{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_649/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_649","id":"gutenberg_649","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/649","summary":null,"tags":["Ballads, English -- England -- Texts","Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Songs, English -- England -- Texts"],"text":"Transcribed from the 1857 John W. Parker and Son edition by David Price,\nemail ccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n ANCIENT POEMS\n BALLADS AND SONGS\n OF THE\n PEASANTRY OF ENGLAND.\n\n\n TAKEN DOWN FROM ORAL RECITATION AND TRANSCRIBED FROM\n PRIVATE MANUSCRIPTS, RARE BROADSIDES AND\n SCARCE PUBLICATIONS.\n\n EDITED BY ROBERT BELL\n\n [Picture: Decorative graphic]\n\n LONDON\n JOHN W. PARKER AND SON WEST STRAND\n 1857\n\n * * * * *\n\n LONDON:\n SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS\n CHANDOS STREET.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n PAGE\nIntroduction 7\n Poems.\nTHE PLAIN-DEALING MAN 11\nTHE VANITIES OF LIFE 15\nTHE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN 20\nTHE YOUNG MAN\u2019S WISH 22\nTHE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER 24\nA DIALOGUE BETWIXT AN EXCISEMAN AND DEATH 29\nTHE MESSENGER OF MORTALITY 32\nENGLAND\u2019S ALARM 36\nSMOKING SPIRITUALIZED 39\nTHE MASONIC HYMN 42\nGOD SPEED THE PLOW, AND BLESS THE CORN-MOW 44\nA DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE HUSBANDMAN AND THE SERVINGMAN 46\nTHE CATHOLICK 49\n Ballads.\nTHE THREE KNIGHTS 50\nTHE BLIND BEGGAR OF BEDNALL GREEN 51\nTHE BOLD PEDLAR AND ROBIN HOOD 59\nTHE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT 61\nLORD DELAWARE 64\nLORD BATEMAN 68\nTHE GOLDEN GLOVE; OR, THE SQUIRE OF TAMWORTH 70\nKING JAMES I. AND THE TINKLER 72\nTHE KEACH I\u2019 THE CREEL 75\nTHE MERRY BROOMFIELD; OR, THE WEST COUNTRY WAGER 77\nSIR JOHN BARLEYCORN 80\nBLOW THE WINDS, I-HO! 82\nTHE BEAUTIFUL LADY OF KENT; OR, THE SEAMAN OF DOVER 84\nTHE BERKSHIRE LADY\u2019S GARLAND 90\nTHE NOBLEMAN\u2019S GENEROUS KINDNESS 98\nTHE DRUNKARD\u2019S LEGACY 100\nTHE BOWES TRAGEDY 106\nTHE CRAFTY LOVER; OR, THE LAWYER OUTWITTED 110\nTHE DEATH OF QUEEN JANE 113\nTHE WANDERING YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN; OR, CATSKIN 115\nTHE BRAVE EARL BRAND AND THE KING OF ENGLAND\u2019S DAUGHTER 122\nTHE JOVIAL HUNTER OF BROMSGROVE; OR, THE OLD MAN AND HIS 124\nTHREE SONS\nLADY ALICE 127\nTHE FELON SEWE OF ROKEBY AND THE FREERES OF RICHMOND 127\n Songs.\nARTHUR O\u2019BRADLEY\u2019S WEDDING 138\nTHE PAINFUL PLOUGH 143\nTHE USEFUL PLOW; OR, THE PLOUGH\u2019S PRAISE 145\nTHE FARMER\u2019S SON 146\nTHE FARMER\u2019S BOY 148\nRICHARD OF TAUNTON DEAN; OR, DUMBLE DUM DEARY 149\nWOOING SONG OF A YEOMAN OF KENT\u2019S SONNE 153\nTHE CLOWN\u2019S COURTSHIP 155\nHARRY\u2019S COURTSHIP 155\nHARVEST-HOME SONG 156\nHARVEST-HOME 157\nTHE MOW 158\nTHE BARLEY-MOW SONG 159\nTHE BARLEY-MOW SONG (SUFFOLK VERSION) 162\nTHE CRAVEN CHURN-SUPPER SONG 162\nTHE RURAL DANCE ABOUT THE MAY-POLE 164\nTHE HITCHIN MAY-DAY SONG 166\nTHE HELSTONE FURRY-DAY SONG 167\nCORNISH MIDSUMMER BONFIRE SONG 169\nSUFFOLK HARVEST-HOME SONG 170\nTHE HAYMAKER\u2019S SONG 171\nTHE SWORD-DANCERS\u2019 SONG 172\nTHE SWORD-DANCERS\u2019 SONG AND INTERLUDE 175\nTHE MASKERS\u2019 SONG 180\nGLOUCESTERSHIRE WASSAILERS\u2019 SONG 183\nTHE MUMMERS\u2019 SONG 184\nFRAGMENT OF THE HAGMENA SONG 186\nTHE GREENSIDE WAKES SONG 187\nTHE SWEARING-IN SONG OR RHYME 188\nFAIRLOP FAIR SONG 191\nAS TOM WAS A-WALKING 193\nTHE MILLER AND HIS SONS 194\nJACK AND TOM 195\nJOAN\u2019S ALE WAS NEW 197\nGEORGE RIDLER\u2019S OVEN 199\nTHE CARRION CROW 202\nTHE LEATHERN BOTTEL 203\nTHE FARMER\u2019S OLD WIFE 204\nOLD WICHET AND HIS WIFE 206\nTHE JOLLY WAGGONER 208\nTHE YORKSHIRE HORSE-DEALER 209\nTHE KING AND THE COUNTRYMAN 210\nJONE O\u2019 GREENFIELD\u2019S RAMBLE 212\nTHORNEHAGH-MOOR WOODS 214\nTHE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER 216\nSOMERSETSHIRE HUNTING SONG 217\nTHE TROTTING HORSE 218\nTHE SEEDS OF LOVE 220\nTHE GARDEN-GATE 221\nTHE NEW-MOWN HAY 223\nTHE PRAISE OF A DAIRY 224\nTHE MILK-MAID\u2019S LIFE 226\nTHE MILKING-PAIL 228\nTHE SUMMER\u2019S MORNING 229\nOLD ADAM 231\nTOBACCO 232\nTHE SPANISH LADIES 234\nHARRY THE TAILOR 235\nSIR ARTHUR AND CHARMING MOLLEE 236\nTHERE WAS AN OLD MAN CAME OVER THE LEA 237\nWHY SHOULD WE QUARREL FOR RICHES 238\nTHE MERRY FELLOWS 239\nTHE OLD MAN\u2019S SONG 240\nROBIN HOOD\u2019S HILL 241\nBEGONE DULL CARE 243\nFULL MERRILY SINGS THE CUCKOO 244\nJOCKEY TO THE FAIR 245\nLONG PRESTON PEG 247\nTHE SWEET NIGHTINGALE 247\nTHE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS 250\nA BEGGING WE WILL GO 251\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nIN 1846, the Percy Society issued to its members a volume entitled\n_Ancient Poems_, _Ballads_, _and Songs of the Peasantry of England_,\nedited by Mr. James Henry Dixon. The sources drawn upon by Mr. Dixon are\nintimated in the following extract from his preface:\u2014\n\n He who, in travelling through the rural districts of England, has\n made the road-side inn his resting-place, who has visited the lowly\n dwellings of the villagers and yeomanry, and been present at their\n feasts and festivals, must have observed that there are certain old\n poems, ballads, and songs, which are favourites with the masses, and\n have been said and sung from generation to generation.\n\nThis traditional, and, for the most part, unprinted literature,\u2014cherished\nin remote villages, resisting everywhere the invasion of modern\nnamby-pamby verse and jaunty melody, and possessing, in an historical\npoint of view, especial value as a faithful record of the feeling,\nusages, and modes of life of the rural population,\u2014had been almost wholly\npassed over amongst the antiquarian revivals which constitute one of the\ndistinguishing features of the present age. While attention was\nsuccessfully drawn to other forms of our early poetry, this peasant\nminstrelsy was scarcely touched, and might be considered unexplored\nground. There was great difficulty in collecting materials which lay\nscattered so widely, and which could be procured in their genuine\nsimplicity only from the people amongst whom they originated, and with\nwhom they are as \u2018familiar as household words.\u2019 It was even still more\ndifficult to find an editor who combined genial literary taste with the\nlocal knowledge of character, customs, and dialect, indispensable to the\ncollation of such reliques; and thus, although their national interest\nwas universally recognised, they were silently permitted to fall into\ncomparative oblivion. To supply this manifest _desideratum_, Mr. Dixon\ncompiled his volume for the Percy Society; and its pages, embracing only\na selection from the rich stores he had gathered, abundantly exemplified\nthat gentleman\u2019s remarkable qualifications for the labour he had\nundertaken. After stating in his preface that contributions from various\nquarters had accumulated so largely on his hands as to compel him to omit\nmany pieces he was desirous of preserving, he thus describes generally\nthe contents of the work:\u2014\n\n In what we have retained will be found every variety,\n\n \u2018From grave to gay, from lively to severe,\u2019\n\n from the moral poem and the religious dialogue,\u2014\n\n \u2018The scrolls that teach us to live and to die,\u2019\u2014\n\n to the legendary, the historical, or the domestic ballad; from the\n strains that enliven the harvest-home and festival, to the\n love-ditties which the country lass warbles, or the comic song with\n which the rustic sets the village hostel in a roar. In our\n collection are several pieces exceedingly scarce, and hitherto to be\n met with only in broadsides and chap-books of the utmost rarity; in\n addition to which we have given several others never before in print,\n and obtained by the editor and his friends, either from the oral\n recitation of the peasantry, or from manuscripts in the possession of\n private individuals.\n\nThe novelty of the matter, and the copious resources disclosed by the\neditor, acquired for the volume a popularity extending far beyond the\nlimited circle to which it was addressed; and although the edition was\nnecessarily restricted to the members of the Percy Society, the book was\nquoted not only by English writers, but by some of the most distinguished\narch\u00e6ologists on the continent.\n\nIt had always been my intention to form a collection of local songs,\nillustrative of popular festivals, customs, manners, and dialects. As\nthe merit of having anticipated, and, in a great measure, accomplished\nthis project belongs exclusively to Mr. Dixon, so to that gentleman I\nhave now the pleasure of tendering my acknowledgments for the means of\nenriching the Annotated Edition of the English Poets with a volume which,\nin some respects, is the most curious and interesting of the series.\n\nSubsequently to the publication of his collection by the Percy Society,\nMr. Dixon had amassed additional materials of great value; and, conscious\nthat the work admitted of considerable improvement, both in the way of\nomission and augmentation, he resolved upon the preparation of a new\nedition. His reasons for rejecting certain portions of the former volume\nare stated in the following extract from a communication with which he\nhas obliged me, and which may be considered as his own introduction to\nthe ensuing pages.\n\n The editor had passed his earliest years in a romantic\n mountain-district in the North of England, where old customs and\n manners, and old songs and ballads still linger. Under the influence\n of these associations, he imbibed a passionate love for peasant\n rhymes; having little notion at that time that the simple minstrelsy\n which afforded him so much delight could yield hardly less pleasure\n to those who cultivated more artificial modes of poetry, and who knew\n little of the life of the peasantry. His collection was not issued\n without diffidence; but the result dissipated all apprehension as to\n the estimate in which these essentially popular productions are held.\n The reception of the book, indeed, far exceeded its merits; for he is\n bound in candour to say that it was neither so complete nor so\n judiciously selected as it might have been. Like almost all books\n issued by societies, it was got up in haste, and hurried through the\n press. It contained some things which were out of place in such a\n work, but which were inserted upon solicitations that could not have\n been very easily refused; and even where the matter was\n unexceptionable, it sometimes happened that it was printed from\n comparatively modern broadsides, for want of time to consult earlier\n editions. In the interval which has since elapsed, all these defects\n and short-comings have been remedied. Several pieces, which had no\n legitimate claims to the places they occupied, have been removed;\n others have been collated with more ancient copies than the editor\n had had access to previously; and the whole work has been\n considerably enlarged. In its present form it is strictly what its\n title-page implies\u2014a collection of poems, ballads, and songs\n preserved by tradition, and in actual circulation, amongst the\n peasantry.\n\n _Bex_, _Canton de Vaud_,\n _Switzerland_.\n\nThe present volume differs in many important particulars from the former,\nof the deficiencies of which Mr. Dixon makes so frank an avowal. It has\nnot only undergone a careful revision, but has received additions to an\nextent which renders it almost a new work. Many of there accessions are\ntaken from extremely rare originals, and others are here printed for the\nfirst time, including amongst the latter the ballad of _Earl Brand_, a\ntraditional lyric of great antiquity, long familiar to the dales of the\nNorth of England; and the _Death of Queen Jane_, a relic of more than\nordinary intesest. Nearly forty songs, noted down from recitation, or\ngathered from sources not generally accessible, have been added to the\nformer collection, illustrative, for the most part, of historical events,\ncountry pastimes, and local customs. Not the least suggestive feature in\nthis department are the political songs it contains, which have long\noutlived the occasions that gave them birth, and which still retain their\npopularity, although their allusions are no longer understood. Amongst\nthis class of songs may be specially indicated _Jack and Tom_, _Joan\u2019s\nAle was New_, _George Ridler\u2019s Oven_, and _The Carrion Crow_. The songs\nof a strictly rural character, having reference to the occupations and\nintercourse of the people, possess an interest which cannot be adequately\nmeasured by their poetical pretensions. The very defects of art with\nwhich they are chargeable, constitute their highest claim to\nconsideration as authentic specimens of country lore. The songs in\npraise of the dairy, or the plough; or in celebration of the\nharvest-home, or the churn-supper; or descriptive of the pleasures of the\nmilk-maid, or the courtship in the farm-house; or those that give us\nglimpses of the ways of life of the waggoner, the poacher, the\nhorse-dealer, and the boon companion of the road-side hostelrie, are no\nless curious for their idiomatic and primitive forms of expression, than\nfor their pictures of rustic modes and manners. Of special interest,\ntoo, are the songs which relate to festival and customs; such as the\n_Sword Dancer\u2019s Song and Interlude_, the _Swearing-in Song_, _or Rhyme_,\n_at Highgate_, the _Cornish Midsummer Bonfire Song_, and the _Fairlop\nFair Song_.\n\nIn the arrangement of so multifarious an anthology, gathered from nearly\nall parts of the kingdom, the observance of chronological order, for\nobvious reasons, has not been attempted; but pieces which possess any\nkind of affinity to each other have been kept together as nearly as other\nconsiderations would permit.\n\nThe value of this volume consists in the genuineness of its contents, and\nthe healthiness of its tone. While fashionable life was masquerading in\nimaginary Arcadias, and deluging theatres and concert rooms with shams,\nthe English peasant remained true to the realities of his own experience,\nand produced and sang songs which faithfully reflected the actual life\naround him. Whatever these songs describe is true to that life. There\nare no fictitious raptures in them. Love here never dresses its emotions\nin artificial images, nor disguises itself in the mask of a Strephon or a\nDaphne. It is in this particular aspect that the poetry of the country\npossesses a permanent and moral interest.\n\n R. B.\n\n\n\n\nPoems.\n\n\nTHE PLAIN-DEALING MAN.\n\n\n[THE oldest copy of the _Plain Dealing Man_ with which we have been able\nto meet is in black letter, printed by T. Vere at the sign \u2018Of the Angel\nwithout Newgate.\u2019 Vere was living in 1609.]\n\n A CROTCHET comes into my mind\n Concerning a proverb of old,\n Plain dealing\u2019s a jewel most rare,\n And more precious than silver or gold:\n And therefore with patience give ear,\n And listen to what here is penned,\n These verses were written on purpose\n The honest man\u2019s cause to defend.\n For this I will make it appear,\n And prove by experience I can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n Yet some are so impudent grown,\n They\u2019ll domineer, vapour, and swagger,\n And say that the plain-dealing man\n Was born to die a beggar:\n But men that are honestly given\n Do such evil actions detest,\n And every one that is well-minded\n Will say that plain dealing is best.\n For this I will make it appear,\n And prove by experience I can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n For my part I am a poor man,\n And sometimes scarce muster a shilling,\n Yet to live upright in the world,\n Heaven knows I am wondrous willing.\n Although that my clothes be threadbare,\n And my calling be simple and poor,\n Yet will I endeavour myself\n To keep off the wolf from the door.\n For this I will make it appear,\n And prove by experience I can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n And now, to be brief in discourse,\n In plain terms I\u2019ll tell you my mind;\n My qualities you shall all know,\n And to what my humour\u2019s inclined:\n I hate all dissembling base knaves\n And pickthanks whoever they be,\n And for painted-faced drabs, and such like,\n They shall never get penny of me.\n For this I will make it appear,\n And prove by experience I can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n Nor can I abide any tongues\n That will prattle and prate against reason,\n About that which doth not concern them;\n Which thing is no better than treason.\n Wherefore I\u2019d wish all that do hear me\n Not to meddle with matters of state,\n Lest they be in question called for it,\n And repent them when it is too late.\n For this I will make it appear,\n And prove by experience I can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n O fie upon spiteful neighbours,\n Whose malicious humours are bent,\n And do practise and strive every day\n To wrong the poor innocent.\n By means of such persons as they,\n There hath many a good mother\u2019s son\n Been utterly brought to decay,\n Their wives and their children undone.\n For this I will make it appear,\n And prove by experience I can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n O fie upon forsworn knaves,\n That do no conscience make\n To swear and forswear themselves\n At every third word they do speak:\n So they may get profit and gain,\n They care not what lies they do tell;\n Such cursed dissemblers as they\n Are worse than the devils of hell.\n For this I will make it appear,\n And prove by experience I can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n O fie upon greedy bribe takers,\n \u2019Tis pity they ever drew breath,\n For they, like to base caterpillars,\n Devour up the fruits of the earth.\n They\u2019re apt to take money with both hands,\n On one side and also the other,\n And care not what men they undo,\n Though it be their own father or brother.\n Therefore I will make it appear,\n And show very good reasons I can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n O fie upon cheaters and thieves,\n That liveth by fraud and deceit;\n The gallows do for such blades groan,\n And the hangmen do for their clothes wait.\n Though poverty be a disgrace,\n And want is a pitiful grief,\n \u2019Tis better to go like a beggar\n Than to ride in a cart like a thief.\n For this I will make it appear,\n And prove by experience I can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n And now let all honest men judge,\n If such men as I have here named\n For their wicked and impudent dealings,\n Deserveth not much to be blamed.\n And now here, before I conclude,\n One item to the world I will give,\n Which may direct some the right way,\n And teach them the better to live.\n For now I have made it appear,\n And many men witness it can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n 1. I\u2019 th\u2019 first place I\u2019d wish you beware\n What company you come in,\n For those that are wicked themselves\n May quickly tempt others to sin.\n\n 2. If youths be induc\u00e8d with wealth,\n And have plenty of silver and gold,\n I\u2019d wish them keep something in store,\n To comfort them when they are old.\n\n 3. I have known many young prodigals,\n Which have wasted their money so fast,\n That they have been driven in want,\n And were forc\u00e8d to beg at the last.\n\n 4. I\u2019d wish all men bear a good conscience,\n And in all their actions be just;\n For he\u2019s a false varlet indeed\n That will not be true to his trust.\n\n And now to conclude my new song,\n And draw to a perfect conclusion,\n I have told you what is in my mind,\n And what is my [firm] resolution.\n For this I have made it appear,\n And prove by experience I can,\n \u2019Tis the excellen\u2019st thing in the world\n To be a plain-dealing man.\n\n\n\nTHE VANITIES OF LIFE.\n\n\n[THE following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire\npeasant, from a MS. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of\na poor man, entitled _The World\u2019s best Wealth_; _a Collection of choice\nCouncils in Verse and Prose_. _Printed for A. Bettesworth_, _at the Red\nLion in Paternoster-row_, 1720. They were written in a \u2018crabbed, quaint\nhand, and difficult to decipher.\u2019 Clare remitted the poem (along with\nthe original MS.) to Montgomery, the author of _The World before the\nFlood_, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the _Sheffield Iris_.\nMontgomery\u2019s criticism is as follows:\u2014\u2018Long as the poem appears to the\neye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of\ncondensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant\nimagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral\npoints in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully\nenforced.\u2019 Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The\npoem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of\nthe 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply\nimbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding\ncentury, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his\nsmoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school\nof his own times.]\n\n \u2018Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.\u2019\u2014SOLOMON.\n\n WHAT are life\u2019s joys and gains?\n What pleasures crowd its ways,\n That man should take such pains\n To seek them all his days?\n Sift this untoward strife\n On which thy mind is bent,\n See if this chaff of life\n Is worth the trouble spent.\n\n Is pride thy heart\u2019s desire?\n Is power thy climbing aim?\n Is love thy folly\u2019s fire?\n Is wealth thy restless game?\n Pride, power, love, wealth and all,\n Time\u2019s touchstone shall destroy,\n And, like base coin, prove all\n Vain substitutes for joy.\n\n Dost think that pride exalts\n Thyself in other\u2019s eyes,\n And hides thy folly\u2019s faults,\n Which reason will despise?\n Dost strut, and turn, and stride,\n Like walking weathercocks?\n The shadow by thy side\n Becomes thy ape, and mocks.\n\n Dost think that power\u2019s disguise\n Can make thee mighty seem?\n It may in folly\u2019s eyes,\n But not in worth\u2019s esteem:\n When all that thou canst ask,\n And all that she can give,\n Is but a paltry mask\n Which tyants wear and live.\n\n Go, let thy fancies range\n And ramble where they may;\n View power in every change,\n And what is the display?\n \u2014The country magistrate,\n The lowest shade in power,\n To rulers of the state,\n The meteors of an hour:\u2014\n\n View all, and mark the end\n Of every proud extreme,\n Where flattery turns a friend,\n And counterfeits esteem;\n Where worth is aped in show,\n That doth her name purloin,\n Like toys of golden glow\n That\u2019s sold for copper coin.\n\n Ambition\u2019s haughty nod,\n With fancies may deceive,\n Nay, tell thee thou\u2019rt a god,\u2014\n And wilt thou such believe?\n Go, bid the seas be dry,\n Go, hold earth like a ball,\n Or throw her fancies by,\n For God can do it all.\n\n Dost thou possess the dower\n Of laws to spare or kill?\n Call it not heav\u2019nly power\n When but a tyrant\u2019s will;\n Know what a God will do,\n And know thyself a fool,\n Nor tyrant-like pursue\n Where He alone should rule.\n\n Dost think, when wealth is won,\n Thy heart has its desire?\n Hold ice up to the sun,\n And wax before the fire;\n Nor triumph o\u2019er the reign\n Which they so soon resign;\n In this world weigh the gain,\n Insurance safe is thine.\n\n Dost think life\u2019s peace secure\n In houses and in land?\n Go, read the fairy lure\n To twist a cord of sand;\n Lodge stones upon the sky,\n Hold water in a sieve,\n Nor give such tales the lie,\n And still thine own believe.\n\n Whoso with riches deals,\n And thinks peace bought and sold,\n Will find them slippery eels,\n That slide the firmest hold:\n Though sweet as sleep with health,\n Thy lulling luck may be,\n Pride may o\u2019erstride thy wealth,\n And check prosperity.\n\n Dost think that beauty\u2019s power,\n Life\u2019s sweetest pleasure gives?\n Go, pluck the summer flower,\n And see how long it lives:\n Behold, the rays glide on,\n Along the summer plain,\n Ere thou canst say, they\u2019re gone,\u2014\n And measure beauty\u2019s reign.\n\n Look on the brightest eye,\n Nor teach it to be proud,\n But view the clearest sky\n And thou shalt find a cloud;\n Nor call each face ye meet\n An angel\u2019s, \u2018cause it\u2019s fair,\n But look beneath your feet,\n And think of what ye are.\n\n Who thinks that love doth live\n In beauty\u2019s tempting show,\n Shall find his hopes ungive,\n And melt in reason\u2019s thaw;\n Who thinks that pleasure lies\n In every fairy bower,\n Shall oft, to his surprise,\n Find poison in the flower.\n\n Dost lawless pleasures grasp?\n Judge not thou deal\u2019st in joy;\n Its flowers but hide the asp,\n Thy revels to destroy:\n Who trusts a harlot\u2019s smile,\n And by her wiles is led,\n Plays with a sword the while,\n Hung dropping o\u2019er his head.\n\n Dost doubt my warning song?\n Then doubt the sun gives light,\n Doubt truth to teach thee wrong,\n And wrong alone as right;\n And live as lives the knave,\n Intrigue\u2019s deceiving guest,\n Be tyrant, or be slave,\n As suits thy ends the best.\n\n Or pause amid thy toils,\n For visions won and lost,\n And count the fancied spoils,\n If e\u2019er they quit the cost;\n And if they still possess\n Thy mind, as worthy things,\n Pick straws with Bedlam Bess,\n And call them diamond rings.\n\n Thy folly\u2019s past advice,\n Thy heart\u2019s already won,\n Thy fall\u2019s above all price,\n So go, and be undone;\n For all who thus prefer\n The seeming great for small,\n Shall make wine vinegar,\n And sweetest honey gall.\n\n Wouldst heed the truths I sing,\n To profit wherewithal,\n Clip folly\u2019s wanton wing,\n And keep her within call:\n I\u2019ve little else to give,\n What thou canst easy try,\n The lesson how to live,\n Is but to learn to die.\n\n\n\nTHE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN.\n\n\n[FROM one of Thackeray\u2019s Catalogues, preserved in the British Museum, it\nappears that _The Life and Age of Man_ was one of the productions printed\nby him at the \u2018Angel in Duck Lane, London.\u2019 Thackeray\u2019s imprint is found\nattached to broadsides published between 1672 and 1688, and he probably\ncommenced printing soon after the accession of Charles II. The present\nreprint, the correctness of which is very questionable, is taken from a\nmodern broadside, the editor not having been fortunate enough to meet\nwith any earlier edition. This old poem is said to have been a great\nfavourite with the father of Robert Burns.]\n\n IN prime of years, when I was young,\n I took delight in youthful ways,\n Not knowing then what did belong\n Unto the pleasures of those days.\n At seven years old I was a child,\n And subject then to be beguiled.\n\n At two times seven I went to learn\n What discipline is taught at school:\n When good from ill I could discern,\n I thought myself no more a fool:\n My parents were contriving than,\n How I might live when I were man.\n\n At three times seven I wax\u00e8d wild,\n When manhood led me to be bold;\n I thought myself no more a child,\n My own conceit it so me told:\n Then did I venture far and near,\n To buy delight at price full dear.\n\n At four times seven I take a wife,\n And leave off all my wanton ways,\n Thinking thereby perhaps to thrive,\n And save myself from sad disgrace.\n So farewell my companions all,\n For other business doth me call.\n\n At five times seven I must hard strive,\n What I could gain by mighty skill;\n But still against the stream I drive,\n And bowl up stones against the hill;\n The more I laboured might and main,\n The more I strove against the stream.\n\n At six times seven all covetise\n Began to harbour in my breast;\n My mind still then contriving was\n How I might gain this worldly wealth;\n To purchase lands and live on them,\n So make my children mighty men.\n\n At seven times seven all worldly thought\n Began to harbour in my brain;\n Then did I drink a heavy draught\n Of water of experience plain;\n There none so ready was as I,\n To purchase bargains, sell, or buy.\n\n At eight times seven I wax\u00e8d old,\n And took myself unto my rest,\n Neighbours then sought my counsel bold,\n And I was held in great request;\n But age did so abate my strength,\n That I was forced to yield at length.\n\n At nine times seven take my leave\n Of former vain delights must I;\n It then full sorely did me grieve\u2014\n I fetch\u00e8d many a heavy sigh;\n To rise up early, and sit up late,\n My former life, I loathe and hate.\n\n At ten times seven my glass is run,\n And I poor silly man must die;\n I look\u00e8d up, and saw the sun\n Had overcome the crystal sky.\n So now I must this world forsake,\n Another man my place must take.\n\n Now you may see, as in a glass,\n The whole estate of mortal men;\n How they from seven to seven do pass,\n Until they are threescore and ten;\n And when their glass is fully run,\n They must leave off as they begun.\n\n\n\nTHE YOUNG MAN\u2019S WISH.\n\n\n[FROM an old copy, without printer\u2019s name; probably one from the\nAldermary Church-yard press. Poems in triplets were very popular during\nthe reign of Charles I., and are frequently to be met with during the\nInterregnum, and the reign of Charles II.]\n\n IF I could but attain my wish,\n I\u2019d have each day one wholesome dish,\n Of plain meat, or fowl, or fish.\n\n A glass of port, with good old beer,\n In winter time a fire burnt clear,\n Tobacco, pipes, an easy chair.\n\n In some clean town a snug retreat,\n A little garden \u2018fore my gate,\n With thousand pounds a year estate.\n\n After my house expense was clear,\n Whatever I could have to spare,\n The neighbouring poor should freely share.\n\n To keep content and peace through life,\n I\u2019d have a prudent cleanly wife,\n Stranger to noise, and eke to strife.\n\n Then I, when blest with such estate,\n With such a house, and such a mate,\n Would envy not the worldly great.\n\n Let them for noisy honours try,\n Let them seek worldly praise, while I\n Unnotic\u00e8d would live and die.\n\n But since dame Fortune\u2019s not thought fit\n To place me in affluence, yet\n I\u2019ll be content with what I get.\n\n He\u2019s happiest far whose humble mind,\n Is unto Providence resigned,\n And thinketh fortune always kind.\n\n Then I will strive to bound my wish,\n And take, instead of fowl and fish,\n Whate\u2019er is thrown into my dish.\n\n Instead of wealth and fortune great,\n Garden and house and loving mate,\n I\u2019ll rest content in servile state.\n\n I\u2019ll from each folly strive to fly,\n Each virtue to attain I\u2019ll try,\n And live as I would wish to die.\n\n\n\nTHE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER;\n\n\n OR, A SUDDEN CALL FROM AN EARTHLY GLORY TO THE COLD GRAVE.\n\n IN a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all his\n Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and\n sorrowful Lamentation.\n\n To the tune of _Aim not too high_, {24} &c.\n\n[THE following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a\nclass of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with the\npeasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed\nand glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to\nthe school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that writer was\nin the height of his popularity. These religious dialogues are numerous,\nbut the majority of them are very namby-pamby productions, and unworthy\nof a reprint. The modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside\nof the seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably\ncopies of ruder originals\u2014\n\n \u2014\u2018wooden cuts\n Strange, and uncouth; dire faces, figures dire,\n Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled too,\n With long and ghostly shanks, forms which once seen,\n Can never be forgotten!\u2019\u2014WORDSWORTH\u2019S _Excursion_.]\n\n DEATH.\n\n THOU wealthy man of large possessions here,\n Amounting to some thousand pounds a year,\n Extorted by oppression from the poor,\n The time is come that thou shalt be no more;\n Thy house therefore in order set with speed,\n And call to mind how you your life do lead.\n Let true repentance be thy chiefest care,\n And for another world now, _now_ prepare.\n For notwithstanding all your heaps of gold,\n Your lands and lofty buildings manifold,\n Take notice you must die this very day;\n And therefore kiss your bags and come away.\n\n RICH MAN.\n\n [He started straight and turned his head aside,\n Where seeing pale-faced Death, aloud he cried],\n Lean famished slave! why do you threaten so,\n Whence come you, pray, and whither must I go?\n\n DEATH.\n\n I come from ranging round the universe,\n Through courts and kingdoms far and near I pass,\n Where rich and poor, distress\u00e8d, bond and free,\n Fall soon or late a sacrifice to me.\n From crown\u00e8d kings to captives bound in chains\n My power reaches, sir; the longest reigns\n That ever were, I put a period to;\n And now I\u2019m come in fine to conquer you.\n\n RICH MAN.\n\n I can\u2019t nor won\u2019t believe that you, pale Death,\n Were sent this day to stop my vital breath,\n By reason I in perfect health remain,\n Free from diseases, sorrow, grief, and pain;\n No heavy heart, nor fainting fits have I,\n And do you say that I am drawing nigh\n The latter minute? sure it cannot be;\n Depart, therefore, you are not sent for me!\n\n DEATH.\n\n Yes, yes, I am, for did you never know,\n The tender grass and pleasant flowers that grow\n Perhaps one minute, are the next cut down?\n And so is man, though famed with high renown.\n Have you not heard the doleful passing bell\n Ring out for those that were alive and well\n The other day, in health and pleasure too,\n And had as little thoughts of death as you?\n For let me tell you, when my warrant\u2019s sealed,\n The sweetest beauty that the earth doth yield\n At my approach shall turn as pale as lead;\n \u2019Tis I that lay them on their dying bed.\n\n I kill with dropsy, phthisic, stone, and gout;\n But when my raging fevers fly about,\n I strike the man, perhaps, but over-night,\n Who hardly lives to see the morning light;\n I\u2019m sent each hour, like to a nimble page,\n To infant, hoary heads, and middle age;\n Time after time I sweep the world quite through;\n Then it\u2019s in vain to think I\u2019ll favour you.\n\n RICH MAN.\n\n Proud Death, you see what awful sway I bear,\n For when I frown none of my servants dare\n Approach my presence, but in corners hide\n Until I am appeased and pacified.\n Nay, men of greater rank I keep in awe\n Nor did I ever fear the force of law,\n But ever did my enemies subdue,\n And must I after all submit to you?\n\n DEATH.\n\n \u2019Tis very true, for why thy daring soul,\n Which never could endure the least control,\n I\u2019ll thrust thee from this earthly tenement,\n And thou shalt to another world be sent.\n\n RICH MAN.\n\n What! must I die and leave a vast estate,\n Which, with my gold, I purchased but of late?\n Besides what I had many years ago?\u2014\n What! must my wealth and I be parted so?\n If you your darts and arrows must let fly,\n Go search the jails, where mourning debtors lie;\n Release them from their sorrow, grief, and woe,\n For I am rich and therefore loth to go.\n\n DEATH.\n\n I\u2019ll search no jails, but the right mark I\u2019ll hit;\n And though you are unwilling to submit,\n Yet die you must, no other friend can do,\u2014\n Prepare yourself to go, I\u2019m come for you.\n If you had all the world and ten times more,\n Yet die you must,\u2014there\u2019s millions gone before;\n The greatest kings on earth yield and obey,\n And at my feet their crowns and sceptres lay:\n If crown\u00e8d heads and right renown\u00e8d peers\n Die in the prime and blossoms of their years,\n Can you suppose to gain a longer space?\n No! I will send you to another place.\n\n RICH MAN.\n\n Oh! stay thy hand and be not so severe,\n I have a hopeful son and daughter dear,\n All that I beg is but to let me live\n That I may them in lawful marriage give:\n They being young when I am laid in the grave,\n I fear they will be wronged of what they have:\n Although of me you will no pity take,\n Yet spare me for my little infants\u2019 sake.\n\n DEATH.\n\n If such a vain excuse as this might do,\n It would be long ere mortals would go through\n The shades of death; for every man would find\n Something to say that he might stay behind.\n Yet, if ten thousand arguments they\u2019d use,\n The destiny of dying to excuse,\n They\u2019ll find it is in vain with me to strive,\n For why, I part the dearest friends alive;\n Poor parents die, and leave their children small\n With nothing to support them here withal,\n But the kind hand of gracious Providence,\n Who is their father, friend, and sole defence.\n Though I have held you long in disrepute,\n Yet after all here with a sharp salute\n I\u2019ll put a period to your days and years,\n Causing your eyes to flow with dying tears.\n\n RICH MAN.\n\n [Then with a groan he made this sad complaint]:\n My heart is dying, and my spirits faint;\n To my close chamber let me be conveyed;\n Farewell, false world, for thou hast me betrayed.\n Would I had never wronged the fatherless,\n Nor mourning widows when in sad distress;\n Would I had ne\u2019er been guilty of that sin,\n Would I had never known what gold had been;\n For by the same my heart was drawn away\n To search for gold: but now this very day,\n I find it is but like a slender reed,\n Which fails me most when most I stand in need;\n For, woe is me! the time is come at last,\n Now I am on a bed of sorrow cast,\n Where in lamenting tears I weeping lie,\n Because my sins make me afraid to die:\n Oh! Death, be pleased to spare me yet awhile,\n That I to God myself may reconcile,\n For true repentance some small time allow;\n I never feared a future state till now!\n My bags of gold and land I\u2019d freely give,\n For to obtain the favour here to live,\n Until I have a sure foundation laid.\n Let me not die before my peace be made!\n\n DEATH.\n\n Thou hast not many minutes here to stay,\n Lift up your heart to God without delay,\n Implore his pardon now for what is past,\n Who knows but He may save your soul at last?\n\n RICH MAN.\n\n I\u2019ll water now with tears my dying bed,\n Before the Lord my sad complaint I\u2019ll spread,\n And if He will vouchsafe to pardon me,\n To die and leave this world I could be free.