{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_27408/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_27408","id":"gutenberg_27408","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27408","summary":null,"tags":["Ballads","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","English poetry"],"text":"Transcribed from the 1913 Thomas J. Wise pamphlet by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org.  Many thanks to Norfolk and Norwich Millennium Library,\nUK, for kindly supplying the images from which this transcription was\nmade.\n\n\n\n\n\n                              MOLLIE CHARANE\n                            AND OTHER BALLADS\n\n\n                                    BY\n                              GEORGE BORROW\n\n                                 LONDON:\n                     PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION\n                                   1913\n\n               _Copyright in the United States of America_\n           _by Houghton_, _Mifflin & Co. for Clement Shorter_.\n\n\n\n\nMOLLIE CHARANE {5}\n\n\n\"O, Mollie Charane, where got you your gold?\"\n   Lone, lone you have left me here.\n\"O not in the curragh, deep under the mould.\"\n   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.\n\n\"O, Mollie Charane, where got you your stock?\"\n   Lone, lone you have left me here.\n\"O not in the curragh from under a block.\"\n   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.\n\n\"O, Mollie Charane, where got you your goods?\"\n   Lone, lone you have left me here.\n\"O not in the curragh from under two sods.\"\n   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.\n\nTwo pair of stockings, and one pair of shoes--\n   Lone, lone you have left me here--\nFor twenty-six years old Mollie did use.\n   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.\n\nHis stockings were white, but his sandals, alack!--\n   Lone, lone you have left me here--\nWere not of one colour, one white, t'other black.\n   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.\n\nOne sandal was white and t'other dark brown--\n   Lone, lone you have left me here;--\nBut he'd two of one colour for kirk and for town.\n   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.\n\n\"O, father, I really can't walk by your side\"--\n   Lone, lone you have left me here--\n\"If you go to the church in those sandals of hide.\"\n   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.\n\n\"O, daughter, my dear, if my brogues give you pain\"--\n   Lone, lone you have left me here--\n\"There's that in the coffer will make you look fain.\"\n   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.\n\nA million of curses on Mollie Charane--\n   Lone, lone you have left me here--\nThe first who gave tocher to daughter in Man.\n   Lone, lone, and void of cheer.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DANES OF YORE\n\n\nWell we know from saga\n   And from scaldic lore,\nThat heroic warriors\n   Were the Danes of yore.\nThat the noble schildings,\n   And the men they led,\nOft for Danish honour\n   Stoutly fought and bled.\n\nWhat a time for Athelings,\n   What a time for thanes!\nWhat a time for yeomen,\n   True devoted Danes!\nBut I'll say with pleasure\n   That, in ancient days,\nDeath did not annihilate\n   All that noble race.\n\nFrederic see, exalted\n   On his father's throne,\nSits a splendid monarch,\n   Brighter never shone.\nLong to him be granted\n   That of Grendel's kin\nHe may check the cruel\n   Cursed deeds of sin.\n\nAnd that long may flourish\n   Round about the King,\nThey who love gold treasures\n   All around to fling.\nLords, the first of heroes,\n   With their trenchant swords;\nCounsellors held in honour,\n   For their golden words.\n\nTo the Lord of angels\n   Praise devout I'll sing,\nThat from out the grave-hill\n   'Twas my lot to bring\nGolden dishes, goblets,\n   Things of mighty worth,\nWhich for thousand winters\n   Lay entombed in earth.