellen swimme. + + And when shee over the water was, + Shee then came to his knee: + He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellèn, + Loe yonder what I see. + + Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? + Of redd gold shines the yate; + Of twenty foure faire ladyes there, + The fairest is my mate. + + Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? + Of redd gold shines the towre: + There are twenty four fair ladyes there, + The fairest is my paramoure. + + I see the hall now, Child Waters, + Of redd golde shines the yate: + God give you good now of yourselfe, + And of your worthye mate. + + I see the hall now, Child Waters, + Of redd gold shines the towre: + God give you good now of yourselfe, + And of your paramoure. + + There twenty four fayre ladyes were + A playing att the ball: + And Ellen the fairest ladye there, + Must bring his steed to the stall. + + There twenty four fayre ladyes were + A playinge at the chesse; + And Ellen the fayrest ladye there, + Must bring his horse to gresse. + + And then bespake Childe Waters sister, + These were the wordes said shee: + You have the prettyest foot-page, brother, + That ever I saw with mine ee. + + But that his bellye it is soe bigg, + His girdle goes wonderous hie: + And let him, I pray you, Childe Watères, + Goe into the chamber with mee. + + It is not fit for a little foot-page, + That has run throughe mosse and myre, + To go into the chamber with any ladye, + That weares soe riche attyre. + + It is more meete for a litle foot-page, + That has run throughe mosse and myre, + To take his supper upon his knee, + And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer. + + But when they had supped every one, + To bedd they tooke theyr waye: + He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, + And hearken what I saye. + + Goe thee downe into yonder towne, + And low into the street; + The fayrest ladye that thou can finde, + + Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe, + And take her up in thine armes twaine, + For filinge of her feete. + + Ellen is gone into the towne, + And low into the streete: + The fairest ladye that she cold find, + Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe; + And tooke her up in her armes twayne, + For filing of her feete. + + I pray you nowe, good Child Watèrs, + Let mee lye at your bedds feete: + For there is noe place about this house, + Where I may 'saye a sleepe. + + 'He gave her leave, and faire Ellèn + 'Down at his beds feet laye:' + This done the nighte drove on apace, + And when it was neare the daye, + + Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page, + Give my steede corne and haye; + And soe doe thou the good black oats, + To carry mee better awaye. + + Up then rose the faire Ellèn, + And gave his steede corne and hay: + And soe shee did the good blacke oats, + To carry him the better away. + + Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, + And grievouslye did groane: + Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, + And there shee made her moane. + + And that beheard his mother deere, + Shee heard her there monand. + Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Watèrs, + I think thee a cursed man. + + For in thy stable is a ghost, + That grievouslye doth grone: + Or else some woman laboures of childe, + She is soe woe-begone. + + Up then rose Childe Waters soon, + And did on his shirte of silke; + And then he put on his other clothes, + On his body as white as milke. + + And when he came to the stable dore, + Full still there he did stand, + That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellèn + Howe shee made her monànd. + + Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child, + Lullabye, dere child, dere; + I wold thy father were a king, + Thy mother layd on a biere. + + Peace now, he said, good faire Ellèn, + Be of good cheere, I praye; + And the bridal and the churching both + Shall bee upon one day. + + + + +[Image] + +KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH + + + In summer time, when leaves grow greene, + And blossoms bedecke the tree, + King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, + Some pastime for to see. + + With hawke and hounde he made him bowne, + With horne, and eke with bowe; + To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye, + With all his lordes a rowe. + + And he had ridden ore dale and downe + By eight of clocke in the day, + When he was ware of a bold tannèr, + Come ryding along the waye. + + A fayre russet coat the tanner had on + Fast buttoned under his chin, + And under him a good cow-hide, + And a marc of four shilling. + + Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, + Under the grene wood spraye; + And I will wend to yonder fellowe, + To weet what he will saye. + + God speede, God speede thee, said our king. + Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee. + "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset + I praye thee to shew to mee." + + "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe, + Fro the place where thou dost stand? + The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, + Turne in upon thy right hand." + + That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king, + Thou doest but jest, I see; + Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, + And I pray thee wend with mee. + + Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner: + I hold thee out of thy witt: + All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare, + And I am fasting yett. + + "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset, + No daynties we will spare; + All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, + And I will paye thy fare." + + Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde, + Thou payest no fare of mine: + I trowe I've more nobles in my purse, + Than thou hast pence in thine. + + God give thee joy of them, sayd the king, + And send them well to priefe. + The tanner wolde faine have beene away, + For he weende he had beene a thiefe. + + What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe, + Of thee I am in great feare, + For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back, + Might beseeme a lord to weare. + + I never stole them, quoth our king, + I tell you, Sir, by the roode. + "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, + And standest in midds of thy goode." + + What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge, + As you ryde farre and neare? + "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse, + But that cowe-hides are deare." + + "Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? + I marvell what they bee?" + What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd; + I carry one under mee. + + What craftsman art thou, said the king, + I pray thee tell me trowe. + "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade; + Nowe tell me what art thou?" + + I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he, + That am forth of service worne; + And faine I wolde thy prentise bee, + Thy cunninge for to learne. + + Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, + That thou my prentise were: + Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne + By fortye shilling a yere. + + Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king, + If thou wilt not seeme strange: + Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, + Yet with thee I fain wold change. + + "Why if with me thou faine wilt change, + As change full well maye wee, + By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe + I will have some boot of thee." + + That were against reason, sayd the king, + I sweare, so mote I thee: + My horse is better than thy mare, + And that thou well mayst see. + + "Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild, + And softly she will fare: + Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss; + Aye skipping here and theare." + + What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd; + Now tell me in this stound. + "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye, + But a noble in gold so round. + + "Here's twentye groates of white moneye, + Sith thou will have it of mee." + I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner, + Thou hadst not had one pennie. + + But since we two have made a change, + A change we must abide, + Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare, + Thou gettest not my cowe-hide. + + I will not have it, sayd the kynge, + I sweare, so mought I thee; + Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare, + If thou woldst give it to mee. + + The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, + That of the cow was bilt; + And threwe it upon the king's sadelle, + That was soe fayrelye gilte. + "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe, + 'Tis time that I were gone: + When I come home to Gyllian my wife, + Sheel say I am a gentilmon." + + The king he tooke him up by the legge; + The tanner a f----- lett