\n False world! false world, farewell! farewell! adieu!\n I find, I find, there is no trust in you!\n For when upon a dying bed we lie,\n Your gilded baits are nought but misery.\n My youthful son and loving daughter dear,\n Take warning by your dying father here;\n Let not the world deceive you at this rate,\n For fear a sad repentance comes too late.\n Sweet babes, I little thought the other day,\n I should so suddenly be snatched away\n By Death, and leave you weeping here behind;\n But life\u2019s a most uncertain thing, I find.\n When in the grave my head is lain full low,\n Pray let not folly prove your overthrow;\n Serve ye the Lord, obey his holy will,\n That he may have a blessing for you still.\n [Having saluted them, he turned aside,\n These were the very words before he died]:\n\n A painful life I ready am to leave,\n Wherefore, in mercy, Lord, my soul receive.\n\n\n\nA DIALOGUE BETWIXT AN EXCISEMAN AND DEATH.\n\n\n[TRANSCRIBED from a copy in the British Museum, printed in London by J.\nC[larke]., 1659. The idea of Death being employed to execute a writ,\nrecalls an epitaph which we remember to have seen in a village\nchurch-yard at the foot of the Wrekin, in Shropshire, commencing thus:\u2014\n\n \u2018The King of Heaven a warrant got,\n And seal\u00e8d it without delay,\n And he did give the same to Death,\n For him to serve straightway,\u2019 &c.]\n\n UPON a time when Titan\u2019s steeds were driven\n To drench themselves beneath the western heaven;\n And sable Morpheus had his curtains spread,\n And silent night had laid the world to bed;\n \u2019Mongst other night-birds which did seek for prey,\n A blunt exciseman, which abhorred the day,\n Was rambling forth to seek himself a booty\n \u2019Mongst merchant\u2019s goods which had not paid the duty;\n But walking all alone, Death chanced to meet him,\n And in this manner did begin to greet him.\n\n DEATH.\n\n Stand, who comes here? what means this knave to peep\n And skulk abroad, when honest men should sleep?\n Speak, what\u2019s thy name? and quickly tell me this,\n Whither thou goest, and what thy business is?\n\n EXCISEMAN.\n\n Whate\u2019er my business is, thou foul-mouthed scold,\n I\u2019d have you know I scorn to be controlled\n By any man that lives; much less by thou,\n Who blurtest out thou know\u2019st not what, nor how;\n I go about my lawful business; and\n I\u2019ll make you smart for bidding of me stand.\n\n DEATH.\n\n Imperious coxcomb! is your stomach vexed?\n Pray slack your rage, and hearken what comes next:\n I have a writ to take you up; therefore,\n To chafe your blood, I bid you stand, once more.\n\n EXCISEMAN.\n\n A writ to take _me_ up! excuse me, sir,\n You do mistake, I am an officer\n In public service, for my private wealth;\n My business is, if any seek by stealth\n To undermine the state, I do discover\n Their falsehood; therefore hold your hand,\u2014give over.\n\n DEATH.\n\n Nay, fair and soft! \u2019tis not so quickly done\n As you conceive it is: I am not gone\n A jot the sooner for your hasty chat,\n Nor bragging language; for I tell you flat\n \u2019Tis more than so, though fortune seem to thwart us,\n Such easy terms I don\u2019t intend shall part us.\n With this impartial arm I\u2019ll make you feel\n My fingers first, and with this shaft of steel\n I\u2019ll peck thy bones! _as thou alive wert hated_,\n _So dead_, _to dogs thou shalt be segregated_.\n\n EXCISEMAN.\n\n I\u2019d laugh at that; I would thou didst but dare\n To lay thy fingers on me; I\u2019d not spare\n To hack thy carcass till my sword was broken,\n I\u2019d make thee eat the words which thou hast spoken;\n All men should warning take by thy transgression,\n How they molested men of my profession.\n My service to the State is so well known,\n That should I but complain, they\u2019d quickly own\n My public grievances; and give me right\n To cut your ears, before to-morrow night.\n\n DEATH.\n\n Well said, indeed! but bootless all, for I\n Am well acquainted with thy villany;\n I know thy office, and thy trade is such,\n Thy service little, and thy gains are much:\n Thy brags are many; but \u2019tis vain to swagger,\n And think to fight me with thy gilded dagger:\n _As I abhor thy person_, _place_, _and threat_,\n So now I\u2019ll bring thee to the judgment-seat.\n\n EXCISEMAN.\n\n The judgment-seat! I must confess that word\n Doth cut my heart, like any sharpened sword:\n What! come t\u2019 account! methinks the dreadful sound\n Of every word doth make a mortal wound,\n Which sticks not only in my outward skin,\n But penetrates my very soul within.\n \u2019Twas least of all my thoughts that ever Death\n Would once attempt to stop excisemen\u2019s breath.\n But since \u2019tis so, that now I do perceive\n You are in earnest, then I must relieve\n Myself another way: come, we\u2019ll be friends;\n If I have wrong\u00e8d thee, I\u2019ll make th\u2019 amends.\n Let\u2019s join together; I\u2019ll pass my word this night\n Shall yield us grub, before the morning light.\n Or otherwise (to mitigate my sorrow),\n Stay here, I\u2019ll bring you gold enough to-morrow.\n\n DEATH.\n\n To-morrow\u2019s gold I will not have; and thou\n Shalt have no gold upon to-morrow: now\n My final writ shall to th\u2019 execution have thee,\n All earthly treasure cannot help or save thee.\n\n EXCISEMAN.\n\n Then woe is me! ah! how was I befooled!\n I thought that gold (which answereth all things) could\n Have stood my friend at any time to bail me!\n But grief grows great, and now my trust doth fail me.\n Oh! that my conscience were but clear within,\n Which now is rack\u00e8d with my former sin;\n With horror I behold my secret stealing,\n My bribes, oppression, and my graceless dealing;\n My office-sins, which I had clean forgotten,\n Will gnaw my soul when all my bones are rotten:\n I must confess it, very grief doth force me,\n Dead or alive, both God and man doth curse me.\n _Let all Excisemen_ hereby warning take,\n To shun their practice for their conscience sake.\n\n\n\nTHE MESSENGER OF MORTALITY;\n\n\n OR LIFE AND DEATH CONTRASTED IN A DIALOGUE BETWIXT DEATH AND A LADY.\n\n[ONE of Charles Lamb\u2019s most beautiful and plaintive poems was suggested\nby this old dialogue. The tune is given in Chappell\u2019s _Popular Music_,\np. 167. In Carey\u2019s _Musical Century_, 1738, it is called the \u2018Old tune\nof _Death and the Lady_.\u2019 The four concluding lines of the present copy\nof _Death and the Lady_ are found inscribed on tomb-stones in village\nchurch-yards in every part of England. They are not contained, however,\nin the broadside with which our reprint has been carefully collated.]\n\n DEATH.\n\n FAIR lady, lay your costly robes aside,\n No longer may you glory in your pride;\n Take leave of all your carnal vain delight,\n I\u2019m come to summon you away this night!\n\n LADY.\n\n What bold attempt is this? pray let me know\n From whence you come, and whither I must go?\n Must I, who am a lady, stoop or bow\n To such a pale-faced visage? Who art thou?\n\n DEATH.\n\n Do you not know me? well! I tell thee, then,\n It\u2019s I that conquer all the sons of men!\n No pitch of honour from my dart is free;\n My name is Death! have you not heard of me?\n\n LADY.\n\n Yes! I have heard of thee time after time,\n But being in the glory of my prime,\n I did not think you would have called so soon.\n Why must my morning sun go down at noon?\n\n DEATH.\n\n Talk not of noon! you may as well be mute;\n This is no time at all for to dispute:\n Your riches, garments, gold, and jewels brave,\n Houses and lands must all new owners have;\n Though thy vain heart to riches was inclined,\n Yet thou must die and leave them all behind.\n\n LADY.\n\n My heart is cold; I tremble at the news;\n There\u2019s bags of gold, if thou wilt me excuse,\n And seize on them, and finish thou the strife\n Of those that are aweary of their life.\n Are there not many bound in prison strong,\n In bitter grief of soul have languished long,\n Who could but find the grave a place of rest,\n From all the grief in which they are oppressed?\n Besides, there\u2019s many with a hoary head,\n And palsy joints, by which their joys are fled;\n Release thou them whose sorrows are so great,\n But spare my life to have a longer date.\n\n DEATH.\n\n Though some by age be full of grief and pain,\n Yet their appointed time they must remain:\n I come to none before their warrant\u2019s sealed,\n And when it is, they must submit and yield.\n I take no bribe, believe me, this is true;\n Prepare yourself to go; I\u2019m come for you.\n\n LADY.\n\n Death, be not so severe, let me obtain\n A little longer time to live and reign!\n Fain would I stay if thou my life will spare;\n I have a daughter beautiful and fair,\n I\u2019d live to see her wed whom I adore:\n Grant me but this and I will ask no more.\n\n DEATH.\n\n This is a slender frivolous excuse;\n I have you fast, and will not let you loose;\n Leave her to Providence, for you must go\n Along with me, whether you will or no;\n I, Death, command the King to leave his crown,\n And at my feet he lays his sceptre down!\n Then if to kings I don\u2019t this favour give,\n But cut them off, can you expect to live\n Beyond the limits of your time and space!\n No! I must send you to another place.\n\n LADY.\n\n You learn\u00e8d doctors, now express your skill,\n And let not Death of me obtain his will;\n Prepare your cordials, let me comfort find,\n My gold shall fly like chaff before the wind.\n\n DEATH.\n\n Forbear to call, their skill will never do,\n They are but mortals here as well as you:\n I give the fatal wound, my dart is sure,\n And far beyond the doctor\u2019s skill to cure.\n How freely can you let your riches fly\n To purchase life, rather than yield to die!\n But while you flourish here with all your store,\n You will not give one penny to the poor;\n Though in God\u2019s name their suit to you they make,\n You would not spare one penny for His sake!\n The Lord beheld wherein you did amiss,\n And calls you hence to give account for this!\n\n LADY.\n\n Oh! heavy news! must I no longer stay?\n How shall I stand in the great judgment-day?\n [Down from her eyes the crystal tears did flow:\n She said], None knows what I do undergo:\n Upon my bed of sorrow here I lie;\n My carnal life makes me afraid to die.\n My sins, alas! are many, gross and foul,\n Oh, righteous Lord! have mercy on my soul!\n And though I do deserve thy righteous frown,\n Yet pardon, Lord, and pour a blessing down.\n [Then with a dying sigh her heart did break,\n And did the pleasures of this world forsake.]\n\n * * * * *\n\n Thus may we see the high and mighty fall,\n For cruel Death shows no respect at all\n To any one of high or low degree\n Great men submit to Death as well as we.\n Though they are gay, their life is but a span\u2014\n A lump of clay\u2014so vile a creature\u2019s man.\n Then happy those whom Christ has made his care,\n Who die in the Lord, and ever bless\u00e8d are.\n The grave\u2019s the market-place where all men meet,\n Both rich and poor, as well as small and great.\n If life were merchandise that gold could buy,\n The rich would live, the poor alone would die.\n\n\n\nENGLAND\u2019S ALARM;\n\n\n OR THE PIOUS CHRISTIAN\u2019S SPEEDY CALL TO REPENTANCE\n\nFor the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful\ntimes: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the\nProfanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and\ndisobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord\nmay save us for his mercy\u2019s sake.\n\n[FROM the cluster of \u2018ornaments\u2019 alluded to in the ninth verse of the\nfollowing poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present\nreprint is from an old broadside, without printer\u2019s name or date, in\npossession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]\n\n YOU sober-minded christians now draw near,\n Labour to learn these pious lessons here;\n For by the same you will be taught to know\n What is the cause of all our grief and woe.\n\n We have a God who sits enthroned above;\n He sends us many tokens of his love:\n Yet we, like disobedient children, still\n Deny to yield submission to His will.\n\n The just command which He upon us lays,\n We must confess we have ten thousand ways\n Transgressed; for see how men their sins pursue,\n As if they did not fear what God could do.\n\n Behold the wretched sinner void of shame,\n He values not how he blasphemes the name\n Of that good God who gave him life and breath,\n And who can strike him with the darts of death!\n\n The very little children which we meet,\n Amongst the sports and pastimes in the street,\n We very often hear them curse and swear,\n Before they\u2019ve learned a word of any prayer.\n\n \u2019Tis much to be lamented, for I fear\n The same they learn from what they daily hear;\n Be careful then, and don\u2019t instruct them so,\n For fear you prove their dismal overthrow.\n\n Both young and old, that dreadful sin forbear;\n The tongue of man was never made to swear,\n But to adore and praise the bless\u00e8d name,\n By whom alone our dear salvation came.\n\n Pride is another reigning sin likewise;\n Let us behold in what a strange disguise\n Young damsels do appear, both rich and poor;\n The like was ne\u2019er in any age before.\n\n What artificial ornaments they wear,\n Black patches, paint, and locks of powdered hair;\n Likewise in lofty hoops they are arrayed,\n As if they would correct what God had made.\n\n Yet let \u2019em know, for all those youthful charms,\n They must lie down in death\u2019s cold frozen arms!\n Oh think on this, and raise your thoughts above\n The sin of pride, which you so dearly love.\n\n Likewise, the wilful sinners that transgress\n The righteous laws of God by drunkenness,\n They do abuse the creatures which were sent\n Purely for man\u2019s refreshing nourishment.\n\n Many diseases doth that sin attend,\n But what is worst of all, the fatal end:\n Let not the pleasures of a quaffing bowl\n Destroy and stupify thy active soul.\n\n Perhaps the jovial drunkard over night,\n May seem to reap the pleasures of delight,\n While for his wine he doth in plenty call;\n But oh! the sting of conscience, after all,\n\n Is like a gnawing worm upon the mind.\n Then if you would the peace of conscience find,\n A sober conversation learn with speed,\n For that\u2019s the sweetest life that man can lead.\n\n Be careful that thou art not drawn away,\n By foolishness, to break the Sabbath-day;\n Be constant at the pious house of prayer,\n That thou mayst learn the christian duties there.\n\n For tell me, wherefore should we carp and care\n For what we eat and drink, and what we wear;\n And the meanwhile our fainting souls exclude\n From that refreshing sweet celestial food?\n\n Yet so it is, we, by experience, find\n Many young wanton gallants seldom mind\n The church of God, but scornfully deride\n That sacred word by which they must be tried.\n\n A tavern, or an alehouse, they adore,\n And will not come within the church before\n They\u2019re brought to lodge under a silent tomb,\n And then who knows how dismal is their doom!\n\n Though for awhile, perhaps, they flourish here,\n And seem to scorn the very thoughts of fear,\n Yet when they\u2019re summoned to resign their breath,\n They can\u2019t outbrave the bitter stroke of death!\n\n Consider this, young gallants, whilst you may,\n Swift-wing\u00e8d time and tide for none will stay;\n And therefore let it be your christian care,\n To serve the Lord, and for your death prepare.\n\n There is another crying sin likewise:\n Behold young gallants cast their wanton eyes\n On painted harlots, which they often meet\n At every creek and corner of the street,\n\n By whom they are like dismal captives led\n To their destruction; grace and fear is fled,\n Till at the length they find themselves betrayed,\n And for that sin most sad examples made.\n\n Then, then, perhaps, in bitter tears they\u2019ll cry,\n With wringing hands, against their company,\n Which did betray them to that dismal state!\n Consider this before it is too late.\n\n Likewise, sons and daughters, far and near,\n Honour your loving friends, and parents dear;\n Let not your disobedience grieve them so,\n Nor cause their ag\u00e8d eyes with tears to flow.\n\n What a heart-breaking sorrow it must be,\n To dear indulgent parents, when they see\n Their stubborn children wilfully run on\n Against the wholesome laws of God and man!\n\n Oh! let these things a deep impression make\n Upon your hearts, with speed your sins forsake;\n For, true it is, the Lord will never bless\n Those children that do wilfully transgress.\n\n Now, to conclude, both young and old I pray,\n Reform your sinful lives this very day,\n That God in mercy may his love extend,\n And bring the nation\u2019s troubles to an end.\n\n\n\nSMOKING SPIRITUALIZED.\n\n\n[THE following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently sufficient\ngrounds, to the Rev. Ralph Erskine, or, as he designated himself, \u2018Ralph\nErskine, V.D.M.\u2019 The peasantry throughout the north of England always\ncall it \u2018Erskine\u2019s song,\u2019 and not only is his name given as the author in\nnumerous chap-books, but in his own volume of _Gospel Sonnets_, from an\nearly copy of which our version is transcribed. The discovery however,\nby Mr. Collier, of the First Part in a MS. temp. Jac. I., with the\ninitials G. W. affixed to it, has disposed of Erskine\u2019s claim to the\nhonour of the entire authorship. G. W. is supposed to be George Withers;\nbut this is purely conjectural; and it is not at all improbable that G.\nW. really stands for W. G., as it was a common practice amongst anonymous\nwriters to reverse their initials. The history, then, of the poem, seems\nto be this: that the First Part, as it is now printed, originally\nconstituted the whole production, being complete in itself; that the\nSecond Part was afterwards added by the Rev. Ralph Erskine; and that both\nparts came subsequently to be ascribed to him, as his was the only name\npublished in connexion with the song. The Rev. Ralph Erskine was born at\nMonilaws, Northumberland, on the 15th March, 1685. He was one of the\nthirty-three children of Ralph Erskine of Shieldfield, a family of repute\ndescended from the ancient house of Marr. He was educated at the college\nin Edinburgh, obtained his licence to preach in June, 1709, and was\nordained, on an unanimous invitation, over the church at Dunfermline in\nAugust, 1711. He was twice married: in 1714 to Margaret Dewar, daughter\nof the Laird of Lassodie, by whom he had five sons and five daughters,\nall of whom died in the prime of life; and in 1732 to Margaret, daughter\nof Mr. Simson of Edinburgh, by whom he had four sons, one of whom, with\nhis wife, survived him. He died in November, 1752. Erskine was the\nauthor of a great number of _Sermons_; _a Paraphrase on the Canticles_;\n_Scripture Songs_; _a Treatise on Mental Images_; and _Gospel Sonnets_.\n\n_Smoking Spiritualized_ is, at the present day, a standard publication\nwith modern ballad-printers, but their copies are exceedingly corrupt.\nMany versions and paraphrases of the song exist. Several are referred to\nin _Notes and Queries_, and, amongst them, a broadside of the date of\n1670, and another dated 1672 (both printed before Erskine was born),\npresenting different readings of the First Part, or original poem. In\nboth these the burthen, or refrain, differs from that of our copy by the\nemployment of the expression \u2018_drink_ tobacco,\u2019 instead of \u2018_smoke_\ntobacco.\u2019 The former was the ancient term for drawing in the smoke,\nswallowing it, and emitting it through the nostrils. A correspondent of\n_Notes and Queries_ says, that the natives of India to this day use the\nphrase \u2018hooka peue,\u2019 to _drink_ the hooka.]\n\n PART I.\n\n THIS Indian weed, now withered quite,\n Though green at noon, cut down at night,\n Shows thy decay;\n All flesh is hay:\n Thus think, and smoke tobacco.\n\n The pipe so lily-like and weak,\n Does thus thy mortal state bespeak;\n Thou art e\u2019en such,\u2014\n Gone with a touch:\n Thus think, and smoke tobacco.\n\n And when the smoke ascends on high,\n Then thou behold\u2019st the vanity\n Of worldly stuff,\n Gone with a puff:\n Thus think, and smoke tobacco.\n\n And when the pipe grows foul within,\n Think on thy soul defiled with sin;\n For then the fire\n It does require:\n Thus think, and smoke tobacco.\n\n And seest the ashes cast away,\n Then to thyself thou mayest say,\n That to the dust\n Return thou must.\n Thus think, and smoke tobacco.\n\n PART II.\n\n Was this small plant for thee cut down?\n So was the plant of great renown,\n Which Mercy sends\n For nobler ends.\n Thus think, and smoke tobacco.\n\n Doth juice medicinal proceed\n From such a naughty foreign weed?\n Then what\u2019s the power\n Of Jesse\u2019s flower?\n Thus think, and smoke tobacco.\n\n The promise, like the pipe, inlays,\n And by the mouth of faith conveys,\n What virtue flows\n From Sharon\u2019s rose.\n Thus think, and smoke tobacco.\n\n In vain the unlighted pipe you blow,\n Your pains in outward means are so,\n Till heavenly fire\n Your heart inspire.\n Thus think, and smoke tobacco.\n\n The smoke, like burning incense, towers,\n So should a praying heart of yours,\n With ardent cries,\n Surmount the skies.\n Thus think, and smoke tobacco.\n\n\n\nTHE MASONIC HYMN.\n\n\n[THIS is a very ancient production, though given from a modern copy; it\nhas always been popular amongst the poor \u2018brethren of the mystic tie.\u2019\nThe late Henry O\u2019Brien, A.B., quotes the seventh verse in his essay _On\nthe Round Towers of Ireland_. He generally had a common copy of the hymn\nin his pocket, and on meeting with any of his antiquarian friends who\nwere not Masons, was in the habit of thrusting it into their hands, and\ntelling them that if they understood the mystic allusions it contained,\nthey would be in possession of a key which would unlock the pyramids of\nEgypt! The tune to the hymn is peculiar to it, and is of a plaintive and\nsolemn character.]\n\n COME all you freemasons that dwell around the globe,\n That wear the badge of innocence, I mean the royal robe,\n Which Noah he did wear when in the ark he stood,\n When the world was destroyed by a deluging flood.\n\n Noah he was virtuous in the sight of the Lord,\n He loved a freemason that kept the secret word;\n For he built the ark, and he planted the first vine,\n Now his soul in heaven like an angel doth shine.\n\n Once I was blind, and could not see the light,\n Then up to Jerusalem I took my flight,\n I was led by the evangelist through a wilderness of care,\n You may see by the sign and the badge that I wear.\n\n On the 13th rose the ark, let us join hand in hand,\n For the Lord spake to Moses by water and by land,\n Unto the pleasant river where by Eden it did rin,\n And Eve tempted Adam by the serpent of sin.\n\n When I think of Moses it makes me to blush,\n All on mount Horeb where I saw the burning bush;\n My shoes I\u2019ll throw off, and my staff I\u2019ll cast away,\n And I\u2019ll wander like a pilgrim unto my dying day.\n\n When I think of Aaron it makes me to weep,\n Likewise of the Virgin Mary who lay at our Saviour\u2019s feet;\n \u2019Twas in the garden of Gethsemane where he had the bloody sweat;\n Repent, my dearest brethren, before it is too late.\n\n I thought I saw twelve dazzling lights, which put me in surprise,\n And gazing all around me I heard a dismal noise;\n The serpent pass\u00e8d by me which fell unto the ground,\n With great joy and comfort the secret word I found.\n\n Some say it is lost, but surely it is found,\n And so is our Saviour, it is known to all around;\n Search all the Scriptures over, and there it will be shown;\n The tree that will bear no fruit must be cut down.\n\n Abraham was a man well belov\u00e8d by the Lord,\n He was true to be found in great Jehovah\u2019s word,\n He stretch\u00e8d forth his hand, and took a knife to slay his son,\n An angel appearing said, The Lord\u2019s will be done!\n\n O, Abraham! O, Abraham! lay no hand upon the lad,\n He sent him unto thee to make thy heart glad;\n Thy seed shall increase like stars in the sky,\n And thy soul into heaven like Gabriel shall fly.\n\n O, never, O, never will I hear an orphan cry,\n Nor yet a gentle virgin until the day I die;\n You wandering Jews that travel the wide world round,\n May knock at the door where truth is to be found.\n\n Often against the Turks and Infidels we fight,\n To let the wandering world know we\u2019re in the right,\n For in heaven there\u2019s a lodge, and St. Peter keeps the door,\n And none can enter in but those that are pure.\n\n St. Peter he opened, and so we entered in,\n Into the holy seat secure, which is all free from sin;\n St. Peter he opened, and so we entered there,\n And the glory of the temple no man can compare.\n\n\n\nGOD SPEED THE PLOW, AND BLESS THE CORN-MOW.\n\n\n A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE HUSBANDMAN AND SERVINGMAN.\n\n The tune is, _I am the Duke of Norfolk_.\n\n[THIS ancient dialogue, though in a somewhat altered form (see the\nensuing poem), has long been used at country merry-makings. It is\ntranscribed from a black-letter copy in the third volume of the Roxburgh\ncollection, apparently one of the imprints of Peter Brooksby, which would\nmake the composition at least as old as the close of the fifteenth\ncentury. There are several dialogues of a similar character.]\n\n ARGUMENT.\n\n The servingman the plowman would invite\n To leave his calling and to take delight;\n But he to that by no means will agree,\n Lest he thereby should come to beggary.\n He makes it plain appear a country life\n Doth far excel: and so they end the strife.\n\n * * * * *\n\n MY noble friends give ear, if mirth you love to hear,\n I\u2019ll tell you as fast as I can,\n A story very true, then mark what doth ensue,\n Concerning of a husbandman.\n A servingman did meet a husbandman in the street,\n And thus unto him began:\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n I pray you tell to me of what calling you be,\n Or if you be a servingman?\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n Quoth he, my brother dear, the coast I mean to clear,\n And the truth you shall understand:\n I do no one disdain, but this I tell you plain,\n I am an honest husbandman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n If a husbandman you be, then come along with me,\n I\u2019ll help you as soon as I can\n Unto a gallant place, where in a little space,\n You shall be a servingman.\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n Sir, for your diligence I give you many thanks,\n These things I receive at your hand;\n I pray you to me show, whereby that I might know,\n What pleasures hath a servingman?\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n A servingman hath pleasure, which passeth time and measure,\n When the hawk on his fist doth stand;\n His hood, and his verrils brave, and other things, we have,\n Which yield joy to a servingman.\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n My pleasure\u2019s more than that to see my oxen fat,\n And to prosper well under my hand;\n And therefore I do mean, with my horse, and with my team,\n To keep myself a husbandman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n O \u2019tis a gallant thing in the prime time of the spring,\n To hear the huntsman now and than\n His bugle for to blow, and the hounds run all a row:\n This is pleasure for a servingman!\n To hear the beagle cry, and to see the falcon fly,\n And the hare trip over the plain,\n And the huntsmen and the hound make hill and dale rebound:\n This is pleasure for a servingman!\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n \u2019Tis pleasure, too, you know, to see the corn to grow,\n And to grow so well on the land;\n The plowing and the sowing, the reaping and the mowing,\n Yield pleasure to the husbandman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n At our table you may eat all sorts of dainty meat,\n Pig, cony, goose, capon, and swan;\n And with lords and ladies fine, you may drink beer, ale, and wine!\n This is pleasure for a servingman.\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n While you eat goose and capon, I\u2019ll feed on beef and bacon,\n And piece of hard cheese now and than;\n We pudding have, and souse, always ready in the house,\n Which contents the honest husbandman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n At the court you may have your garments fine and brave,\n And cloak with gold lace laid upon,\n A shirt as white as milk, and wrought with finest silk:\n That\u2019s pleasure for a servingman!\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n Such proud and costly gear is not for us to wear;\n Amongst the briers and brambles many a one,\n A good strong russet coat, and at your need a groat,\n Will suffice the husbandman.\n A proverb here I tell, which likes my humour well,\n And remember it well I can,\n If a courtier be too bold, he\u2019ll want when he is old.\n Then farewell the servingman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n It needs must be confest that your calling is the best,\n No longer discourse with you I can;\n But henceforth I will pray, by night and by day,\n Heaven bless the honest husbandman.\n\n\n\nA DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE HUSBANDMAN AND THE SERVINGMAN.\n\n\n[THIS traditional version of the preceding ancient dialogue has long been\npopular at country festivals. At a harvest-home feast at Selborne, in\nHampshire, in 1836, we heard it recited by two countrymen, who gave it\nwith considerable humour, and dramatic effect. It was delivered in a\nsort of chant, or recitative. Davies Gilbert published a very similar\ncopy in his _Ancient Christmas Carols_. In the modern printed editions,\nwhich are almost identical with ours, the term \u2018servantman\u2019 has been\nsubstituted for the more ancient designation.]\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n WELL met, my brother friend, all at this highway end,\n So simple all alone, as you can,\n I pray you tell to me, what may your calling be,\n Are you not a servingman?\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n No, no, my brother dear, what makes you to inquire\n Of any such a thing at my hand?\n Indeed I shall not feign, but I will tell you plain,\n I am a downright husbandman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n If a husbandman you be, then go along with me,\n And quickly you shall see out of hand,\n How in a little space I will help you to a place,\n Where you may be a servingman.\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n Kind sir! I \u2018turn you thanks for your intelligence,\n These things I receive at your hand;\n But something pray now show, that first I may plainly know\n The pleasures of a servingman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n Why a servingman has pleasure beyond all sort of measure,\n With his hawk on his fist, as he does stand;\n For the game that he does kill, and the meat that does him fill,\n Are pleasures for the servingman.\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n And my pleasure\u2019s more than that, to see my oxen fat,\n And a good stock of hay by them stand;\n My plowing and my sowing, my reaping and my mowing,\n Are pleasures for the husbandman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n Why it is a gallant thing to ride out with a king,\n With a lord, duke, or any such man;\n To hear the horns to blow, and see the hounds all in a row,\n That is pleasure for the servingman.\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n But my pleasure\u2019s more I know, to see my corn to grow,\n So thriving all over my land;\n And, therefore, I do mean, with my plowing with my team,\n To keep myself a husbandman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n Why the diet that we eat is the choicest of all meat,\n Such as pig, goose, capon, and swan;\n Our pastry is so fine, we drink sugar in our wine,\n That is living for the servingman.\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n Talk not of goose nor capon, give me good beef or bacon,\n And good bread and cheese, now at hand;\n With pudding, brawn, and souse, all in a farmer\u2019s house,\n That is living for the husbandman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n Why the clothing that we wear is delicate and rare,\n With our coat, lace, buckles, and band;\n Our shirts are white as milk, and our stockings they are silk,\n That is clothing for a servingman.\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n But I value not a hair your delicate fine wear,\n Such as gold is laced upon;\n Give me a good grey coat, and in my purse a groat,\n That is clothing for the husbandman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n Kind sir! it would be bad if none could be had\n Those tables for to wait upon;\n There is no lord, duke, nor squire, nor member for the shire,\n Can do without a servingman.\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n But, Jack! it would be worse if there was none of us\n To follow the plowing of the land;\n There is neither king, lord, nor squire, nor member for the shire,\n Can do without the husbandman.\n\n SERVINGMAN.\n\n Kind sir! I must confess\u2019t, and I humbly protest\n I will give you the uppermost hand;\n Although your labour\u2019s painful, and mine it is so very gainful,\n I wish I were a husbandman.\n\n HUSBANDMAN.\n\n So come now, let us all, both great as well as small,\n Pray for the grain of our land;\n And let us, whatsoever, do all our best endeavour,\n For to maintain the good husbandman.\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLICK.\n\n\n[THE following ingenious production has been copied literally from a\nbroadside posted against the \u2018parlour\u2019 wall of a country inn in\nGloucestershire. The verses are susceptible of two interpretations,\nbeing Catholic if read in the columns, but Protestant if read across.]\n\n I HOLD as faith What _England\u2019s church_ alows\n What _Rome\u2019s_ church saith My conscience disavows\n Where the _King\u2019s_ head That _church_ can have no\n The flocks misled shame\n Where the _altars_ drest That holds the _Pope_\n The peoples blest supreame.\n He\u2019s but an asse There\u2019s service scarce divine\n Who shuns the _masse_ With table, bread, and wine.\n Who the _communion_ flies\n Is _catholick_ and wise.\n London: printed for George Eversden, at the signe of the\n Maidenhead, in St. Powle\u2019s Church-yard, 1655. _Cum privilegio_.\n\nBallads.\n\n\nTHE THREE KNIGHTS.\n\n\n (TRADITIONAL.)\n\n[_The Three Knights_ was first printed by the late Davies Gilbert,\nF.R.S., in the appendix to his work on _Christmas Carols_. Mr. Gilbert\nthought that some verses were wanting after the eighth stanza; but we\nentertain a different opinion. A conjectural emendation made in the\nninth verse, viz., the substitution of _far_ for _for_, seems to render\nthe ballad perfect. The ballad is still popular amongst the peasantry in\nthe West of England. The tune is given by Gilbert. The refrain, in the\nsecond and fourth lines, printed with the first verse, should be repeated\nin recitation in every verse.]\n\n THERE did three Knights come from the west,\n With the high and the lily oh!\n And these three Knights courted one ladye,\n As the rose was so sweetly blown.\n The first Knight came was all in white,\n And asked of her if she\u2019d be his delight.\n The next Knight came was all in green,\n And asked of her if she\u2019d be his queen.\n The third Knight came was all in red,\n And asked of her if she would wed.\n \u2018Then have you asked of my father dear?\n Likewise of her who did me bear?\n \u2018And have you asked of my brother John?\n And also of my sister Anne?\u2019\n \u2018Yes, I\u2019ve asked of your father dear,\n Likewise of her who did you bear.\n \u2018And I\u2019ve asked of your sister Anne,\n But I\u2019ve not asked of your brother John.\u2019\n Far on the road as they rode along,\n There did they meet with her brother John.\n She stoop\u00e8d low to kiss him sweet,\n He to her heart did a dagger meet. {51}\n \u2018Ride on, ride on,\u2019 cried the servingman,\n \u2018Methinks your bride she looks wondrous wan.\u2019\n \u2018I wish I were on yonder stile,\n For there I would sit and bleed awhile.\n \u2018I wish I were on yonder hill,\n There I\u2019d alight and make my will.\u2019\n \u2018What would you give to your father dear?\u2019\n \u2018The gallant steed which doth me bear.\u2019\n \u2018What would you give to your mother dear?\u2019\n \u2018My wedding shift which I do wear.\n \u2018But she must wash it very clean,\n For my heart\u2019s blood sticks in every seam.\u2019\n \u2018What would you give to your sister Anne?\u2019\n \u2018My gay gold ring, and my feathered fan.\u2019\n \u2018What would you give to your brother John?\u2019\n \u2018A rope, and a gallows to hang him on.\u2019\n \u2018What would you give to your brother John\u2019s wife?\u2019\n \u2018A widow\u2019s weeds, and a quiet life.\u2019\n\n\n\nTHE BLIND BEGGAR OF BEDNALL GREEN.\n\n\n SHOWING HOW HIS DAUGHTER WAS MARRIED TO A KNIGHT, AND HAD THREE THOUSAND\n POUND TO HER PORTION.\n\n[PERCY\u2019S copy of _The Beggar\u2019s Daughter of Bednall Green_ is known to be\nvery incorrect: besides many alterations and improvements which it\nreceived at the hands of the Bishop, it contains no less than eight\nstanzas written by Robert Dodsley, the author of _The Economy of Human\nLife_. So far as poetry is concerned, there cannot be a question that\nthe version in the _Reliques_ is far superior to the original, which is\nstill a popular favourite, and a correct copy of which is now given, as\nit appears in all the common broadside editions that have been printed\nfrom 1672 to the present time. Although the original copies have all\nperished, the ballad has been very satisfactorily proved by Percy to have\nbeen written in the reign of Elizabeth. The present reprint is from a\nmodern copy, carefully collated with one in the Bagford Collection,\nentitled,\n\n \u2018The rarest ballad that ever was seen,\n Of the Blind Beggar\u2019s Daughter of Bednal Green.\u2019\n\nThe imprint to it is, \u2018Printed by and for W. Onley; and are to be sold by\nC. Bates, at the sign of the Sun and Bible, in Pye Corner.\u2019 The very\nantiquated orthography adopted in some editions does not rest on any\nauthority. For two tunes to _The Blind Beggar_, see _Popular Music_.]