\n\nThat men in gold smithery\n   Cunning, might from them\nFor the grey haired hero\n   Frame a diadem.\nUnder which his grey locks\n   Might all glorious shine,\nWhilst the sun, bright flaming,\n   Seeks the western brine.\n\nUntil, tired of glory,\n   Such as meets it here,\nSoars the hero's spirit\n   To a higher sphere;\nWhere, with souls united\n   Of departed friends,\n'Twill experience glory\n   Such as never ends.\n\n\n\n\nA SURVEY OF DEATH\n\n\nMy blood is freezing, my senses reel,\nSo horror stricken at heart I feel;\nThinking how like a fast stream we range\nNearer and nearer to that dread change,\nWhen the body becomes so stark and cold,\nAnd man doth crumble away to mould.\n\nBoast not, proud maid, for the grave doth gape,\nAnd strangely altered reflects thy shape;\nNo dainty charms it doth disclose,\nDeath will ravish thy beauty's rose;\nAnd all the rest will leave to thee\nWhen dug thy chilly grave shall be.\n\nO, ye who are tripping the floor so light,\nIn delicate robes as the lily white,\nThink of the fading funeral wreath,\nThe dying struggle, the sweat of death--\nThink on the dismal death array,\nWhen the pallid corse is consigned to clay!\n\nO, ye who in quest of riches roam,\nReflect that ashes ye must become;\nAnd the wealth ye win will brightly shine\nWhen buried are ye and all your line;\nFor your many chests of much loved gold\nYou'll nothing obtain but a little mould!\n\n\n\n\nDESIDERABILIA VITAE {13}\n\n\nGive me the haunch of a buck to eat,\n   And to drink Madeira old;\nAnd a gentle wife to rest with,\n   And in my arms to fold.\n\nAn Arabic book to study,\n   A gipsy pony to ride;\nAnd a house to live in shaded by trees,\n   Near to a river's side.\n\nWith such good things around me,\n   And with good health withal,\nThough I should live for a hundred years\n   For death I would not call.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT JACOB\n\n\nSaint Jacob he takes our blest Lord by the hand:\n\"I gladly would Christianize Garsia land.\"\n\n\"O how wilt thou bring it within Christian pale?\nNo ship hast thou here o'er the salt sea to sail.\"\n\n\"Thy power, O Lord, is so wondrously great,\nFull quickly a ship Thou for me canst create.\"\n\n\"Saint Jacob, hie down to the salt ocean strand,\nThere standeth so little a stone by the land.\"\n\nSaint Jacob he taketh a book in his hand,\nAnd down he proceeds to the salt ocean strand.\n\nSaint Jacob he made o'er the stone the cross-mark,\nFrom the land straight it floated, as though 'twere a bark.\n\nIt rode o'er the billows so rapid and free,\nRight, right towards Garsia promontoree.\n\nSo rapid the stone to glide thither began,\nA hundred miles space in one short hour it ran.\n\nIn comes a foot-boy, to the King doffs his bonnet:\n\"Here cometh a stone, and a man sits upon it.\"\n\nA woman rushed in, in her eyes wonder shone:\n\"Here cometh a man, and he sits on a stone.\"\n\nKing Garsia taketh his axe in his hand,\nAnd down he proceeds to the salt ocean strand.\n\n\"Now hear thou, Saint Jacob, I say unto thee,\nWhat hast thou in this land, in this land here with me?\"\n\n\"Unto thee I am come to this land 'cross the brine,\nBecause that my Maker is greater than thine.\"\n\n\"O how can thy Maker be greater than mine?\nMine drinks every day the brown mead and the wine.\"\n\n\"O then my Creator is greater than thine,\nFor mine can the water convert into wine.\n\n\"My Maker can turn the black mould into bread,\nCan give life back to them who long, long have been dead.\"\n\n\"If thou canst restore me my dearly loved son,\nI'll trust in thy Maker, and no other one.\n\n\"If I again view him, with flesh and hair dight,\nAs he fifteen years since disappeared from my sight;\n\n\"If I get him again both with hawk and with hound,\nJust, just as he sank in the depths of the sound;\n\n\"With hair on his head, and with flesh on his bone,\nAs though he the pang of death never had known.\"\n\nThen the blessed Saint Jacob upon his book pored:\n\"'Twill be no easy matter to get him restored.