fall. + Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king, + Thy courtesye is but small. + + When the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle, + And his foote in the stirrup was; + He marvelled greatlye in his minde, + Whether it were golde or brass. + + But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge, + And eke the blacke cowe-horne; + He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, + As the devill had him borne. + + The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, + And held by the pummil fast: + At length the tanner came tumbling downe; + His necke he had well-nye brast. + + Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, + With mee he shall not byde. + "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, + But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide. + + Yet if againe thou faine woldst change, + As change full well may wee, + By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr, + I will have some boote of thee." + + What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd, + Nowe tell me in this stounde. + "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye, + But I will have twentye pound." + + "Here's twentye groates out of my purse; + And twentye I have of thine: + And I have one more, which we will spend + Together at the wine." + + The king set a bugle home to his mouthe, + And blewe both loude and shrille: + And soone came lords, and soone came knights, + Fast ryding over the hille. + + Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, + That ever I sawe this daye! + Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes Will beare my +cowe-hide away. + + They are no thieves, the king replyde, + I sweare, soe mote I thee: + But they are the lords of the north countrèy, + Here come to hunt with mee. + + And soone before our king they came, + And knelt downe on the grounde: + Then might the tanner have beene awaye, + He had lever than twentye pounde. + + A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king, + A coller he loud gan crye: + Then woulde he lever than twentye pound, + He had not beene so nighe. + + A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, + I trowe it will breed sorrowe: + After a coller cometh a halter, + I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe. + + Be not afraid, tanner, said our king; + I tell thee, so mought I thee, + Lo here I make thee the best esquire + That is in the North countrie. + + For Plumpton-parke I will give thee, + With tenements faire beside: + 'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, + To maintaine thy good cowe-hide. + + Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde, + For the favour thou hast me showne; + If ever thou comest to merry Tamwòrth, + Neates leather shall clout thy shoen. + + + + +[Illustration] + +SIR PATRICK SPENS + + + The king sits in Dumferling toune, + Drinking the blude-reid wine: + O quhar will I get guid sailòr, + To sail this schip of mine. + + Up and spak an eldern knicht, + Sat at the kings richt kne: + Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailòr, + That sails upon the se. + + The king has written a braid letter, + And signd it wi' his hand; + And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, + Was walking on the sand. + + The first line that Sir Patrick red, + A loud lauch lauched he: + The next line that Sir Patrick red, + The teir blinded his ee. + + O quha is this has don this deid, + This ill deid don to me; + To send me out this time o' the zeir, + To sail upon the se. + + Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, + Our guid schip sails the morne, + O say na sae, my master deir, + For I feir a deadlie storme. + + Late late yestreen I saw the new moone + Wi' the auld moone in hir arme; + And I feir, I feir, my deir master, + That we will com to harme. + + O our Scots nobles wer richt laith + To weet their cork-heild schoone; + Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, + Thair hats they swam aboone. + + O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit + Wi' thair fans into their hand, + Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens + Cum sailing to the land. + + O lang, lang, may the ladies stand + Wi' thair gold kems in their hair, + Waiting for thair ain deir lords, + For they'll se thame na mair. + + Have owre, have owre to Aberdour, + It's fiftie fadom deip: + And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens, + Wi' the Scots lords at his feit. + + + + +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER + + + It was intill a pleasant time, + Upon a simmer's day, + The noble Earl of Mar's daughter + Went forth to sport and play. + + As thus she did amuse hersell, + Below a green aik tree, + There she saw a sprightly doo + Set on a tower sae hie. + + "O cow-me-doo, my love sae true, + If ye'll come down to me, + Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd + Instead o simple tree: + + "I'll put growd hingers roun your cage, + And siller roun your wa; + I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird + As ony o them a'." + + But she hadnae these words well spoke, + Nor yet these words well said, + Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower + And lighted on her head. + + Then she has brought this pretty bird + Hame to her bowers and ba, + And made him shine as fair a bird + As ony o them a'. + + When day was gane, and night was come, + About the evening tide, + This lady spied a sprightly youth + Stand straight up by her side. + + "From whence came ye, young man?" she said; + "That does surprise me sair; + My door was bolted right secure, + What way hae ye come here?" + + "O had your tongue, ye lady fair, + Lat a' your folly be; + Mind ye not on your turtle-doo + Last day ye brought wi thee?" + + "O tell me mair, young man," she said, + "This does surprise me now; + What country hae ye come frae? + What pedigree are you?" + + "My mither lives on foreign isles, + She has nae mair but me; + She is a queen o wealth and state, + And birth and high degree. + + "Likewise well skilld in magic spells, + As ye may plainly see, + And she transformd me to yon shape, + To charm such maids as thee. + + "I am a doo the live-lang day, + A sprightly youth at night; + This aye gars me appear mair fair + In a fair maiden's sight. + + "And it was but this verra day + That I came ower the sea; + Your lovely face did me enchant; + I'll live and dee wi thee." + + "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, + Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae; + That's never my intent, my luve, + As ye said, it shall be sae." + + "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, + It's time to gae to bed;" + "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow, + It's be as ye hae said." + + Then he has staid in bower wi her + For sax lang years and ane, + Till sax young sons to him she bare, + And the seventh she's brought hame. + + But aye as ever a child was born + He carried them away, + And brought them to his mither's care, + As fast as he coud fly. + + Thus he has staid in bower wi her + For twenty years and three; + There came a lord o high renown + To court this fair ladie. + + But still his proffer she refused, + And a' his presents too; + Says, I'm content to live alane + Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo. + + Her father sware a solemn oath + Amang the nobles all, + "The morn, or ere I eat or drink, + This bird I will gar kill." + + The bird was sitting in his cage, + And heard what they did say; + And when he found they were dismist, + Says, Wae's me for this day! + + "Before that I do langer stay, + And thus to be forlorn, + I'll gang unto my mither's bower, + Where I was bred and born." + + Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew + Beyond the raging sea, + And lighted near his mither's castle, + On a tower o gowd sae hie. + + As his mither was wauking out, + To see what she coud see, + And there she saw her little son, + Set on the tower sae hie. + + "Get dancers here to dance," she said, + "And minstrells for to play; + For here's my young son, Florentine, + Come here wi me to stay." + + "Get nae dancers to dance, mither, + Nor minstrells for to play, + For the mither o my seven sons, + The morn's her wedding-day." + + "O tell me, tell me, Florentine, + Tell me, and tell me true, + Tell me this day without a flaw, + What I will do for you." + + "Instead of dancers to dance, mither, + Or minstrells for to play, + Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men + Like storks in feathers gray; + + "My seven sons in seven swans, + Aboon their heads to flee; + And I mysell a gay gos-hawk, + A bird o high degree." + + Then sichin said the queen hersell, + "That thing's too high for me;" + But she applied to an auld woman, + Who had mair skill than she. + + Instead o dancers to dance a dance, + Or minstrells for to play, + Four-and-twenty wall-wight men + Turnd birds o feathers gray; + + Her seven sons in seven swans, + Aboon their heads to flee; + And he himsell