\n\n PART I.\n\n THIS song\u2019s of a beggar who long lost his sight,\n And had a fair daughter, most pleasant and bright,\n And many a gallant brave suitor had she,\n And none was so comely as pretty Bessee.\n\n And though she was of complexion most fair,\n And seeing she was but a beggar his heir,\n Of ancient housekeepers despis\u00e8d was she,\n Whose sons came as suitors to pretty Bessee.\n\n Wherefore in great sorrow fair Bessee did say:\n \u2018Good father and mother, let me now go away,\n To seek out my fortune, whatever it be.\u2019\n This suit then was granted to pretty Bessee.\n\n This Bessee, that was of a beauty most bright,\n They clad in grey russet; and late in the night\n From father and mother alone parted she,\n Who sigh\u00e8d and sobb\u00e8d for pretty Bessee.\n\n She went till she came to Stratford-at-Bow,\n Then she know not whither or which way to go,\n With tears she lamented her sad destiny;\n So sad and so heavy was pretty Bessee.\n\n She kept on her journey until it was day,\n And went unto Rumford, along the highway;\n And at the King\u2019s Arms entertain\u00e8d was she,\n So fair and well favoured was pretty Bessee.\n\n She had not been there one month at an end,\n But master and mistress and all was her friend:\n And every brave gallant that once did her see,\n Was straightway in love with pretty Bessee.\n\n Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,\n And in their songs daily her love they extolled:\n Her beauty was blaz\u00e8d in every decree,\n So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee.\n\n The young men of Rumford in her had their joy,\n She showed herself courteous, but never too coy,\n And at their commandment still she would be,\n So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee.\n\n Four suitors at once unto her did go,\n They crav\u00e8d her favour, but still she said no;\n I would not have gentlemen marry with me!\n Yet ever they honour\u00e8d pretty Bessee.\n\n Now one of them was a gallant young knight,\n And he came unto her disguised in the night;\n The second, a gentleman of high degree,\n Who woo\u00e8d and su\u00e8d for pretty Bessee.\n\n A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,\n Was then the third suitor, and proper withal;\n Her master\u2019s own son the fourth man must be,\n Who swore he would die for pretty Bessee.\n\n \u2018If that thou wilt marry with me,\u2019 quoth the knight,\n \u2018I\u2019ll make thee a lady with joy and delight;\n My heart is enthrall\u00e8d in thy fair beauty,\n Then grant me thy favour, my pretty Bessee.\u2019\n\n The gentleman said, \u2018Come marry with me,\n In silks and in velvet my Bessee shall be;\n My heart lies distracted, oh! hear me,\u2019 quoth he,\n \u2018And grant me thy love, my dear pretty Bessee.\u2019\n\n \u2018Let me be thy husband,\u2019 the merchant did say,\n \u2018Thou shalt live in London most gallant and gay;\n My ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee,\n And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.\u2019\n\n Then Bessee she sigh\u00e8d and thus she did say:\n \u2018My father and mother I mean to obey;\n First get their good will, and be faithful to me,\n And you shall enjoy your dear pretty Bessee.\u2019\n\n To every one of them that answer she made,\n Therefore unto her they joyfully said:\n \u2018This thing to fulfil we all now agree,\n But where dwells thy father, my pretty Bessee?\u2019\n\n \u2018My father,\u2019 quoth she, \u2018is soon to be seen:\n The silly blind beggar of Bednall Green,\n That daily sits begging for charity,\n He is the kind father of pretty Bessee.\n\n \u2018His marks and his token are knowen full well,\n He always is led by a dog and a bell;\n A poor silly old man, God knoweth, is he,\n Yet he\u2019s the true father of pretty Bessee.\u2019\n\n \u2018Nay, nay,\u2019 quoth the merchant, \u2018thou art not for me.\u2019\n \u2018She,\u2019 quoth the innholder, \u2018my wife shall not be.\u2019\n \u2018I loathe,\u2019 said the gentleman, \u2018a beggar\u2019s degree,\n Therefore, now farewell, my pretty Bessee.\u2019\n\n \u2018Why then,\u2019 quoth the knight, \u2018hap better or worse,\n I weigh not true love by the weight of the purse,\n And beauty is beauty in every degree,\n Then welcome to me, my dear pretty Bessee.\n\n \u2018With thee to thy father forthwith I will go.\u2019\n \u2018Nay, forbear,\u2019 quoth his kinsman, \u2018it must not be so:\n A poor beggar\u2019s daughter a lady shan\u2019t be;\n Then take thy adieu of thy pretty Bessee.\u2019\n\n As soon then as it was break of the day,\n The knight had from Rumford stole Bessee away;\n The young men of Rumford, so sick as may be,\n Rode after to fetch again pretty Bessee.\n\n As swift as the wind to ride they were seen,\n Until they came near unto Bednall Green,\n And as the knight lighted most courteously,\n They fought against him for pretty Bessee.\n\n But rescue came presently over the plain,\n Or else the knight there for his love had been slain;\n The fray being ended, they straightway did see\n His kinsman come railing at pretty Bessee.\n\n Then bespoke the blind beggar, \u2018Although I be poor,\n Rail not against my child at my own door,\n Though she be not deck\u00e8d in velvet and pearl,\n Yet I will drop angels with thee for my girl;\n\n \u2018And then if my gold should better her birth,\n And equal the gold you lay on the earth,\n Then neither rail you, nor grudge you to see\n The blind beggar\u2019s daughter a lady to be.\n\n \u2018But first, I will hear, and have it well known,\n The gold that you drop it shall be all your own.\u2019\n With that they repli\u00e8d, \u2018Contented we be!\u2019\n \u2018Then here\u2019s,\u2019 quoth the beggar, \u2018for pretty Bessee!\u2019\n\n With that an angel he dropped on the ground,\n And dropp\u00e8d, in angels, full three thousand pound;\n And oftentimes it proved most plain,\n For the gentleman\u2019s one, the beggar dropped twain;\n\n So that the whole place wherein they did sit,\n With gold was cover\u00e8d every whit.\n The gentleman having dropped all his store,\n Said, \u2018Beggar! your hand hold, for I have no more.\u2019\n\n \u2018Thou hast fulfill\u00e8d thy promise aright,\n Then marry my girl,\u2019 quoth he to the knight;\n \u2018And then,\u2019 quoth he, \u2018I will throw you down,\n An hundred pound more to buy her a gown.\u2019\n\n The gentlemen all, who his treasure had seen,\n Admir\u00e8d the beggar of Bednall Green;\n And those that had been her suitors before,\n Their tender flesh for anger they tore.\n\n Thus was the fair Bessee match\u00e8d to a knight,\n And made a lady in other\u2019s despite.\n A fairer lady there never was seen\n Than the blind beggar\u2019s daughter of Bednall Green.\n\n But of her sumptuous marriage and feast,\n And what fine lords and ladies there prest,\n The second part shall set forth to your sight,\n With marvellous pleasure and wished-for delight.\n\n Of a blind beggar\u2019s daughter so bright,\n That late was betrothed to a young knight,\n All the whole discourse therefore you may see;\n But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.\n\n PART II.\n\n It was in a gallant palace most brave,\n Adorn\u00e8d with all the cost they could have,\n This wedding it was kept most sumptuously,\n And all for the love of pretty Bessee.\n\n And all kind of dainties and delicates sweet,\n Was brought to their banquet, as it was thought meet,\n Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,\n Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.\n\n The wedding through England was spread by report,\n So that a great number thereto did resort\n Of nobles and gentles of every degree,\n And all for the fame of pretty Bessee.\n\n To church then away went this gallant young knight,\n His bride followed after, an angel most bright,\n With troops of ladies, the like was ne\u2019er seen,\n As went with sweet Bessee of Bednall Green.\n\n This wedding being solemnized then,\n With music perform\u00e8d by skilfullest men,\n The nobles and gentlemen down at the side,\n Each one beholding the beautiful bride.\n\n But after the sumptuous dinner was done,\n To talk and to reason a number begun,\n And of the blind beggar\u2019s daughter most bright;\n And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.\n\n Then spoke the nobles, \u2018Much marvel have we\n This jolly blind beggar we cannot yet see!\u2019\n \u2018My lords,\u2019 quoth the bride, \u2018my father so base\n Is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.\u2019\n\n \u2018The praise of a woman in question to bring,\n Before her own face is a flattering thing;\n But we think thy father\u2019s baseness,\u2019 quoth they,\n \u2018Might by thy beauty be clean put away.\u2019\n\n They no sooner this pleasant word spoke,\n But in comes the beggar in a silken cloak,\n A velvet cap and a feather had he,\n And now a musician, forsooth, he would be.\n\n And being led in from catching of harm,\n He had a dainty lute under his arm,\n Said, \u2018Please you to hear any music of me,\n A song I will sing you of pretty Bessee.\u2019\n\n With that his lute he twang\u00e8d straightway,\n And thereon began most sweetly to play,\n And after a lesson was played two or three,\n He strained out this song most delicately:\u2014\n\n \u2018A beggar\u2019s daughter did dwell on a green,\n Who for her beauty may well be a queen,\n A blithe bonny lass, and dainty was she,\n And many one call\u00e8d her pretty Bessee.\n\n \u2018Her father he had no goods nor no lands,\n But begged for a penny all day with his hands,\n And yet for her marriage gave thousands three,\n Yet still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.\n\n \u2018And here if any one do her disdain,\n Her father is ready with might and with main\n To prove she is come of noble degree,\n Therefore let none flout at my pretty Bessee.\u2019\n\n With that the lords and the company round\n With a hearty laughter were ready to swound;\n At last said the lords, \u2018Full well we may see,\n The bride and the bridegroom\u2019s beholden to thee.\u2019\n\n With that the fair bride all blushing did rise,\n With crystal water all in her bright eyes,\n \u2018Pardon my father, brave nobles,\u2019 quoth she,\n \u2018That through blind affection thus doats upon me.\u2019\n\n \u2018If this be thy father,\u2019 the nobles did say,\n \u2018Well may he be proud of this happy day,\n Yet by his countenance well may we see,\n His birth with his fortune could never agree;\n\n And therefore, blind beggar, we pray thee bewray,\n And look to us then the truth thou dost say,\n Thy birth and thy parentage what it may be,\n E\u2019en for the love thou bearest pretty Bessee.\u2019\n\n \u2018Then give me leave, ye gentles each one,\n A song more to sing and then I\u2019ll begone,\n And if that I do not win good report,\n Then do not give me one groat for my sport:\u2014\n\n \u2018When first our king his fame did advance,\n And sought his title in delicate France,\n In many places great perils passed he;\n But then was not born my pretty Bessee.\n\n \u2018And at those wars went over to fight,\n Many a brave duke, a lord, and a knight,\n And with them young Monford of courage so free;\n But then was not born my pretty Bessee.\n\n \u2018And there did young Monford with a blow on the face\n Lose both his eyes in a very short space;\n His life had been gone away with his sight,\n Had not a young woman gone forth in the night.\n\n \u2018Among the said men, her fancy did move,\n To search and to seek for her own true love,\n Who seeing young Monford there gasping to die,\n She sav\u00e8d his life through her charity.\n\n \u2018And then all our victuals in beggar\u2019s attire,\n At the hands of good people we then did require;\n At last into England, as now it is seen,\n We came, and remain\u00e8d in Bednall Green.\n\n \u2018And thus we have liv\u00e8d in Fortune\u2019s despite,\n Though poor, yet contented with humble delight,\n And in my old years, a comfort to me,\n God sent me a daughter called pretty Bessee.\n\n And thus, ye nobles, my song I do end,\n Hoping by the same no man to offend;\n Full forty long winters thus I have been,\n A silly blind beggar of Bednall Green.\u2019\n\n Now when the company every one,\n Did hear the strange tale he told in his song,\n They were amaz\u00e8d, as well they might be,\n Both at the blind beggar and pretty Bessee.\n\n With that the fair bride they all did embrace,\n Saying, \u2018You are come of an honourable race,\n Thy father likewise is of high degree,\n And thou art right worthy a lady to be.\u2019\n\n Thus was the feast ended with joy and delight,\n A happy bridegroom was made the young knight,\n Who lived in great joy and felicity,\n With his fair lady dear pretty Bessee.\n\n\n\nTHE BOLD PEDLAR AND ROBIN HOOD.\n\n\n[THIS ballad is of considerable antiquity, and no doubt much older than\nsome of those inserted in the common Garlands. It appears to have\nescaped the notice of Ritson, Percy, and other collectors of Robin Hood\nballads. The tune is given in _Popular Music_. An aged woman in\nBermondsey, Surrey, from whose oral recitation the present version was\ntaken down, said that she had often heard her grandmother sing it, and\nthat it was never in print; but we have since met with several common\nstall copies. The subject is the same as that of the old ballad called\n_Robin Hood newly revived_; _or_, _the Meeting and Fighting with his\nCousin Scarlett_.]\n\n THERE chanced to be a pedlar bold,\n A pedlar bold he chanced to be;\n He rolled his pack all on his back,\n And he came tripping o\u2019er the lee.\n Down, a down, a down, a down,\n Down, a down, a down.\n\n By chance he met two troublesome blades,\n Two troublesome blades they chanced to be;\n The one of them was bold Robin Hood,\n And the other was Little John, so free.\n\n \u2018Oh! pedlar, pedlar, what is in thy pack,\n Come speedilie and tell to me?\u2019\n \u2018I\u2019ve several suits of the gay green silks,\n And silken bowstrings two or three.\u2019\n\n \u2018If you have several suits of the gay green silk,\n And silken bowstrings two or three,\n Then it\u2019s by my body,\u2019 cries _bittle_ John,\n \u2018One half your pack shall belong to me.\u2019\n\n Oh! nay, oh! nay,\u2019 says the pedlar bold,\n \u2018Oh! nay, oh! nay, that never can be,\n For there\u2019s never a man from fair Nottingham\n Can take one half my pack from me.\u2019\n\n Then the pedlar he pulled off his pack,\n And put it a little below his knee,\n Saying, \u2018If you do move me one perch from this,\n My pack and all shall gang with thee.\u2019\n\n Then Little John he drew his sword;\n The pedlar by his pack did stand;\n They fought until they both did sweat,\n Till he cried, \u2018Pedlar, pray hold your hand!\u2019\n\n Then Robin Hood he was standing by,\n And he did laugh most heartilie,\n Saying, \u2018I could find a man of a smaller scale,\n Could thrash the pedlar, and also thee.\u2019\n\n \u2018Go, you try, master,\u2019 says Little John,\n \u2018Go, you try, master, most speedilie,\n Or by my body,\u2019 says Little John,\n \u2018I am sure this night you will not know me.\u2019\n\n Then Robin Hood he drew his sword,\n And the pedlar by his pack did stand,\n They fought till the blood in streams did flow,\n Till he cried, \u2018Pedlar, pray hold your hand!\u2019\n\n \u2018Pedlar, pedlar! what is thy name?\n Come speedilie and tell to me.\u2019\n \u2018My name! my name, I ne\u2019er will tell,\n Till both your names you have told to me.\u2019\n\n \u2018The one of us is bold Robin Hood,\n And the other Little John, so free.\u2019\n \u2018Now,\u2019 says the pedlar, \u2018it lays to my good will,\n Whether my name I chuse to tell to thee.\n\n \u2018I am Gamble Gold {61} of the gay green woods,\n And travell\u00e8d far beyond the sea;\n For killing a man in my father\u2019s land,\n From my country I was forced to flee.\u2019\n\n \u2018If you are Gamble Gold of the gay green woods,\n And travell\u00e8d far beyond the sea,\n You are my mother\u2019s own sister\u2019s son;\n What nearer cousins then can we be?\u2019\n\n They sheath\u00e8d their swords with friendly words,\n So merrily they did agree;\n They went to a tavern and there they dined,\n And bottles cracked most merrilie.\n\n\n\nTHE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT.\n\n\n[THIS is the common English stall copy of a ballad of which there are a\nvariety of versions, for an account of which, and of the presumed origin\nof the story, the reader is referred to the notes on the _Water o\u2019\nWearie\u2019s Well_, in the _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient\nBallads_, published by the Percy Society. By the term \u2018outlandish\u2019 is\nsignified an inhabitant of that portion of the border which was formerly\nknown by the name of \u2018the Debateable Land,\u2019 a district which, though\nclaimed by both England and Scotland, could not be said to belong to\neither country. The people on each side of the border applied the term\n\u2018outlandish\u2019 to the Debateable residents. The tune to _The Outlandish\nKnight_ has never been printed; it is peculiar to the ballad, and, from\nits popularity, is well known.]\n\n AN Outlandish knight came from the North lands,\n And he came a wooing to me;\n He told me he\u2019d take me unto the North lands,\n And there he would marry me.\n\n \u2018Come, fetch me some of your father\u2019s gold,\n And some of your mother\u2019s fee;\n And two of the best nags out of the stable,\n Where they stand thirty and three.\u2019\n\n She fetched him some of her father\u2019s gold,\n And some of the mother\u2019s fee;\n And two of the best nags out of the stable,\n Where they stood thirty and three.\n\n She mounted her on her milk-white steed,\n He on the dapple grey;\n They rode till they came unto the sea side,\n Three hours before it was day.\n\n \u2018Light off, light off thy milk-white steed,\n And deliver it unto me;\n Six pretty maids have I drown\u00e8d here,\n And thou the seventh shall be.\n\n \u2018Pull off, pull off thy silken gown,\n And deliver it unto me,\n Methinks it looks too rich and too gay\n To rot in the salt sea.\n\n \u2018Pull off, pull of thy silken stays,\n And deliver them unto me;\n Methinks they are too fine and gay\n To rot in the salt sea.\n\n \u2018Pull off, pull off thy Holland smock,\n And deliver it unto me;\n Methinks it looks too rich and gay,\n To rot in the salt sea.\u2019\n\n \u2018If I must pull off my Holland smock,\n Pray turn thy back unto me,\n For it is not fitting that such a ruffian\n A naked woman should see.\u2019\n\n He turned his back towards her,\n And viewed the leaves so green;\n She catched him round the middle so small,\n And tumbled him into the stream.\n\n He dropp\u00e8d high, and he dropp\u00e8d low,\n Until he came to the side,\u2014\n \u2018Catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden,\n And I will make you my bride.\u2019\n\n \u2018Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man,\n Lie there instead of me;\n Six pretty maids have you drown\u00e8d here,\n And the seventh has drown\u00e8d thee.\u2019\n\n She mounted on her milk-white steed,\n And led the dapple grey,\n She rode till she came to her own father\u2019s hall,\n Three hours before it was day.\n\n The parrot being in the window so high,\n Hearing the lady, did say,\n \u2018I\u2019m afraid that some ruffian has led you astray,\n That you have tarried so long away.\u2019\n\n \u2018Don\u2019t prittle nor prattle, my pretty parrot,\n Nor tell no tales of me;\n Thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,\n Although it is made of a tree.\u2019\n\n The king being in the chamber so high,\n And hearing the parrot, did say,\n \u2018What ails you, what ails you, my pretty parrot,\n That you prattle so long before day?\u2019\n\n \u2018It\u2019s no laughing matter,\u2019 the parrot did say,\n \u2018But so loudly I call unto thee;\n For the cats have got into the window so high,\n And I\u2019m afraid they will have me.\u2019\n\n \u2018Well turned, well turned, my pretty parrot,\n Well turned, well turned for me;\n Thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,\n And the door of the best ivory.\u2019 {64}\n\n\n\nLORD DELAWARE.\n\n\n (TRADITIONAL.)\n\n[THIS interesting traditional ballad was first published by Mr. Thomas\nLyle in his _Ancient Ballads and Songs_, London, 1827. \u2018We have not as\nyet,\u2019 says Mr. Lyle, \u2018been able to trace out the historical incident upon\nwhich this ballad appears to have been founded; yet those curious in such\nmatters may consult, if they list, _Proceedings and Debates in the House\nof Commons_, for 1621 and 1662, where they will find that some stormy\ndebating in these several years had been agitated in parliament regarding\nthe corn laws, which bear pretty close upon the leading features of the\nballad.\u2019 Does not the ballad, however, belong to a much earlier period?\nThe description of the combat, the presence of heralds, the wearing of\narmour, &c., justify the conjecture. For De la Ware, ought we not to\nread De la Mare? and is not Sir Thomas De la Mare the hero? the De la\nMare who in the reign of Edward III., A.D. 1377, was Speaker of the House\nof Commons. All historians are agreed in representing him as a person\nusing \u2018great freedom of speach,\u2019 and which, indeed, he carried to such an\nextent as to endanger his personal liberty. As bearing somewhat upon the\nsubject of the ballad, it may he observed that De la Mare was a great\nadvocate of popular rights, and particularly protested against the\ninhabitants of England being subject to \u2018purveyance,\u2019 asserting that \u2018if\nthe royal revenue was faithfully administered, there could be no\nnecessity for laying burdens on the people.\u2019 In the subsequent reign of\nRichard II, De In Mare was a prominent character, and though history is\nsilent on the subject, it is not improbable that such a man might, even\nin the royal presence, have defended the rights of the poor, and spoken\nin extenuation of the agrarian insurrectionary movements which were then\nso prevalent and so alarming. On the hypothesis of De la Mare being the\nhero, there are other incidents in the tale which cannot be reconciled\nwith history, such as the title given to De la Mare, who certainly was\nnever ennobled; nor can we ascertain that he was ever mixed up in any\nduel; nor does it appear clear who can be meant by the \u2018Welsh Lord, the\nbrave Duke of Devonshire,\u2019 that dukedom not having been created till 1694\nand no nobleman having derived any title whatever from Devonshire\npreviously to 1618, when Baron Cavendish, of Hardwick, was created the\nfirst _Earl_ of Devonshire. We may therefore presume that for\n\u2018Devonshire\u2019 ought to be inserted the name of some other county or place.\nStrict historical accuracy is, however, hardly to be expected in any\nballad, particularly in one which, like the present, has evidently been\ncorrupted in floating down the stream of time. There is only one quarrel\nrecorded at the supposed period of our tale as having taken place betwixt\ntwo noblemen, and which resulted in a hostile meeting, viz., that wherein\nthe belligerent parties were the Duke of Hereford (who might by a\n\u2018ballad-monger\u2019 be deemed a _Welsh_ lord) and the Duke of Norfolk. This\nwas in the reign of Richard II. No fight, however, took place, owing to\nthe interference of the king. Our minstrel author may have had rather\nconfused historical ideas, and so mixed up certain passages in De la\nMare\u2019s history with this squabble; and we are strongly inclined to\nsuspect that such is the case, and that it will be found the real clue to\nthe story. Vide Hume\u2019s _History of England_, chap. XVII. A.D. 1398.\nLyle acknowledges that he has taken some liberties with the oral version,\nbut does not state what they were, beyond that they consisted merely in\n\u2018smoothing down.\u2019 Would that he had left it \u2018in the _rough_!\u2019 The last\nverse has every appearance of being apocryphal; it looks like one of\nthose benedictory verses with which minstrels were, and still are, in the\nhabit of concluding their songs. Lyle says the tune \u2018is pleasing, and\npeculiar to the ballad.\u2019 A homely version, presenting only trivial\nvariations from that of Mr. Lyle, is still printed and sung.]\n\n IN the Parliament House, a great rout has been there,\n Betwixt our good King and the Lord Delaware:\n Says Lord Delaware to his Majesty full soon,\n \u2018Will it please you, my liege, to grant me a boon?\u2019\n\n \u2018What\u2019s your boon,\u2019 says the King, \u2018now let me understand?\u2019\n \u2018It\u2019s, give me all the poor men we\u2019ve starving in this land;\n And without delay, I\u2019ll hie me to Lincolnshire,\n To sow hemp-seed and flax-seed, and hang them all there.\n\n \u2018For with hempen cord it\u2019s better to stop each poor man\u2019s breath,\n Than with famine you should see your subjects starve to death.\u2019\n Up starts a Dutch Lord, who to Delaware did say,\n \u2018Thou deserves to be stabbed!\u2019 then he turned himself away;\n\n \u2018Thou deserves to be stabbed, and the dogs have thine ears,\n For insulting our King in this Parliament of peers.\u2019\n Up sprang a Welsh Lord, the brave Duke of Devonshire,\n \u2018In young Delaware\u2019s defence, I\u2019ll fight this Dutch Lord, my sire;\n\n \u2018For he is in the right, and I\u2019ll make it so appear:\n Him I dare to single combat, for insulting Delaware.\u2019\n A stage was soon erected, and to combat they went,\n For to kill, or to be killed, it was either\u2019s full intent.\n\n But the very first flourish, when the heralds gave command,\n The sword of brave Devonshire bent backward on his hand;\n In suspense he paused awhile, scanned his foe before he strake,\n Then against the King\u2019s armour, his bent sword he brake.\n\n Then he sprang from the stage, to a soldier in the ring,\n Saying, \u2018Lend your sword, that to an end this tragedy we bring:\n Though he\u2019s fighting me in armour, while I am fighting bare,\n Even more than this I\u2019d venture for young Lord Delaware.\u2019\n\n Leaping back on the stage, sword to buckler now resounds,\n Till he left the Dutch Lord a bleeding in his wounds:\n This seeing, cries the King to his guards without delay,\n \u2018Call Devonshire down,\u2014take the dead man away!\u2019\n\n \u2018No,\u2019 says brave Devonshire, \u2018I\u2019ve fought him as a man,\n Since he\u2019s dead, I will keep the trophies I have won;\n For he fought me in your armour, while I fought him bare,\n And the same you must win back, my liege, if ever you them wear.\u2019\n\n God bless the Church of England, may it prosper on each hand,\n And also every poor man now starving in this land;\n And while I pray success may crown our King upon his throne,\n I\u2019ll wish that every poor man may long enjoy his own.\n\n\n\nLORD BATEMAN.\n\n\n[THIS is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of _Lord\nBeichan_, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the _Early\nBallads_, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published\nseveral years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page,\nby Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of _The loving Ballad\nof Lord Bateman_. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the\nballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in\nThackeray\u2019s Catalogue, see _ante_, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt\u2019s\nedition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England,\nbut it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been\npublished.]\n\n LORD BATEMAN he was a noble lord,\n A noble lord of high degree;\n He shipped himself on board a ship,\n Some foreign country he would go see.\n\n He sail\u00e8d east, and he sail\u00e8d west,\n Until he came to proud Turk\u00e8y;\n Where he was taken, and put to prison,\n Until his life was almost weary.\n\n And in this prison there grew a tree,\n It grew so stout, and grew so strong;\n Where he was chain\u00e8d by the middle,\n Until his life was almost gone.\n\n This Turk he had one only daughter,\n The fairest creature my eyes did see;\n She stole the keys of her father\u2019s prison,\n And swore Lord Bateman she would set free.\n\n \u2018Have you got houses? have you got lands?\n Or does Northumberland belong to thee?\n What would you give to the fair young lady\n That out of prison would set you free?\u2019\n\n \u2018I have got houses, I have got lands,\n And half Northumberland belongs to me\n I\u2019ll give it all to the fair young lady\n That out of prison would set me free.\u2019\n\n O! then she took him to her father\u2019s hall,\n And gave to him the best of wine;\n And every health she drank unto him,\n \u2018I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were mine!\n\n \u2018Now in seven years I\u2019ll make a vow,\n And seven years I\u2019ll keep it strong,\n If you\u2019ll wed with no other woman,\n I will wed with no other man.\u2019\n\n O! then she took him to her father\u2019s harbour,\n And gave to him a ship of fame;\n \u2018Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman,\n I\u2019m afraid I ne\u2019er shall see you again.\u2019\n\n Now seven long years are gone and past,\n And fourteen days, well known to thee;\n She packed up all her gay clothing,\n And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.\n\n But when she came to Lord Bateman\u2019s castle,\n So boldly she rang the bell;\n \u2018Who\u2019s there? who\u2019s there?\u2019 cried the proud port\u00e8r,\n \u2018Who\u2019s there? unto me come tell.\u2019\n\n \u2018O! is this Lord Bateman\u2019s castle?\n Or is his Lordship here within?\u2019\n \u2018O, yes! O, yes!\u2019 cried the young port\u00e8r,\n \u2018He\u2019s just now taken his new bride in.\u2019\n\n \u2018O! tell him to send me a slice of bread,\n And a bottle of the best wine;\n And not forgetting the fair young lady\n Who did release him when close confine.\u2019\n\n Away, away went this proud young porter,\n Away, away, and away went he,\n Until he came to Lord Bateman\u2019s chamber,\n Down on his bended knees fell he.\n\n \u2018What news, what news, my proud young porter?\n What news hast thou brought unto me?\u2019\n \u2018There is the fairest of all young creatures\n That ever my two eyes did see!\n\n \u2018She has got rings on every finger,\n And round one of them she has got three,\n And as much gay clothing round her middle\n As would buy all Northumberlea.\n\n \u2018She bids you send her a slice of bread,\n And a bottle of the best wine;\n And not forgetting the fair young lady\n Who did release you when close confine.\u2019\n\n Lord Bateman he then in a passion flew,\n And broke his sword in splinters three;\n Saying, \u2018I will give all my father\u2019s riches\n If Sophia has crossed the sea.\u2019\n\n Then up spoke the young bride\u2019s mother,\n Who never was heard to speak so free,\n \u2018You\u2019ll not forget my only daughter,\n If Sophia has crossed the sea.\u2019\n\n \u2018I own I made a bride of your daughter,\n She\u2019s neither the better nor worse for me;\n She came to me with her horse and saddle,\n She may go back in her coach and three.\u2019\n\n Lord Bateman prepared another marriage,\n And sang, with heart so full of glee,\n I\u2019ll range no more in foreign countries,\n Now since Sophia has crossed the sea.\u2019\n\n\n\nTHE GOLDEN GLOVE;\n\n\n OR, THE SQUIRE OF TAMWORTH.\n\n[THIS is a very popular ballad, and sung in every part of England. It is\ntraditionally reported to be founded on an incident which occurred in the\nreign of Elizabeth. It has been published in the broadside form from the\ncommencement of the eighteenth century, but is no doubt much older. It\ndoes not appear to have been previously inserted in any collection.]\n\n A WEALTHY young squire of Tamworth, we hear,\n He courted a nobleman\u2019s daughter so fair;\n And for to marry her it was his intent,\n All friends and relations gave their consent.\n\n The time was appointed for the wedding-day,\n A young farmer chosen to give her away;\n As soon as the farmer the young lady did spy,\n He inflam\u00e8d her heart; \u2018O, my heart!\u2019 she did cry.\n\n She turned from the squire, but nothing she said,\n Instead of being married she took to her bed;\n The thought of the farmer soon run in her mind,\n A way for to have him she quickly did find.\n\n Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on,\n And a hunting she went with her dog and her gun;\n She hunted all round where the farmer did dwell,\n Because in her heart she did love him full well:\n\n She oftentimes fired, but nothing she killed,\n At length the young farmer came into the field;\n And to discourse with him it was her intent,\n With her dog and her gun to meet him she went.\n\n \u2018I thought you had been at the wedding,\u2019 she cried,\n \u2018To wait on the squire, and give him his bride.\u2019\n \u2018No, sir,\u2019 said the farmer, \u2018if the truth I may tell,\n I\u2019ll not give her away, for I love her too well\u2019\n\n \u2018Suppose that the lady should grant you her love,\n You know that the squire your rival will prove.\u2019\n \u2018Why, then,\u2019 says the farmer, \u2018I\u2019ll take sword in hand,\n By honour I\u2019ll gain her when she shall command.\u2019\n\n It pleas\u00e8d the lady to find him so bold;\n She gave him a glove that was flowered with gold,\n And told him she found it when coming along,\n As she was a hunting with her dog and gun.\n\n The lady went home with a heart full of love,\n And gave out a notice that she\u2019d lost a glove;\n And said, \u2018Who has found it, and brings it to me,\n Whoever he is, he my husband shall be.\u2019\n\n The farmer was pleased when he heard of the news,\n With heart full of joy to the lady he goes:\n \u2018Dear, honoured lady, I\u2019ve picked up your glove,\n And hope you\u2019ll be pleased to grant me your love.\u2019\n\n \u2018It\u2019s already granted, I will be your bride;\n I love the sweet breath of a farmer,\u2019 she cried.\n \u2018I\u2019ll be mistress of my dairy, and milking my cow,\n While my jolly brisk farmer is whistling at plough.\u2019\n\n And when she was married she told of her fun,\n How she went a hunting with her dog and gun:\n \u2018And now I\u2019ve got him so fast in my snare,\n I\u2019ll enjoy him for ever, I vow and declare!\u2019\n\n\n\nKING JAMES I. AND THE TINKLER. {72a}\n\n\n (TRADITIONAL.)\n\n[THIS ballad of _King James I. and the Tinkler_ was probably written\neither in, or shortly after, the reign of the monarch who is the hero.\nThe incident recorded is said to be a fact, though the locality is\ndoubtful. By some the scene is laid at Norwood, in Surrey; by others in\nsome part of the English border. The ballad is alluded to by Percy, but\nis not inserted either in the _Reliques_, or in any other popular\ncollection. It is to be found only in a few broadsides and chap-books of\nmodern date. The present version is a traditional one, taken down, as\nhere given, from the recital of the late Francis King. {72b} It is much\nsuperior to the common broadside edition with which it has been collated,\nand from which the thirteenth and fifteenth verses were obtained. The\nballad is very popular on the Border, and in the dales of Cumberland,\nWestmoreland, and Craven. The late Robert Anderson, the Cumbrian bard,\nrepresents Deavie, in his song of the _Clay Daubin_, as singing _The King\nand the Tinkler_.]\n\n AND now, to be brief, let\u2019s pass over the rest,\n Who seldom or never were given to jest,\n And come to King Jamie, the first of our throne,\n A pleasanter monarch sure never was known.\n\n As he was a hunting the swift fallow-deer,\n He dropped all his nobles; and when he got clear,\n In hope of some pastime away he did ride,\n Till he came to an alehouse, hard by a wood-side.\n\n And there with a tinkler he happened to meet,\n And him in kind sort he so freely did greet:\n \u2018Pray thee, good fellow, what hast in thy jug,\n Which under thy arm thou dost lovingly hug?\u2019\n\n \u2018By the mass!\u2019 quoth the tinkler, \u2018it\u2019s nappy brown ale,\n And for to drink to thee, friend, I will not fail;\n For although thy jacket looks gallant and fine,\n I think that my twopence as good is as thine.\u2019\n\n \u2018By my soul! honest fellow, the truth thou hast spoke,\u2019\n And straight he sat down with the tinkler to joke;\n They drank to the King, and they pledged to each other;\n Who\u2019d seen \u2019em had thought they were brother and brother.\n\n As they were a-drinking the King pleased to say,\n \u2018What news, honest fellow? come tell me, I pray?\u2019\n \u2018There\u2019s nothing of news, beyond that I hear\n The King\u2019s on the border a-chasing the deer.\n\n \u2018And truly I wish I so happy may be\n Whilst he is a hunting the King I might see;\n For although I\u2019ve travelled the land many ways\n I never have yet seen a King in my days.\u2019\n\n The King, with a hearty brisk laughter, replied,\n \u2018I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride,\n Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring\n To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign King.\u2019\n\n \u2018But he\u2019ll be surrounded with nobles so gay,\n And how shall we tell him from them, sir, I pray?\u2019\n \u2018Thou\u2019lt easily ken him when once thou art there;\n The King will be covered, his nobles all bare.\u2019\n\n He got up behind him and likewise his sack,\n His budget of leather, and tools at his back;\n They rode till they came to the merry greenwood,\n His nobles came round him, bareheaded they stood.\n\n The tinkler then seeing so many appear,\n He slily did whisper the King in his ear:\n Saying, \u2018They\u2019re all clothed so gloriously gay,\n But which amongst them is the King, sir, I pray?\u2019\n\n The King did with hearty good laughter, reply,\n \u2018By my soul! my good fellow, it\u2019s thou or it\u2019s I!\n The rest are bareheaded, uncovered all round.\u2019\u2014\n With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground,\n\n Like one that was frightened quite out of his wits,\n Then on his knees he instantly gets,\n Beseeching for mercy; the King to him said,\n \u2018Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid.\n\n \u2018Come, tell thy name?\u2019 \u2018I am John of the Dale,\n A mender of kettles, a lover of ale.\u2019\n \u2018Rise up, Sir John, I will honour thee here,\u2014\n I make thee a knight of three thousand a year!