\"\n\nWhen he had stood reading a wee little time,\nHe raised up the man from hell's sorrowful clime.\n\n\"Now again thou hast got him with flesh and hair dight,\nAs he fifteen years since disappeared from thy sight.\n\n\"Thou hast got him again, both with hawk and with hound,\nJust, just as he sank in the ocean profound.\n\n\"With hair on his head, and with flesh on his bone,\nAs though he the pang of death never had known.\"\n\n\"Now hear thou, my dear son, so fine and so fair,\nWhat news from thy journey afar dost thou bear?\"\n\n\"The news which I bring from the far distant place,\nIs that one little knows of the other's hard case.\n\n\"There the woman, who's hated the child of her womb,\nOut of the snake-tower can ne'er hope to come.\n\n\"There the cruel step-mother, her child who has slain,\nGoes begirt with a sword fraught with festering bane.\n\n\"The merchants who here in heaps money up-rake,\nThere hiss in the likeness of serpent and snake.\n\n\"The Sysselmen, wretches with hearts hard as stone,\nThere in the snake-tower despairingly moan.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE RENEGADE\n\n\nNow pay ye the heed that is fitting,\n   Whilst I sing ye the Iran adventure;\nThe pasha on sofa was sitting,\n   Midst his harem's glorious centre.\n\nGreek sang, and Tcherkass, for his pleasure,\n   And Kergoosian captive is dancing;\nIn the eyes of the first heaven's azure,\n   In the others black Eblis is glancing.\n\nBut the pasha's attention is failing,\n   O'er his visage his fair turban stealeth;\nFrom chebouk he sleep is inhaling,\n   Whilst around him sweet vapours he dealeth.\n\nWhat rumour without is there breeding?\n   Ye fair ranks asunder why wend ye?\nKyslar Aga, a strange captive leading,\n   Cometh forward, and crieth \"Efendy.\"\n\n\"Whose face has the power when present\n   'Mong the stars round the divan which muster?\nWho amidst the gems of night's crescent\n   Has the blaze of Aldeboran's lustre?\n\n\"Glance nearer, bright star! I have tiding,\n   Glad tiding.  Behold how in duty\nFrom far Lehistan the wind, gliding,\n   Has brought this fresh tribute of beauty.\n\n\"In the padishaw's garden there bloometh\n   In proud Istambul no such blossom;\nFrom the wintry regions she cometh,\n   Whose memory so lives in thy bosom.\"\n\nThen the gauzes removes he which shade her,\n   At her beauty all wonder intensely;\nOne moment the pasha surveyed her,\n   Then, dropping his chebouk, without sense lay.\n\nHis turban has fallen from his forehead,\n   To assist him the bystanders started.\nHis mouth foams, his face blackens horrid,--\n   See, the Renegade's soul has departed!\n\n\n\n\nAN IMPROMPTU\n\n\nAnd darest thou thyself compare\n   With one who quaffs at Helicon;\nWhose playfellows the Muses are,\n   And whom Apollo calleth son?\nWho, had he lived in olden day,\n   With some fierce host had strode along;\nLike Taillefer to Hasting's fray,\n   Cheering the Normans with his song.\n\nThe laurel wreath Apollo gave\n   I would not change for kingly crown;\nA King is but an exalted slave,\n   Rebellion soon may hurl him down.\nBut who can force me from the height\n   Whereto I've soared on Eagle's wing?\nI leave to Monarchs ceaseless fright\n   For what the coming day may bring.\n\nThough poor I be, I've Minstrelsy,\n   When fortune frowns I'll strike my lyre;\nAgainst the world's inclemency\n   'Twill warm my soul with heavenly fire.\nThen wonder not if proud the air\n   Of one who's high Apollo's son;\nNor henceforth dare thyself compare\n   With one who quaffs at Helicon.\n\n\n\n\nA HYMN\n\n\nO Jesus, Thou Fountain of solace and gladness\n   Of Heaven's high Three second person divine;\nForgive, O forgive me my blindness and madness,\n   And guide to Thy kingdom this spirit of mine.\n\n   Dearly, O Jesus,\n      Thou boughtest me,\n   Yon Friday dark\n      Upon the tree.\n\n   Thy foes were numerous,\n      Fierce and fell;\n   Few and weak those\n      Who wished Thee well.\n\n   Nigh stood Thy mother,\n      Full of fears,\n   Wringing her hands\n      And bathed in tears.