a gay gos-hawk, + A bird o high degree. + + This flock o birds took flight and flew + Beyond the raging sea, + And landed near the Earl Mar's castle, + Took shelter in every tree. + + They were a flock o pretty birds, + Right comely to be seen; + The people viewed them wi surprise, + As they dancd on the green. + + These birds ascended frae the tree + And lighted on the ha, + And at the last wi force did flee + Amang the nobles a'. + + The storks there seized some o the men, + They coud neither fight nor flee; + The swans they bound the bride's best man + Below a green aik tree. + + They lighted next on maidens fair, + Then on the bride's own head, + And wi the twinkling o an ee + The bride and them were fled. + + There's ancient men at weddings been + For sixty years or more, + But sic a curious wedding-day + They never saw before. + + For naething coud the companie do. + Nor naething coud they say + But they saw a flock o pretty birds + That took their bride away. + + When that Earl Mar he came to know + Where his dochter did stay, + He signd a bond o unity, + And visits now they pay. + + + + +EDWARD, EDWARD. + + + Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, + Edward, Edward? + Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid? + And quhy sae sad gang zee, O? + O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid: + And I had nae mair bot hee, O. + + Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, + Edward, Edward. + Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, + My deir son I tell thee, O. + O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, + That erst was sae fair and free, O. + + Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, + Edward, Edward; + Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, + Sum other dule ze drie, O. + O, I hae killed my fadir deir, + Mither, mither: + O, I hae killed my fadir deir, + Alas! and wae is mee, O! + + And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, + Edward, Edward? + And quhatten penance will ze drie for that? + My deir son, now tell mee, O. + He set my feit in zonder boat, + Mither, mither: + He set my feit in zonder boat, + And He fare ovir the sea, O. + + And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', + That were sae fair to see, O? + He let thame stand til they doun fa', + Mither, mither: + He let thame stand til they doun fa', + For here nevir mair maun I bee, O. + + And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, + Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O? + The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, + Mither, mither; + The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, + For thame nevir mair wul I see, O. + + And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, + Edward, Edward? + And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir? + My deir son, now tell me, O. + The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, + Mither, mither: + The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, + Sic counseils ze gave to me, O. + + + +KING LEIR & HIS THREE DAUGHTERS + + + King Leir once ruled in this land + With princely power and peace; + And had all things with hearts content, + That might his joys increase. + Amongst those things that nature gave, + Three daughters fair had he, + So princely seeming beautiful, + As fairer could not be. + + So on a time it pleas'd the king + A question thus to move, + Which of his daughters to his grace + Could shew the dearest love: + For to my age you bring content, + Quoth he, then let me hear, + Which of you three in plighted troth + The kindest will appear. + + To whom the eldest thus began; + Dear father, mind, quoth she, + Before your face, to do you good, + My blood shall render'd be: + And for your sake my bleeding heart + Shall here be cut in twain, + Ere that I see your reverend age + The smallest grief sustain. + + And so will I, the second said; + Dear father, for your sake, + The worst of all extremities + I'll gently undertake: + And serve your highness night and day + With diligence and love; + That sweet content and quietness + Discomforts may remove. + + In doing so, you glad my soul, + The aged king reply'd; + But what sayst thou, my youngest girl, + How is thy love ally'd? + My love (quoth young Cordelia then) + Which to your grace I owe, + Shall be the duty of a child, + And that is all I'll show. + + And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he, + Than doth thy duty bind? + I well perceive thy love is small, + When as no more I find. + Henceforth I banish thee my court, + Thou art no child of mine; + Nor any part of this my realm + By favour shall be thine. + + Thy elder sisters loves are more + Then well I can demand, + To whom I equally bestow + My kingdome and my land, + My pompal state and all my goods, + That lovingly I may + With those thy sisters be maintain'd + Until my dying day. + + Thus flattering speeches won renown, + By these two sisters here; + The third had causeless banishment, + Yet was her love more dear: + For poor Cordelia patiently + Went wandring up and down, + Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, + Through many an English town: + + Untill at last in famous France + She gentler fortunes found; + Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd + The fairest on the ground: + Where when the king her virtues heard, + And this fair lady seen, + With full consent of all his court + He made his wife and queen. + + Her father king Leir this while + With his two daughters staid: + Forgetful of their promis'd loves, + Full soon the same decay'd; + And living in queen Ragan's court, + The eldest of the twain, + She took from him his chiefest means, + And most of all his train. + + For whereas twenty men were wont + To wait with bended knee: + She gave allowance but to ten, + And after scarce to three; + Nay, one she thought too much for him; + So took she all away, + In hope that in her court, good king, + He would no longer stay. + + Am I rewarded thus, quoth he, + In giving all I have + Unto my children, and to beg + For what I lately gave? + I'll go unto my Gonorell: + My second child, I know, + Will be more kind and pitiful, + And will relieve my woe. + + Full fast he hies then to her court; + Where when she heard his moan + Return'd him answer, That she griev'd + That all his means were gone: + But no way could relieve his wants; + Yet if that he would stay + Within her kitchen, he should have + What scullions gave away. + + When he had heard, with bitter tears, + He made his answer then; + In what I did let me be made + Example to all men. + I will return again, quoth he, + Unto my Ragan's court; + She will not use me thus, I hope, + But in a kinder sort. + + Where when he came, she gave command + To drive him thence away: + When he was well within her court + (She said) he would not stay. + Then back again to Gonorell + The woeful king did hie, + That in her kitchen he might have + What scullion boy set by. + + But there of that he was deny'd, + Which she had promis'd late: + For once refusing, he should not + Come after to her gate. + Thus twixt his daughters, for relief + He wandred up and down; + Being glad to feed on beggars food, + That lately wore a crown. + + And calling to remembrance then + His youngest daughters words, + That said the duty of a child + Was all that love affords: + But doubting to repair to her, + Whom he had banish'd so, + Grew frantick mad; for in his mind + He bore the wounds of woe: + + Which made him rend his milk-white locks, + And tresses from his head, + And all with blood bestain his cheeks, + With age and honour spread. + To hills and woods and watry founts + He made his hourly moan, + Till hills and woods and sensless things, + Did seem to sigh and groan. + + Even thus possest with discontents, + He passed o're to France, + In hopes from fair Cordelia there, + To find some gentler chance; + Most virtuous dame! which when she heard, + Of this her father's grief, + As duty bound, she quickly sent + Him comfort and relief: + And by a train of noble peers, + In brave and gallant sort, + She gave in charge he should be brought + To Aganippus' court; + Whose royal king, with noble mind + So freely gave consent, + To muster up his knights at arms, + To fame and courage bent. + + And so to England came with speed, + To repossesse king Leir + And drive his daughters from their thrones + By his Cordelia dear. + Where she, true-hearted noble queen, + Was in the battel slain; + Yet he, good king, in his old days, + Possest his crown again. + + But when he heard Cordelia's death, + Who died indeed for love + Of her dear father, in whose cause + She did this battle move; + He swooning fell upon her breast, + From whence he never parted: + But on her bosom left his life, + That was so truly hearted. + + The lords and nobles when they saw + The end of these events, + The other sisters unto death + They doomed by consents; + And being dead, their crowns they left + Unto the next of kin: + Thus have you