\u2019\n\n This was a good thing for the tinkler indeed;\n Then unto the court he was sent for with speed,\n Where great store of pleasure and pastime was seen,\n In the royal presence of King and of Queen.\n\n Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has fee,\n At the court of the king who so happy as he?\n Yet still in his hall hangs the tinkler\u2019s old sack,\n And the budget of tools which he bore at his back.\n\n\n\nTHE KEACH I\u2019 THE CREEL.\n\n\n[THIS old and very humorous ballad has long been a favourite on both\nsides of the Border, but had never appeared in print till about 1845,\nwhen a Northumbrian gentleman printed a few copies for private\ncirculation, from one of which the following is taken. In the present\nimpression some trifling typographical mistakes are corrected, and the\nphraseology has been rendered uniform throughout. _Keach i\u2019 the Creel_\nmeans the catch in the basket.]\n\n A FAIR young May went up the street,\n Some white fish for to buy;\n And a bonny clerk\u2019s fa\u2019n i\u2019 luve wi\u2019 her,\n And he\u2019s followed her by and by, by,\n And he\u2019s followed her by and by.\n\n \u2018O! where live ye my bonny lass,\n I pray thee tell to me;\n For gin the nicht were ever sae mirk,\n I wad come and visit thee, thee;\n I wad come and visit thee.\u2019\n\n \u2018O! my father he aye locks the door,\n My mither keeps the key;\n And gin ye were ever sic a wily wicht,\n Ye canna win in to me, me;\n Ye canna win in to me.\u2019\n\n But the clerk he had ae true brother,\n And a wily wicht was he;\n And he has made a lang ladder,\n Was thirty steps and three, three;\n Was thirty steps and three.\n\n He has made a cleek but and a creel\u2014\n A creel but and a pin;\n And he\u2019s away to the chimley-top,\n And he\u2019s letten the bonny clerk in, in;\n And he\u2019s letten the bonny clerk in.\n\n The auld wife, being not asleep,\n Tho\u2019 late, late was the hour;\n I\u2019ll lay my life,\u2019 quo\u2019 the silly auld wife,\n \u2018There\u2019s a man i\u2019 our dochter\u2019s bower, bower;\n There\u2019s a man i\u2019 our dochter\u2019s bower.\u2019\n\n The auld man he gat owre the bed,\n To see if the thing was true;\n But she\u2019s ta\u2019en the bonny clerk in her arms,\n And covered him owre wi\u2019 blue, blue;\n And covered him owre wi\u2019 blue.\n\n \u2018O! where are ye gaun now, father?\u2019 she says,\n \u2018And where are ye gaun sae late?\n Ye\u2019ve disturbed me in my evening prayers,\n And O! but they were sweit, sweit;\n And O! but they were sweit.\u2019\n\n \u2018O! ill betide ye, silly auld wife,\n And an ill death may ye dee;\n She has the muckle buik in her arms,\n And she\u2019s prayin\u2019 for you and me, me;\n And she\u2019s prayin\u2019 for you and me.\u2019\n\n The auld wife being not asleep,\n Then something mair was said;\n \u2018I\u2019ll lay my life,\u2019 quo\u2019 the silly auld wife,\n \u2018There\u2019s a man by our dochter\u2019s bed, bed;\n There\u2019s a man by our dochter\u2019s bed.\u2019\n\n The auld wife she gat owre the bed,\n To see if the thing was true;\n But what the wrack took the auld wife\u2019s fit?\n For into the creel she flew, flew;\n For into the creel she flew.\n\n The man that was at the chimley-top,\n Finding the creel was fu\u2019,\n He wrappit the rape round his left shouther,\n And fast to him he drew, drew:\n And fast to him he drew.\n\n \u2018O, help! O, help! O, hinny, noo, help!\n O, help! O, hinny, do!\n For _him_ that ye aye wished me at,\n He\u2019s carryin\u2019 me off just noo, noo;\n He\u2019s carryin\u2019 me off just noo.\u2019\n\n \u2018O! if the foul thief\u2019s gotten ye,\n I wish he may keep his haud;\n For a\u2019 the lee lang winter nicht,\n Ye\u2019ll never lie in your bed, bed;\n Ye\u2019ll never lie in your bed.\u2019\n\n He\u2019s towed her up, he\u2019s towed her down,\n He\u2019s towed her through an\u2019 through;\n \u2018O, Gude! assist,\u2019 quo\u2019 the silly auld wife,\n \u2018For I\u2019m just departin\u2019 noo, noo;\n For I\u2019m just departin\u2019 noo.\u2019\n\n He\u2019s towed her up, he\u2019s towed her down,\n He\u2019s gien her a richt down fa\u2019,\n Till every rib i\u2019 the auld wife\u2019s side,\n Played nick nack on the wa\u2019, wa\u2019;\n Played nick nack on the wa\u2019.\n\n O! the blue, the bonny, bonny blue,\n And I wish the blue may do weel;\n And every auld wife that\u2019s sae jealous o\u2019 her dochter,\n May she get a good keach i\u2019 the creel, creel;\n May she get a good keach i\u2019 the creel!\n\n\n\nTHE MERRY BROOMFIELD; OR, THE WEST COUNTRY WAGER.\n\n\n[THIS old West-country ballad was one of the broadsides printed at the\nAldermary press. We have not met with any older impression, though we\nhave been assured that there are black-letter copies. In Scott\u2019s\n_Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_ is a ballad called the _Broomfield\nHill_; it is a mere fragment, but is evidently taken from the present\nballad, and can be considered only as one of the many modern antiques to\nbe found in that work.]\n\n A NOBLE young squire that lived in the West,\n He courted a young lady gay;\n And as he was merry he put forth a jest,\n A wager with her he would lay.\n\n \u2018A wager with me,\u2019 the young lady replied,\n \u2018I pray about what must it be?\n If I like the humour you shan\u2019t be denied,\n I love to be merry and free.\u2019\n\n Quoth he, \u2018I will lay you a hundred pounds,\n A hundred pounds, aye, and ten,\n That a maid if you go to the merry Broomfield,\n That a maid you return not again.\u2019\n\n \u2018I\u2019ll lay you that wager,\u2019 the lady she said,\n Then the money she flung down amain;\n \u2018To the merry Broomfield I\u2019ll go a pure maid,\n The same I\u2019ll return home again.\u2019\n\n He covered her bet in the midst of the hall,\n With a hundred and ten jolly pounds;\n And then to his servant he straightway did call,\n For to bring forth his hawk and his hounds.\n\n A ready obedience the servant did yield,\n And all was made ready o\u2019er night;\n Next morning he went to the merry Broomfield,\n To meet with his love and delight.\n\n Now when he came there, having waited a while,\n Among the green broom down he lies;\n The lady came to him, and could not but smile,\n For sleep then had clos\u00e8d his eyes.\n\n Upon his right hand a gold ring she secured,\n Drawn from her own fingers so fair;\n That when he awak\u00e8d he might be assured\n His lady and love had been there.\n\n She left him a posie of pleasant perfume,\n Then stepped from the place where he lay,\n Then hid herself close in the besom of broom,\n To hear what her true love did say.\n\n He wakened and found the gold ring on his hand,\n Then sorrow of heart he was in;\n \u2018My love has been here, I do well understand,\n And this wager I now shall not win.\n\n \u2018Oh! where was you, my goodly goshawk,\n The which I have purchased so dear,\n Why did you not waken me out of my sleep,\n When the lady, my love, was here?\u2019\n\n \u2018O! with my bells did I ring, master,\n And eke with my feet did I run;\n And still did I cry, pray awake! master,\n She\u2019s here now, and soon will be gone.\u2019\n\n \u2018O! where was you, my gallant greyhound,\n Whose collar is flourished with gold;\n Why hadst thou not wakened me out of my sleep,\n When thou didst my lady behold?\u2019\n\n \u2018Dear master, I barked with my mouth when she came,\n And likewise my collar I shook;\n And told you that here was the beautiful dame,\n But no notice of me then you took.\u2019\n\n \u2018O! where wast thou, my servingman,\n Whom I have cloth\u00e8d so fine?\n If you had waked me when she was here,\n The wager then had been mine.\u2019\n\n In the night you should have slept, master,\n And kept awake in the day;\n Had you not been sleeping when hither she came,\n Then a maid she had not gone away.\u2019\n\n Then home he returned when the wager was lost,\n With sorrow of heart, I may say;\n The lady she laughed to find her love crost,\u2014\n This was upon midsummer-day.\n\n \u2018O, squire! I laid in the bushes concealed,\n And heard you, when you did complain;\n And thus I have been to the merry Broomfield,\n And a maid returned back again.\n\n \u2018Be cheerful! be cheerful! and do not repine,\n For now \u2019tis as clear as the sun,\n The money, the money, the money is mine,\n The wager I fairly have won.\u2019\n\n\n\nSIR JOHN BARLEYCORN.\n\n\n[THE West-country ballad of _Sir John Barleycorn_ is very ancient, and\nbeing the only version that has ever been sung at English merry-makings\nand country feasts, can certainly set up a better claim to antiquity than\nany of the three ballads on the same subject to be found in Evans\u2019s _Old\nBallads_; viz., _John Barleycorn_, _The Little Barleycorn_, and _Mas\nMault_. Our west-country version bears the greatest resemblance to _The\nLittle Barleycorn_, but it is very dissimilar to any of the three. Burns\naltered the old ditty, but on referring to his version it will be seen\nthat his corrections and additions want the simplicity of the original,\nand certainly cannot be considered improvements. The common ballad does\nnot appear to have been inserted in any of our popular collections. _Sir\nJohn Barleycorn_ is very appropriately sung to the tune of _Stingo_. See\n_Popular Music_, p. 305.]\n\n THERE came three men out of the West,\n Their victory to try;\n And they have taken a solemn oath,\n Poor Barleycorn should die.\n\n They took a plough and ploughed him in,\n And harrowed clods on his head;\n And then they took a solemn oath,\n Poor Barleycorn was dead.\n\n There he lay sleeping in the ground,\n Till rain from the sky did fall:\n Then Barleycorn sprung up his head,\n And so amazed them all.\n\n There he remained till Midsummer,\n And looked both pale and wan;\n Then Barleycorn he got a beard,\n And so became a man.\n\n Then they sent men with scythes so sharp,\n To cut him off at knee;\n And then poor little Barleycorn,\n They served him barbarously.\n\n Then they sent men with pitchforks strong\n To pierce him through the heart;\n And like a dreadful tragedy,\n They bound him to a cart.\n\n And then they brought him to a barn,\n A prisoner to endure;\n And so they fetched him out again,\n And laid him on the floor.\n\n Then they set men with holly clubs,\n To beat the flesh from his bones;\n But the miller he served him worse than that,\n For he ground him betwixt two stones.\n\n O! Barleycorn is the choicest grain\n That ever was sown on land;\n It will do more than any grain,\n By the turning of your hand.\n\n It will make a boy into a man,\n And a man into an ass;\n It will change your gold into silver,\n And your silver into brass.\n\n It will make the huntsman hunt the fox,\n That never wound his horn;\n It will bring the tinker to the stocks,\n That people may him scorn.\n\n It will put sack into a glass,\n And claret in the can;\n And it will cause a man to drink\n Till he neither can go nor stand.\n\n\n\nBLOW THE WINDS, I-HO!\n\n\n[THIS Northumbrian ballad is of great antiquity, and bears considerable\nresemblance to _The Baffled Knight_; _or_, _Lady\u2019s Policy_, inserted in\nPercy\u2019s _Reliques_. It is not in any popular collection. In the\nbroadside from which it is here printed, the title and chorus are given,\n_Blow the Winds_, _I-O_, a form common to many ballads and songs, but\nonly to those of great antiquity. Chappell, in his _Popular Music_, has\nan example in a song as old as 1698:\u2014\n\n \u2018Here\u2019s a health to jolly Bacchus,\n I-ho! I-ho! I-ho!\u2019\n\nand in another well-known old catch the same form appears:\u2014\n\n \u2018A pye sat on a pear-tree,\n I-ho, I-ho, I-ho.\u2019\n\n\u2018Io!\u2019 or, as we find it given in these lyrics, \u2018I-ho!\u2019 was an ancient\nform of acclamation or triumph on joyful occasions and anniversaries. It\nis common, with slight variations, to different languages. In the\nGothic, for example, Iola signifies to make merry. It has been supposed\nby some etymologists that the word \u2018yule\u2019 is a corruption of \u2018Io!\u2019]\n\n THERE was a shepherd\u2019s son,\n He kept sheep on yonder hill;\n He laid his pipe and his crook aside,\n And there he slept his fill.\n\n And blow the winds, I-ho!\n Sing, blow the winds, I-ho!\n Clear away the morning dew,\n And blow the winds, I-ho!\n\n He look\u00e8d east, and he look\u00e8d west,\n He took another look,\n And there he spied a lady gay,\n Was dipping in a brook.\n\n She said, \u2018Sir, don\u2019t touch my mantle,\n Come, let my clothes alone;\n I will give you as much mon\u00e8y\n As you can carry home.\u2019\n\n \u2018I will not touch your mantle,\n I\u2019ll let your clothes alone;\n I\u2019ll take you out of the water clear,\n My dear, to be my own.\u2019\n\n He did not touch her mantle,\n He let her clothes alone;\n But he took her from the clear water,\n And all to be his own.\n\n He set her on a milk-white steed,\n Himself upon another;\n And there they rode along the road,\n Like sister, and like brother.\n\n And as they rode along the road,\n He spied some cocks of hay;\n \u2018Yonder,\u2019 he says, \u2018is a lovely place\n For men and maids to play!\u2019\n\n And when they came to her father\u2019s gate,\n She pull\u00e8d at a ring;\n And ready was the proud port\u00e8r\n For to let the lady in.\n\n And when the gates were open,\n This lady jump\u00e8d in;\n She says, \u2018You are a fool without,\n And I\u2019m a maid within.\n\n \u2018Good morrow to you, modest boy,\n I thank you for your care;\n If you had been what you should have been,\n I would not have left you there.\n\n \u2018There is a horse in my father\u2019s stable,\n He stands beyond the thorn;\n He shakes his head above the trough,\n But dares not prie the corn.\n\n \u2018There is a bird in my father\u2019s flock,\n A double comb he wears;\n He flaps his wings, and crows full loud,\n But a capon\u2019s crest he bears.\n\n \u2018There is a flower in my father\u2019s garden,\n They call it marygold;\n The fool that will not when he may,\n He shall not when he wold.\u2019\n\n Said the shepherd\u2019s son, as he doft his shoon,\n \u2018My feet they shall run bare,\n And if ever I meet another maid,\n I rede that maid beware.\u2019\n\n\n\nTHE BEAUTIFUL LADY OF KENT;\n\n\n OR, THE SEAMAN OF DOVER.\n\n[WE have met with two copies of this genuine English ballad; the older\none is without printer\u2019s name, but from the appearance of the type and\nthe paper, it must have been published about the middle of the last\ncentury. It is certainly not one of the original impressions, for the\nother copy, though of recent date, has evidently been taken from some\nstill older and better edition. In the modern broadside the ballad is in\nfour parts, whereas, in our older one, there is no such expressed\ndivision, but a word at the commencement of each part is printed in\ncapital letters.]\n\n PART I.\n\n A SEAMAN of Dover, whose excellent parts,\n For wisdom and learning, had conquered the hearts\n Of many young damsels, of beauty so bright,\n Of him this new ditty in brief I shall write;\n\n And show of his turnings, and windings of fate,\n His passions and sorrows, so many and great:\n And how he was bless\u00e8d with true love at last,\n When all the rough storms of his troubles were past.\n\n Now, to be brief, I shall tell you the truth:\n A beautiful lady, whose name it was Ruth,\n A squire\u2019s young daughter, near Sandwich, in Kent,\n Proves all his heart\u2019s treasure, his joy and content.\n\n Unknown to their parents in private they meet,\n Where many love lessons they\u2019d often repeat,\n With kisses, and many embraces likewise,\n She granted him love, and thus gain\u00e8d the prize.\n\n She said, \u2018I consent to be thy sweet bride,\n Whatever becomes of my fortune,\u2019 she cried.\n \u2018The frowns of my father I never will fear,\n But freely will go through the world with my dear.\u2019\n\n A jewel he gave her, in token of love,\n And vowed, by the sacred powers above,\n To wed the next morning; but they were betrayed,\n And all by the means of a treacherous maid.\n\n She told her parents that they were agreed:\n With that they fell into a passion with speed,\n And said, ere a seaman their daughter should have,\n They rather would follow her corpse to the grave.\n\n The lady was straight to her chamber confined,\n Here long she continued in sorrow of mind,\n And so did her love, for the loss of his dear,\u2014\n No sorrow was ever so sharp and severe.\n\n When long he had mourned for his love and delight,\n Close under the window he came in the night,\n And sung forth this ditty:\u2014\u2018My dearest, farewell!\n Behold, in this nation no longer I dwell.\n\n \u2018I am going from hence to the kingdom of Spain,\n Because I am willing that you should obtain\n Your freedom once more; for my heart it will break\n If longer thou liest confined for my sake.\u2019\n\n The words which he uttered, they caused her to weep;\n Yet, nevertheless, she was forc\u00e8d to keep\n Deep silence that minute, that minute for fear\n Her honour\u00e8d father and mother should hear.\n\n PART II.\n\n Soon after, bold Henry he entered on board,\n The heavens a prosperous gale did afford,\n And brought him with speed to the kingdom of Spain,\n There he with a merchant some time did remain;\n\n Who, finding that he was both faithful and just,\n Preferred him to places of honour and trust;\n He made him as great as his heart could request,\n Yet, wanting his Ruth, he with grief was oppressed.\n\n So great was his grief it could not be concealed,\n Both honour and riches no pleasure could yield;\n In private he often would weep and lament,\n For Ruth, the fair, beautiful lady of Kent.\n\n Now, while he lamented the loss of his dear,\n A lady of Spain did before him appear,\n Bedecked with rich jewels both costly and gay,\n Who earnestly sought for his favour that day.\n\n Said she, \u2018Gentle swain, I am wounded with love,\n And you are the person I honour above\n The greatest of nobles that ever was born;\u2014\n Then pity my tears, and my sorrowful mourn!\u2019\n\n \u2018I pity thy sorrowful tears,\u2019 he replied,\n \u2018And wish I were worthy to make thee my bride;\n But, lady, thy grandeur is greater than mine,\n Therefore, I am fearful my heart to resign.\u2019\n\n \u2018O! never be doubtful of what will ensue,\n No manner of danger will happen to you;\n At my own disposal I am, I declare,\n Receive me with love, or destroy me with care.\u2019\n\n \u2018Dear madam, don\u2019t fix your affection on me,\n You are fit for some lord of a noble degree,\n That is able to keep up your honour and fame;\n I am but a poor sailor, from England who came.\n\n \u2018A man of mean fortune, whose substance is small,\n I have not wherewith to maintain you withal,\n Sweet lady, according to honour and state;\n Now this is the truth, which I freely relate.\u2019\n\n The lady she lovingly squeez\u00e8d his hand,\n And said with a smile, \u2018Ever blessed be the land\n That bred such a noble, brave seaman as thee;\n I value no honours, thou\u2019rt welcome to me;\n\n \u2018My parents are dead, I have jewels untold,\n Besides in possession a million of gold;\n And thou shalt be lord of whatever I have,\n Grant me but thy love, which I earnestly crave.\u2019\n\n Then, turning aside, to himself he replied,\n \u2018I am courted with riches and beauty beside;\n This love I may have, but my Ruth is denied.\u2019\n Wherefore he consented to make her his bride.\n\n The lady she cloth\u00e8d him costly and great;\n His noble deportment, both proper and straight,\n So charm\u00e8d the innocent eye of his dove,\n And added a second new flame to her love.\n\n Then married they were without longer delay;\n Now here we will leave them both glorious and gay,\n To speak of fair Ruth, who in sorrow was left\n At home with her parents, of comfort bereft.\n\n PART III.\n\n When under the window with an aching heart,\n He told his fair Ruth he so soon must depart,\n Her parents they heard, and well pleas\u00e8d they were,\n But Ruth was afflicted with sorrow and care.\n\n Now, after her lover had quitted the shore,\n They kept her confined a fall twelvemonth or more,\n And then they were pleas\u00e8d to set her at large,\n With laying upon her a wonderful charge:\n\n To fly from a seaman as she would from death;\n She promised she would, with a faltering breath;\n Yet, nevertheless, the truth you shall hear,\n She found out a way for to follow her dear.\n\n Then, taking her gold and her silver als\u00f2,\n In seaman\u2019s apparel away she did go,\n And found out a master, with whom she agreed,\n To carry her over the ocean with speed.\n\n Now, when she arrived at the kingdom of Spain,\n From city to city she travelled amain,\n Enquiring about everywhere for her love,\n Who now had been gone seven years and above.\n\n In Cadiz, as she walked along in the street,\n Her love and his lady she happened to meet,\n But in such a garb as she never had seen,\u2014\n She looked like an angel, or beautiful queen.\n\n With sorrowful tears she turned her aside:\n \u2018My jewel is gone, I shall ne\u2019er be his bride;\n But, nevertheless, though my hopes are in vain,\n I\u2019ll never return to old England again.\n\n \u2018But here, in this place, I will now be confined;\n It will be a comfort and joy to my mind,\n To see him sometimes, though he thinks not of me,\n Since he has a lady of noble degree.\u2019\n\n Now, while in the city fair Ruth did reside,\n Of a sudden this beautiful lady she died,\n And, though he was in the possession of all,\n Yet tears from his eyes in abundance did fall.\n\n As he was expressing his piteous moan,\n Fair Ruth came unto him, and made herself known;\n He started to see her, but seem\u00e8d not coy,\n Said he, \u2018Now my sorrows are mingled with joy!\u2019\n\n The time of the mourning he kept it in Spain,\n And then he came back to old England again,\n With thousands, and thousands, which he did possess;\n Then glorious and gay was sweet Ruth in her dress.\n\n PART IV.\n\n When over the seas to fair Sandwich he came,\n With Ruth, and a number of persons of fame,\n Then all did appear most splendid and gay,\n As if it had been a great festival day.\n\n Now, when that they took up their lodgings, behold!\n He stripped off his coat of embroider\u00e8d gold,\n And presently borrows a mariner\u2019s suit,\n That he with her parents might have some dispute,\n\n Before they were sensible he was so great;\n And when he came in and knocked at the gate,\n He soon saw her father, and mother likewise,\n Expressing their sorrow with tears in their eyes,\n\n To them, with obeisance, he modestly said,\n \u2018Pray where is my jewel, that innocent maid,\n Whose sweet lovely beauty doth thousands excel?\n I fear, by your weeping, that all is not well!\u2019\n\n \u2018No, no! she is gone, she is utterly lost;\n We have not heard of her a twelvemonth at most!\n Which makes us distracted with sorrow and care,\n And drowns us in tears at the point of despair.\u2019\n\n \u2018I\u2019m griev\u00e8d to hear these sad tidings,\u2019 he cried.\n \u2018Alas! honest young man,\u2019 her father replied,\n \u2018I heartily wish she\u2019d been wedded to you,\n For then we this sorrow had never gone through.\u2019\n\n Sweet Henry he made them this answer again;\n \u2018I am newly come home from the kingdom of Spain,\n From whence I have brought me a beautiful bride,\n And am to be married to-morrow,\u2019 he cried;\n\n \u2018And if you will go to my wedding,\u2019 said he,\n \u2018Both you and your lady right welcome shall be.\u2019\n They promised they would, and accordingly came,\n Not thinking to meet with such persons of fame.\n\n All decked with their jewels of rubies and pearls,\n As equal companions of lords and of earls,\n Fair Ruth, with her love, was as gay as the rest,\n So they in their marriage were happily blessed.\n\n Now, as they returned from the church to an inn,\n The father and mother of Ruth did begin\n Their daughter to know, by a mole they behold,\n Although she was clothed in a garment of gold.\n\n With transports of joy they flew to the bride,\n \u2018O! where hast thou been, sweetest daughter?\u2019 they cried,\n \u2018Thy tedious absence has griev\u00e8d us sore,\n As fearing, alas! we should see thee no more.\u2019\n\n \u2018Dear parents,\u2019 said she, \u2018many hazards I run,\n To fetch home my love, and your dutiful son;\n Receive him with joy, for \u2019tis very well known,\n He seeks not your wealth, he\u2019s enough of his own.\u2019\n\n Her father replied, and he merrily smiled,\n \u2018He\u2019s brought home enough, as he\u2019s brought home my child;\n A thousand times welcome you are, I declare,\n Whose presence disperses both sorrow and care.\u2019\n\n Full seven long days in feasting they spent;\n The bells in the steeple they merrily went,\n And many fair pounds were bestowed on the poor,\u2014\n The like of this wedding was never before!\n\n\n\nTHE BERKSHIRE LADY\u2019S GARLAND.\n\n\n IN FOUR PARTS.\n\n To the tune of _The Royal Forester_.\n\n[WHEN we first met with this very pleasing English ballad, we deemed the\nstory to be wholly fictitious, but \u2018strange\u2019 as the \u2018relation\u2019 may\nappear, the incidents narrated are \u2018true\u2019 or at least founded on fact.\nThe scene of the ballad is Whitley Park, near Reading, in Berkshire, and\nnot, as some suppose, Calcot House, which was not built till 1759.\nWhitley is mentioned as \u2018the Abbot\u2019s Park, being at the entrance of\nRedding town.\u2019 At the Dissolution the estate passed to the crown, and\nthe mansion seems, from time to time, to have been used as a royal\n\u2018palace\u2019 till the reign of Elizabeth, by whom it was granted, along with\nthe estate, to Sir Francis Knollys; it was afterwards, by purchase, the\nproperty of the Kendricks, an ancient race, descended from the Saxon\nkings. William Kendrick, of Whitley, armr. was created a baronet in\n1679, and died in 1685, leaving issue one son, Sir William Kendrick, of\nWhitley, Bart., who married Miss Mary House, of Reading, and died in\n1699, without issue male, leaving an only daughter. It was this rich\nheiress, who possessed \u2018store of wealth and beauty bright,\u2019 that is the\nheroine of the ballad. She married Benjamin Child, Esq., a young and\nhandsome, but very poor attorney of Reading, and the marriage is\ntraditionally reported to have been brought about exactly as related in\nthe ballad. We have not been able to ascertain the exact date of the\nmarriage, which was celebrated in St. Mary\u2019s Church, Reading, the bride\nwearing a thick veil; but the ceremony must have taken place some time\nabout 1705. In 1714, Mr. Child was high sheriff of Berkshire. As he was\nan humble and obscure personage previously to his espousing the heiress\nof Whitley, and, in fact, owed all his wealth and influence to his\nmarriage, it cannot be supposed that _immediately_ after his union he\nwould be elevated to so important and dignified a post as the\nhigh-shrievalty of the very aristocratical county of Berks. We may,\ntherefore, consider nine or ten years to have elapsed betwixt his\nmarriage and his holding the office of high sheriff, which he filled when\nhe was about thirty-two years of age. The author of the ballad is\nunknown: supposing him to have composed it shortly after the events which\nhe records, we cannot be far wrong in fixing its date about 1706. The\nearliest broadside we have seen contains a rudely executed, but by no\nmeans bad likeness of Queen Anne, the reigning monarch at that period.]\n\n PART I.\n\n SHOWING CUPID\u2019S CONQUEST OVER A COY LADY OF FIVE THOUSAND A YEAR.\n\n BACHELORS of every station,\n Mark this strange and true relation,\n Which in brief to you I bring,\u2014\n Never was a stranger thing!\n\n You shall find it worth the hearing;\n Loyal love is most endearing,\n When it takes the deepest root,\n Yielding charms and gold to boot.\n\n Some will wed for love of treasure;\n But the sweetest joy and pleasure\n Is in faithful love, you\u2019ll find,\n Grac\u00e8d with a noble mind.\n\n Such a noble disposition\n Had this lady, with submission,\n Of whom I this sonnet write,\n Store of wealth, and beauty bright.\n\n She had left, by a good grannum,\n Full five thousand pounds per annum,\n Which she held without control;\n Thus she did in riches roll.\n\n Though she had vast store of riches,\n Which some persons much bewitches,\n Yet she bore a virtuous mind,\n Not the least to pride inclined.\n\n Many noble persons courted\n This young lady, \u2019tis reported;\n But their labour proved in vain,\n They could not her favour gain.\n\n Though she made a strong resistance,\n Yet by Cupid\u2019s true assistance,\n She was conquered after all;\n How it was declare I shall.\n\n Being at a noble wedding,\n Near the famous town of Redding, {92}\n A young gentleman she saw,\n Who belong\u00e8d to the law.\n\n As she viewed his sweet behaviour,\n Every courteous carriage gave her\n New addition to her grief;\n Forced she was to seek relief.\n\n Privately she then enquired\n About him, so much admired;\n Both his name, and where he dwelt,\u2014\n Such was the hot flame she felt.\n\n Then, at night, this youthful lady\n Called her coach, which being ready,\n Homewards straight she did return;\n But her heart with flames did burn.\n\n PART II.\n\n SHOWING THE LADY\u2019S LETTER OF A CHALLENGE TO FIGHT HIM UPON HIS REFUSING\n TO WED HER IN A MASK, WITHOUT KNOWING WHO SHE WAS.\n\n Night and morning, for a season,\n In her closet would she reason\n With herself, and often said,\n \u2018Why has love my heart betrayed?\n\n \u2018I, that have so many slighted,\n Am at length so well requited;\n For my griefs are not a few!\n Now I find what love can do.\n\n \u2018He that has my heart in keeping,\n Though I for his sake be weeping,\n Little knows what grief I feel;\n But I\u2019ll try it out with steel.\n\n \u2018For I will a challenge send him,\n And appoint where I\u2019ll attend him,\n In a grove, without delay,\n By the dawning of the day.\n\n \u2018He shall not the least discover\n That I am a virgin lover,\n By the challenge which I send;\n But for justice I contend.\n\n \u2018He has caus\u00e8d sad distraction,\n And I come for satisfaction,\n Which if he denies to give,\n One of us shall cease to live.\u2019\n\n Having thus her mind revealed,\n She her letter closed and sealed;\n Which, when it came to his hand,\n The young man was at a stand.\n\n In her letter she conjured him\n For to meet, and well assured him,\n Recompence he must afford,\n Or dispute it with the sword.\n\n Having read this strange relation,\n He was in a consternation;\n But, advising with his friend,\n He persuades him to attend.\n\n \u2018Be of courage, and make ready,\n Faint heart never won fair lady;\n In regard it must be so,\n I along with you must go.\u2019\n\n PART III.\n\n SHOWING HOW THEY MET BY APPOINTMENT IN A GROVE, WHERE SHE OBLIGED HIM TO\n FIGHT OR WED HER.\n\n Early on a summer\u2019s morning,\n When bright Phoebus was adorning\n Every bower with his beams,\n The fair lady came, it seems.\n\n At the bottom of a mountain,\n Near a pleasant crystal fountain,\n There she left her gilded coach,\n While the grove she did approach.\n\n Covered with her mask, and walking,\n There she met her lover talking\n With a friend that he had brought;\n So she asked him whom he sought.\n\n \u2018I am challenged by a gallant,\n Who resolves to try my talent;\n Who he is I cannot say,\n But I hope to show him play.\u2019\n\n \u2018It is I that did invite you,\n You shall wed me, or I\u2019ll fight you,\n Underneath those spreading trees;\n Therefore, choose you which you please.\n\n \u2018You shall find I do not vapour,\n I have brought my trusty rapier;\n Therefore, take your choice,\u2019 said she,\n \u2018Either fight or marry me.\u2019\n\n Said he, \u2018Madam, pray what mean you?\n In my life I\u2019ve never seen you;\n Pray unmask, your visage show,\n Then I\u2019ll tell you aye or no.\u2019\n\n \u2018I will not my face uncover\n Till the marriage ties are over;\n Therefore, choose you which you will,\n Wed me, sir, or try your skill.\n\n \u2018Step within that pleasant bower,\n With your friend one single hour;\n Strive your thoughts to reconcile,\n And I\u2019ll wander here the while.\u2019\n\n While this beauteous lady waited,\n The young bachelors debated\n What was best for to be done:\n Quoth his friend, \u2018The hazard run.\n\n \u2018If my judgment can be trusted,\n Wed her first, you can\u2019t be worsted;\n If she\u2019s rich, you\u2019ll rise to fame,\n If she\u2019s poor, why! you\u2019re the same.\u2019\n\n He consented to be married;\n All three in a coach were carried\n To a church without delay,\n Where he weds the lady gay.\n\n Though sweet pretty Cupids hovered\n Round her eyes, her face was covered\n With a mask,\u2014he took her thus,\n Just for better or for worse.\n\n With a courteous kind behaviour,\n She presents his friend a favour,\n And withal dismissed him straight,\n That he might no longer wait.\n\n PART IV.\n\n SHOWING HOW THEY RODE TOGETHER IN HER GILDED COACH TO HER NOBLE SEAT, OR\n CASTLE, ETC.\n\n As the gilded coach stood ready,\n The young lawyer and his lady\n Rode together, till they came\n To her house of state and fame;\n\n Which appear\u00e8d like a castle,\n Where you might behold a parcel\n Of young cedars, tall and straight,\n Just before her palace gate.\n\n Hand in hand they walked together,\n To a hall, or parlour, rather,\n Which was beautiful and fair,\u2014\n All alone she left him there.\n\n Two long hours there he waited\n Her return;\u2014at length he fretted,\n And began to grieve at last,\n For he had not broke his fast.\n\n Still he sat like one amazed,\n Round a spacious room he gazed,\n Which was richly beautified;\n But, alas! he lost his bride.\n\n There was peeping, laughing, sneering,\n All within the lawyer\u2019s hearing;\n But his bride he could not see;\n \u2018Would I were at home!\u2019 thought he.\n\n While his heart was melancholy,\n Said the steward, brisk and jolly,\n \u2018Tell me, friend, how came you here?\n You\u2019ve some bad design, I fear.\u2019\n\n He replied, \u2018Dear loving master,\n You shall meet with no disaster\n Through my means, in any case,\u2014\n Madam brought me to this place.\u2019\n\n Then the steward did retire,\n Saying, that he would enquire\n Whether it was true or no:\n Ne\u2019er was lover hampered so.\n\n Now the lady who had filled him\n With those fears, full well beheld him\n From a window, as she dressed,\n Pleas\u00e8d at the merry jest.\n\n When she had herself attired\n In rich robes, to be admired,\n She appear\u00e8d in his sight,\n Like a moving angel bright.\n\n \u2018Sir! my servants have related,\n How some hours you have waited\n In my parlour,\u2014tell me who\n In my house you ever knew?\u2019\n\n \u2018Madam! if I have offended,\n It is more than I intended;\n A young lady brought me here:\u2019\u2014\n \u2018That is true,\u2019 said she, \u2018my dear.\n\n \u2018I can be no longer cruel\n To my joy, and only jewel;\n Thou art mine, and I am thine,\n Hand and heart I do resign!\n\n \u2018Once I was a wounded lover,\n Now these fears are fairly over;\n By receiving what I gave,\n Thou art lord of what I have.\u2019\n\n Beauty, honour, love, and treasure,\n A rich golden stream of pleasure,\n With his lady he enjoys;\n Thanks to Cupid\u2019s kind decoys.\n\n Now he\u2019s clothed in rich attire,\n Not inferior to a squire;\n Beauty, honour, riches\u2019 store,\n What can man desire more?\n\n\n\nTHE NOBLEMAN\u2019S GENEROUS KINDNESS.\n\n\nGiving an account of a nobleman, who, taking notice of a poor man\u2019s\nindustrious care and pains for the maintaining of his charge of seven\nsmall children, met him upon a day, and discoursing with him, invited\nhim, and his wife and his children, home to his house, and bestowed upon\nthem a farm of thirty acres of land, to be continued to him and his heirs\nfor ever.\n\n To the tune of _The Two English Travellers_.\n\n[THIS still popular ballad is entitled in the modern copies, _The\nNobleman and Thrasher_; _or_, _the Generous Gift_. There is a copy\npreserved in the Roxburgh Collection, with which our version has been\ncollated. It is taken from a broadside printed by Robert Marchbank, in\nthe Custom-house Entry, Newcastle.]\n\n A NOBLEMAN lived in a village of late,\n Hard by a poor thrasher, whose charge it was great;\n For he had seven children, and most of them small,\n And nought but his labour to support them withal.\n\n He never was given to idle and lurk,\n For this nobleman saw him go daily to work,\n With his flail and his bag, and his bottle of beer,\n As cheerful as those that have hundreds a year.\n\n Thus careful, and constant, each morning he went,\n Unto his daily labour with joy and content;\n So jocular and jolly he\u2019d whistle and sing,\n As blithe and as brisk as the birds in the spring.\n\n One morning, this nobleman taking a walk,\n He met this poor man, and he freely did talk;\n He asked him [at first] many questions at large,\n And then began talking concerning his charge.\n\n \u2018Thou hast many children, I very well know,\n Thy labour is hard, and thy wages are low,\n And yet thou art cheerful; I pray tell me true,\n How can you maintain them as well as you do?\u2019\n\n \u2018I carefully carry home what I do earn,\n My daily expenses by this I do learn;\n And find it is possible, though we be poor,\n To still keep the ravenous wolf from the door.\n\n \u2018I reap and I mow, and I harrow and sow,\n Sometimes a hedging and ditching I go;\n No work comes amiss, for I thrash, and I plough,\n Thus my bread I do earn by the sweat of my brow.\n\n \u2018My wife she is willing to pull in a yoke,\n We live like two lambs, nor each other provoke;\n We both of us strive, like the labouring ant,\n And do our endeavours to keep us from want.\n\n \u2018And when I come home from my labour at night,\n To my wife and my children, in whom I delight;\n To see them come round me with prattling noise,\u2014\n Now these are the riches a poor man enjoys.\n\n \u2018Though I am as weary as weary may be,\n The youngest I commonly dance on my knee;\n I find that content is a moderate feast,\n I never repine at my lot in the least.\u2019\n\n Now the nobleman hearing what he did say,\n Was pleased, and invited him home the next day;\n His wife and his children he charged him to bring;\n In token of favour he gave him a ring.\n\n He thank\u00e8d his honour, and taking his leave,\n He went to his wife, who would hardly believe\n But this same story himself he might raise;\n Yet seeing the ring she was [lost] in amaze.