\n\n   Often, O Jesus,\n      Wilfully\n   With my great sins\n      I've tortured Thee.\n\n   Causing Thy wounds\n      To open again,\n   Waking anew\n      The ancient pain.\n\n   All the kindness\n      Thou hast display'd,\n   With black ingratitude\n      I've repaid.\n\nBut Jesus, Creator of earth and of ocean,\n   Who me, a vile sinner, so dearly didst buy;\nMy damnable ignorance turn to devotion,\n   And guide my poor soul to Thy courts in the sky.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRANSFORMED DAMSEL. {25}\n\n\nMy father up of the country rode,\n   A maiden he would wed;\nAnd a foul witch he married then,\n   If the whole truth be said.\n\nThe first night they together slept,\n   She was a mother kind to me;\nBut when the second night arrived,\n   A cruel stepmother was she.\n\nI was seated at my father's board\n   With dogs and whelps amused;\nTowards me striding my stepmother came,\n   And cruelly me she used.\n\nShe changed me to a little hind,\n   Bade me into the forest wend;\nMy seven maids then she changed to wolves,\n   And ordered them my flesh to rend.\n\nBut my seven maids would rend me not,\n   So dearly me they loved;\nThen vexed sore my step-dame was,\n   That no worse my fortune proved.\n\nSir Orm he serves in the King's palace,\n   A Knight is he so fair;\nHe sighs for the maiden day and night,\n   But in secret he keeps his care.\n\nSir Orm he rode from the King's palace,\n   He could enjoy no peace;\nHe rode into the good green wood,\n   The hart and hind to chase.\n\nSir Orm set his bow his knee before,\n   He rode to the hind so near;\nBut the hind would not from the sleuth-hounds flee,\n   For the Knight to her was dear.\n\nBut the hounds advanced to the hind so near,\n   That the hind was forced to fly;\nShe changed herself to a little bird,\n   And flew high up in the sky.\n\nAnon down flew the little bird,\n   Perched a linden bough upon;\nSir Orm he stood there down below,\n   And sorely did he moan.\n\nDown flew the lovely little bird,\n   And 'gan on the bait to feast,\nWhich out of his bosom Sir Orm had cut,\n   So well it pleased her taste.\n\nAnd then the lovely little bird\n   Dropped down on the yellow sand,\nAnd she became the fairest damsel,\n   Was ever seen in the land.\n\nThe Damsel stood under the linden bough,\n   Freed was she now from thrall;\nSir Orm he stood so near thereby,\n   They related their sorrows all.\n\n\"Many thanks to thee, Sir Orm the bold\n   Thou'st freed me from my woe;\nExcept beside my snow-white side\n   Thou sleep shalt nevermoe.\"\n\nThanks be to him, Sir Orm the bold\n   He kept his faith so well;\nThe Monday morn thereafter\n   His bridal it befell.\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n                                 LONDON:\n                Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W\n                    _Edition limited to Thirty Copies_\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes:\n\n\n{5}  This ballad is founded on a real character--a miser--who by various\nmeans acquired a considerable property, and was the first person who ever\nleft \"tocher,\" that is fortune, to daughter in Man.  His name was Mollie\nCharane, which words interpreted are \"Praise the Lord.\"  He lived and\npossessed an estate on the curragh, a tract of boggy ground, formerly a\nforest, on the northern side of the island, between the mighty mountains\nof the Snefell range and the sea.\n\n{13}  Previously printed, with a slightly different text, and arranged in\nsix lines instead of in three four-line stanzas, in _Lavengro_, 1851,\nVol. i, p. 306.\n\n{25}  This Ballad should be compared with _The Cruel Step-dame_, printed\nin _The Serpent Knight and Other Ballads_, 1913, pp. 30-33.  Also with\n_The Transformed Damsel_, printed in _The Return of the Dead and Other\nBallads_, 1913, pp. 13-14.","title":"Mollie Charane, and Other Ballads","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":2499}