seen the fall of pride, + And disobedient sin. + + + + +[Illustration] + +HYND HORN + + + "Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free; + Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?" + + "In gude greenwud whare I was born, + And all my friends left me forlorn. + + "I gave my love a gay gowd wand, + That was to rule oure all Scotland. + + "My love gave me a silver ring, + That was to rule abune aw thing. + + "Whan that ring keeps new in hue, + Ye may ken that your love loves you. + + "Whan that ring turns pale and wan, + Ye may ken that your love loves anither man." + + He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he + Till he cam to a foreign cuntree. + + Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan; + Says, I wish I war at hame again. + + He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he + Until he cam till his ain cuntree. + + The first ane that he met with, + It was with a puir auld beggar-man. + + "What news? what news, my puir auld man? + What news hae ye got to tell to me?" + + "Na news, na news," the puir man did say, + "But this is our queen's wedding-day." + + "Ye'll lend me your begging-weed, + And I'll lend you my riding-steed." + "My begging-weed is na for thee, + Your riding-steed is na for me." + + He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man. + + "What is the way that ye use to gae? + And what are the words that ye beg wi?" + + "Whan ye come to yon high hill, + Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until. + + "Whan ye come to yon town-end, + Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun. + + "Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul, + And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all. + + "But tak ye frae nane o them aw + Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O." + + Whan he cam to yon high hill, + He drew his bent bow nigh until. + + And when he cam to yon toun-end, + He loot his bent bow low fall doun. + + He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul, + And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all. + + But he took na frae ane o them aw + Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O. + + The bride cam tripping doun the stair, + Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair. + + Wi a glass o red wine in her hand, + To gie to the puir beggar-man. + + Out he drank his glass o wine, + Into it he dropt the ring. + + "Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land, + Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?" + + "I got na't by sea, I got na't by land, + Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand; + + "But I got it at my wooing, + And I'll gie it to your wedding." + + "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head, + I'll follow you, and beg my bread. + + "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair, + I'll follow you for evermair." + + She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head, + She's followed him, to beg her bread. + + She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair, + And she has followd him evermair. + + Atween the kitchen and the ha, + There he loot his cloutie cloak fa. + + The red gowd shined oure them aw, + And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa. + + + + +JOHN BROWN'S BODY + + + Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, + Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave; + Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, + But his soul is marching on. + + _Chorus_ + + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + Glory, glory, Hallelujah! + His soul is marching on. + + He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true; + His little patriot band into a noble army grew; + He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true, + And his soul is marching on. + + 'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its might, + The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight; + But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight, + Still his soul is marching on. + + John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, + Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love, + John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, + And his soul is marching on. + + + + TIPPERARY + + + Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day, + As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay; + Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square, + Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:-- + +_Chorus_ + + "It's a long way to Tipperary, + It's a long way to go; + It's a long way to Tipperary, + To the sweetest girl I know! + Good-bye Piccadilly, + Farewell, Leicester Square, + It's a long, long way to Tipperary, + But my heart's right there!" + + Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O', + Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know! + "If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he, + "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me." + + Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O', + Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so + Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame, + For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!" + + + + +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON + + + There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, + And he was a squires son: + He loved the bayliffes daughter deare, + That lived in Islington. + + Yet she was coye, and would not believe + That he did love her soe, + Noe nor at any time would she + Any countenance to him showe. + + But when his friendes did understand + His fond and foolish minde, + They sent him up to faire London + An apprentice for to binde. + + And when he had been seven long yeares, + And never his love could see: + Many a teare have I shed for her sake, + When she little thought of mee. + + Then all the maids of Islington + Went forth to sport and playe, + All but the bayliffes daughter deare; + She secretly stole awaye. + + She pulled off her gowne of greene, + And put on ragged attire, + And to faire London she would goe + Her true love to enquire. + + And as she went along the high road, + The weather being hot and drye, + She sat her downe upon a green bank, + And her true love came riding bye. + + She started up, with a colour soe redd, + Catching hold of his bridle-reine; + One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd, + Will ease me of much paine. + + Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, + Praye tell me where you were borne: + At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee, + Where I have had many a scorne. + + I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, + O tell me, whether you knowe + The bayliffes daughter of Islington: + She is dead, Sir, long agoe. + + If she be dead, then take my horse, + My saddle and bridle also; + For I will into some far countrye, + Where noe man shall me knowe. + + O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, + She standeth by thy side; + She is here alive, she is not dead, + And readye to be thy bride. + + O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, + Ten thousand times therefore; + For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, + Whom I thought I should never see more. + + + + +THE THREE RAVENS + + + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + With a downe + There were three rauens sat on a tree, + They were as blacke as they might be + With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe + + The one of them said to his mate, + "Where shall we our breakefast take?" + + "Downe in yonder greene field, + There lies a knight slain vnder his shield. + + "His hounds they lie downe at his feete, + So well they can their master keepe. + + "His haukes they flie so eagerly, + There's no fowle dare him come nie." + + Downe there comes a fallow doe, + As great with yong as she might goe. + + She lift up his bloudy hed, + And kist his wounds that were so red. + + She got him up upon her backe, + And carried him to earthen lake. + + She buried him before the prime, + She was dead herselfe ere even-song time. + + God send every gentleman, + Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman. + + + +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN + + + The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee + Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee, + Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie, + Will ze lodge a silly poor man? + The night was cauld, the carle was wat, + And down azont the ingle he sat; + My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap, + And cadgily ranted and sang. + + O wow! quo he, were I as free, + As first when I saw this countrie, + How blyth and merry wad I bee! + And I wad nevir think lang. + He grew canty, and she grew fain; + But little did her auld minny ken + What thir slee twa togither were say'n, + When wooing they were sa thrang. + + And O! quo