\n\n Betimes in the morning the good wife she arose,\n And made them all fine, in the best of their clothes;\n The good man with his good wife, and children small,\n They all went to dine at the nobleman\u2019s hall.\n\n But when they came there, as truth does report,\n All things were prepared in a plentiful sort;\n And they at the nobleman\u2019s table did dine,\n With all kinds of dainties, and plenty of wine.\n\n The feast being over, he soon let them know,\n That he then intended on them to bestow\n A farm-house, with thirty good acres of land;\n And gave them the writings then, with his own hand.\n\n \u2018Because thou art careful, and good to thy wife,\n I\u2019ll make thy days happy the rest of thy life;\n It shall be for ever, for thee and thy heirs,\n Because I beheld thy industrious cares.\u2019\n\n No tongue then is able in full to express\n The depth of their joy, and true thankfulness;\n With many a curtsey, and bow to the ground,\u2014\n Such noblemen there are but few to be found.\n\n\n\nTHE DRUNKARD\u2019S LEGACY.\n\n\n IN THREE PARTS.\n\nFirst, giving an account of a gentlemen a having a wild son, and who,\nforeseeing he would come to poverty, had a cottage built with one door to\nit, always kept fast; and how, on his dying bed, he charged him not to\nopen it till he was poor and slighted, which the young man promised he\nwould perform. Secondly, of the young man\u2019s pawning his estate to a\nvintner, who, when poor, kicked him out of doors; when thinking it time\nto see his legacy, he broke open the cottage door, where instead of money\nhe found a gibbet and halter, which he put round his neck, and jumping\noff the stool, the gibbet broke, and a thousand pounds came down upon his\nhead, which lay hid in the ceiling. Thirdly, of his redeeming his\nestate, and fooling the vintner out of two hundred pounds; who, for being\njeered by his neighbours, cut his own throat. And lastly, of the young\nman\u2019s reformation. Very proper to be read by all who are given to\ndrunkenness.\n\n[PERCY, in the introductory remarks to the ballad of _The Heir of Linne_,\nsays, \u2018the original of this ballad [_The Heir of Linne_] is found in the\neditor\u2019s folio MS.; the breaches and defects of which rendered the\ninsertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. These it is hoped the\nreader will pardon, as, indeed, the completion of the story was suggested\nby a modern ballad on a similar subject.\u2019 The ballad thus alluded to by\nPercy is _The Drunkard\u2019s Legacy_, which, it may be remarked, although\nstyled by him a _modern_ ballad, is only so comparatively speaking; for\nit must have been written long anterior to Percy\u2019s time, and, by his own\nadmission, must be older than the latter portion of the _Heir of Linne_.\nOur copy is taken from an old chap-book, without date or printer\u2019s name,\nand which is decorated with three rudely executed wood-cuts.]\n\n YOUNG people all, I pray draw near,\n And listen to my ditty here;\n Which subject shows that drunkenness\n Brings many mortals to distress!\n\n As, for example, now I can\n Tell you of one, a gentleman,\n Who had a very good estate,\n His earthly travails they were great.\n\n We understand he had one son\n Who a lewd wicked race did run;\n He daily spent his father\u2019s store,\n When moneyless, he came for more.\n\n The father oftentimes with tears,\n Would this alarm sound in his ears;\n \u2018Son! thou dost all my comfort blast,\n And thou wilt come to want at last.\u2019\n\n The son these words did little mind,\n To cards and dice he was inclined;\n Feeding his drunken appetite\n In taverns, which was his delight.\n\n The father, ere it was too late,\n He had a project in his pate,\n Before his ag\u00e8d days were run,\n To make provision for his son.\n\n Near to his house, we understand,\n He had a waste plat of land,\n Which did but little profit yield,\n On which he did a cottage build.\n\n The _Wise Man\u2019s Project_ was its name;\n There were few windows in the same;\n Only one door, substantial thing,\n Shut by a lock, went by a spring.\n\n Soon after he had played this trick,\n It was his lot for to fall sick;\n As on his bed he did lament,\n Then for his drunken son he sent.\n\n He shortly came to his bedside;\n Seeing his son, he thus replied:\n \u2018I have sent for you to make my will,\n Which you must faithfully fulfil.\n\n \u2018In such a cottage is one door,\n Ne\u2019er open it, do thou be sure,\n Until thou art so poor, that all\n Do then despise you, great and small.\n\n \u2018For, to my grief, I do perceive,\n When I am dead, this life you live\n Will soon melt all thou hast away;\n Do not forget these words, I pray.\n\n \u2018When thou hast made thy friends thy foes,\n Pawned all thy lands, and sold thy clothes;\n Break ope the door, and there depend\n To find something thy griefs to end.\u2019\n\n This being spoke, the son did say,\n \u2018Your dying words I will obey.\u2019\n Soon after this his father dear\n Did die, and buried was, we hear.\n\n PART II.\n\n Now, pray observe the second part,\n And you shall hear his sottish heart;\n He did the tavern so frequent,\n Till he three hundred pounds had spent.\n\n This being done, we understand\n He pawned the deeds of all his land\n Unto a tavern-keeper, who,\n When poor, did him no favour show.\n\n For, to fulfil his father\u2019s will,\n He did command this cottage still:\n At length great sorrow was his share,\n Quite moneyless, with garments bare.\n\n Being not able for to work,\n He in the tavern there did lurk;\n From box to box, among rich men,\n Who oftentimes reviled him then.\n\n To see him sneak so up and down,\n The vintner on him he did frown;\n And one night kicked him out of door,\n Charging him to come there no more.\n\n He in a stall did lie all night,\n In this most sad and wretched plight;\n Then thought it was high time to see\n His father\u2019s promised legacy.\n\n Next morning, then, oppressed with woe,\n This young man got an iron crow;\n And, as in tears he did lament,\n Unto this little cottage went.\n\n When he the door had open got,\n This poor, distress\u00e8d, drunken sot,\n Who did for store of money hope,\n He saw a gibbet and a rope.\n\n Under this rope was placed a stool,\n Which made him look just like a fool;\n Crying, \u2018Alas! what shall I do?\n Destruction now appears in view!\n\n \u2018As my father foresaw this thing,\n What sottishness to me would bring;\n As moneyless, and free of grace,\n His legacy I will embrace.\u2019\n\n So then, oppressed with discontent,\n Upon the stool he sighing went;\n And then, his precious life to check,\n Did place the rope about his neck.\n\n Crying, \u2018Thou, God, who sitt\u2019st on high,\n And on my sorrow casts an eye;\n Thou knowest that I\u2019ve not done well,\u2014\n Preserve my precious soul from hell.\n\n \u2018\u2019Tis true the slighting of thy grace,\n Has brought me to this wretched case;\n And as through folly I\u2019m undone,\n I\u2019ll now eclipse my morning sun.\u2019\n\n When he with sighs these words had spoke,\n Jumped off, and down the gibbet broke;\n In falling, as it plain appears,\n Dropped down about this young man\u2019s ears,\n\n In shining gold, a thousand pound!\n Which made the blood his ears surround:\n Though in amaze, he cried, \u2018I\u2019m sure\n This golden salve the sore will cure!\n\n \u2018Blessed be my father, then,\u2019 he cried,\n \u2018Who did this part for me so hide;\n And while I do alive remain,\n I never will get drunk again.\u2019\n\n PART III.\n\n Now, by the third part you will hear,\n This young man, as it doth appear,\n With care he then secured his chink,\n And to the vintner\u2019s went to drink.\n\n When the proud vintner did him see,\n He frowned on him immediately,\n And said, \u2018Begone! or else with speed,\n I\u2019ll kick thee out of doors, indeed.\u2019\n\n Smiling, the young man he did say,\n \u2018Thou cruel knave! tell me, I pray,\n As I have here consumed my store,\n How durst thee kick me out of door?\n\n \u2018To me thou hast been too severe;\n The deeds of eightscore pounds a-year,\n I pawned them for three hundred pounds,\n That I spent here;\u2014what makes such frowns?\u2019\n\n The vintner said unto him, \u2018Sirrah!\n Bring me one hundred pounds to-morrow\n By nine o\u2019clock,\u2014take them again;\n So get you out of doors till then.\u2019\n\n He answered, \u2018If this chink I bring,\n I fear thou wilt do no such thing.\n He said, \u2018I\u2019ll give under my hand,\n A note, that I to this will stand.\u2019\n\n Having the note, away he goes,\n And straightway went to one of those\n That made him drink when moneyless,\n And did the truth to him confess.\n\n They both went to this heap of gold,\n And in a bag he fairly told\n A thousand pounds, ill yellow-boys,\n And to the tavern went their ways.\n\n This bag they on the table set,\n Making the vintner for to fret;\n He said, \u2018Young man! this will not do,\n For I was but in jest with you.\u2019\n\n So then bespoke the young man\u2019s friend:\n \u2018Vintner! thou mayest sure depend,\n In law this note it will you cast,\n And he must have his land at last.\u2019\n\n This made the vintner to comply,\u2014\n He fetched the deeds immediately;\n He had one hundred pounds, and then\n The young man got his deeds again.\n\n At length the vintner \u2019gan to think\n How he was fooled out of his chink;\n Said, \u2018When \u2019tis found how I came off,\n My neighbours will me game and scoff.\u2019\n\n So to prevent their noise and clatter\n The vintner he, to mend the matter,\n In two days after, it doth appear,\n Did cut his throat from ear to ear.\n\n Thus he untimely left the world,\n That to this young man proved a churl.\n Now he who followed drunkenness,\n Lives sober, and doth lands possess.\n\n Instead of wasting of his store,\n As formerly, resolves no more\n To act the same, but does indeed\n Relieve all those that are in need.\n\n Let all young men now, for my sake,\n Take care how they such havoc make;\n For drunkenness, you plain may see,\n Had like his ruin for to be.\n\n\n\nTHE BOWES TRAGEDY.\n\n\nBeing a true relation of the Lives and Characters of ROGER WRIGHTSON and\nMARTHA RAILTON, of the Town of Bowes, in the County of York, who died for\nlove of each other, in March, 1714/5\n\n Tune of _Queen Dido_.\n\n[_The Bowes Tragedy_ is the original of Mallet\u2019s _Edition and Emma_. In\nthese verses are preserved the village record of the incident which\nsuggested that poem. When Mallet published his ballad he subjoined an\nattestation of the facts, which may be found in Evans\u2019 _Old Ballads_,\nvol. ii. p. 237. Edit. 1784. Mallet alludes to the statement in the\nparish registry of Bowes, that \u2018they both died of love, and were buried\nin the same grave,\u2019 &c. The following is an exact copy of the entry, as\ntranscribed by Mr. Denham, 17th April, 1847. The words which we have\nprinted in brackets are found interlined in another and a later hand by\nsome person who had inspected the register:\u2014\n\n \u2018Ro_d_ger Wrightson, Jun., and Martha Railton, both of Bowes, Buried\n in one grave: He _D_ied in a Fever, and upon tolling his passing\n Bell, she cry\u2019d out My heart is broke, and in a _F_ew hours expir\u2019d,\n purely [_or supposed_] thro\u2019 Love, March 15, 1714/5, aged about 20\n years each.\u2019\n\nMr. Denham says:\u2014\n\n \u2018_The Bowes Tragedy_ was, I understand, written immediately after the\n death of the lovers, by the then master of Bowes Grammar School. His\n name I never heard. My father, who died a few years ago (aged nearly\n 80), knew a younger sister of Martha Railton\u2019s, who used to sing it\n to strangers passing through Bowes. She was a poor woman, advanced\n in years, and it brought her in many a piece of money.\u2019]\n\n LET Carthage Queen be now no more\n The subject of our mournful song;\n Nor such old tales which, heretofore,\n Did so amuse the teeming throng;\n Since the sad story which I\u2019ll tell,\n All other tragedies excel.\n\n Remote in Yorkshire, near to Bowes,\n Of late did Roger Wrightson dwell;\n He courted Martha Railton, whose\n Repute for virtue did excel;\n Yet Roger\u2019s friends would not agree,\n That he to her should married be.\n\n Their love continued one whole year,\n Full sore against their parents\u2019 will;\n And when he found them so severe,\n His loyal heart began to chill:\n And last Shrove Tuesday, took his bed,\n With grief and woe encompass\u00e8d.\n\n Thus he continued twelve days\u2019 space,\n In anguish and in grief of mind;\n And no sweet peace in any case,\n This ardent lover\u2019s heart could find;\n But languished in a train of grief,\n Which pierced his heart beyond relief.\n\n Now anxious Martha sore distressed,\n A private message did him send,\n Lamenting that she could not rest,\n Till she had seen her loving friend:\n His answer was, \u2018Nay, nay, my dear,\n Our folks will angry be I fear.\u2019\n\n Full fraught with grief, she took no rest,\n But spent her time in pain and fear,\n Till a few days before his death\n She sent an orange to her dear;\n But\u2019s cruel mother in disdain,\n Did send the orange back again.\n\n Three days before her lover died,\n Poor Martha with a bleeding heart,\n To see her dying lover hied,\n In hopes to ease him of his smart;\n Where she\u2019s conducted to the bed,\n In which this faithful young man laid.\n\n Where she with doleful cries beheld,\n Her fainting lover in despair;\n At which her heart with sorrow filled,\n Small was the comfort she had there;\n Though\u2019s mother showed her great respect,\n His sister did her much reject.\n\n She stayed two hours with her dear,\n In hopes for to declare her mind;\n But Hannah Wrightson {108a} stood so near,\n No time to do it she could find:\n So that being almost dead with grief,\n Away she went without relief.\n\n Tears from her eyes did flow amain,\n And she full oft would sighing say,\n \u2018My constant love, alas! is slain,\n And to pale death, become a prey:\n Oh, Hannah, Hannah thou art base;\n Thy pride will turn to foul disgrace!\u2019\n\n She spent her time in godly prayers,\n And quiet rest did from her fly;\n She to her friends full oft declares,\n She could not live if he did die:\n Thus she continued till the bell,\n Began to sound his fatal knell.\n\n And when she heard the dismal sound,\n Her godly book she cast away,\n With bitter cries would pierce the ground.\n Her fainting heart \u2019gan to decay:\n She to her pensive mother said,\n \u2018I cannot live now he is dead.\u2019\n\n Then after three short minutes\u2019 space,\n As she in sorrow groaning lay,\n A gentleman {108b} did her embrace,\n And mildly unto her did say,\n \u2018Dear melting soul be not so sad,\n But let your passion be allayed.\u2019\n\n Her answer was, \u2018My heart is burst,\n My span of life is near an end;\n My love from me by death is forced,\n My grief no soul can comprehend.\u2019\n Then her poor heart it wax\u00e8d faint,\n When she had ended her complaint.\n\n For three hours\u2019 space, as in a trance,\n This broken-hearted creature lay,\n Her mother wailing her mischance,\n To pacify her did essay:\n But all in vain, for strength being past,\n She seemingly did breathe her last.\n\n Her mother, thinking she was dead,\n Began to shriek and cry amain;\n And heavy lamentations made,\n Which called her spirit back again;\n To be an object of hard fate,\n And give to grief a longer date.\n\n Distorted with convulsions, she,\n In dreadful manner gasping lay,\n Of twelve long hours no moment free,\n Her bitter groans did her dismay:\n Then her poor heart being sadly broke,\n Submitted to the fatal stroke.\n\n When things were to this issue brought,\n Both in one grave were to be laid:\n But flinty-hearted Hannah thought,\n By stubborn means for to persuade,\n Their friends and neighbours from the same,\n For which she surely was to blame.\n\n And being asked the reason why,\n Such base objections she did make,\n She answer\u00e8d thus scornfully,\n In words not fit for Billingsgate:\n \u2018She might have taken fairer on\u2014\n Or else be hanged:\u2019 Oh heart of stone!\n\n What hell-born fury had possessed,\n Thy vile inhuman spirit thus?\n What swelling rage was in thy breast,\n That could occasion this disgust,\n And make thee show such spleen and rage,\n Which life can\u2019t cure nor death assuage?\n\n Sure some of Satan\u2019s minor imps,\n Ordain\u00e8d were to be thy guide;\n To act the part of sordid pimps,\n And fill thy heart with haughty pride;\n But take this caveat once for all,\n Such devilish pride must have a fall.\n\n But when to church the corpse was brought,\n And both of them met at the gate;\n What mournful tears by friends were shed,\n When that alas it was too late,\u2014\n When they in silent grave were laid,\n Instead of pleasing marriage-bed.\n\n You parents all both far and near,\n By this sad story warning take;\n Nor to your children be severe,\n When they their choice in love do make;\n Let not the love of curs\u00e8d gold,\n True lovers from their love withhold.\n\n\n\nTHE CRAFTY LOVER;\n\n\n OR, THE LAWYER OUTWITTED.\n\n Tune of _I love thee more and more_.\n\n[THIS excellent old ballad is transcribed from a copy printed in\nAldermary church-yard. It still continues to be published in the old\nbroadside form.]\n\n OF a rich counsellor I write,\n Who had one only daughter,\n Who was of youthful beauty bright;\n Now mark what follows after. {111}\n Her uncle left her, I declare,\n A sumptuous large possession;\n Her father he was to take care\n Of her at his discretion.\n\n She had ten thousand pounds a-year,\n And gold and silver ready,\n And courted was by many a peer,\n Yet none could gain this lady.\n At length a squire\u2019s youngest son\n In private came a-wooing,\n And when he had her favour won,\n He feared his utter ruin.\n\n The youthful lady straightway cried,\n \u2018I must confess I love thee,\n Though lords and knights I have denied,\n Yet none I prize above thee:\n Thou art a jewel in my eye,\n But here,\u2019 said she, \u2018the care is,\u2014\n I fear you will be doomed to die\n For stealing of an heiress.\u2019\n\n The young man he replied to her\n Like a true politician;\n \u2018Thy father is a counsellor,\n I\u2019ll tell him my condition.\n Ten guineas they shall be his fee,\n He\u2019ll think it is some stranger;\n Thus for the gold he\u2019ll counsel me,\n And keep me safe from danger.\u2019\n\n Unto her father he did go,\n The very next day after;\n But did not let the lawyer know\n The lady was his daughter.\n Now when the lawyer saw the gold\n That he should be she gainer,\n A pleasant trick to him he told\n With safety to obtain her.\n\n \u2018Let her provide a horse,\u2019 he cried,\n \u2018And take you up behind her;\n Then with you to some parson ride\n Before her parents find her:\n That she steals you, you may complain,\n And so avoid their fury.\n Now this is law I will maintain\n Before or judge or jury.\n\n \u2018Now take my writing and my seal,\n Which I cannot deny thee,\n And if you any trouble feel,\n In court I will stand by thee.\u2019\n \u2018I give you thanks,\u2019 the young man cried,\n \u2018By you I am befriended,\n And to your house I\u2019ll bring my bride\n After the work is ended.\u2019\n\n Next morning, ere the day did break,\n This news to her he carried;\n She did her father\u2019s counsel take\n And they were fairly married,\n And now they felt but ill at case,\n And, doubts and fears expressing,\n They home returned, and on their knees\n They asked their father\u2019s blessing,\n\n But when he had beheld them both,\n He seemed like one distracted,\n And vowed to be revenged on oath\n For what they now had acted.\n With that bespoke his new-made son\u2014\n \u2018There can be no deceiving,\n That this is law which we have done\n Here is your hand and sealing!\u2019\n\n The counsellor did then reply,\n Was ever man so fitted;\n \u2018My hand and seal I can\u2019t deny,\n By you I am outwitted.\n \u2018Ten thousand pounds a-year in store\n \u2018She was left by my brother,\n And when I die there will be more,\n For child I have no other.\n\n \u2018She might have had a lord or knight,\n From royal loins descended;\n But, since thou art her heart\u2019s delight,\n I will not be offended;\n \u2018If I the gordian knot should part,\n \u2018Twere cruel out of measure;\n Enjoy thy love, with all my heart,\n In plenty, peace, and pleasure.\u2019\n\n\n\nTHE DEATH OF QUEEN JANE.\n\n\n (TRADITIONAL.)\n\n[WE have seen an old printed copy of this ballad, which was written\nprobably about the date of the event it records, 1537. Our version was\ntaken down from the singing of a young gipsy girl, to whom it had\ndescended orally through two generations. She could not recollect the\nwhole of it. In Miss Strickland\u2019s _Lives of the Queens of England_, we\nfind the following passage: \u2018An English ballad is extant, which, dwelling\non the elaborate mourning of Queen Jane\u2019s ladies, informs the world, in a\nline of pure bathos,\n\n In black were her ladies, and black were their faces.\u2019\n\nMiss Strickland does not appear to have seen the ballad to which she\nrefers; and as we are not aware of the existence of any other ballad on\nthe subject, we presume that her line of \u2018pure bathos\u2019 is merely a\ncorruption of one of the ensuing verses.]\n\n QUEEN JANE was in travail\n For six weeks or more,\n Till the women grew tired,\n And fain would give o\u2019er.\n \u2018O women! O women!\n Good wives if ye be,\n Go, send for King Henrie,\n And bring him to me.\u2019\n\n King Henrie was sent for,\n He came with all speed,\n In a gownd of green velvet\n From heel to the head.\n \u2018King Henrie! King Henrie!\n If kind Henrie you be,\n Send for a surgeon,\n And bring him to me.\u2019\n\n The surgeon was sent for,\n He came with all speed,\n In a gownd of black velvet\n From heel to the head.\n He gave her rich caudle,\n But the death-sleep slept she.\n Then her right side was opened,\n And the babe was set free.\n\n The babe it was christened,\n And put out and nursed,\n While the royal Queen Jane\n She lay cold in the dust.\n\n * * * * *\n\n So black was the mourning,\n And white were the wands,\n Yellow, yellow the torches,\n They bore in their hands.\n\n The bells they were muffled,\n And mournful did play,\n While the royal Queen Jane\n She lay cold in the clay.\n\n Six knights and six lords\n Bore her corpse through the grounds;\n Six dukes followed after,\n In black mourning gownds.\n The flower of Old England\n Was laid in cold clay,\n Whilst the royal King Henrie\n Came weeping away.\n\n\n\nTHE WANDERING YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN;\n\n\n OR, CATSKIN.\n\n[THE following version of this ancient English ballad has been collated\nwith three copies. In some editions it is called _Catskin\u2019s Garland_;\n_or_, _the Wandering Young Gentlewoman_. The story has a close\nsimilarity to that of _Cinderella_, and is supposed to be of oriental\norigin. Several versions of it are current in Scandinavia, Germany,\nItaly, Poland, and Wales. For some account of it see _Pictorial Book of\nBallads_, ii. 153, edited by Mr. J. S. Moore.]\n\n PART I.\n\n YOU fathers and mothers, and children also,\n Draw near unto me, and soon you shall know\n The sense of my ditty, and I dare to say,\n The like\u2019s not been heard of this many a day.\n\n The subject which to you I am to relate,\n It is of a young squire of vast estate;\n The first dear infant his wife did him bear,\n It was a young daughter of beauty most rare.\n\n He said to his wife, \u2018Had this child been a boy,\n \u2018Twould have pleased me better, and increased my joy,\n If the next be the same sort, I declare,\n Of what I\u2019m possess\u00e8d it shall have no share.\u2019\n\n In twelve months\u2019 time after, this woman, we hear,\n Had another daughter of beauty most clear;\n And when that he knew it was but a female,\n Into a bitter passion he presently fell,\n\n Saying, \u2018Since this is of the same sort as the first,\n In my habitation she shall not be nursed;\n Pray let her be sent into the countrie,\n For where I am, truly, this child shall not be.\u2019\n\n With tears his dear wife unto him did say,\n \u2018Husband, be contented, I\u2019ll send her away.\u2019\n Then to the countrie with speed her did send,\n For to be brought up by one was her friend.\n\n Although that her father he hated her so,\n He a good education on her did bestow;\n And with a gold locket, and robes of the best,\n This slighted young damsel was commonly dressed.\n\n And when unto stature this damsel was grown,\n And found from her father she had no love shown,\n She cried, \u2018Before I will lay under his frown,\n I\u2019m resolv\u00e8d to travel the country around.\u2019\n\n PART II.\n\n But now mark, good people, the cream of the jest,\n In what sort of manner this creature was dressed;\n With cat-skins she made her a robe, I declare,\n The which for her covering she daily did wear.\n\n Her own rich attire, and jewels beside,\n Then up in a bundle by her they were tied,\n And to seek her fortune she wandered away;\n And when she had travelled a cold winter\u2019s day,\n\n In the evening-tide she came to a town,\n Where at a knight\u2019s door she sat herself down,\n For to rest herself, who was tir\u00e8d sore;\u2014\n This noble knight\u2019s lady then came to the door.\n\n This fair creature seeing in such sort of dress,\n The lady unto her these words did express:\n \u2018Whence camest thou, girl, and what wouldst thou have?\u2019\n She said, \u2018A night\u2019s rest in your stable I crave.\u2019\n\n The lady said to her, \u2018I\u2019ll grant thy desire,\n Come into the kitchen, and stand by the fire.\u2019\n Then she thank\u00e8d the lady, and went in with haste;\n And there she was gazed on from highest to least.\n\n And, being well warmed, her hunger was great,\n They gave her a plate of good food for to eat,\n And then to an outhouse this creature was led,\n Where with fresh straw she soon made her a bed.\n\n And when in the morning the daylight she saw,\n Her riches and jewels she hid in the straw;\n And, being very cold, she then did retire\n Into the kitchen, and stood by the fire.\n\n The cook said, \u2018My lady hath promised that thee\n Shall be as a scullion to wait upon me;\n What say\u2019st thou girl, art thou willing to bide?\u2019\n \u2018With all my heart truly,\u2019 to him she replied.\n\n To work at her needle she could very well,\n And for raising of paste few could her excel;\n She being so handy, the cook\u2019s heart did win,\n And then she was called by the name of Catskin.\n\n PART III.\n\n The lady a son had both comely and tall,\n Who oftentimes us\u00e8d to be at a ball\n A mile out of town; and one evening-tide,\n To dance at this ball away he did ride.\n\n Catskin said to his mother, \u2018Pray, madam, let me\n Go after your son now, this ball for to see.\u2019\n With that in a passion this lady she grew,\n And struck her with the ladle, and broke it in two.\n\n On being thus serv\u00e8d she quick got away,\n And in her rich garments herself did array;\n And then to this ball she with speed did retire,\n Where she danc\u00e8d so bravely that all did admire.\n\n The sport being done, the young squire did say,\n \u2018Young lady, where do you live? tell me, I pray.\u2019\n Her answer was to him, \u2018Sir, that I will tell,\u2014\n At the sign of the broken ladle I dwell.\u2019\n\n She being very nimble, got home first, \u2019tis said,\n And in her catskin robes she soon was arrayed;\n And into the kitchen again she did go,\n But where she had been they did none of them know.\n\n Next night this young squire, to give him content,\n To dance at this ball again forth he went.\n She said, \u2018Pray let me go this ball for to view.\u2019\n Then she struck with the skimmer, and broke it in two.\n\n Then out of the doors she ran full of heaviness,\n And in her rich garments herself soon did dress;\n And to this ball ran away with all speed,\n Where to see her dancing all wondered indeed.\n\n The ball being ended, the young squire said,\n \u2018Where is it you live?\u2019 She again answer\u00e8d,\n \u2018Sir, because you ask me, account I will give,\n At the sign of the broken skimmer I live.\u2019\n\n Being dark when she left him, she homeward did hie,\n And in her catskin robes she was dressed presently,\n And into the kitchen amongst them she went,\n But where she had been they were all innocent.\n\n When the squire dame home, and found Catskin there,\n He was in amaze and began for to swear;\n \u2018For two nights at the ball has been a lady,\n The sweetest of beauties that ever I did see.\n\n \u2018She was the best dancer in all the whole place,\n And very much like our Catskin in the face;\n Had she not been dressed in that costly degree,\n I should have swore it was Catskin\u2019s body.\n\n Next night to the ball he did go once more,\n And she ask\u00e8d his mother to go as before,\n Who, having a basin of water in hand,\n She threw it at Catskin, as I understand.\n\n Shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run,\n And dress\u00e8d herself when this thing she had done.\n To the ball once more she then went her ways;\n To see her fine dancing they all gave her praise.\n\n And having concluded, the young squire said he,\n \u2018From whence might you come, pray, lady, tell me?\u2019\n Her answer was, \u2018Sir, you shall soon know the same,\n From the sign of the basin of water I came.\u2019\n\n Then homeward she hurried, as fast as could be;\n This young squire then was resolv\u00e8d to see\n Whereto she belonged, and, following Catskin,\n Into an old straw house he saw her creep in.\n\n He said, \u2018O brave Catskin, I find it is thee,\n Who these three nights together has so charm\u00e8d me;\n Thou\u2019rt the sweetest of creatures my eyes e\u2019er beheld,\n With joy and content my heart now is filled.\n\n \u2018Thou art our cook\u2019s scullion, but as I have life,\n Grant me but thy love, and I\u2019ll make thee my wife,\n And thou shalt have maids for to be at thy call.\u2019\n \u2018Sir, that cannot be, I\u2019ve no portion at all.\u2019\n\n \u2018Thy beauty\u2019s a portion, my joy and my dear,\n I prize it far better than thousands a year,\n And to have my friends\u2019 consent I have got a trick,\n I\u2019ll go to my bed, and feign myself sick.\n\n \u2018There no one shall tend me but thee I profess;\n So one day or another in thy richest dress,\n Thou shalt be clad, and if my parents come nigh,\n I\u2019ll tell them \u2019tis for thee that sick I do lie.\u2019\n\n PART IV.\n\n Thus having consulted, this couple parted.\n Next day this young squire he took to his bed;\n And when his dear parents this thing both perceived,\n For fear of his death they were right sorely grieved.\n\n To tend him they send for a nurse speedily,\n He said, \u2018None but Catskin my nurse now shall be.\u2019\n His parents said, \u2018No, son.\u2019 He said, \u2018But she shall,\n Or else I\u2019ll have none for to nurse me at all.\u2019\n\n His parents both wondered to hear him say thus,\n That no one but Catskin must be his nurse;\n So then his dear parents their son to content,\n Up into his chamber poor Catskin they sent.\n\n Sweet cordials and other rich things were prepared,\n Which between this young couple were equally shared;\n And when all alone they in each other\u2019s arms,\n Enjoyed one another in love\u2019s pleasant charms.\n\n And at length on a time poor Catskin, \u2019tis said,\n In her rich attire again was arrayed,\n And when that his mother to the chamber drew near,\n Then much like a goddess did Catskin appear;\n\n Which caused her to stare, and thus for to say,\n \u2018What young lady is this, come tell me, I pray?\u2019\n He said, \u2018It is Catskin for whom sick I lie,\n And except I do have her with speed I shall die.\u2019\n\n His mother then hastened to call up the knight,\n Who ran up to see this amazing great sight;\n He said, \u2018Is this Catskin we held in such scorn?\n I ne\u2019er saw a finer dame since I was born.\u2019\n\n The old knight he said to her, \u2018I prithee tell me,\n From whence thou didst come and of what family?\u2019\n Then who were her parents she gave them to know,\n And what was the cause of her wandering so.\n\n The young squire he cried, \u2018If you will save my life,\n Pray grant this young creature she may be my wife.\u2019\n His father replied, \u2018Thy life for to save,\n If you have agreed, my consent you may have.\u2019\n\n Next day, with great triumph and joy as we hear,\n There were many coaches came far and near;\n Then much like a goddess dressed in rich array,\n Catskin was married to the squire that day.\n\n For several days this wedding did last,\n Where was many a topping and gallant repast,\n And for joy the bells rung out all over the town,\n And bottles of canary rolled merrily round.\n\n When Catskin was married, her fame for to raise,\n Who saw her modest carriage they all gave her praise;\n Thus her charming beauty the squire did win;\n And who lives so great now as he and Catskin.\n\n PART V.\n\n Now in the fifth part I\u2019ll endeavour to show,\n How things with her parents and sister did go;\n Her mother and sister of life are bereft,\n And now all alone the old squire is left.\n\n Who hearing his daughter was married so brave,\n He said, \u2018In my noddle a fancy I have;\n Dressed like a poor man now a journey I\u2019ll make,\n And see if she on me some pity will take.\u2019\n\n Then dressed like a beggar he went to her gate,\n Where stood his daughter, who looked very great;\n He cried, \u2018Noble lady, a poor man I be,\n And am now forced to crave charity.\u2019\n\n With a blush she asked him from whence that he came;\n And with that he told her, and likewise his name.\n She cried \u2018I\u2019m your daughter, whom you slighted so,\n Yet, nevertheless, to you kindness I\u2019ll show.\n\n \u2018Through mercy the Lord hath provided for me;\n Pray, father, come in and sit down then,\u2019 said she.\n Then the best provisions the house could afford,\n For to make him welcome was set on the board.\n\n She said, \u2018You are welcome, feed hearty, I pray,\n And, if you are willing, with me you shall stay,\n So long as you live.\u2019 Then he made this reply:\n \u2018I only am come now thy love for to try.\n\n \u2018Through mercy, my dear child, I\u2019m rich and not poor,\n I have gold and silver enough now in store;\n And for this love which at thy hands I have found,\n For thy portion I\u2019ll give thee ten thousand pound.\u2019\n\n So in a few days after, as I understand,\n This man he went home, and sold off all his land,\n And ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give,\n And now altogether in love they do live.\n\n\n\nTHE BRAVE EARL BRAND AND THE KING OF ENGLAND\u2019S DAUGHTER.\n\n\n (TRADITIONAL.)\n\n[THIS ballad, which resembles the Danish ballad of _Ribolt_, was taken\ndown from the recitation of an old fiddler in Northumberland: in one\nverse there is an _hiatus_, owing to the failure of the reciter\u2019s memory.\nThe refrain should be repeated in every verse.]\n\n O DID you ever hear of the brave Earl Brand,\n Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie;\n His courted the king\u2019s daughter o\u2019 fair England,\n I\u2019 the brave nights so early!\n\n She was scarcely fifteen years that tide,\n When sae boldly she came to his bed-side,\n\n \u2018O, Earl Brand, how fain wad I see\n A pack of hounds let loose on the lea.\u2019\n\n \u2018O, lady fair, I have no steed but one,\n But thou shalt ride and I will run.\u2019\n\n \u2018O, Earl Brand, but my father has two,\n And thou shalt have the best of tho\u2019.\u2019\n\n Now they have ridden o\u2019er moss and moor,\n And they have met neither rich nor poor;\n\n Till at last they met with old Carl Hood,\n He\u2019s aye for ill, and never for good.\n\n \u2018Now Earl Brand, an ye love me,\n Slay this old Carl and gar him dee.\u2019\n\n \u2018O, lady fair, but that would be sair,\n To slay an auld Carl that wears grey hair.\n\n \u2018My own lady fair, I\u2019ll not do that,\n I\u2019ll pay him his fee . . . . . . \u2019\n\n \u2018O, where have ye ridden this lee lang day,\n And where have ye stown this fair lady away?\u2019\n\n \u2018I have not ridden this lee lang day,\n Nor yet have I stown this lady away;\n\n \u2018For she is, I trow, my sick sister,\n Whom I have been bringing fra\u2019 Winchester.\u2019\n\n \u2018If she\u2019s been sick, and nigh to dead,\n What makes her wear the ribbon so red?\n\n \u2018If she\u2019s been sick, and like to die,\n What makes her wear the gold sae high?\u2019\n\n When came the Carl to the lady\u2019s yett,\n He rudely, rudely rapped thereat.\n\n \u2018Now where is the lady of this hall?\u2019\n \u2018She\u2019s out with her maids a playing at the ball.\u2019\n\n \u2018Ha, ha, ha! ye are all mista\u2019en,\n Ye may count your maidens owre again.\n\n \u2018I met her far beyond the lea\n With the young Earl Brand his leman to be.\u2019\n\n Her father of his best men armed fifteen,\n And they\u2019re ridden after them bidene.\n\n The lady looked owre her left shoulder then,\n Says, \u2018O Earl Brand we are both of us ta\u2019en.\u2019\n\n \u2018If they come on me one by one,\n You may stand by till the fights be done;\n\n \u2018But if they come on me one and all,\n You may stand by and see me fall.\u2019\n\n They came upon him one by one,\n Till fourteen battles he has won;\n\n And fourteen men he has them slain,\n Each after each upon the plain.\n\n But the fifteenth man behind stole round,\n And dealt him a deep and a deadly wound.\n\n Though he was wounded to the deid,\n He set his lady on her steed.\n\n They rode till they came to the river Doune,\n And there they lighted to wash his wound.\n\n \u2018O, Earl Brand, I see your heart\u2019s blood!\u2019\n \u2018It\u2019s nothing but the glent and my scarlet hood.\u2019\n\n They rode till they came to his mother\u2019s yett,\n So faint and feebly he rapped thereat.\n\n \u2018O, my son\u2019s slain, he is falling to swoon,\n And it\u2019s all for the sake of an English loon.\u2019\n\n \u2018O, say not so, my dearest mother,\n But marry her to my youngest brother\u2014\n\n \u2018To a maiden true he\u2019ll give his hand,\n Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie.\n\n To the king\u2019s daughter o\u2019 fair England,\n To a prize that was won by a slain brother\u2019s brand,\n I\u2019 the brave nights so early!\u2019\n\n\n\nTHE JOVIAL HUNTER OF BROMSGROVE;\n\n\n OR, THE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS.\n\n (TRADITIONAL.)