he, ann ze were as black, + As evir the crown of your dadyes hat, + Tis I wad lay thee by my backe, + And awa wi' me thou sould gang. + And O! quoth she, ann I were as white, + As evir the snaw lay on the dike, + Ild dead me braw, and lady-like, + And awa with thee Ild gang. + + Between them twa was made a plot; + They raise a wee before the cock, + And wyliely they shot the lock, + And fast to the bent are they gane. + Up the morn the auld wife raise, + And at her leisure put on her claiths, + Syne to the servants bed she gaes + To speir for the silly poor man. + + She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay, + The strae was cauld, he was away, + She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day! + For some of our geir will be gane. + Some ran to coffer, and some to kist, + But nought was stown that could be mist. + She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest, + I have lodgd a leal poor man. + + Since naithings awa, as we can learn, + The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn, + Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, + And bid her come quickly ben. + The servant gaed where the dochter lay, + The sheets was cauld, she was away, + And fast to her goodwife can say, + Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man. + + O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, + And haste ze, find these traitors agen; + For shees be burnt, and hees be slein, + The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man. + Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit + The wife was wood, and out o' her wit; + She could na gang, nor yet could sit, + But ay did curse and did ban. + + Mean time far hind out owre the lee, + For snug in a glen, where nane could see, + The twa, with kindlie sport and glee + Cut frae a new cheese a whang. + The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith, + To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith. + Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith, + My winsome gaberlunzie-man. + + O kend my minny I were wi' zou, + Illfardly wad she crook her mou, + Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow, + Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon. + My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge; + And hae na learnt the beggars tonge, + To follow me frae toun to toun, + And carrie the gaberlunzie on. + + Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread, + And spindles and whorles for them wha need, + Whilk is a gentil trade indeed + The gaberlunzie to carrie--o. + Ill bow my leg and crook my knee, + And draw a black clout owre my ee, + A criple or blind they will cau me: + While we sail sing and be merrie--o. + + + + +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + + + There lived a wife at Usher's Well, + And a wealthy wife was she; + She had three stout and stalwart sons, + And sent them oer the sea. + + They hadna been a week from her, + A week but barely ane, + Whan word came to the carline wife + That her three sons were gane. + + They hadna been a week from her, + A week but barely three, + Whan word came to the carlin wife + That her sons she'd never see. + + "I wish the wind may never cease, + Nor fashes in the flood, + Till my three sons come hame to me, + In earthly flesh and blood." + + It fell about the Martinmass, + When nights are lang and mirk, + The carlin wife's three sons came hame, + And their hats were o the birk. + + It neither grew in syke nor ditch, + Nor yet in ony sheugh; + But at the gates o Paradise, + That birk grew fair eneugh. + + * * * * * + + "Blow up the fire, my maidens, + Bring water from the well; + For a' my house shall feast this night, + Since my three sons are well." + + And she has made to them a bed, + She's made it large and wide, + And she's taen her mantle her about, + Sat down at the bed-side. + + * * * * * + + Up then crew the red, red cock, + And up and crew the gray; + The eldest to the youngest said, + 'Tis time we were away. + + The cock he hadna crawd but once, + And clappd his wings at a', + When the youngest to the eldest said, + Brother, we must awa. + + "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, + The channerin worm doth chide; + Gin we be mist out o our place, + A sair pain we maun bide. + + "Fare ye weel, my mother dear! + Fareweel to barn and byre! + And fare ye weel, the bonny lass + That kindles my mother's fire!" + + + + +THE LYE + + + Goe, soule, the bodies guest, + Upon a thanklesse arrant; + Feare not to touche the best, + The truth shall be thy warrant: + Goe, since I needs must dye, + And give the world the lye. + + Goe tell the court, it glowes + And shines like rotten wood; + Goe tell the church it showes + What's good, and doth no good: + If church and court reply, + Then give them both the lye. + + Tell potentates they live + Acting by others actions; + Not lov'd unlesse they give, + Not strong but by their factions; + If potentates reply, + Give potentates the lye. + + Tell men of high condition, + That rule affairs of state, + Their purpose is ambition, + Their practise onely hate; + And if they once reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell them that brave it most, + They beg for more by spending, + Who in their greatest cost + Seek nothing but commending; + And if they make reply, + Spare not to give the lye. + + Tell zeale, it lacks devotion; + Tell love, it is but lust; + Tell time, it is but motion; + Tell flesh, it is but dust; + And wish them not reply, + For thou must give the lye. + + Tell age, it daily wasteth; + Tell honour, how it alters: + Tell beauty, how she blasteth; + Tell favour, how she falters; + And as they shall reply, + Give each of them the lye. + + Tell wit, how much it wrangles + In tickle points of nicenesse; + Tell wisedome, she entangles + Herselfe in over-wisenesse; + And if they do reply, + Straight give them both the lye. + + Tell physicke of her boldnesse; + Tell skill, it is pretension; + Tell charity of coldness; + Tell law, it is contention; + And as they yield reply, + So give them still the lye. + + Tell fortune of her blindnesse; + Tell nature of decay; + Tell friendship of unkindnesse; + Tell justice of delay: + And if they dare reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell arts, they have no soundnesse, + But vary by esteeming; + Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse; + And stand too much on seeming: + If arts and schooles reply. + Give arts and schooles the lye. + + Tell faith, it's fled the citie; + Tell how the countrey erreth; + Tell, manhood shakes off pitie; + Tell, vertue least preferreth: + And, if they doe reply, + Spare not to give the lye. + + So, when thou hast, as I + Commanded thee, done blabbing, + Although to give the lye + Deserves no less than stabbing, + Yet stab at thee who will, + No stab the soule can kill. + + + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + +I. + + + He did not wear his scarlet coat, + For blood and wine are red, + And blood and wine were on his hands + When they found him with the dead, + The poor dead woman whom he loved, + And murdered in her bed. + + He walked amongst the Trial Men + In a suit of shabby grey; + A cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay; + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every drifting cloud that went + With sails of silver by. + + I walked, with other souls in pain, + Within another ring, + And was wondering if the man had done + A great or little thing, + When a voice behind me whispered low, + _"That fellow's got to swing."_ + + Dear Christ! the very prison walls + Suddenly seemed to reel, + And the sky above my head became + Like a casque of scorching steel; + And, though I was a soul in pain, + My pain I could not feel. + + I only knew what hunted thought + Quickened his step, and why + He looked upon the garish day + With such a wistful eye; + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + * * * * * + + Yet each man kills the thing he loves, + By each let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word. + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + Some kill their love when they are young, + And some when they are old; + Some strangle with the hands of Lust, + Some with the hands of Gold: + The kindest use a knife, because + The dead so soon grow cold. + + Some love too little, some too long, + Some sell, and others buy; + Some do the deed with many tears, + And some without a sigh: + For each man kills the thing he loves, + Yet each man does not die. + + He does not die a death of shame + On a day of dark disgrace, + Nor have a noose about his neck, + Nor a cloth upon his face, + Nor drop feet foremost through the floor + Into an empty space. + + He does not sit with silent men + Who watch him night and day; + Who watch him when he tries to weep, + And when he tries to pray; + Who watch him lest himself should rob + The prison of its prey. + + He does not wake at dawn to see + Dread figures throng his room, + The shivering