\n\n[THE following ballad has long been popular in Worcestershire and some of\nthe adjoining counties. It was printed for the first time by Mr. Allies\nof Worcester, under the title of _The Jovial Hunter of Bromsgrove_; but\namongst the peasantry of that county, and the adjoining county of\nWarwick, it has always been called _The Old Man and his Three Sons_\u2014the\nname given to a fragment of the ballad still used as a nursery song in\nthe north of England, the chorus of which slightly varies from that of\nthe ballad. See post, p. 250. The title of _The Old Man and his Three\nSons_ is derived from the usage of calling a ballad after the first\nline\u2014a practice that has descended to the present day. In Shakspeare\u2019s\ncomedy of _As You Like It_ there appears to be an allusion to this\nballad. Le Beau says,\u2014\n\n There comes an old man and his three sons,\n\nto which Celia replies,\n\n I could match this beginning with an old tale.\u2014i. 2.\n\nWhether _The Jovial Hunter_ belongs to either Worcestershire or\nWarwickshire is rather questionable. The probability is that it is a\nnorth country ballad connected with the family of Bolton, of Bolton, in\nWensleydale. A tomb, said to be that of Sir Ryalas Bolton, the _Jovial\nHunter_, is shown in Bromsgrove church, Worcestershire; but there is no\nevidence beyond tradition to connect it with the name or deeds of any\n\u2018Bolton;\u2019 indeed it is well known that the tomb belongs to a family of\nanother name. In the following version are preserved some of the\npeculiarities of the Worcestershire dialect.]\n\n OLD Sir Robert Bolton had three sons,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n And one of them was Sir Ryalas,\n For he was a jovial hunter.\n\n He ranged all round down by the wood side,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter,\n Till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied,\n For he was a jovial hunter.\n\n \u2018Oh, what dost thee mean, fair lady,\u2019 said he,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n \u2018The wild boar\u2019s killed my lord, and has thirty men gored,\n And thou beest a jovial hunter.\u2019\n\n \u2018Oh, what shall I do this wild boar for to see?\u2019\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n \u2018Oh, thee blow a blast and he\u2019ll come unto thee,\n As thou beest a jovial hunter.\u2019\n\n Then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west, and south,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n And the wild boar then heard him full in his den,\n As he was a jovial hunter.\n\n Then he made the best of his speed unto him,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n [Swift flew the boar, with his tusks smeared with [gore], {125a}\n To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.\n\n Then the wild boar, being so stout and so strong,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along,\n To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.\n\n \u2018Oh, what dost thee want of me?\u2019 wild boar, said he, {125b}\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n \u2018Oh, I think in my heart I can do enough for thee,\n For I am the jovial hunter.\u2019\n\n Then they fought four hours in a long summer day,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n Till the wild boar fain would have got him away\n From Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.\n\n Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword with might,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n And he fairly cut the boar\u2019s head off quite,\n For he was a jovial hunter.\n\n Then out of the wood the wild woman flew,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n \u2018Oh, my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew,\n For thou beest a jovial hunter.\n\n \u2018There are three things, I demand them of thee,\u2019\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n \u2018It\u2019s thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady,\n As thou beest a jovial hunter.\u2019\n\n \u2018If these three things thou dost ask of me,\u2019\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n \u2018It\u2019s just as my sword and thy neck can agree,\n For I am a jovial hunter.\u2019\n\n Then into his long locks the wild woman flew,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n Till she thought in her heart to tear him through,\n Though he was a jovial hunter.\n\n Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword again,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter,\n And he fairly split her head into twain,\n For he was a jovial hunter.\n\n In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie,\n Wind well thy horn, good hunter;\n And the wild boar\u2019s head is pictured thereby,\n Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.\n\n\n\nLADY ALICE.\n\n\n[THIS old ballad is regularly published by the stall printers. The\ntermination resembles that of _Lord Lovel_ and other ballads. See _Early\nBallads_, Ann. Ed. p. 134. An imperfect traditional copy was printed in\n_Notes and Queries_.]\n\n LADY ALICE was sitting in her bower window,\n At midnight mending her quoif;\n And there she saw as fine a corpse\n As ever she saw in her life.\n\n \u2018What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?\n What bear ye on your should\u00e8rs?\u2019\n \u2018We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,\n An old and true lover of yours.\u2019\n\n \u2018O, lay him down gently, ye six men tall,\n All on the grass so green,\n And to-morrow when the sun goes down,\n Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.\n\n \u2018And bury me in Saint Mary\u2019s Church,\n All for my love so true;\n And make me a garland of marjoram,\n And of lemon thyme, and rue.\u2019\n\n Giles Collins was buried all in the east,\n Lady Alice all in the west;\n And the roses that grew on Giles Collins\u2019s grave,\n They reached Lady Alice\u2019s breast.\n\n The priest of the parish he chanc\u00e8d to pass,\n And he severed those roses in twain.\n Sure never were seen such true lovers before,\n Nor e\u2019er will there be again.\n\n\n\nTHE FELON SEWE OF ROKEBY AND THE FREERES OF RICHMOND.\n\n\n[THIS very curious ballad, or, more properly, metrical romance, was\noriginally published by the late Doctor Whitaker in his _History of\nCraven_, from an ancient MS., which was supposed to be unique.\nWhitaker\u2019s version was transferred to Evan\u2019s _Old __Ballads_, the editor\nof which work introduced some judicious conjectural emendations. In\nreference to this republication, Dr. Whitaker inserted the following note\nin the second edition of his _History_:\u2014\n\n This tale, saith my MS., was known of old to a few families only, and\n by them held so precious, that it was never intrusted to the memory of\n the son till the father was on his death-bed. But times are altered,\n for since the first edition of this work, a certain bookseller [the\n late Mr. Evans] has printed it verbatim, with little acknowledgment to\n the first editor. He might have recollected that _The Felon Sewe_ had\n been already reclaimed _property vested_. However, as he is an\n ingenious and deserving man, this hint shall suffice.\u2014_History of\n Craven_, second edition, London, 1812.\n\nWhen Sir Walter Scott published his poem of Rokeby, Doctor Whitaker\ndiscovered that _The Felon Sewe_ was not of such \u2018exceeding rarity\u2019 as he\nhad been led to suppose; for he was then made acquainted with the fact\nthat another MS. of the \u2018unique\u2019 ballad was preserved in the archives of\nthe Rokeby family. This version was published by Scott, who considered\nit superior to that printed by Whitaker; and it must undoubtedly be\nadmitted to be more complete, and, in general, more correct. It has also\nthe advantage of being authenticated by the traditions of an ardent\nfamily; while of Dr. Whitaker\u2019s version we know nothing more than that it\nwas \u2018printed from a MS. in his possession.\u2019 The readings of the Rokeby\nMS., however, are not always to be preferred; and in order to produce as\nfull and accurate a version as the materials would yield, the following\ntext has been founded upon a careful collation of both MSS. A few\nalterations have been adopted, but only when the necessity for them\nappeared to be self-evident; and the orthography has been rendered\ntolerably uniform, for there is no good reason why we should have \u2018sewe,\u2019\n\u2018scho,\u2019 and \u2018sike,\u2019 in some places, and the more modern forms of \u2018sow,\u2019\n\u2018she,\u2019 and \u2018such,\u2019 in others. If the MSS. were correctly transcribed,\nwhich we have no ground for doubting, they must both be referred to a\nmuch later period than the era when the author flourished. The language\nof the poem is that of Craven, in Yorkshire; and, although the\ncomposition is acknowledged on all hands to be one of the reign of Henry\nVII., the provincialisms of that most interesting mountain district have\nbeen so little affected by the spread of education, that the _Felon Sewe_\nis at the present day perfectly comprehensible to any Craven peasant, and\nto such a reader neither note nor glossary is necessary. Dr. Whitaker\u2019s\nexplanations are, therefore, few and brief, for he was thoroughly\nacquainted with the language and the district. Scott, on the contrary,\nwho knew nothing of the dialect, and confounded its pure Saxon with his\nLowland Scotch, gives numerous notes, which only display his want of the\nrequisite local knowledge, and are, consequently, calculated to mislead.\n\nThe _Felon Sewe_ belongs to the same class of compositions as the\n_Hunting of the Hare_, reprinted by Weber, and the _Tournament of\nTottenham_, in Percy\u2019s _Reliques_. Scott says that \u2018the comic romance\nwas a sort of parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel poetry.\u2019 This\nidea may be extended, for the old comic romances were in many instances\nnot merely \u2018sorts of parodies,\u2019 but real parodies on compositions which\nwere popular in their day, although they have not descended to us. We\ncertainly remember to have met with an old chivalric romance, in which\nthe leading incidents were similar to those of the _Felon Sewe_.\n\nIt may be observed, also, in reference to this poem, that the design is\ntwofold, the ridicule being equally aimed at the minstrels and the\nclergy. The author was in all probability a follower of Wickliffe.\nThere are many sly satirical allusions to the Romish faith and practices,\nin which no orthodox Catholic would have ventured to indulge.\n\nRalph Rokeby, who gave the sow to the Franciscan Friars of Richmond, is\nbelieved to have been the Ralph who lived in the reign of Henry VII.\nTradition represents the Baron as having been \u2018a fellow of infinite\njest,\u2019 and the very man to bestow so valuable a gift on the convent! The\nMistress Rokeby of the ballad was, according to the pedigree of the\nfamily, a daughter and heiress of Danby, of Yafforth. Friar Theobald\ncannot be traced, and therefore we may suppose that the monk had some\nother name; the minstrel author, albeit a Wickliffite, not thinking it\nquite prudent, perhaps, to introduce a priest _in propri\u00e2 person\u00e2_. The\nstory is told with spirit, and the verse is graceful and flowing.]\n\n FITTE THE FIRSTE.\n\n YE men that will of aunters wynne,\n That late within this lande hath bin,\n Of on I will yow telle;\n And of a sewe that was sea strang,\n Alas! that ever scho lived sea lang,\n For fell folk did scho wele. {129}\n\n Scho was mare than other three,\n The grizeliest beast that ere mote bee\n Her hede was greate and graye;\n Scho was bred in Rokebye woode,\n Ther war few that thither yoode, {130a}\n But cam belive awaye.\n\n Her walke was endlang Greta syde,\n Was no barne that colde her byde,\n That was fra heven or helle; {130b}\n Ne never man that had that myght,\n That ever durst com in her syght,\n Her force it was sea felle.\n\n Raphe {130c} of Rokebye, with full gode wyll,\n The freers of Richmonde gav her tyll,\n Full wele to gar thayme fare;\n Freer Myddeltone by name,\n Hee was sent to fetch her hame,\n Yt rewed him syne full sare.\n\n Wyth hym tooke hee wyght men two,\n Peter of Dale was on of tho,\n Tother was Bryan of Beare; {130d}\n Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife,\n And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe,\n What tyme as musters were. {130e}\n\n These three men wended at theyr wyll,\n This wickede sewe gwhyl they cam tyll,\n Liggand under a tree;\n Rugg\u2019d and rustic was her here,\n Scho rase up wyth a felon fere, {131a}\n To fyght agen the three.\n\n Grizely was scho for to meete,\n Scho rave the earthe up wyth her feete,\n The barke cam fra\u2019 the tree:\n When Freer Myddeltone her saugh,\n Wete yow wele hee list not laugh,\n Full earnestful luik\u2019d hee.\n\n These men of auncestors {131b} were so wight,\n They bound them bauldly for to fyght,\n And strake at her full sare;\n Until a kilne they garred her flee,\n Wolde God sende thayme the victorye,\n They wolde aske hym na maire.\n\n The sewe was in the kilne hoile doone,\n And they wer on the bawke aboone,\n For hurting of theyr feete;\n They wer sea sauted {131c} wyth this sewe,\n That \u2019mang thayme was a stalwarth stewe,\n The kilne began to reeke!\n\n Durst noe man nighe her wyth his hande,\n But put a rape downe wyth a wande,\n And heltered her ful meete;\n They hauled her furth agen her wyll,\n Qunyl they cam until a hille,\n A little fra the streete. {131d}\n\n And ther scho made thayme sike a fray,\n As, had they lived until Domesday,\n They colde yt nere forgette:\n Scho brayded upon every syde,\n And ranne on thayme gapyng ful wyde,\n For nathing wolde scho lette.\n\n Scho gaf sike hard braydes at the bande\n That Peter of Dale had in his hande,\n Hee myght not holde hys feete;\n Scho chas\u00e8d thayme sea to and fro,\n The wight men never wer sea woe,\n Ther mesure was not mete.\n\n Scho bound her boldly to abide,\n To Peter of Dale scho cam aside,\n Wyth mony a hideous yelle;\n Scho gaped sea wide and cryed sea hee,\n The freer sayd, \u2018I conjure thee,\n Thou art a fiend of helle!\n\n \u2018Thou art comed hider for sum trayne,\n I conjure thee to go agayne,\n Wher thou was wont to dwell.\u2019\n He sain\u00e8d hym wyth crosse and creede,\n Tooke furth a booke, began to reade,\n In Ste Johan hys gospell.\n\n The sewe scho wolde not Latyne heare,\n But rudely rush\u00e8d at the freer,\n That blynk\u00e8d all his blee; {132a}\n And when scho wolde have takken holde,\n The freer leapt as I. H. S. wolde, {132b}\n And bealed hym wyth a tree.\n\n Scho was brim as anie beare,\n For all their meete to laboure there,\n To thayme yt was noe boote;\n On tree and bushe that by her stode,\n Scho veng\u00e8d her as scho wer woode,\n And rave thayme up by roote.\n\n Hee sayd, \u2018Alas that I wer freer,\n I shal bee hugged asunder here,\n Hard is my destinie!\n Wiste my brederen, in this houre,\n That I was set in sike a stoure,\n They wolde pray for mee!\u2019\n\n This wicked beaste thatte wrought the woe,\n Tooke that rape from the other two,\n And than they fledd all three;\n They fledd away by Watling streete,\n They had no succour but their feete,\n Yt was the maire pittye.\n\n The fielde it was both loste and wonne,\n The sewe wente hame, and thatte ful soone,\n To Morton-on-the-Greene.\n When Raphe of Rokeby saw the rape,\n He wist that there had bin debate,\n Whereat the sewe had beene.\n\n He bade thayme stand out of her waye,\n For scho had had a sudden fraye,\u2014\n \u2018I saw never sewe sea keene,\n Some new thingis shall wee heare,\n Of her and Myddeltone the freer,\n Some battel hath ther beene.\u2019\n\n But all that serv\u00e8d him for nought,\u2014\n Had they not better succour sought, {133}\n They wer serv\u00e8d therfore loe.\n Then Mistress Rokebye came anon,\n And for her brought scho meete ful soone,\n The sewe cam her untoe.\n\n Scho gav her meete upon the flower;\n [Scho made a bed beneath a bower,\n With moss and broom besprent;\n The sewe was gentle as mote be,\n Ne rage ne ire flashed fra her e\u2019e,\n Scho seem\u00e8d wele content.]\n\n FITTE THE SECONDE.\n\n When Freer Myddeltone com home,\n Hys breders war ful faine ilchone,\n And thanked God for hys lyfe;\n He told thayme all unto the ende,\n How hee had foughten wyth a fiende,\n And lived thro\u2019 mickle stryfe.\n\n \u2018Wee gav her battel half a daye,\n And was faine to flee awaye\n For saving of oure lyfe;\n And Peter Dale wolde never blin,\n But ran as faste as he colde rinn,\n Till he cam till hys wyfe.\u2019\n\n The Warden sayde, \u2018I am ful woe\n That yow sholde bee torment soe,\n But wee had wyth yow beene!\n Had wee bene ther, yowr breders alle,\n Wee wolde hav garred the warlo {134} falle,\n That wrought yow all thys teene.\u2019\n\n Freer Myddeltone, he sayde soon, \u2018Naye,\n In faythe ye wolde hav ren awaye,\n When moste misstirre had bin;\n Ye all can speke safte wordes at home,\n The fiend wolde ding yow doone ilk on,\n An yt bee als I wene,\n\n Hee luik\u2019d sea grizely al that nyght.\u2019\n The Warden sayde, \u2018Yon man wol fyght\n If ye saye ought but gode,\n Yon guest {135a} hath griev\u00e8d hym sea sore;\n Holde your tongues, and speake ne more,\n Hee luiks als hee wer woode.\u2019\n\n The Warden wag\u00e8d {135b} on the morne,\n Two boldest men that ever wer borne,\n I weyne, or ere shall bee:\n Tone was Gilbert Griffin sonne,\n Ful mickle worship hadde hee wonne,\n Both by land and sea.\n\n Tother a bastard sonne of Spaine,\n Mony a Sarazin hadde hee slaine;\n Hys dint hadde garred thayme dye.\n Theis men the battel undertoke\n Agen the sewe, as saythe the boke,\n And sealed securitye,\n\n That they shold boldly bide and fyghte,\n And scomfit her in maine and myghte,\n Or therfor sholde they dye.\n The Warden sealed toe thayme againe,\n And sayde, \u2018If ye in fielde be slaine,\n This condition make I:\n\n \u2018Wee shall for yow praye, syng, and reade,\n Until Domesdaye wyth heartye speede,\n With al our progenie.\u2019\n Then the lettres wer wele made,\n The bondes wer bounde wyth seales brade,\n As deeds of arms sholde bee.\n\n Theise men-at-arms thatte wer sea wight,\n And wyth theire armour burnished bryght,\n They went the sewe toe see.\n Scho made at thayme sike a roare,\n That for her they fear it sore,\n And almaiste bounde to flee.\n\n Scho cam runnyng thayme agayne,\n And saw the bastarde sonne of Spaine,\n Hee brayded owt hys brande;\n Ful spiteouslie at her hee strake,\n Yet for the fence that he colde make,\n Scho strake it fro hys hande,\n And rave asander half hys sheelde,\n And bare hym backwerde in the fielde,\n Hee mought not her gainstande.\n\n Scho wolde hav riven hys privich geare,\n But Gilbert wyth hys swerde of warre,\n Hee strake at her ful strang.\n In her shouther hee held the swerde;\n Than was Gilbert sore afearde,\n When the blade brak in twang.\n\n And whan in hande hee had her ta\u2019en,\n Scho toke hym by the shouther bane,\n And held her hold ful faste;\n Scho strave sea stifflie in thatte stoure,\n Scho byt thro\u2019 ale hys rich armoure,\n Till bloud cam owt at laste.\n\n Than Gilbert griev\u00e8d was sea sare,\n That hee rave off the hyde of haire;\n The flesh cam fra the bane,\n And wyth force hee held her ther,\n And wanne her worthilie in warre,\n And band her hym alane;\n\n And lifte her on a horse sea hee,\n Into two panyers made of a tree,\n And toe Richmond anon.\n When they sawe the felon come,\n They sange merrilye Te Deum!\n The freers evrich one.\n\n They thankyd God and Saynte Frauncis,\n That they had wonne the beaste of pris,\n And nere a man was sleyne:\n There never didde man more manlye,\n The Knyght Marone, or Sir Guye,\n Nor Louis of Lothraine.\n\n If yow wyl any more of thys,\n I\u2019 the fryarie at Richmond {137} written yt is,\n In parchment gude and fyne,\n How Freer Myddeltone sea hende,\n Att Greta Bridge conjured a fiende,\n In lykeness of a swyne.\n\n Yt is wel knowen toe manie a man,\n That Freer Theobald was warden than,\n And thys fel in hys tyme.\n And Chryst thayme bles both ferre and nere,\n Al that for solas this doe here,\n And hym that made the ryme.\n\n Raphe of Rokeby wid ful gode wyl,\n The freers of Richmond gav her tyll,\n This sewe toe mende ther fare;\n Freer Myddeltone by name,\n He wold bring the felon hame,\n That rewed hym sine ful sare.\n\n\n\n\nSongs.\n\n\nARTHUR O\u2019BRADLEY\u2019S WEDDING.\n\n\n[IN the ballad called _Robin Hood_, _his Birth_, _Breeding_, _Valour and\nMarriage_, occurs the following line:\u2014\n\n And some singing Arthur-a-Bradley.\n\nAntiquaries are by no means agreed as to what is the song of\n_Arthur-a-Bradley_, there alluded to, for it so happens that there are no\nless than three different songs about this same Arthur-a-Bradley. Ritson\ngives one of them in his _Robin Hood_, commencing thus:\u2014\n\n See you not Pierce the piper.\n\nHe took it from a black-letter copy in a private collection, compared\nwith, and very much corrected by, a copy contained in _An Antidote\nagainst Melancholy_, _made up in pills compounded of witty Ballads_,\n_jovial Songs_, _and merry Catches_, 1661. Ritson quotes another, and\napparently much more modern song on the same subject, and to the same\ntune, beginning,\u2014\n\n All in the merry month of May.\n\nIt is a miserable composition, as may be seen by referring to a copy\npreserved in the third volume of the Roxburgh Ballads. There is another\nsong, the one given by us, which appears to be as ancient as any of those\nof which Arthur O\u2019Bradley is the hero, and from its subject being a\nwedding, as also from its being the only Arthur O\u2019Bradley song that we\nhave been enabled to trace in broadside and chap-books of the last\ncentury, we are induced to believe that it may be the song mentioned in\nthe old ballad, which is supposed to have been written in the reign of\nCharles I. An obscure music publisher, who about thirty years ago\nresided in the Metropolis, brought out an edition of _Arthur O\u2019Bradley\u2019s\nWedding_, with the prefix \u2018Written by Mr. Taylor.\u2019 This Mr. Taylor was,\nhowever, only a low comedian of the day, and the ascribed authorship was\na mere trick on the publisher\u2019s part to increase the sale of the song.\nWe are not able to give any account of the hero, but from his being\nalluded to by so many of our old writers, he was, perhaps, not altogether\na fictitious personage. Ben Jonson names him in one of his plays, and he\nis also mentioned in Dekker\u2019s _Honest Whore_. Of one of the tunes\nmentioned in the song, viz., _Hence_, _Melancholy_! we can give no\naccount; the other,\u2014_Mad Moll_, may be found in Playford\u2019s\n_Dancing-Master_, 1698: it is the same tune as the one known by the names\nof _Yellow Stockings_ and the _Virgin Queen_, the latter title seeming to\nconnect it with Queen Elizabeth, as the name of Mad Moll does with the\nhistory of Mary, who was subject to mental aberration. The words of _Mad\nMoll_ are not known to exist, but probably consisted of some fulsome\npanegyric on the virgin queen, at the expense of her unpopular sister.\nFrom the mention of _Hence_, _Melancholy_, and _Mad Moll_, it is presumed\nthat they were both popular favourites when _Arthur O\u2019Bradley\u2019s Wedding_\nwas written. A good deal of vulgar grossness has been at different times\nintroduced into this song, which seems in this respect to be as elastic\nas the French chanson, _Cadet Rouselle_, which is always being altered,\nand of which there are no two copies alike. The tune of _Arthur\nO\u2019Bradley_ is given by Mr. Chappell in his _Popular Music_.]\n\n COME, neighbours, and listen awhile,\n If ever you wished to smile,\n Or hear a true story of old,\n Attend to what I now unfold!\n \u2019Tis of a lad whose fame did resound\n Through every village and town around,\n For fun, for frolic, and for whim,\n None ever was to equal him,\n And his name was Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n O! rare Arthur O\u2019Bradley! wonderful Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n Sweet Arthur O\u2019Bradley, O!\n\n Now, Arthur being stout and bold,\n And near upon thirty years old,\n He needs a wooing would go,\n To get him a helpmate, you know.\n So, gaining young Dolly\u2019s consent,\n Next to be married they went;\n And to make himself noble appear,\n He mounted the old padded mare;\n He chose her because she was blood,\n And the prime of his old daddy\u2019s stud.\n She was wind-galled, spavined, and blind,\n And had lost a near leg behind;\n She was cropped, and docked, and fired,\n And seldom, if ever, was tired,\n She had such an abundance of bone;\n So he called her his high-bred roan,\n A credit to Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n O! rare Arthur O\u2019Bradley! wonderful Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n Sweet Arthur O\u2019Bradley, O!\n\n Then he packed up his drudgery hose,\n And put on his holiday clothes;\n His coat was of scarlet so fine,\n Full trimmed with buttons behind;\n Two sleeves it had it is true,\n One yellow, the other was blue,\n And the cuffs and the capes were of green,\n And the longest that ever were seen;\n His hat, though greasy and tore,\n Cocked up with a feather before,\n And under his chin it was tied,\n With a strip from an old cow\u2019s hide;\n His breeches three times had been turned,\n And two holes through the left side were burned;\n Two boots he had, but not kin,\n One leather, the other was tin;\n And for stirrups he had two patten rings,\n Tied fast to the girth with two strings;\n Yet he wanted a good saddle cloth,\n Which long had been eat by the moth.\n \u2019Twas a sad misfortune, you\u2019ll say,\n But still he looked gallant and gay,\n And his name it was Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n O! rare Arthur O\u2019Bradley! wonderful Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n Sweet Arthur O\u2019Bradley, O!\n\n Thus accoutred, away he did ride,\n While Dolly she walked by his side;\n Till coming up to the church door,\n In the midst of five thousand or more,\n Then from the old mare he did alight,\n Which put the clerk in a fright;\n And the parson so fumbled and shook,\n That presently down dropped his book.\n Then Arthur began for to sing,\n And made the whole church to ring;\n Crying, \u2018Dolly, my dear, come hither,\n And let us be tacked together;\n For the honour of Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\u2019\n O! rare Arthur O\u2019Bradley! wonderful Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n Sweet Arthur O\u2019Bradley, O!\n\n Then the vicar discharged his duty,\n Without either reward or fee,\n Declaring no money he\u2019d have;\n And poor Arthur he\u2019d none to give:\n So, to make him a little amends,\n He invited him home with his friends,\n To have a sweet kiss at the bride,\n And eat a good dinner beside.\n The dishes, though few, were good,\n And the sweetest of animal food:\n First, a roast guinea-pig and a bantam,\n A sheep\u2019s head stewed in a lanthorn, {141}\n Two calves\u2019 feet, and a bull\u2019s trotter,\n The fore and hind leg of an otter,\n With craw-fish, cockles, and crabs,\n Lump-fish, limpets, and dabs,\n Red herrings and sprats, by dozens,\n To feast all their uncles and cousins;\n Who seemed well pleased with their treat,\n And heartily they did all eat,\n For the honour of Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n O! rare Arthur O\u2019Bradley! wonderful Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n Sweet Arthur O\u2019Bradley, O!\n\n Now, the guests being well satisfied,\n The fragments were laid on one side,\n When Arthur, to make their hearts merry,\n Brought ale, and parkin, {142} and perry;\n When Timothy Twig stept in,\n With his pipe, and a pipkin of gin.\n A lad that was pleasant and jolly,\n And scorned to meet melancholy;\n He would chant and pipe so well,\n No youth could him excel.\n Not Pan the god of the swains,\n Could ever produce such strains;\n But Arthur, being first in the throng,\n He swore he would sing the first song,\n And one that was pleasant and jolly:\n And that should be \u2018Hence, Melancholy!\u2019\n \u2018Now give me a dance,\u2019 quoth Doll,\n \u2018Come, Jeffrery, play up Mad Moll,\n \u2019Tis time to be merry and frisky,\u2014\n But first I must have some more whiskey.\u2019\n \u2018Oh! you\u2019re right,\u2019 says Arthur, \u2018my love!\n My daffy-down-dilly! my dove!\n My everything! my wife!\n I ne\u2019er was so pleased in my life,\n Since my name it was Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\u2019\n O! rare Arthur O\u2019Bradley! wonderful Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n Sweet Arthur O\u2019Bradley, O!\n\n Then the piper he screwed up his bags,\n And the girls began shaking their rags;\n First up jumped old Mother Crewe,\n Two stockings, and never a shoe.\n Her nose was crook\u00e8d and long,\n Which she could easily reach with her tongue;\n And a hump on her back she did not lack,\n But you should take no notice of that;\n And her mouth stood all awry,\n And she never was heard to lie,\n For she had been dumb from her birth;\n So she nodded consent to the mirth,\n For honour of Arthur O\u2019Bradley.\n O! rare Arthur O\u2019Bradley! wonderful Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n Sweet Arthur O\u2019Bradley, O!\n\n Then the parson led off at the top,\n Some danced, while others did hop;\n While some ran foul of the wall,\n And others down backwards did fall.\n There was lead up and down, figure in,\n Four hands across, then back again.\n So in dancing they spent the whole night,\n Till bright Phoebus appeared in their sight;\n When each had a kiss of the bride,\n And hopped home to his own fire-side:\n Well pleased was Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n O! rare Arthur O\u2019Bradley! wonderful Arthur O\u2019Bradley!\n Sweet Arthur O\u2019Bradley, O!\n\n\n\nTHE PAINFUL PLOUGH.\n\n\n[THIS is one of our oldest agricultural ditties, and maintains its\npopularity to the present hour. It is called for at merry-makings and\nfeasts in every part of the country. The tune is in the minor key, and\nof a pleasing character.]\n\n \u2018COME, all you jolly ploughmen, of courage stout and bold,\n That labour all the winter in stormy winds, and cold;\n To clothe the fields with plenty, your farm-yards to renew,\n To crown them with contentment, behold the painful plough!\u2019\n\n \u2018Hold! ploughman,\u2019 said the gardener, \u2018don\u2019t count your trade with\n ours,\n Walk through the garden, and view the early flowers;\n Also the curious border and pleasant walks go view,\u2014\n There\u2019s none such peace and plenty perform\u00e8d by the plough!\u2019\n\n \u2018Hold! gardener,\u2019 said the ploughman, \u2018my calling don\u2019t despise,\n Each man for his living upon his trade relies;\n Were it not for the ploughman, both rich and poor would rue,\n For we are all dependent upon the painful plough.\n\n \u2018Adam in the garden was sent to keep it right,\n But the length of time he stayed there, I believe it was one night;\n Yet of his own labour, I call it not his due,\n Soon he lost his garden, and went to hold the plough.\n\n \u2018For Adam was a ploughman when ploughing first begun,\n The next that did succeed him was Cain, the eldest son;\n Some of the generation this calling now pursue;\n That bread may not be wanting, remains the painful plough.\n\n Samson was the strongest man, and Solomon was wise,\n Alexander for to conquer \u2019twas all his daily prise;\n King David was valiant, and many thousands slew,\n Yet none of these brave heroes could live without the plough!\n\n Behold the wealthy merchant, that trades in foreign seas,\n And brings home gold and treasure for those who live at ease;\n With fine silks and spices, and fruits also, too,\n They are brought from the Indies by virtue of the plough.\n\n \u2018For they must have bread, biscuit, rice pudding, flour and peas,\n To feed the jolly sailors as they sail o\u2019er the seas;\n And the man that brings them will own to what is true,\n He cannot sail the ocean without the painful plough!\n\n \u2018I hope there\u2019s none offended at me for singing this,\n For it is not intended for anything amiss.\n If you consider rightly, you\u2019ll find what I say is true,\n For all that you can mention depends upon the plough.\u2019\n\n\n\nTHE USEFUL PLOW;\n\n\n OR, THE PLOUGH\u2019S PRAISE.\n\n[THE common editions of this popular song inform us that it is taken\n\u2018from an Old Ballad,\u2019 alluding probably to the dialogue given at page 44.\nThis song is quoted by Farquhar.]\n\n A COUNTRY life is sweet!\n In moderate cold and heat,\n To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair!\n In every field of wheat,\n The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers,\n And every meadow\u2019s brow;\n To that I say, no courtier may\n Compare with they who clothe in grey,\n And follow the useful plow.\n\n They rise with the morning lark,\n And labour till almost dark;\n Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;\n While every pleasant park\n Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing,\n On each green, tender bough.\n With what content, and merriment,\n Their days are spent, whose minds are bent\n To follow the useful plow.\n\n The gallant that dresses fine,\n And drinks his bottles of wine,\n Were he to be tried, his feathers of pride,\n Which deck and adorn his back,\n Are tailors\u2019 and mercers\u2019, and other men dressers,\n For which they do dun them now.\n But Ralph and Will no compters fill\n For tailor\u2019s bill, or garments still,\n But follow the useful plow.\n\n Their hundreds, without remorse,\n Some spend to keep dogs and horse,\n Who never would give, as long as they live,\n Not two-pence to help the poor;\n Their wives are neglected, and harlots respected;\n This grieves the nation now;\n But \u2019tis not so with us that go\n Where pleasures flow, to reap and mow,\n And follow the useful plow.\n\n\n\nTHE FARMER\u2019S SON.\n\n\n[THIS song, familiar to the dwellers in the dales of Yorkshire, was\npublished in 1729, in the _Vocal Miscellany_; _a collection of about four\nhundred celebrated songs_. As the _Miscellany_ was merely an anthology\nof songs already well known, the date of this song must have been\nsometime anterior to 1729. It was republished in the _British Musical\nMiscellany_, _or the Delightful Grove_, 1796, and in a few other old song\nbooks. It was evidently founded on an old black-letter dialogue\npreserved in the Roxburgh collection, called _A Mad Kinde of Wooing_;\n_or_, _a Dialogue between Will the Simple and Nan the Subtill_, _with\ntheir loving argument_. To the tune of the New Dance at the Red Bull\nPlayhouse. Printed by the assignees of Thomas Symcock.]\n\n \u2018SWEET Nelly! my heart\u2019s delight!\n Be loving, and do not slight\n The proffer I make, for modesty\u2019s sake:\u2014\n I honour your beauty bright.\n For love, I profess, I can do no less,\n Thou hast my favour won:\n And since I see your modesty,\n I pray agree, and fancy me,\n Though I\u2019m but a farmer\u2019s son.\n\n \u2018No! I am a lady gay,\n \u2019Tis very well known I may\n Have men of renown, in country or town;\n So! Roger, without delay,\n Court Bridget or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue,\n Their loves will soon be won;\n But don\u2019t you dare to speak me fair,\n As if I were at my last prayer,\n To marry a farmer\u2019s son.\u2019\n\n \u2018My father has riches\u2019 store,\n Two hundred a year, and more;\n Beside sheep and cows, carts, harrows, and ploughs;\n His age is above threescore.\n And when he does die, then merrily I\n Shall have what he has won;\n Both land and kine, all shall be thine,\n If thou\u2019lt incline, and wilt be mine,\n And marry a farmer\u2019s son.\u2019\n\n \u2018A fig for your cattle and corn!\n Your proffered love I scorn!\n \u2019Tis known very well, my name is Nell,\n And you\u2019re but a bumpkin born.\u2019\n \u2018Well! since it is so, away I will go,\u2014\n And I hope no harm is done;\n Farewell, adieu!\u2014I hope to woo\n As good as you,\u2014and win her, too,\n Though I\u2019m but a farmer\u2019s son.\u2019\n\n \u2018Be not in such haste,\u2019 quoth she,\n \u2018Perhaps we may still agree;\n For, man, I protest I was but in jest!\n Come, prythee sit down by me;\n For thou art the man that verily can\n Win me, if e\u2019er I\u2019m won;\n Both straight and tall, genteel withal;\n Therefore, I shall be at your call,\n To marry a farmer\u2019s son.\u2019\n\n \u2018Dear lady! believe me now\n I solemnly swear and vow,\n No lords in their lives take pleasure in wives,\n Like fellows that drive the plough:\n For whatever they gain with labour and pain,\n They don\u2019t with \u2019t to harlots run,\n As courtiers do. I never knew\n A London beau that could outdo\n A country farmer\u2019s son.\u2019\n\n\n\nTHE FARMER\u2019S BOY.\n\n\n[MR. DENHAM of Piersbridge, who communicates the following, says\u2014\u2018there\nis no question that the _Farmer\u2019s Boy_ is a very ancient song; it is\nhighly popular amongst the north country lads and lasses.\u2019 The date of\nthe composition may probably be referred to the commencement of the last\ncentury, when there prevailed amongst the ballad-mongers a great rage for\n_Farmers\u2019 Sons_, _Plough Boys_, _Milk Maids_, _Farmers\u2019 Boys_, &c. &c.\nThe song is popular all over the country, and there are numerous printed\ncopies, ancient and modern.]\n\n THE sun had set behind yon hills,\n Across yon dreary moor,\n Weary and lame, a boy there came\n Up to a farmer\u2019s door:\n \u2018Can you tell me if any there be\n That will give me employ,\n To plow and sow, and reap and mow,\n And be a farmer\u2019s boy?\n\n \u2018My father is dead, and mother is left\n With five children, great and small;\n And what is worse for mother still,\n I\u2019m the oldest of them all.\n Though little, I\u2019ll work as hard as a Turk,\n If you\u2019ll give me employ,\n To plow and sow, and reap and mow,\n And be a farmer\u2019s boy.\n\n \u2018And if that you won\u2019t me employ,\n One favour I\u2019ve to ask,\u2014\n Will you shelter me, till break of day,\n From this cold winter\u2019s blast?\n At break of day, I\u2019ll trudge away\n Elsewhere to seek employ,\n To plow and sow, and reap and mow,\n And be a farmer\u2019s boy.\u2019\n\n \u2018Come, try the lad,\u2019 the mistress said,\n \u2018Let him no further seek.\u2019\n \u2018O, do, dear father!