Chaplain robed in white, + The Sheriff stern with gloom, + And the Governor all in shiny black, + With the yellow face of Doom. + + He does not rise in piteous haste + To put on convict-clothes, + While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes + Each new and nerve-twitched pose, + Fingering a watch whose little ticks + Are like horrible hammer-blows. + + He does not feel that sickening thirst + That sands one's throat, before + The hangman with his gardener's gloves + Comes through the padded door, + And binds one with three leathern thongs, + That the throat may thirst no more. + + He does not bend his head to hear + The Burial Office read, + Nor, while the anguish of his soul + Tells him he is not dead, + Cross his own coffin, as he moves + Into the hideous shed. + + He does not stare upon the air + Through a little roof of glass: + He does not pray with lips of clay + For his agony to pass; + Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek + The kiss of Caiaphas. + + +II + + + Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard + In the suit of shabby grey: + His cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay, + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every wandering cloud that trailed + Its ravelled fleeces by. + + He did not wring his hands, as do + Those witless men who dare + To try to rear the changeling + In the cave of black Despair: + He only looked upon the sun, + And drank the morning air. + + He did not wring his hands nor weep, + Nor did he peek or pine, + But he drank the air as though it held + Some healthful anodyne; + With open mouth he drank the sun + As though it had been wine! + + And I and all the souls in pain, + Who tramped the other ring, + Forgot if we ourselves had done + A great or little thing, + And watched with gaze of dull amaze + The man who had to swing. + + For strange it was to see him pass + With a step so light and gay, + And strange it was to see him look + So wistfully at the day, + And strange it was to think that he + Had such a debt to pay. + + * * * * * + + For oak and elm have pleasant leaves + That in the spring-time shoot: + But grim to see is the gallows-tree, + With its adder-bitten root, + And, green or dry, a man must die + Before it bears its fruit! + + The loftiest place is that seat of grace + For which all worldlings try: + But who would stand in hempen band + Upon a scaffold high, + And through a murderer's collar take + His last look at the sky? + + It is sweet to dance to violins + When Love and Life are fair: + To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes + Is delicate and rare: + But it is not sweet with nimble feet + To dance upon the air! + + So with curious eyes and sick surmise + We watched him day by day, + And wondered if each one of us + Would end the self-same way, + For none can tell to what red Hell + His sightless soul may stray. + + At last the dead man walked no more + Amongst the Trial Men, + And I knew that he was standing up + In the black dock's dreadful pen, + And that never would I see his face + For weal or woe again. + + Like two doomed ships that pass in storm + We had crossed each other's way: + But we made no sign, we said no word, + We had no word to say; + For we did not meet in the holy night, + But in the shameful day. + + A prison wall was round us both, + Two outcast men we were: + The world had thrust us from its heart, + And God from out His care: + And the iron gin that waits for Sin + Had caught us in its snare. + + +III. + + + In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard, + And the dripping wall is high, + So it was there he took the air + Beneath the leaden sky, + And by each side a Warder walked, + For fear the man might die. + + Or else he sat with those who watched + His anguish night and day; + Who watched him when he rose to weep, + And when he crouched to pray; + Who watched him lest himself should rob + Their scaffold of its prey. + + The Governor was strong upon + The Regulations Act: + The Doctor said that Death was but + A scientific fact: + And twice a day the Chaplain called, + And left a little tract. + + And twice a day he smoked his pipe, + And drank his quart of beer: + His soul was resolute, and held + No hiding-place for fear; + He often said that he was glad + The hangman's day was near. + + But why he said so strange a thing + No warder dared to ask: + For he to whom a watcher's doom + Is given as his task, + Must set a lock upon his lips + And make his face a mask. + + Or else he might be moved, and try + To comfort or console: + And what should Human Pity do + Pent up in Murderer's Hole? + What word of grace in such a place + Could help a brother's soul? + + With slouch and swing around the ring + We trod the Fools' Parade! + We did not care: we knew we were + The Devil's Own Brigade: + And shaven head and feet of lead + Make a merry masquerade. + + We tore the tarry rope to shreds + With blunt and bleeding nails; + We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, + And cleaned the shining rails: + And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, + And clattered with the pails. + + We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, + We turned the dusty drill: + We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, + And sweated on the mill: + But in the heart of every man + Terror was lying still. + + So still it lay that every day + Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: + And we forgot the bitter lot + That waits for fool and knave, + Till once, as we tramped in from work, + We passed an open grave. + + With yawning mouth the yellow hole + Gaped for a living thing; + The very mud cried out for blood + To the thirsty asphalte ring: + And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair + Some prisoner had to swing. + + Right in we went, with soul intent + On Death and Dread and Doom: + The hangman, with his little bag, + Went shuffling through the gloom: + And I trembled as I groped my way + Into my numbered tomb. + + * * * * * + + That night the empty corridors + Were full of forms of Fear, + And up and down the iron town + Stole feet we could not hear, + And through the bars that hide the stars + White faces seemed to peer. + + He lay as one who lies and dreams + In a pleasant meadow-land, + The watchers watched him as he slept, + And could not understand + How one could sleep so sweet a sleep + With a hangman close at hand. + + But there is no sleep when men must weep + Who never yet have wept: + So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave-- + That endless vigil kept, + And through each brain on hands of pain + Another's terror crept. + + Alas! it is a fearful thing + To feel another's guilt! + For, right, within, the Sword of Sin + Pierced to its poisoned hilt, + And as molten lead were the tears we shed + For the blood we had not spilt. + + The warders with their shoes of felt + Crept by each padlocked door, + And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, + Grey figures on the floor, + And wondered why men knelt to pray + Who never prayed before. + + All through the night we knelt and prayed, + Mad mourners of a corse! + The troubled plumes of midnight shook + The plumes upon a hearse: + And bitter wine upon a sponge + Was the savour of Remorse. + + * * * * * + + The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, + But never came the day: + And crooked shapes of Terror crouched, + In the corners where we lay: + And each evil sprite that walks by night + Before us seemed to play. + + They glided past, they glided fast, + Like travellers through a mist: + They mocked the moon in a rigadoon + Of delicate turn and twist, + And with formal pace and loathsome grace + The phantoms kept their tryst. + + With mop and mow, we saw them go, + Slim shadows hand in hand: + About, about, in ghostly rout + They trod a saraband: + And the damned grotesques made arabesques, + Like the wind upon the sand! + + With the pirouettes of marionettes, + They tripped on pointed tread: + But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear, + As their grisly masque they led, + And loud they sang, and long they sang, + For they sang to wake the dead. + + _"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide, + But fettered limbs go lame! + And once, or twice, to throw the dice + Is a gentlemanly game, + But he does not win who plays with Sin + In the secret House of Shame."