\u2019 the daughter cried,\n While tears ran down her cheek:\n \u2018He\u2019d work if he could, so \u2019tis hard to want food,\n And wander for employ;\n Don\u2019t turn him away, but let him stay,\n And be a farmer\u2019s boy.\u2019\n\n And when the lad became a man,\n The good old farmer died,\n And left the lad the farm he had,\n And his daughter for his bride.\n The lad that was, the farm now has,\n Oft smiles, and thinks with joy\n Of the lucky day he came that way,\n To be a farmer\u2019s boy.\n\n\n\nRICHARD OF TAUNTON DEAN;\n\n\n OR, DUMBLE DUM DEARY.\n\n[THIS song is very popular with the country people in every part of\nEngland, but more particularly with the inhabitants of the counties of\nSomerset, Devon, and Cornwall. {149} The chorus is peculiar to country\nsongs of the West of England. There are many different versions. The\nfollowing one, communicated by Mr. Sandys, was taken down from the\nsinging of an old blind fiddler, \u2018who,\u2019 says Mr. Sandys, \u2018used to\naccompany it on his instrument in an original and humorous manner; a\nrepresentative of the old minstrels!\u2019 The air is in _Popular Music_. In\nHalliwell\u2019s _Nursery Rhymes of England_ there is a version of this song,\ncalled _Richard of Dalton Dale_.\n\n LAST New-Year\u2019s day, as I\u2019ve heerd say, {151}\n Young Richard he mounted his dapple grey,\n And he trotted along to Taunton Dean,\n To court the parson\u2019s daughter, Jean.\n Dumble dum deary, dumble dum deary,\n Dumble dum deary, dumble dum dee.\n\n With buckskin breeches, shoes and hose,\n And Dicky put on his Sunday clothes;\n Likewise a hat upon his head,\n All bedaubed with ribbons red.\n\n Young Richard he rode without dread or fear,\n Till he came to the house where lived his sweet dear,\n When he knocked, and shouted, and bellowed, \u2018Hallo!\n Be the folks at home? say aye or no.\u2019\n\n A trusty servant let him in,\n That he his courtship might begin;\n Young Richard he walked along the great hall,\n And loudly for mistress Jean did call.\n\n Miss Jean she came without delay,\n To hear what Dicky had got to say;\n \u2018I s\u2019pose you knaw me, mistress Jean,\n I\u2019m honest Richard of Taunton Dean.\n\n \u2018I\u2019m an honest fellow, although I be poor,\n And I never was in love afore;\n My mother she bid me come here for to woo,\n And I can fancy none but you.\u2019\n\n \u2018Suppose that I would be your bride,\n Pray how would you for me provide?\n For I can neither sew nor spin;\u2014\n Pray what will your day\u2019s work bring in?\u2019\n\n \u2018Why, I can plough, and I can zow,\n And zometimes to the market go\n With Gaffer Johnson\u2019s straw or hay,\n And yarn my ninepence every day!\u2019\n\n \u2018Ninepence a-day will never do,\n For I must have silks and satins too!\n Ninepence a day won\u2019t buy us meat!\u2019\n \u2018Adzooks!\u2019 says Dick, \u2018I\u2019ve a zack of wheat;\n\n \u2018Besides, I have a house hard by,\n \u2019Tis all my awn, when mammy do die;\n If thee and I were married now,\n Ods! I\u2019d feed thee as fat as my feyther\u2019s old zow.\u2019\n\n Dick\u2019s compliments did so delight,\n They made the family laugh outright;\n Young Richard took huff, and no more would say,\n He kicked up old Dobbin, and trotted away,\n Singing, dumble dum deary, &c.\n\n\n\nWOOING SONG OF A YEOMAN OF KENT\u2019S SONNE.\n\n\n[THE following song is the original of a well-known and popular Scottish\nsong:\u2014\n\n \u2018I hae laid a herring in saut;\n Lass, \u2019gin ye lo\u2019e me, tell me now!\n I ha\u2019e brewed a forpit o\u2019 maut,\n An\u2019 I canna come ilka day to woo.\u2019\n\nThere are modern copies of our Kentish _Wooing Song_, but the present\nversion is taken from _Melismata_, _Musical phansies fitting the court_,\n_citie_, _and countree_. _To_ 3, 4, and 5 _voyces_. London, printed by\nWilliam Stansby, for Thomas Adams, 1611. The tune will be found in\n_Popular Music_, I., 90. The words are in the Kentish dialect.]\n\n ICH have house and land in Kent,\n And if you\u2019ll love me, love me now;\n Two-pence half-penny is my rent,\u2014\n Ich cannot come every day to woo.\n _Chorus_. Two-pence half-penny is his rent,\n And he cannot come every day to woo.\n\n Ich am my vather\u2019s eldest zonne,\n My mouther eke doth love me well!\n For Ich can bravely clout my shoone,\n And Ich full-well can ring a bell.\n _Cho_. For he can bravely clout his shoone,\n And he full well can ring a bell. {153}\n\n My vather he gave me a hogge,\n My mouther she gave me a zow;\n Ich have a god-vather dwells there by,\n And he on me bestowed a plow.\n _Cho_. He has a god-vather dwells there by,\n And he on him bestowed a plow.\n\n One time Ich gave thee a paper of pins,\n Anoder time a taudry lace;\n And if thou wilt not grant me love,\n In truth Ich die bevore thy vace.\n _Cho_. And if thou wilt not grant his love,\n In truth he\u2019ll die bevore thy vace.\n\n Ich have been twice our Whitson Lord,\n Ich have had ladies many vare;\n And eke thou hast my heart in hold,\n And in my minde zeemes passing rare.\n _Cho_. And eke thou hast his heart in hold,\n And in his minde zeemes passing rare.\n\n Ich will put on my best white sloppe,\n And Ich will weare my yellow hose;\n And on my head a good gray hat,\n And in\u2019t Ich sticke a lovely rose.\n _Cho_. And on his head a good grey hat,\n And in\u2019t he\u2019ll stick a lovely rose.\n\n Wherefore cease off, make no delay,\n And if you\u2019ll love me, love me now;\n Or els Ich zeeke zome oder where,\u2014\n For Ich cannot come every day to woo.\n _Cho_. Or else he\u2019ll zeeke zome oder where,\n For he cannot come every day to woo. {154}\n\n\n\nTHE CLOWN\u2019S COURTSHIP.\n\n\n[THIS song, on the same subject as the preceding, is as old as the reign\nof Henry VIII., the first verse, says Mr. Chappell, being found\nelaborately set to music in a manuscript of that date. The air is given\nin _Popular Music_, I., 87.]\n\n QUOTH John to Joan, wilt thou have me?\n I prythee now, wilt? and I\u2019ze marry with thee,\n My cow, my calf, my house, my rents,\n And all my lands and tenements:\n Oh, say, my Joan, will not that do?\n I cannot come every day to woo.\n\n I\u2019ve corn and hay in the barn hard by,\n And three fat hogs pent up in the sty:\n I have a mare, and she is coal black,\n I ride on her tail to save my back.\n Then say, &c.\n\n I have a cheese upon the shelf,\n And I cannot eat it all myself;\n I\u2019ve three good marks that lie in a rag,\n In the nook of the chimney, instead of a bag.\n Then say, &c.\n\n To marry I would have thy consent,\n But faith I never could compliment;\n I can say nought but \u2018hoy, gee ho,\u2019\n Words that belong to the cart and the plow.\n Then say, &c.\n\n\n\nHARRY\u2019S COURTSHIP.\n\n\n[THIS old ditty, in its incidents, bears a resemblance to\n_Dumble-dum-deary_, see _ante_, p. 149. It used to be a popular song in\nthe Yorkshire dales. We have been obliged to supply an _hiatus_ in the\nsecond verse, and to make an alteration in the last, where we have\nconverted the \u2018red-nosed parson\u2019 of the original into a squire.]\n\n HARRY courted modest Mary,\n Mary was always brisk and airy;\n Harry was country neat as could be,\n But his words were rough, and his duds were muddy.\n\n Harry when he first bespoke her,\n [Kept a dandling the kitchen poker;]\n Mary spoke her words like Venus,\n But said, \u2018There\u2019s something I fear between us.\n\n \u2018Have you got cups of China mettle,\n Canister, cream-jug, tongs, or kettle?\u2019\n \u2018Odzooks, I\u2019ve bowls, and siles, and dishes,\n Enow to supply any prudent wishes.\n\n \u2018I\u2019ve got none o\u2019 your cups of Chaney,\n Canister, cream-jug, I\u2019ve not any;\n I\u2019ve a three-footed pot and a good brass kettle,\n Pray what do you want with your Chaney mettle?\n\n \u2018A shippen full of rye for to fother,\n A house full of goods, one mack or another;\n I\u2019ll thrash in the lathe while you sit spinning,\n O, Molly, I think that\u2019s a good beginning.\u2019\n\n \u2018I\u2019ll not sit at my wheel a-spinning,\n Or rise in the morn to wash your linen;\n I\u2019ll lie in bed till the clock strikes eleven\u2014\u2019\n \u2018Oh, grant me patience gracious Heaven!\n\n \u2018Why then thou must marry some red-nosed squire,\n [Who\u2019ll buy thee a settle to sit by the fire,]\n For I\u2019ll to Margery in the valley,\n She is my girl, so farewell Malley.\u2019\n\n\n\nHARVEST-HOME SONG.\n\n\n[OUR copy of this song is taken from one in the Roxburgh Collection,\nwhere it is called, _The Country Farmer\u2019s vain glory_; _in a new song of\nHarvest Home_, _sung to a new tune much in request_. _Licensed according\nto order_. The tune is published in _Popular Music_. A copy of this\nsong, with the music, may be found in D\u2019Urfey\u2019s _Pills to purge\nMelancholy_. It varies from ours; but D\u2019Urfey is so loose and inaccurate\nin his texts, that any other version is more likely to be correct. The\nbroadside from which the following is copied was \u2018Printed for P.\nBrooksby, J. Dencon [Deacon], J. Blai[r], and J. Back.\u2019]\n\n OUR oats they are howed, and our barley\u2019s reaped,\n Our hay is mowed, and our hovels heaped;\n Harvest home! harvest home!\n We\u2019ll merrily roar out our harvest home!\n Harvest home! harvest home!\n We\u2019ll merrily roar out our harvest home!\n We\u2019ll merrily roar out our harvest home!\n\n We cheated the parson, we\u2019ll cheat him again;\n For why should the vicar have one in ten?\n One in ten! one in ten!\n For why should the vicar have one in ten?\n For why should the vicar have one in ten?\n For staying while dinner is cold and hot,\n And pudding and dumpling\u2019s burnt to pot;\n Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!\n Till pudding and dumpling\u2019s burnt to pot,\n Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!\n\n We\u2019ll drink off the liquor while we can stand,\n And hey for the honour of old England!\n Old England! old England!\n And hey for the honour of old England!\n Old England! old England!\n\n\n\nHARVEST-HOME.\n\n\n[FROM an old copy without printer\u2019s name or date.]\n\n COME, Roger and Nell,\n Come, Simpkin and Bell,\n Each lad with his lass hither come;\n With singing and dancing,\n And pleasure advancing,\n To celebrate harvest-home!\n\n _Chorus_. \u2019Tis Ceres bids play,\n And keep holiday,\n To celebrate harvest-home!\n Harvest-home!\n Harvest-home!\n To celebrate harvest-home!\n\n Our labour is o\u2019er,\n Our barns, in full store,\n Now swell with rich gifts of the land;\n Let each man then take,\n For the prong and the rake,\n His can and his lass in his hand.\n For Ceres, &c.\n\n No courtier can be\n So happy as we,\n In innocence, pastime, and mirth;\n While thus we carouse,\n With our sweetheart or spouse,\n And rejoice o\u2019er the fruits of the earth.\n For Ceres, &c.\n\n\n\nTHE MOW.\n\n\n A HARVEST HOME SONG.\n\n Tune, _Where the bee sucks_.\n\n[THIS favourite song, copied from a chap-book called _The Whistling\nPloughman_, published at the commencement of the present century, is\nwritten in imitation of Ariel\u2019s song, in the _Tempest_. It is probably\ntaken from some defunct ballad-opera.]\n\n NOW our work\u2019s done, thus we feast,\n After labour comes our rest;\n Joy shall reign in every breast,\n And right welcome is each guest:\n After harvest merrily,\n Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,\n After the harvest that heaps up the mow.\n\n Now the plowman he shall plow,\n And shall whistle as he go,\n Whether it be fair or blow,\n For another barley mow,\n O\u2019er the furrow merrily:\n Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,\n After the harvest, the fruit of the plow.\n\n Toil and plenty, toil and ease,\n Still the husbandman he sees;\n Whether when the winter freeze,\n Or in summer\u2019s gentle breeze;\n Still he labours merrily,\n Merrily, merrily, after the plow,\n He looks to the harvest, that gives us the mow.\n\n\n\nTHE BARLEY-MOW SONG.\n\n\n[THIS song is sung at country meetings in Devon and Cornwall,\nparticularly on completing the carrying of the barley, when the rick, or\nmow of barley, is finished. On putting up the last sheaf, which is\ncalled the craw (or crow) sheaf, the man who has it cries out \u2018I have it,\nI have it, I have it;\u2019 another demands, \u2018What have \u2019ee, what have \u2019ee,\nwhat have \u2019ee?\u2019 and the answer is, \u2018A craw! a craw! a craw!\u2019 upon which\nthere is some cheering, &c., and a supper afterwards. The effect of the\n_Barley-mow Song_ cannot be given in words; it should be heard, to be\nappreciated properly,\u2014particularly with the West-country dialect.]\n\n HERE\u2019S a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The nipperkin and the jolly brown bowl,\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the quarter-pint, boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The quarter-pint, nipperkin, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the half-a-pint, boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The half-a-pint, quarter-pint, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the pint, my brave boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The pint, the half-a-pint, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the quart, my brave boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The quart, the pint, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n Well drink it out of the pottle, my boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The pottle, the quart, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the gallon, my boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The gallon, the pottle, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the half-anker, boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The half-anker, gallon, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the anker, my boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The anker, the half-anker, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the half-hogshead, boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The half-hogshead, anker, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the hogshead, my boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The hogshead, the half-hogshead, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the pipe, my brave boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The pipe, the hogshead, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the well, my brave boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The well, the pipe, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the river, my boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The river, the well, &c.\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health, &c.\n\n We\u2019ll drink it out of the ocean, my boys,\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n The ocean, the river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead,\n the half-hogshead, the anker, the half-anker,\n the gallon, the pottle, the quart, the pint, the\n half-a-pint, the quarter-pint, the nipperkin, and\n the jolly brown bowl!\n _Cho_. Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys!\n Here\u2019s a health to the barley-mow!\n\n[The above verses are very much _ad libitum_, but always in the third\nline repeating the whole of the previously-named measures; as we have\nshown in the recapitulation at the close of the last verse.]\n\n\n\nTHE BARLEY-MOW SONG.\n\n\n (SUFFOLK VERSION.)\n\n[THE peasantry of Suffolk sing the following version of the _Barley-Mow\nSong_.]\n\n HERE\u2019S a health to the barley mow!\n Here\u2019s a health to the man\n Who very well can\n Both harrow and plow and sow!\n\n When it is well sown\n See it is well mown,\n Both raked and gavelled clean,\n And a barn to lay it in.\n He\u2019s a health to the man\n Who very well can\n Both thrash and fan it clean!\n\n\n\nTHE CRAVEN CHURN-SUPPER SONG.\n\n\n[IN some of the more remote dales of Craven it is customary at the close\nof the hay-harvest for the farmers to give an entertainment to their men;\nthis is called the churn supper; a name which Eugene Aram traces to \u2018the\nimmemorial usage of producing at such suppers a great quantity of cream\nin a churn, and circulating it in cups to each of the rustic company, to\nbe eaten with bread.\u2019 At these churn-suppers the masters and their\nfamilies attend the entertainment, and share in the general mirth. The\nmen mask themselves, and dress in a grotesque manner, and are allowed the\nprivilege of playing harmless practical jokes on their employers, &c.\nThe churn-supper song varies in different dales, but the following used\nto be the most popular version. In the third verse there seems to be an\nallusion to the clergyman\u2019s taking tythe in kind, on which occasions he\nis generally accompanied by two or three men, and the parish clerk. The\nsong has never before been printed. There is a marked resemblance\nbetween it and a song of the date of 1650, called _A Cup of Old Stingo_.\nSee _Popular Music of the Olden Time_, I., 308.]\n\n GOD rest you, merry gentlemen!\n Be not mov\u00e8d at my strain,\n For nothing study shall my brain,\n But for to make you laugh:\n For I came here to this feast,\n For to laugh, carouse, and jest,\n And welcome shall be every guest,\n To take his cup and quaff.\n _Cho_. Be frolicsome, every one,\n Melancholy none;\n Drink about!\n See it out,\n And then we\u2019ll all go home,\n And then we\u2019ll all go home!\n\n This ale it is a gallant thing,\n It cheers the spirits of a king;\n It makes a dumb man strive to sing,\n Aye, and a beggar play!\n A cripple that is lame and halt,\n And scarce a mile a day can walk,\n When he feels the juice of malt,\n Will throw his crutch away.\n _Cho_. Be frolicsome, &c.\n\n \u2019Twill make the parson forget his men,\u2014\n \u2019Twill make his clerk forget his pen;\n \u2019Twill turn a tailor\u2019s giddy brain,\n And make him break his wand,\n The blacksmith loves it as his life,\u2014\n It makes the tinkler bang his wife,\u2014\n Aye, and the butcher seek his knife\n When he has it in his hand!\n _Cho_. Be frolicsome, &c.\n\n So now to conclude, my merry boys, all,\n Let\u2019s with strong liquor take a fall,\n Although the weakest goes to the wall,\n The best is but a play!\n For water it concludes in noise,\n Good ale will cheer our hearts, brave boys;\n Then put it round with a cheerful voice,\n We meet not every day.\n _Cho_. Be frolicsome, &c.\n\n\n\nTHE RURAL DANCE ABOUT THE MAY-POLE.\n\n\n[THE most correct copy of this song is that given in _The Westminster\nDrollery_, Part II. p. 80. It is there called _The Rural Dance about the\nMay-pole_, _the tune_, _the first-figure dance at Mr. Young\u2019s ball_,\n_May_, 1671. The tune is in _Popular Music_. The _May-pole_, for so the\nsong is called in modern collections, is a very popular ditty at the\npresent time. The common copies vary considerably from the following\nversion, which is much more correct than any hitherto published.]\n\n COME, lasses and lads, take leave of your dads,\n And away to the may-pole hie;\n For every he has got him a she,\n And the minstrel\u2019s standing by;\n For Willie has gotten his Jill,\n And Johnny has got his Joan,\n To jig it, jig it, jig it,\n Jig it up and down.\n\n \u2018Strike up,\u2019 says Wat; \u2018Agreed,\u2019 says Kate,\n \u2018And I prithee, fiddler, play;\u2019\n \u2018Content,\u2019 says Hodge, and so says Madge,\n For this is a holiday.\n Then every man did put\n His hat off to his lass,\n And every girl did curchy,\n Curchy, curchy on the grass.\n\n \u2018Begin,\u2019 says Hall; \u2018Aye, aye,\u2019 says Mall,\n \u2018We\u2019ll lead up _Packington\u2019s Pound_;\u2019\n \u2018No, no,\u2019 says Noll, and so says Doll,\n \u2018We\u2019ll first have _Sellenger\u2019s Round_.\u2019 {165a}\n Then every man began\n To foot it round about;\n And every girl did jet it,\n Jet it, jet it, in and out.\n\n \u2018You\u2019re out,\u2019 says Dick; \u2018\u2019Tis a lie,\u2019 says Nick,\n \u2018The fiddler played it false;\u2019\n \u2018\u2019Tis true,\u2019 says Hugh, and so says Sue,\n And so says nimble Alice.\n The fiddler then began\n To play the tune again;\n And every girl did trip it, trip it,\n Trip it to the men.\n\n \u2018Let\u2019s kiss,\u2019 says Jane, {165b} \u2018Content,\u2019 says Nan,\n And so says every she;\n \u2018How many?\u2019 says Batt; \u2018Why three,\u2019 says Matt,\n \u2018For that\u2019s a maiden\u2019s fee.\u2019\n But they, instead of three,\n Did give them half a score,\n And they in kindness gave \u2019em, gave \u2019em,\n Gave \u2019em as many more.\n\n Then after an hour, they went to a bower,\n And played for ale and cakes;\n And kisses, too;\u2014until they were due,\n The lasses kept the stakes:\n The girls did then begin\n To quarrel with the men;\n And bid \u2019em take their kisses back,\n And give them their own again.\n\n Yet there they sate, until it was late,\n And tired the fiddler quite,\n With singing and playing, without any paying,\n From morning unto night:\n They told the fiddler then,\n They\u2019d pay him for his play;\n And each a two-pence, two-pence,\n Gave him, and went away.\n\n \u2018Good night,\u2019 says Harry; \u2018Good night,\u2019 says Mary;\n \u2018Good night,\u2019 says Dolly to John;\n \u2018Good night,\u2019 says Sue; \u2018Good night,\u2019 says Hugh;\n \u2018Good night,\u2019 says every one.\n Some walked, and some did run,\n Some loitered on the way;\n And bound themselves with love-knots, love-knots,\n To meet the next holiday.\n\n\n\nTHE HITCHIN MAY-DAY SONG.\n\n\n[THE following song is sung by the Mayers at Hitchin in the county of\nHerts. For an account of the manner in which May-day is observed at\nHitchin, see Hone\u2019s _Every-Day Book_.]\n\n REMEMBER us poor Mayers all!\n And thus do we begin\n To lead our lives in righteousness,\n Or else we die in sin.\n\n We have been rambling all the night,\n And almost all the day;\n And now returned back again,\n We have brought you a branch of May.\n\n A branch of May we have brought you,\n And at your door it stands;\n It is but a sprout,\n But it\u2019s well budded out\n By the work of our Lord\u2019s hand.\n\n The hedges and trees they are so green,\n As green as any leek;\n Our heavenly Father he watered them\n With his heavenly dew so sweet.\n\n The heavenly gates are open wide,\n Our paths are beaten plain;\n And if a man be not too far gone,\n He may return again.\n\n The life of man is but a span,\n It flourishes like a flower;\n We are here to-day, and gone to-morrow,\n And we are dead in an hour.\n\n The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light,\n A little before it is day;\n So God bless you all, both great and small,\n And send you a joyful May!\n\n\n\nTHE HELSTONE FURRY-DAY SONG.\n\n\n[AT Helstone, in Cornwall, the 8th of May is a day devoted to revelry and\ngaiety. It is called the Furry-day, supposed to be a corruption of\nFlora\u2019s day, from the garlands worn and carried in procession during the\nfestival. {167} A writer in the _Gentleman\u2019s __Magazine_ for June, 1790,\nsays, \u2018In the morning, very early, some troublesome rogues go round the\nstreets [of Helstone], with drums and other noisy instruments, disturbing\ntheir sober neighbours, and singing parts of a song, the whole of which\nnobody now re-collects, and of which I know no more than that there is\nmention in it of the \u2018grey goose quill,\u2019 and of going \u2018to the green wood\u2019\nto bring home \u2018the Summer and the May, O!\u2019\u2019 During the festival, the\ngentry, tradespeople, servants, &c., dance through the streets, and\nthread through certain of the houses to a very old dance tune, given in\nthe appendix to Davies Gilbert\u2019s _Christmas Carols_, and which may also\nbe found in Chappell\u2019s _Popular Music_, and other collections. The\n_Furry-day Song_ possesses no literary merit whatever; but as a part of\nan old and really interesting festival, it is worthy of preservation.\nThe dance-tune has been confounded with that of the song, but Mr. Sandys,\nto whom we are indebted for this communication, observes that \u2018the\ndance-tune is quite different.\u2019]\n\n ROBIN HOOD and Little John,\n They both are gone to the fair, O!\n And we will go to the merry green-wood,\n To see what they do there, O!\n And for to chase, O!\n To chase the buck and doe.\n With ha-lan-tow, rumble, O!\n For we were up as soon as any day, O!\n And for to fetch the summer home,\n The summer and the may, O!\n For summer is a-come, O!\n And winter is a-gone, O!\n\n Where are those Spaniards\n That make so great a boast, O?\n They shall eat the grey goose feather,\n And we will eat the roast, O!\n In every land, O!\n The land where\u2019er we go.\n With ha-lan-tow, &c\n\n As for Saint George, O!\n Saint George he was a knight, O!\n Of all the knights in Christendom,\n Saint George is the right, O!\n In every land, O!\n The land where\u2019er we go.\n With ha-lan-tow, &c.\n\n\n\nCORNISH MIDSUMMER BONFIRE SONG.\n\n\n[THE very ancient custom of lighting fires on Midsummer-eve, being the\nvigil of St. John the Baptist, is still kept up in several parts of\nCornwall. On these occasions the fishermen and others dance about the\nfires, and sing appropriate songs. The following has been sung for a\nlong series of years at Penzance and the neighbourhood, and is taken down\nfrom the recitation of the leader of a West-country choir. It is\ncommunicated to our pages by Mr. Sandys. The origin of the Midsummer\nbonfires is fully explained in Brand\u2019s _Popular Antiquities_. See Sir H.\nEllis\u2019s edition of that work, vol. i. pp. 166\u2013186.]\n\n THE bonny month of June is crowned\n With the sweet scarlet rose;\n The groves and meadows all around\n With lovely pleasure flows.\n\n As I walked out to yonder green,\n One evening so fair;\n All where the fair maids may be seen\n Playing at the bonfire.\n\n Hail! lovely nymphs, be not too coy,\n But freely yield your charms;\n Let love inspire with mirth and joy,\n In Cupid\u2019s lovely arms.\n\n Bright Luna spreads its light around,\n The gallants for to cheer;\n As they lay sporting on the ground,\n At the fair June bonfire.\n\n All on the pleasant dewy mead,\n They shared each other\u2019s charms;\n Till Phoebus\u2019 beams began to spread,\n And coming day alarms.\n\n Whilst larks and linnets sing so sweet,\n To cheer each lovely swain;\n Let each prove true unto their love,\n And so farewell the plain.\n\n\n\nSUFFOLK HARVEST-HOME SONG.\n\n\n[IN no part of England are the harvest-homes kept up with greater spirit\nthan in Suffolk. The following old song is a general favourite on such\noccasions.]\n\n HERE\u2019S a health unto our master,\n The founder of the feast!\n I wish, with all my heart and soul,\n In heaven he may find rest.\n I hope all things may prosper,\n That ever be takes in hand;\n For we are all his servants,\n And all at his command.\n\n Drink, boys, drink, and see you do not spill,\n For if you do, you must drink two,\u2014it is your master\u2019s will.\n\n Now our harvest is ended,\n And supper is past;\n Here\u2019s our mistress\u2019 good health,\n In a full flowing glass!\n She is a good woman,\u2014\n She prepared us good cheer;\n Come, all my brave boys,\n And drink off your beer.\n\n Drink, my boys, drink till you come unto me,\n The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier shall we be!\n\n In yon green wood there lies an old fox,\n Close by his den you may catch him, or no;\n Ten thousand to one you catch him, or no.\n His beard and his brush are all of one colour,\u2014\n\n [_Takes the glass and empties it off_.\n\n I am sorry, kind sir, that your glass is no fuller.\n \u2019Tis down the red lane! \u2019tis down the red lane!\n So merrily hunt the fox down the red lane! {171}\n\n\n\nTHE HAYMAKER\u2019S SONG.\n\n\n[AN old and very favourite ditty sung in many parts of England at\nmerry-makings, especially at those which occur during the hay-harvest.\nIt is not in any collection.]\n\n IN the merry month of June,\n In the prime time of the year;\n Down in yonder meadows\n There runs a river clear:\n And many a little fish\n Doth in that river play;\n And many a lad, and many a lass,\n Go abroad a-making hay.\n\n In come the jolly mowers,\n To mow the meadows down;\n With budget and with bottle\n Of ale, both stout and brown,\n All labouring men of courage bold\n Come here their strength to try;\n They sweat and blow, and cut and mow,\n For the grass cuts very dry.\n\n Here\u2019s nimble Ben and Tom,\n With pitchfork, and with rake;\n Here\u2019s Molly, Liz, and Susan,\n Come here their hay to make.\n While sweet, jug, jug, jug!\n The nightingale doth sing,\n From morning unto even-song,\n As they are hay-making.\n\n And when that bright day faded,\n And the sun was going down,\n There was a merry piper\n Approach\u00e8d from the town:\n He pulled out his pipe and tabor,\n So sweetly he did play,\n Which made all lay down their rakes,\n And leave off making hay.\n\n Then joining in a dance,\n They jig it o\u2019er the green;\n Though tired with their labour,\n No one less was seen.\n But sporting like some fairies,\n Their dance they did pursue,\n In leading up, and casting off,\n Till morning was in view.\n\n And when that bright daylight,\n The morning it was come,\n They lay down and rested\n Till the rising of the sun:\n Till the rising of the sun,\n When the merry larks do sing,\n And each lad did rise and take his lass,\n And away to hay-making.\n\n\n\nTHE SWORD-DANCERS\u2019 SONG.\n\n\n[SWORD-DANCING is not so common in the North of England as it was a few\nyears ago; but a troop of rustic practitioners of the art may still be\noccasionally met with at Christmas time, in some of the most secluded of\nthe Yorkshire dales. The following is a copy of the introductory song,\nas it used to be sung by the Wharfdale sword-dancers. It has been\ntranscribed from a MS. in the possession of Mr. Holmes, surgeon, at\nGrassington, in Craven. At the conclusion of the song a dance ensues,\nand sometimes a rustic drama is performed. See post, p. 175. _Jumping\nJoan_, alluded to in the last verse, is a well-known old country dance\ntune.]\n\n_The spectators being assembled_, _the_ CLOWN _enters_, _and after\ndrawing a circle with his sword_, _walks round it_, _and calls in the\nactors in the following lines_, _which are sung to the accompaniment of a\nviolin played outside_, _or behind the door_.\n\n THE first that enters on the floor,\n His name is Captain Brown;\n I think he is as smart a youth\n As any in this town:\n In courting of the ladies gay,\n He fixes his delight;\n He will not stay from them all day,\n And is with them all the night.\n\n The next\u2019s a tailor by his trade,\n Called Obadiah Trim;\n You may quickly guess, by his plain dress,\n And hat of broadest brim,\n That he is of the Quaking sect,\n Who would seem to act by merit\n Of yeas and nays, and hums and hahs,\n And motions of the spirit.\n\n The next that enters on the floor,\n He is a foppish knight;\n The first to be in modish dress,\n He studies day and night.\n Observe his habit round about,\u2014\n Even from top to toe;\n The fashion late from France was brought,\u2014\n He\u2019s finer than a beau!\n\n Next I present unto your view\n A very worthy man;\n He is a vintner, by his trade,\n And Love-ale is his name.\n If gentlemen propose a glass,\n He seldom says \u2019em nay,\n But does always think it\u2019s right to drink,\n While other people pay.\n\n The next that enters on the floor,\n It is my beauteous dame;\n Most dearly I do her adore,\n And Bridget is her name.\n At needlework she does excel\n All that e\u2019er learnt to sew,\n And when I choose, she\u2019ll ne\u2019er refuse,\n What I command her do.\n\n And I myself am come long since,\n And Thomas is my name;\n Though some are pleased to call me Tom,\n I think they\u2019re much to blame:\n Folks should not use their betters thus,\n But I value it not a groat,\n Though the tailors, too, that botching crew,\n Have patched it on my coat.\n\n I pray who\u2019s this we\u2019ve met with here,\n That tickles his trunk wame? {174}\n We\u2019ve picked him up as here we came,\n And cannot learn his name:\n But sooner than he\u2019s go without,\n I\u2019ll call him my son Tom;\n And if he\u2019ll play, be it night or day,\n We\u2019ll dance you _Jumping Joan_.\n\n\n\nTHE SWORD-DANCERS\u2019 SONG AND INTERLUDE.\n\n\n AS NOW PERFORMED AT CHRISTMAS, IN THE COUNTY OF DURHAM.\n\n[THE late Sir Cuthbert Sharp remarks, that \u2018It is still the practice\nduring the Christmas holidays for companies of fifteen to perform a sort\nof play or dance, accompanied by song or music.\u2019 The following version\nof the song, or interlude, has been transcribed from Sir C. Sharp\u2019s\n_Bishoprick Garland_, corrected by collation with a MS. copy recently\nremitted to the editor by a countryman of Durham. The Devonshire\npeasants have a version almost identical with this, but laths are used\ninstead of swords, and a few different characters are introduced to suit\nthe locality. The pageant called _The Fool Plough_, which consists of a\nnumber of sword-dancers dragging a plough with music, was anciently\nobserved in the North of England, not only at Christmas time, but also in\nthe beginning of Lent. Wallis thinks that the _Sword Dance_ is the antic\ndance, or chorus armatus of the Romans. Brand supposes that it is a\ncomposition made up of the gleaning of several obsolete customs anciently\nfollowed in England and other countries. The Germans still practise the\n_Sword Dance_ at Christmas and Easter. We once witnessed a _Sword Dance_\nin the Eifel mountains, which closely resembled our own, but no\ninterlude, or drama, was performed.]\n\n_Enter Dancers_, _decorated with swords and ribbons_; _the_ CAPTAIN _of\nthe band wearing a cocked hat and a peacock\u2019s feather in it by way of\ncockade_, _and the_ CLOWN, _or_ \u2018BESSY,\u2019 _who acts as treasurer_, _being\ndecorated with a hairy cap and a fox\u2019s brush dependent_.\n\n_The_ CAPTAIN _forms with his sword a circle_, _around which walks_.\n\n_The_ BESSY _opens the proceedings by singing_\u2014\n\n GOOD gentlemen all, to our captain take heed,\n And hear what he\u2019s got for to sing;\n He\u2019s lived among music these forty long year,\n And drunk of the elegant {175} spring.\n\n_The_ CAPTAIN _then proceeds as follows_, _his song being accompanied by\na violin_, _generally played by the_ BESSY\u2014\n\n Six actors I have brought\n Who were ne\u2019er on a stage before;\n But they will do their best,\n And they can do no more.\n\n The first that I call in\n He is a squire\u2019s son;\n He\u2019s like to lose his sweetheart\n Because he is too young.\n\n But though he is too young,\n He has money for to rove,\n And he will spend it all\n Before he\u2019ll lose his love.\n\n _Chorus_. _Fal lal de ral_, _lal de dal_, _fal lal de ra ral da_.\n\n_Followed by a symphony on the fiddle_, _during which the introduced\nactor walks round the circle_.\n\n_The_ CAPTAIN _proceeds_\u2014\n\n The next that I call in\n He is a tailor fine;\n What think you of his work?\n He made this coat of mine!\n\n_Here the_ CAPTAIN _turns round and exhibits his coat_, _which_, _of\ncourse_, _is ragged_, _and full of holes_.\n\n So comes good master Snip,\n His best respects to pay:\n He joins us in our trip\n To drive dull care away.\n\n _Chorus and symphony as above_.\n\n_Here the_ TAILOR _walks round_, _accompanied by the_ SQUIRE\u2019S SON.\n_This form is observed after each subsequent introduction_, _all the new\ncomers taking apart_.\n\n The next I do call in,\n The prodigal son is he;\n By spending of his gold\n He\u2019s come to poverty.\n\n But though he all has spent,\n Again he\u2019ll wield the plow,\n And sing right merrily\n As any of us now. {177}\n\n Next comes a skipper bold,\n He\u2019ll do his part right weel\u2014\n A clever blade I\u2019m told\n As ever pozed a keel.\n\n He is a bonny lad,\n As you must understand;\n It\u2019s he can dance on deck,\n And you\u2019ll see him dance on land.\n\n To join us in this play\n Here comes a jolly dog,\n Who\u2019s sober all the day\u2014\n If he can get no grog.\n\n But though he likes his grog,\n As all his friends do say,\n He always likes it best\n When other people pay.\n\n Last I come in myself,\n The leader of this crew;\n And if you\u2019d know my name,\n My name it is \u2018True Blue.\u2019\n\n_Here the_ BESSY _gives an account of himself_.\n\n My mother was burnt for a witch,\n My father was hanged on a tree,\n And it\u2019s because I\u2019m a fool\n There\u2019s nobody meddled wi\u2019 me.\n\n_The dance now commences_. _It is an ingenious performance_, _and the\nswords of the actors are placed in a variety of graceful positions_, _so\nas to form stars_, _hearts_, _squares_, _circles_, _&c. &c._ _The dance\nis so elaborate that it requires frequent rehearsals_, _a quick eye_,\n_and a strict adherence to time and tune_. _Before it concludes_, _grace\nand elegance have given place to disorder_, _and at last all the actors\nare seen fighting_. _The_ PARISH CLERGYMAN _rushes in to prevent\nbloodshed_, _and receives a death-blow_. _While on the ground_, _the\nactors walk round the body_, _and sing as follows_, _to a slow_,\n_psalm-like tune_:\u2014\n\n Alas! our parson\u2019s dead,\n And on the ground is laid;\n Some of us will suffer for\u2019t,\n Young men, I\u2019m sore afraid.\n\n I\u2019m sure \u2019twas none of me,\n I\u2019m clear of _that_ crime;\n \u2019Twas him that follows me\n That drew his sword so fine.\n\n I\u2019m sure it was _not_ me,\n I\u2019m clear of the fact;\n \u2019Twas him that follows me\n That did this dreadful act.\n\n I\u2019m sure \u2019twas none of me,\n Who say\u2019t be villains all;\n For both my eyes were closed\n When this good priest did fall.\n\n_The_ BESSY _sings_\u2014\n\n Cheer up, cheer up, my bonny lads,\n And be of courage brave,\n We\u2019ll take him to his church,\n And bury him in the grave.\n\n_The_ CAPTAIN _speaks in a sort of recitative_\u2014\n\n Oh, for a doctor,\n A ten pound doctor, oh.\n\n _Enter_ DOCTOR.\n\n _Doctor_. Here I am, I.\n\n _Captain_. Doctor, what\u2019s your fee?\n\n _Doctor_. Ten pounds is my fee!\n\n But nine pounds nineteen shillings eleven pence three farthings I will\n take from thee.\n\n _The Bessy_. There\u2019s ge-ne-ro-si-ty!\n\n_The_ DOCTOR _sings_\u2014\n\n I\u2019m a doctor, a doctor rare,\n Who travels much at home;\n My famous pills they cure all ills,\n Past, present, and to come.\n\n My famous pills who\u2019d be without,\n They cure the plague, the sickness {179} and gout,\n Anything but a love-sick maid;\n If _you\u2019re_ one, my dear, you\u2019re beyond my aid!