_ + + No things of air these antics were, + That frolicked with such glee: + To men whose lives were held in gyves, + And whose feet might not go free, + Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, + Most terrible to see. + + Around, around, they waltzed and wound; + Some wheeled in smirking pairs; + With the mincing step of a demirep + Some sidled up the stairs: + And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, + Each helped us at our prayers. + + The morning wind began to moan, + But still the night went on: + Through its giant loom the web of gloom + Crept till each thread was spun: + And, as we prayed, we grew afraid + Of the Justice of the Sun. + + The moaning wind went wandering round + The weeping prison-wall: + Till like a wheel of turning steel + We felt the minutes crawl: + O moaning wind! what had we done + To have such a seneschal? + + At last I saw the shadowed bars, + Like a lattice wrought in lead, + Move right across the whitewashed wall + That faced my three-plank bed, + And I knew that somewhere in the world + God's dreadful dawn was red. + + At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, + At seven all was still, + But the sough and swing of a mighty wing + The prison seemed to fill, + For the Lord of Death with icy breath + Had entered in to kill. + + He did not pass in purple pomp, + Nor ride a moon-white steed. + Three yards of cord and a sliding board + Are all the gallows' need: + So with rope of shame the Herald came + To do the secret deed. + + We were as men who through a fen + Of filthy darkness grope: + We did not dare to breathe a prayer, + Or to give our anguish scope: + Something was dead in each of us, + And what was dead was Hope. + + For Man's grim Justice goes its way, + And will not swerve aside: + It slays the weak, it slays the strong, + It has a deadly stride: + With iron heel it slays the strong, + The monstrous parricide! + + We waited for the stroke of eight: + Each tongue was thick with thirst: + For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate + That makes a man accursed, + And Fate will use a running noose + For the best man and the worst. + + We had no other thing to do, + Save to wait for the sign to come: + So, like things of stone in a valley lone, + Quiet we sat and dumb: + But each man's heart beat thick and quick, + Like a madman on a drum! + + With sudden shock the prison-clock + Smote on the shivering air, + And from all the gaol rose up a wail + Of impotent despair, + Like the sound that frightened marches hear + From some leper in his lair. + + And as one sees most fearful things + In the crystal of a dream, + We saw the greasy hempen rope + Hooked to the blackened beam, + And heard the prayer the hangman's snare + Strangled into a scream. + + And all the woe that moved him so + That he gave that bitter cry, + And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, + None knew so well as I: + For he who lives more lives than one + More deaths than one must die. + + +IV + + + There is no chapel on the day + On which they hang a man: + The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, + Or his face is far too wan, + Or there is that written in his eyes + Which none should look upon. + + So they kept us close till nigh on noon, + And then they rang the bell, + And the warders with their jingling keys + Opened each listening cell, + And down the iron stair we tramped, + Each from his separate Hell. + + Out into God's sweet air we went, + But not in wonted way, + For this man's face was white with fear, + And that man's face was grey, + And I never saw sad men who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw sad men who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + We prisoners called the sky, + And at every happy cloud that passed + In such strange freedom by. + + But there were those amongst us all + Who walked with downcast head, + And knew that, had each got his due, + They should have died instead: + He had but killed a thing that lived, + Whilst they had killed the dead. + + For he who sins a second time + Wakes a dead soul to pain, + And draws it from its spotted shroud, + And makes it bleed again, + And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, + And makes it bleed in vain! + + * * * * * + + Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb + With crooked arrows starred, + Silently we went round and round + The slippery asphalte yard; + Silently we went round and round, + And no man spoke a word. + + Silently we went round and round, + And through each hollow mind + The Memory of dreadful things + Rushed like a dreadful wind, + And Horror stalked before each man, + And Terror crept behind. + + * * * * * + + The warders strutted up and down, + And watched their herd of brutes, + Their uniforms were spick and span, + And they wore their Sunday suits, + But we knew the work they had been at, + By the quicklime on their boots. + + For where a grave had opened wide, + There was no grave at all: + Only a stretch of mud and sand + By the hideous prison-wall, + And a little heap of burning lime, + That the man should have his pall. + + For he has a pall, this wretched man, + Such as few men can claim: + Deep down below a prison-yard, + Naked for greater shame, + He lies, with fetters on each foot, + Wrapt in a sheet of flame! + + And all the while the burning lime + Eats flesh and bone away, + It eats the brittle bone by night, + And the soft flesh by day, + It eats the flesh and bone by turns, + But it eats the heart alway. + + * * * * + + For three long years they will not sow + Or root or seedling there: + For three long years the unblessed spot + Will sterile be and bare, + And look upon the wondering sky + With unreproachful stare. + + They think a murderer's heart would taint + Each simple seed they sow. + It is not true! God's kindly earth + Is kindlier than men know, + And the red rose would but blow more red, + The white rose whiter blow. + + Out of his mouth a red, red rose! + Out of his heart a white! + For who can say by what strange way, + Christ brings His will to light, + Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore + Bloomed in the great Pope's sight? + + But neither milk-white rose nor red + May bloom in prison-air; + The shard, the pebble, and the flint, + Are what they give us there: + For flowers have been known to heal + A common man's despair. + + So never will wine-red rose or white, + Petal by petal, fall + On that stretch of mud and sand that lies + By the hideous prison-wall, + To tell the men who tramp the yard + That God's Son died for all. + + Yet though the hideous prison-wall + Still hems him round and round, + And a spirit may not walk by night + That is with fetters bound, + And a spirit may but weep that lies + In such unholy ground. + + He is at peace-this wretched man-- + At peace, or will be soon: + There is no thing to make him mad, + Nor does Terror walk at noon, + For the lampless Earth in which he lies + Has neither Sun nor Moon. + + They hanged him as a beast is hanged: + They did not even toll + A requiem that might have brought + Rest to his startled soul, + But hurriedly they took him out, + And hid him in a hole. + + The warders stripped him of his clothes, + And gave him to the flies: + They mocked the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes: + And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud + In which the convict lies. + + The Chaplain would not kneel to pray + By his dishonoured grave: + Nor mark it with that blessed Cross + That Christ for sinners gave, + Because the man was one of those + Whom Christ came down to save. + + Yet all is well; he has but passed + To Life's appointed bourne: + And alien tears will fill for him + Pity's long-broken urn, + For his mourners will be outcast men, + And outcasts always mourn. + + +V + + + I know not whether Laws be right, + Or whether Laws be wrong; + All that we know who lie in gaol + Is that the wall is strong; + And that each day is like a year, + A year whose days are long. + + But this I know, that every Law + That men have made for Man, + Since first Man took his brother's life, + And the sad world began, + But straws the wheat and saves the chaff + With a most evil fan. + + This too I know--and wise it were + If each could know the same-- + That every prison that men build + Is built with bricks of shame, + And bound with bars lest Christ should see + How men their brothers maim. + + With bars they blur the gracious moon, + And blind the goodly sun: + And they do well to hide their Hell, + For in it things are done + That Son of God nor son of Man + Ever should look upon! + + * * * * * + + The vilest deeds like poison weeds, + Bloom well in prison-air; + It is only what is good in Man + That wastes and withers there: + Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, + And the Warder is Despair. + + For they starve the little frightened child + Till it weeps both night and day: + And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, + And gibe the old and grey, + And some grow mad, and all grow bad, + And none a word may say. + + Each narrow cell in which we dwell + Is a foul and dark latrine, + And the fetid breath of living Death + Chokes up each grated screen, + And all, but Lust, is turned to dust + In humanity's machine. + + The brackish water that we drink + Creeps with a loathsome slime, + And the bitter bread they weigh in scales + Is full of chalk and lime, + And Sleep will not lie down, but walks + Wild-eyed, and cries to Time. + + * * * * * + + But though lean Hunger and green Thirst + Like asp with adder fight, + We have little care of prison fare, + For what chills and kills outright + Is that every stone one lifts by day + Becomes one's heart by night. + + With midnight always in one's heart, + And twilight in one's cell, + We turn the crank, or tear the rope, + Each in his separate Hell, + And the silence is more awful far + Than the sound of a brazen bell. + + And never a human voice comes near + To speak a gentle word: + And the eye that watches through the door + Is pitiless and hard: + And by all forgot, we rot and rot, + With soul and body marred. + + And thus we rust Life's iron chain + Degraded and alone: + And some men curse and some men weep, + And some men make no moan: + But God's eternal Laws are kind + And break the heart of stone. + + And every human heart that breaks, + In prison-cell or yard, + Is as that broken box that gave + Its treasure to the Lord, + And filled the unclean leper's house + With the scent of costliest nard. + + Ah! happy they whose hearts can break + And peace of pardon win! + How else man may make straight his plan + And cleanse his soul from Sin? + How else but through a broken heart + May Lord Christ enter in? + + * * * * * + + And he of the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes, + Waits for the holy hands that took + The Thief to Paradise; + And a broken and a contrite heart + The Lord will not despise. + + The man in red who reads the Law + Gave him three weeks of life, + Three little weeks in which to heal His soul of his soul's strife, + And cleanse from every blot of blood + The hand that held the knife. + + And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, + The hand that held the steel: + For only blood can wipe out blood, + And only tears can heal: + And the crimson stain that was of Cain + Became Christ's snow-white seal. + + +VI + + + In Reading gaol by Reading town + There is a pit of shame, + And in it lies a wretched man + Eaten by teeth of flame, + In a burning winding-sheet he lies, + And his grave has got no name. + + And there, till Christ call forth the dead, + In silence let him lie: + No need to waste the foolish tear, + Or heave the windy sigh: + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + And all men kill the thing they love, + By all let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word, + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + + + +APPENDIX + +_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume I._ + +THE FROLICKSOME DUKE + +Printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection. + + +KING ESTMERE + +This ballad is given from two versions, one in the Percy folio +manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. The original version was +probably written at the end of the fifteenth century. + + +ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE + +One of the earliest known ballads about Robin Hood--from the Percy folio +manuscript. + + +KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID + +This ballad is printed from Richard Johnson's _Crown Garland of +Goulden Roses,_ 1612. + + +THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY + +This ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient +ballads found throughout the plays of Shakespeare, which Thomas Percy +formed into one. + + +SIR ALDINGAR + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas +added by Thomas Percy to complete the story. + + +EDOM O'GORDON + +A Scottish ballad--this version was printed at Glasgow in 1755 by Robert +and Andrew Foulis. It has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered +from a fragment of the same ballad, from the Percy folio manuscript. + + +THE BALLAD OF CHEVY CHACE + +From the Percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed +in black-letter. Written about the time of Elizabeth. + + +SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE + +Given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the +Percy folio manuscript. + + +THE CHILD OF ELLE + +Partly from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas +by Percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated. + + +KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAM WORTH + +The text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. One +in the Bodleian Library, printed at London by John Danter in 1596. The +other copy, without date, is from the Pepys Collection. + + +SIR PATRICK SPENS + +Printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland. It is +possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact. + + +EDWARD, EDWARD + +An old Scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from +Scotland. + + +KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS + +Version from an old copy in the _Golden Garland,_ black-letter, +entitled _A lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his Three +Daughters._ + + +THE GABERLUNZIE MAN + +This ballad is said to have been written by King James V of Scotland. + + + +_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume II._ + + +THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + +Printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections. + + +KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY + +This ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of James I from one +much older, entitled _King John and the Bishop of Canterbury._ The +version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy. + + +BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY + +Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled +_Barbara Alien's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy._ + + +FAIR ROSAMOND + +The version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in +black-letter: two of them in the Pepys' Library. It is by Thomas Delone. +First printed in 1612. + + +THE BOY AND THE MANTLE + +This is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad. + + +THE HEIR OF LINNE + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas +supplied by Thomas Percy. + + +SIR ANDREW BARTON + +This ballad is from the Percy folio manuscript with additions and +amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection. +It was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century. + + +THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN + +Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and +alterations from two ancient printed copies. + + +BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY + +Given from an old black-letter copy. + + +THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE + +The version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the +Percy folio manuscript. + + +GIL MORRICE + +The version of this ballad given here was printed at Glasgow in 1755. +Since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added +to the original ballad. + + +CHILD WATERS + +From the Percy folio manuscript, with corrections. + + +THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON + +From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection. + + +THE LYE + +By Sir Walter Raleigh. This poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled +_Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books ... +the 4th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme +more pleasing to the reader._ Lond. 1621. + + + +_From "English and Scottish Ballads."_ + + +MAY COLLIN + +From a manuscript at Abbotsford in the Sir Walter Scott Collection, +_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy._ + + +THOMAS THE RHYMER + +_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,_ No. 97, +Abbotsford. From the Sir Walter Scott Collection. Communicated to Sir +Walter by Mrs. Christiana Greenwood, London, May 27th, 1806. + + +YOUNG BEICHAN + +Taken from the Jamieson-Brown manuscript, 1783. + + +CLERK COLVILL + +From a transcript of No. 13 of William Tytler's Brown manuscript. + + +THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER + +From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland,_ 1828. + + +HYND HORN + +From Motherwell's manuscript, 1825 and after. + + +THE THREE RAVENS + +_Melismate. Musicall Phansies. Fitting the Court, Cittie and Country +Humours._ London, 1611. (T. Ravenscroft.) + + +THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL + +Printed from _Ministrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 1802. + + * * * * * + +MANDALAY + +By Rudyard Kipling. + + +JOHN BROWN'S BODY + + +IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY + +By Jack Judge and Harry Williams. + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + +By Oscar Wilde. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Book of Old Ballads, +Selected by Beverly Nichols + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS *** + +This file should be named 8bld510.txt or 8bld510.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8bld511.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8bld510a.txt + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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