\n\n_Here the_ DOCTOR _occasionally salutes one of the fair spectators_; _he\nthen takes out his snuff-box_, _which is always of very capacious\ndimensions_ (_a sort of miniature warming-pan_), _and empties the\ncontents_ (_flour or meal_) _on the_ CLERGYMAN\u2019S _face_, _singing at the\ntime_\u2014\n\n Take a little of my nif-naf,\n Put it on your tif-taf;\n Parson rise up and preach again,\n The doctor says you are not slain.\n\n_The_ CLERGYMAN _here sneezes several times_, _and gradually recovers_,\n_and all shake him by the hand_.\n\n_The ceremony terminates by the_ CAPTAIN _singing_\u2014\n\n Our play is at an end,\n And now we\u2019ll taste your cheer;\n We wish you a merry Christmas,\n And a happy new year.\n _The Bessy_. And your pockets full of brass,\n And your cellars full of beer!\n\n_A general dance concludes the play._\n\n\n\nTHE MASKERS\u2019 SONG.\n\n\n[IN the Yorkshire dales the young men are in the habit of going about at\nChristmas time in grotesque masks, and of performing in the farm-houses a\nsort of rude drama, accompanied by singing and music. {180} The maskers\nhave wooden swords, and the performance is an evening one. The following\nversion of their introductory song was taken down literally from the\nrecitation of a young besom-maker, now residing at Linton in Craven, who\nfor some years past has himself been one of these rustic actors. From\nthe allusion to the pace, or paschal-egg, it is evident that the play was\noriginally an Easter pageant, which, in consequence of the decline of the\ngorgeous rites formerly connected with that season, has been transferred\nto Christmas, the only festival which, in the rural districts of\nProtestant England, is observed after the olden fashion. The maskers\ngenerally consist of five characters, one of whom officiates in the\nthreefold capacity of clown, fiddler, and master of the ceremonies. The\ncustom of masking at Christmas is common to many parts of Europe, and is\nobserved with especial zest in the Swiss cantons, where the maskers are\nall children, and the performances closely resemble those of England. In\nSwitzerland, however, more care is bestowed upon the costume, and the\nsongs are better sung.]\n\n_Enter _CLOWN, _who sings in a sort of chant_, _or recitative._\n\n I OPEN this door, I enter in,\n I hope your favour for to win;\n Whether we shall stand or fall,\n We do endeavour to please you all.\n\n A room! a room! a gallant room,\n A room to let us ride!\n We are not of the raggald sort,\n But of the royal tribe:\n Stir up the fire, and make a light,\n To see the bloody act to-night!\n\n_Here another of the party introduces his companions by singing to a\nviolin accompaniment_, _as follows_:\n\n Here\u2019s two or three jolly boys, all in one mind;\n We\u2019ve come a pace-egging, {181} I hope you\u2019ll prove kind:\n I hope you\u2019ll prove kind with your money and beer,\n We shall come no more near you until the next year.\n Fal de ral, lal de lal, &c.\n\n The first that steps up is Lord [Nelson] {182} you\u2019ll see,\n With a bunch of blue ribbons tied down to his knee;\n With a star on his breast, like silver doth shine;\n I hope you\u2019ll remember this pace-egging time.\n Fal de ral, &c.\n\n O! the next that steps up is a jolly Jack tar,\n He sailed with Lord [Nelson], during last war:\n He\u2019s right on the sea, Old England to view:\n He\u2019s come a pace-egging with so jolly a crew.\n Fal de ral, &c.\n\n O! the next that steps up is old Toss-Pot, you\u2019ll see,\n He\u2019s a valiant old man, in every degree,\n He\u2019s a valiant old man, and he wears a pig-tail;\n And all his delight is drinking mulled ale.\n Fal de ral, &c.\n\n O! the next that steps up is old Miser, you\u2019ll see;\n She heaps up her white and her yellow money;\n She wears her old rags till she starves and she begs;\n And she\u2019s come here to ask for a dish of pace eggs.\n Fal de ral, &c.\n\n_The characters being thus duly introduced_, _the following lines are\nsung in chorus by all the party_.\n\n Gentlemen and ladies, that sit by the fire,\n Put your hand in your pocket, \u2019tis all we desire;\n Put your hand in your pocket, and pull out your purse,\n And give us a trifle,\u2014you\u2019ll not be much worse.\n\n_Here follows a dance_, _and this is generally succeeded by a dialogue of\nan_ ad libitum _character_, _which varies in different districts_, _being\nsometimes similar to the one performed by the sword-dancers_.\n\n\n\nGLOUCESTERSHIRE WASSAILERS\u2019 SONG.\n\n\n[IT is still customary in many parts of England to hand round the\nwassail, or health-bowl, on New-Year\u2019s Eve. The custom is supposed to be\nof Saxon origin, and to be derived from one of the observances of the\nFeast of Yule. The tune of this song is given in _Popular Music_. It is\na universal favourite in Gloucestershire, particularly in the\nneighbourhood of\n\n \u2018Stair on the wold,\n Where the winds blow cold,\u2019\n\nas the old rhyme says.]\n\n WASSAIL! wassail! all over the town,\n Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown;\n Our bowl is made of a maplin tree;\n We be good fellows all;\u2014I drink to thee.\n\n Here\u2019s to our horse, {183} and to his right ear,\n God send our measter a happy new year:\n A happy new year as e\u2019er he did see,\u2014\n With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.\n\n Here\u2019s to our mare, and to her right eye,\n God send our mistress a good Christmas pie;\n A good Christmas pie as e\u2019er I did see,\u2014\n With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.\n\n Here\u2019s to our cow, and to her long tail,\n God send our measter us never may fail\n Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near,\n And our jolly wassail it\u2019s then you shall hear.\n\n Be here any maids? I suppose here be some;\n Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone!\n Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin,\n And the fairest maid in the house let us all in.\n\n Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best;\n I hope your soul in heaven will rest;\n But if you do bring us a bowl of the small,\n Then down fall butler, and bowl and all.\n\n\n\nTHE MUMMERS\u2019 SONG;\n\n\n OR, THE POOR OLD HORSE.\n\n As sung by the Mummers in the Neighbourhood of Richmond, Yorkshire, at\n the merrie time of Christmas.\n\n[THE rustic actor who sings the following song is dressed as an old\nhorse, and at the end of every verse the jaws are snapped in chorus. It\nis a very old composition, and is now printed for the first time. The\n\u2018old horse\u2019 is, probably, of Scandinavian origin,\u2014a reminiscence of\nOdin\u2019s Sleipnor.]\n\n YOU gentlemen and sportsmen,\n And men of courage bold,\n All you that\u2019s got a good horse,\n Take care of him when he is old;\n Then put him in your stable,\n And keep him there so warm;\n Give him good corn and hay,\n Pray let him take no harm.\n Poor old horse! poor old horse!\n\n Once I had my clothing\n Of linsey-woolsey fine,\n My tail and mane of length,\n And my body it did shine;\n But now I\u2019m growing old,\n And my nature does decay,\n My master frowns upon me,\n These words I heard him say,\u2014\n Poor old horse! poor old horse!\n\n These pretty little shoulders,\n That once were plump and round,\n They are decayed and rotten,\u2014\n I\u2019m afraid they are not sound.\n Likewise these little nimble legs,\n That have run many miles,\n Over hedges, over ditches,\n Over valleys, gates, and stiles.\n Poor old horse! poor old horse!\n\n I used to be kept\n On the best corn and hay\n That in fields could be grown,\n Or in any meadows gay;\n But now, alas! it\u2019s not so,\u2014\n There\u2019s no such food at all!\n I\u2019m forced to nip the short grass\n That grows beneath your wall.\n Poor old horse! poor old horse!\n\n I used to be kept up\n All in a stable warm,\n To keep my tender body\n From any cold or harm;\n But now I\u2019m turned out\n In the open fields to go,\n To face all kinds of weather,\n The wind, cold, frost, and snow.\n Poor old horse! poor old horse!\n\n My hide unto the huntsman\n So freely I would give,\n My body to the hounds,\n For I\u2019d rather die than live:\n So shoot him, whip him, strip him,\n To the huntsman let him go;\n For he\u2019s neither fit to ride upon,\n Nor in any team to draw.\n Poor old horse! you must die!\n\n\n\nFRAGMENT OF THE HAGMENA SONG.\n\n\n As sung at Richmond, Yorkshire, on the eve of the New Year, by the\n Corporation Pinder.\n\n[THE custom of singing Hagmena songs is observed in different parts of\nboth England and Scotland. The origin of the term is a matter of\ndispute. Some derive it from \u2018au guy l\u2019an neuf,\u2019 i.e., _to the misletoe\nthis new year_, and a French Hagmena song still in use seems to give some\nauthority to such a derivation; others, dissatisfied with a heathen\nsource, find the term to be a corruption of [Greek text which cannot be\nreproduced], i.e., _the holy month_. The Hagmena songs are sometimes\nsung on Christmas Eve and a few of the preceding nights, and sometimes,\nas at Richmond, on the eve of the new year. For further information the\nreader is referred to Brand\u2019s _Popular Antiquities_, vol. i. 247\u20138, Sir\nH. Ellis\u2019s edit. 1842.]\n\n TO-NIGHT it is the New-year\u2019s night, to-morrow is the day,\n And we are come for our right, and for our ray,\n As we used to do in old King Henry\u2019s day.\n Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.\n\n If you go to the bacon-flick, cut me a good bit;\n Cut, cut and low, beware of your maw;\n Cut, cut and round, beware of your thumb,\n That me and my merry men may have some,\n Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.\n\n If you go to the black-ark, bring me X mark;\n Ten mark, ten pound, throw it down upon the ground,\n That me and my merry men may have some.\n Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.\n\n\n\nTHE GREENSIDE WAKES SONG.\n\n\n[THE wakes, feasts, or tides of the North of England, were originally\nreligious festivals in honour of the saints to whom the parish churches\nwere dedicated. But now-a-days, even in Catholic Lancashire, all traces\nof their pristine character have departed, and the hymns and prayers by\nwhich their observance was once hallowed have given place to dancing and\nmerry-making. At Greenside, near Manchester, during the wakes, two\npersons, dressed in a grotesque manner, the one a male, the other a\nfemale, appear in the village on horseback, with spinning-wheels before\nthem; and the following is the dialogue, or song, which they sing on\nthese occasions.]\n\n \u2018\u2019TIS Greenside wakes, we\u2019ve come to the town\n To show you some sport of great renown;\n And if my old wife will let me begin,\n I\u2019ll show you how fast and how well I can spin.\n Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, den, don, dell O.\u2019\n\n \u2018Thou brags of thyself, but I don\u2019t think it true,\n For I will uphold thy faults are not a few;\n For when thou hast done, and spun very hard,\n Of this I\u2019m well sure, thy work is ill marred.\n Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, den, don, dell O.\u2019\n\n \u2018Thou\u2019rt a saucy old jade, and pray hold thy tongue,\n Or I shall be thumping thee ere it be long;\n And if that I do, I shall make thee to rue,\n For I can have many a one as good as you.\n Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell O.\u2019\n\n \u2018What is it to me who you can have?\n I shall not be long ere I\u2019m laid in my grave;\n And when I am dead you may find if you can,\n One that\u2019ll spin as hard as I\u2019ve done.\n Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell O.\u2019\n\n \u2018Come, come, my dear wife, here endeth my song,\n I hope it has pleased this numerous throng;\n But if it has missed, you need not to fear,\n We\u2019ll do our endeavour to please them next year.\n Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell O.\u2019\n\n\n\nTHE SWEARING-IN SONG OR RHYME.\n\n\n As formerly sung or said at Highgate, in the county of Middlesex.\n\n[THE proverb, \u2018He has been sworn at Highgate,\u2019 is more widely circulated\nthan understood. In its ordinary signification it is applied to a\n\u2018knowing\u2019 fellow who is well acquainted with the \u2018good things,\u2019 and\nalways helps himself to the best; and it has its origin in an old usage\nstill kept up at Highgate, in Middlesex. Grose, in his _Classical\nDictionary of the Vulgar Tongue_, London, 1785, says,\u2014\n\n A ridiculous custom formerly prevailed at the public-houses of\n Highgate, to administer a ludicrous oath to all the men of the\n middling rank who stopped there. The party was sworn on a pair of\n horns fastened on a stick; the substance of the oath was never to\n kiss the maid when he could kiss the mistress, never to drink small\n beer when he could get strong, with many other injunctions of the\n like kind to all of which was added a saving clause\u2014_Unless you like\n it best_! The person administering the oath was always to be called\n father by the juror, and he in return was to style him son, under the\n penalty of a bottle.\n\nFrom this extract it is evident that in 1786 the custom was ancient, and\nhad somewhat fallen into desuetude. Hone\u2019s _Year-Book_ contains a very\ncomplete account of the ceremony, with full particulars of the mode in\nwhich the \u2018swearing-in\u2019 was then performed in the \u2018Fox under the Hill.\u2019\nHone does not throw any light on the origin of the practice, nor does he\nseem to have been aware of its comparative antiquity. He treated the\nceremony as a piece of modern foolery, got up by some landlord for \u2018the\ngood of the house,\u2019 and adopted from the same interested motive by others\nof the tribe. A subsequent correspondent of Mr. Hone, however, points\nout the antiquity of the custom, and shows that it could be traced back\nlong before the year 1782, when it was introduced into a pantomime called\n_Harlequin Teague_; _or_, _the Giant\u2019s Causeway_, which was performed at\nthe Haymarket on Saturday, August 17, 1782. One of the scenes was\nHighgate, where, in the \u2018parlour\u2019 of a public house, the ceremony was\nperformed. Mr. Hone\u2019s correspondent sends a copy of the old initiation\nsong, which varies considerably from our version, supplied to us in 1851\nby a very old man (an ostler) at Highgate. The reciter said that the\n_copy of verses_ was not often used now, as there was no landlord who\ncould sing, and gentlemen preferred the speech. He said, moreover, \u2018that\nthe verses were not always alike\u2014some said one way, and some another\u2014some\nmade them long, and some _cut \u2019em short_.\u2019\n\nGrose was in error when he supposed that the ceremony was confined to the\ninferior classes, for even in his day such was not the case. In\nsubsequent times the oath has been frequently taken by people of rank,\nand also by several persons of the highest literary and political\ncelebrity. An inspection of any one of the register-books will show that\nthe jurors have belonged to all sorts of classes, and that amongst them\nthe Harrovians have always made a conspicuous figure. When the\nstage-coaches ceased to pass through the village in consequence of the\nopening of railways, the custom declined, and was kept up only at three\nhouses, which were called the \u2018original house,\u2019 the \u2018old original,\u2019 and\nthe \u2018real old original.\u2019 Two of the above houses have latterly ceased to\nhold courts, and the custom is now confined to the \u2018Fox under the Hill,\u2019\nwhere the rite is celebrated with every attention to ancient forms and\ncostume, and for a fee which, in deference to modern notions of economy,\nis only one shilling.\n\nByron, in the first canto of _Childe Harold_, alludes to the custom of\nHighgate:\u2014\n\n Some o\u2019er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,\n Others along the safer turnpike fly;\n Some Richmond-hill ascend, some wend to Ware,\n And many to the steep of Highgate hie.\n Ask ye, B\u0153otian shades! the reason why?\n \u2019_Tis to the worship of the solemn horn_,\n _Grasped in the holy hand of mystery_,\n _In whose dread name both men and maids _{189}_ are sworn_,\n _And consecrate the oath with draught_, _and dance till morn_.\n\n Canto I, stanza 70.]\n\n_Enter_ LANDLORD, _dressed in a black gown and bands_, _and wearing an\nantique-fashioned wig_, _followed by the_ CLERK OF THE COURT, _also in\nappropriate costume_, _and carrying the registry-book and the horns_.\n\n _Landlord_. DO you wish to be sworn at Highgate?\n\n _Candidate_. I do, Father.\n\n _Clerk_. _Amen_.\n\n_The_ LANDLORD _then sings_, _or says_, _as follows_:\u2014\n\n Silence! O, yes! you are my son!\n Full to your old father turn, sir;\n This is an oath you may take as you run,\n So lay your hand thus on the horn, sir.\n\n_Here the_ CANDIDATE _places his right hand on the horn_.\n\n You shall spend not with cheaters or cozeners your life,\n Nor waste it on profligate beauty;\n And when you are wedded be kind to your wife,\n And true to all petticoat duty.\n\n_The_ CANDIDATE _says_ \u2018_I will_,\u2019 _and kisses the horn in obedience to\nthe command of the_ CLERK, _who exclaims in a loud and solemn tone_,\n\u2018_Kiss the horn_, _sir_!\u2019\n\n And while you thus solemnly swear to be kind,\n And shield and protect from disaster,\n This part of your oath you must bear it in mind,\n That you, and not she, is the master.\n\n _Clerk_. \u2018_Kiss the horn_, _sir_!\u2019\n\n You shall pledge no man first when a woman is near,\n For neither \u2019tis proper nor right, sir;\n Nor, unless you prefer it, drink small for strong beer,\n Nor eat brown bread when you can get white, sir.\n\n _Clerk_. \u2018_Kiss the horn_, _sir_!\u2019\n\n You shall never drink brandy when wine you can get,\n Say when good port or sherry is handy;\n Unless that your taste on spirit is set,\n In which case\u2014you _may_, sir, drink brandy!\n\n _Clerk_. \u2018_Kiss the horn_, _sir_!\u2019\n\n To kiss with the maid when the mistress is kind,\n Remember that you must be loth, sir;\n But if the maid\u2019s fairest, your oath doesn\u2019t bind,\u2014\n Or you may, if you like it, kiss both, sir!\n\n _Clerk_. \u2018_Kiss the horn_, _sir_!\u2019\n\n Should you ever return, take this oath here again,\n Like a man of good sense, leal and true, sir;\n And be sure to bring with you some more merry men,\n That they on the horn may swear too, sir.\n\n _Landlord_. Now, sir, if you please, sign your name in that book, and\n if you can\u2019t write, make your mark, and the clerk of the court will\n attest it.\n\n_Here one of the above requests is complied with_.\n\n _Landlord_. You will please pay half-a-crown for court fees, and what\n you please to the clerk.\n\n_This necessary ceremony being gone through_, _the important business\nterminates by the_ LANDLORD _saying_, \u2018_God bless the King_ [_or Queen_]\n_and the lord of the manor_;\u2019 _to which the_ CLERK _responds_, \u2018_Amen_,\n_amen_!\u2019\n\n_N.B._ _The court fees are always returned in wines_, _spirits_, _or\nporter_, _of which the Landlord and Clerk are invited to partake_.\n\n\n\nFAIRLOP FAIR SONG.\n\n\n[THE following song is sung at Fairlop fair, one of the gayest of the\nnumerous saturnalia kept by the good citizens of London. The venerable\noak has disappeared; but the song is nevertheless song, and the curious\ncustom of riding through the fair, seated in boats, still continues to be\nobserved.]\n\n COME, come, my boys, with a hearty glee,\n To Fairlop fair, bear chorus with me;\n At Hainault forest is known very well,\n This famous oak has long bore the bell.\n\n _Cho_. Let music sound as the boat goes round,\n If we tumble on the ground, we\u2019ll be merry, I\u2019ll be bound;\n We will booze it away, dull care we will defy,\n And be happy on the first Friday in July.\n\n At Tainhall forest, Queen Anne she did ride,\n And beheld the beautiful oak by her side,\n And after viewing it from bottom to top,\n She said that her court should be at Fairlop.\n\n It is eight fathom round, spreads an acre of ground,\n They plastered it round to keep the tree sound.\n So we\u2019ll booze it away, dull care we\u2019ll defy,\n And be happy on the first Friday in July.\n\n About a century ago, as I have heard say,\n This fair it was kept by one Daniel Day,\n A hearty good fellow as ever could be,\n His coffin was made of a limb of the tree.\n\n With black-strap and perry he made his friends merry,\n All sorrow for to drown with brandy and sherry.\n So we\u2019ll booze it away, dull care we\u2019ll defy,\n And be happy on the first Friday in July.\n\n At Tainhall forest there stands a tree,\n And it has performed a wonderful bounty,\n It is surrounded by woods and plains,\n The merry little warblers chant their strains.\n\n So we\u2019ll dance round the tree, and merry we will be,\n Every year we\u2019ll agree the fair for to see;\n And we\u2019ll booze it away, dull care we\u2019ll defy,\n And be happy on the first Friday in July.\n\n\n\nAS TOM WAS A-WALKING.\n\n\n AN ANCIENT CORNISH SONG.\n\n[THIS song, said to be translated from the Cornish, \u2018was taken down,\u2019\nsays Mr. Sandys, \u2018from the recital of a modern Corypheus, or leader of a\nparish choir,\u2019 who assigned to it a very remote, but indefinite,\nantiquity.]\n\n AS Tom was a-walking one fine summer\u2019s morn,\n When the dazies and goldcups the fields did adorn;\n He met Cozen Mal, with a tub on her head,\n Says Tom, \u2018Cozen Mal, you might speak if you we\u2019d.\u2019\n\n But Mal stamped along, and appeared to be shy,\n And Tom singed out, \u2018Zounds! I\u2019ll knaw of thee why?\u2019\n So back he tore a\u2019ter, in a terrible fuss,\n And axed cozen Mal, \u2018What\u2019s the reason of thus?\u2019\n\n \u2018Tom Treloar,\u2019 cried out Mal, \u2018I\u2019ll nothing do wi\u2019 \u2019ee,\n Go to Fanny Trembaa, she do knaw how I\u2019m shy;\n Tom, this here t\u2019other daa, down the hill thee didst stap,\n And dab\u2019d a great doat fig {193} in Fan Trembaa\u2019s lap.\u2019\n\n \u2018As for Fanny Trembaa, I ne\u2019er taalked wi\u2019 her twice,\n And gived her a doat fig, they are so very nice;\n So I\u2019ll tell thee, I went to the fear t\u2019other day,\n And the doat figs I boft, why I saved them away.\u2019\n\n Says Mal, \u2018Tom Treloar, ef that be the caase,\n May the Lord bless for ever that sweet pretty faace;\n Ef thee\u2019st give me thy doat figs thee\u2019st boft in the fear,\n I\u2019ll swear to thee now, thee shu\u2019st marry me here.\u2019\n\n\n\nTHE MILLER AND HIS SONS.\n\n\n[A MILLER, especially if he happen to be the owner of a soke-mill, has\nalways been deemed fair game for the village satirist. Of the numerous\nsongs written in ridicule of the calling of the \u2018rogues in grain,\u2019 the\nfollowing is one of the best and most popular: its quaint humour will\nrecommend it to our readers. For the tune, see _Popular Music_.]\n\n THERE was a crafty miller, and he\n Had lusty sons, one, two, and three:\n He called them all, and asked their will,\n If that to them he left his mill.\n\n He called first to his eldest son,\n Saying, \u2018My life is almost run;\n If I to you this mill do make,\n What toll do you intend to take?\u2019\n\n \u2018Father,\u2019 said he, \u2018my name is Jack;\n Out of a bushel I\u2019ll take a peck,\n From every bushel that I grind,\n That I may a good living find.\u2019\n\n \u2018Thou art a fool!\u2019 the old man said,\n \u2018Thou hast not well learned thy trade;\n This mill to thee I ne\u2019er will give,\n For by such toll no man can live.\u2019\n\n He called for his middlemost son,\n Saying, \u2018My life is almost run;\n If I to you this mill do make,\n What toll do you intend to take?\u2019\n\n \u2018Father,\u2019 says he, \u2018my name is Ralph;\n Out of a bushel I\u2019ll take a half,\n From every bushel that I grind,\n That I may a good living find.\u2019\n\n \u2018Thou art a fool!\u2019 the old man said,\n \u2018Thou hast not well learned thy trade;\n This mill to thee I ne\u2019er will give,\n For by such toll no man can live.\u2019\n\n He called for his youngest son,\n Saying, \u2018My life is almost run;\n If I to you this mill do make,\n What toll do you intend to take?\u2019\n\n \u2018Father,\u2019 said he, \u2018I\u2019m your only boy,\n For taking toll is all my joy!\n Before I will a good living lack,\n I\u2019ll take it all, and forswear the sack!\u2019\n\n \u2018Thou art my boy!\u2019 the old man said,\n \u2018For thou hast right well learned thy trade;\n This mill to thee I give,\u2019 he cried,\u2014\n And then he turned up his toes and died.\n\n\n\nJACK AND TOM.\n\n\n AN OULD BORDER DITTIE.\n\n (TRADITIONAL.)\n\n[THE following song was taken down from recitation in 1847. Of its\nhistory nothing is known; but we are strongly inclined to believe that it\nmay be assigned to the early part of the seventeenth century, and that it\nrelates to the visit of Prince Charles and Buckingham, under the assumed\nnames of Jack and Tom, to Spain, in 1623. Some curious references to the\nadventures of the Prince and his companion, on their masquerading tour,\nwill be found in Halliwell\u2019s _Letters of the Kings of England_, vol. ii.]\n\n I\u2019M a north countrie-man, in Redesdale born,\n Where our land lies lea, and grows ne corn,\u2014\n And such two lads to my house never com,\n As them two lads called Jack and Tom!\n\n Now, Jack and Tom, they\u2019re going to the sea;\n I wish them both in good companie!\n They\u2019re going to seek their fortunes ayont the wide sea,\n Far, far away frae their oan countrie!\n\n They mounted their horses, and rode over the moor,\n Till they came to a house, when they rapped at the door;\n And out came Jockey, the hostler-man.\n \u2018D\u2019ye brew ony ale? D\u2019ye sell ony beer?\n Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?\u2019\n\n \u2018Ne, we brew ne ale, nor we sell ne beer,\n Nor we have ne lodgings for strangers here.\u2019\n So he bolted the door, and bade them begone,\n For there was ne lodgings there for poor Jack and Tom.\n\n They mounted their horses, and rode over the plain;\u2014\n Dark was the night, and down fell the rain;\n Till a twinkling light they happened to spy,\n And a castle and a house they were close by.\n\n They rode up to the house, and they rapped at the door,\n And out came Jockey, the hosteler.\n \u2018D\u2019ye brew ony ale? D\u2019ye sell ony beer?\n Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?\u2019\n\n \u2018Yes, we have brewed ale this fifty lang year,\n And we have got lodgings for strangers here.\u2019\n So the roast to the fire, and the pot hung on,\n \u2019Twas all to accommodate poor Jack and Tom.\n\n When supper was over, and all was _sided down_,\n The glasses of wine did go merrily roun\u2019.\n \u2018Here is to thee, Jack, and here is to thee,\n And all the bonny lasses in our countrie!\u2019\n \u2018Here is to thee, Tom, and here is to thee,\n And look they may _leuk_ for thee and me!\u2019\n\n \u2019Twas early next morning, before the break of day,\n They mounted their horses, and so they rode away.\n Poor Jack, he died upon a far foreign shore,\n And Tom, he was never, never heard of more!\n\n\n\nJOAN\u2019S ALE WAS NEW.\n\n\n[OURS is the common version of this popular song; it varies considerably\nfrom the one given by D\u2019Urfey, in the _Pills to purge Melancholy_. From\nthe names of Nolly and Joan and the allusion to ale, we are inclined to\nconsider the song as a lampoon levelled at Cromwell, and his wife, whom\nthe Royalist party nick-named \u2018Joan.\u2019 The Protector\u2019s acquaintances\n(depicted as low and vulgar tradesmen) are here humorously represented\npaying him a congratulatory visit on his change of fortune, and regaling\nthemselves with the \u2018Brewer\u2019s\u2019 ale. The song is mentioned in Thackeray\u2019s\nCatalogue, under the title of _Joan\u2019s Ale\u2019s New_; which may be regarded\nas circumstantial evidence in favour of our hypothesis. The air is\npublished in _Popular Music_, accompanying three stanzas of a version\ncopied from the Douce collection. The first verse in Mr. Chappell\u2019s book\nruns as follows:\u2014\n\n THERE was a jovial tinker,\n Who was a good ale drinker,\n He never was a shrinker,\n Believe me this is true;\n And he came from the Weald of Kent,\n When all his money was gone and spent,\n Which made him look like a Jack a-lent.\n And Joan\u2019s ale is new, my boys,\n And Joan\u2019s ale is new.]\n\n THERE were six jovial tradesmen,\n And they all sat down to drinking,\n For they were a jovial crew;\n They sat themselves down to be merry;\n And they called for a bottle of sherry,\n You\u2019re welcome as the hills, says Nolly,\n While Joan\u2019s ale is new, brave boys,\n While Joan\u2019s ale is new.\n\n The first that came in was a soldier,\n With his firelock over his shoulder,\n Sure no one could be bolder,\n And a long broad-sword he drew:\n He swore he would fight for England\u2019s ground,\n Before the nation should be run down;\n He boldly drank their healths all round,\n While Joan\u2019s ale was new.\n\n The next that came in was a hatter,\n Sure no one could be blacker,\n And he began to chatter,\n Among the jovial crew:\n He threw his hat upon the ground,\n And swore every man should spend his pound,\n And boldly drank their hearths all round,\n While Joan\u2019s ale was new.\n\n The next that came in was a dyer,\n And he sat himself down by the fire,\n For it was his heart\u2019s desire\n To drink with the jovial crew:\n He told the landlord to his face,\n The chimney-corner should be his place,\n And there he\u2019d sit and dye his face,\n While Joan\u2019s ale was new.\n\n The next that came in was a tinker,\n And he was no small beer drinker,\n And he was no strong ale shrinker,\n Among the jovial crew:\n For his brass nails were made of metal,\n And he swore he\u2019d go and mend a kettle,\n Good heart, how his hammer and nails did rattle,\n When Joan\u2019s ale was new!\n\n The next that came in was a tailor,\n With his bodkin, shears, and thimble,\n He swore he would be nimble\n Among the jovial crew:\n They sat and they called for ale so stout,\n Till the poor tailor was almost broke,\n And was forced to go and pawn his coat,\n While Joan\u2019s ale was new.\n\n The next that came in was a ragman,\n With his rag-bag over his shoulder,\n Sure no one could be bolder\n Among the jovial crew.\n They sat and called for pots and glasses,\n Till they were all drunk as asses,\n And burnt the old ragman\u2019s bag to ashes,\n While Joan\u2019s ale was new.\n\n\n\nGEORGE RIDLER\u2019S OVEN.\n\n\n[THIS ancient Gloucestershire song has been sung at the annual dinners of\nthe Gloucestershire Society, from the earliest period of the existence of\nthat institution; and in 1776 there was an Harmonic Society at\nCirencester, which always opened its meetings with _George Ridler\u2019s Oven_\nin full chorus.\n\nThe substance of the following key to this very curious song is furnished\nby Mr. H. Gingell, who extracts it from the _Annual Report of the\nGloucestershire Society_ for 1835. The annual meeting of this Society is\nheld at Bristol in the month of August, when the members dine, and a\nbranch meeting, which was formerly held at the Crown and Anchor in the\nStrand, is now annually held at the Thatched House Tavern, St. James\u2019s.\n_George Ridler\u2019s Oven_ is sung at both meetings, and the late Duke of\nBeaufort used to lead off the glee in capital style. The words have a\nsecret meaning, well known to the members of the Gloucestershire Society,\nwhich was founded in 1657, three years before the Restoration of Charles\nII. The Society consisted of Royalists, who combined together for the\npurpose of restoring the Stuarts. The Cavalier party was supported by\nall the old Roman Catholic families of the kingdom; and some of the\nDissenters, who were disgusted with Cromwell, occasionally lent them a\nkind of passive aid.\n\n_First Verse_.\u2014By \u2018George Ridler\u2019 is meant King Charles I. The \u2018oven\u2019\nwas the Cavalier party. The \u2018stwons\u2019 that \u2018built the oven,\u2019 and that\n\u2018came out of the Bleakney quaar,\u2019 were the immediate followers of the\nMarquis of Worcester, who held out long and steadfastly for the Royal\ncause at Raglan Castle, which was not surrendered till 1646, and was in\nfact the last stronghold retained for the King. \u2018His head did grow above\nhis hair,\u2019 is an allusion to the crown, the head of the State, which the\nKing wore \u2018above his hair.\u2019\n\n_Second Verse_.\u2014This means that the King, \u2018before he died,\u2019 boasted that\nnotwithstanding his present adversity, the ancient constitution of the\nkingdom was so good, and its vitality so great, that it would surpass and\noutlive every other form of government.\n\n_Third Verse_.\u2014\u2018Dick the treble, Jack the mean, and George the bass,\u2019\nmean King, Lords, and Commons. The injunction to \u2018let every man sing in\nhis own place,\u2019 is a warning to each of the three estates of the realm to\npreserve its proper position, and not to encroach on each other\u2019s\nprerogative.\n\n_Fourth Verse_.\u2014\u2018Mine hostess\u2019s maid\u2019 is an allusion to the Queen, who\nwas a Roman Catholic, and her maid, the Church. The singer we must\nsuppose was one of the leaders of the party, and his \u2018dog\u2019 a companion,\nor faithful official of the Society, and the song was sung on occasions\nwhen the members met together socially; and thus, as the Roman Catholics\nwere Royalists, the allusion to the mutual attachment between the \u2018maid\u2019\nand \u2018my dog and I,\u2019 is plain and consistent.\n\n_Fifth Verse_.\u2014The \u2018dog\u2019 had a \u2018trick of visiting maids when they were\nsick.\u2019 The meaning is, that when any of the members were in distress or\ndesponding, or likely to give up the Royal cause in despair, the\nofficials, or active members visited, counselled, and assisted them.\n\n_Sixth Verse_.\u2014The \u2018dog\u2019 was \u2018good to catch a hen,\u2019 a \u2018duck,\u2019 or a\n\u2018goose.\u2019\u2014That is, to enlist as members of the Society any who were well\naffected to the Royal cause.\n\n_Seventh Verse_.\u2014\u2018The good ale tap\u2019 is an allusion, under cover of the\nsimilarity in sound between the words ale and aisle, to the Church, of\nwhich it was dangerous at the time to be an avowed follower; and so the\nmembers were cautioned that indiscretion might lead to their discovery\nand \u2018overthrow.\u2019\n\n_Eighth Verse_.\u2014The allusion here is to those unfaithful supporters of\nthe Royal cause, who \u2018welcomed\u2019 the members of the Society when it\nappeared to be prospering, but \u2018parted\u2019 from them in adversity.\n\n_Ninth Verse_.\u2014An expression of the singer\u2019s wish that if he should die\nhe may be buried with his faithful companion, as representing the\nprinciples of the Society, under the good aisles of the church.\n\nThe following text has been collated with a version published in _Notes\nand Queries_, from the \u2018fragments of a MS. found in the speech-house of\nDean.\u2019 The tune is the same as that of the _Wassailers\u2019 Song_, and is\nprinted in _Popular Music_. Other ditties appear to have been founded on\nthis ancient piece. The fourth, seventh, and ninth verses are in the old\nditty called _My Dog and I_: and the eighth verse appears in another old\nsong. The air and words bear some resemblance to _Todlen Hame_.]\n\n THE stwons that built George Ridler\u2019s oven,\n And thauy keam vrom the Bleakney quaar,\n And George he wur a jolly old mon,\n And his yead it grow\u2019d above his yare.\n\n One thing of George Ridler I must commend,\n And that wur vor a notable thing;\n He mead his brags avoore he died,\n Wi\u2019 any dree brooders his zons zshould zing.\n\n There\u2019s Dick the treble, and John the meean,\n (Let every mon zing in his auwn pleace,)\n And George he wur the elder brother,\n And therevoor he would zing the beass.\n\n Mine hostess\u2019s moid, (and her neaum \u2018twour Nell,)\n A pretty wench, and I lov\u2019d her well;\n I lov\u2019d her well, good reauzon why,\n Because zshe loved my dog and I.\n\n My dog is good to catch a hen;\n A dug or goose is vood for men;\n And where good company I spy,\n O thether gwoes my dog and I.\n\n My mwother told I, when I wur young,\n If I did vollow the strong-beer pwoot,\n That drenk would prov my awverdrow,\n And meauk me wear a threadbare cwoat.\n\n My dog has gotten zitch a trick,\n To visit moids when thauy be zick;\n When thauy be zick and like to die,\n O thether gwoes my dog and I.\n\n When I have dree zixpences under my thumb,\n O then I be welcome wherever I come;\n But when I have none, O, then I pass by,\u2014\n \u2019Tis poverty pearts good companie.\n\n If I should die, as it may hap,\n My greauve shall be under the good yeal tap;\n In voulded yarms there wool us lie,\n Cheek by jowl, my dog and I.\n\n\n\nTHE CARRION CROW.\n\n\n[THIS still popular song is quoted by Grose in his _Olio_, where it is\nmade the subject of a burlesque commentary, the covert political\nallusions having evidently escaped the penetration of the antiquary. The\nreader familiar with the annals of the Commonwealth and the Restoration,\nwill readily detect the leading points of the allegory. The \u2018Carrion\nCrow\u2019 in the oak is Charles II., who is represented as that bird of\nvoracious appetite, because he deprived the puritan clergy of their\nlivings; perhaps, also, because he ordered the bodies of the regicides to\nbe exhumed\u2014as Ainsworth says in one of his ballads:\u2014\n\n THE carrion crow is a sexton bold,\n He raketh the dead from out of the mould.\n\nThe religion of the \u2018old sow,\u2019 whoever she may be, is clearly pointed out\nby her little pigs praying for her soul. The \u2018tailor\u2019 is not easily\nidentified. It is possibly intended for some puritan divine of the name\nof Taylor, who wrote and preached against both prelacy and papacy, but\nwith an especial hatred of the latter. In the last verse he consoles\nhimself by the reflection that, notwithstanding the deprivations, his\nparty will have enough remaining from the voluntary contributions of\ntheir adherents. The \u2018cloak\u2019 which the tailor is engaged in cutting out,\nis the Genevan gown, or cloak; the \u2018spoon\u2019 in which he desires his wife\nto bring treacle, is apparently an allusion to the \u2018spatula\u2019 upon which\nthe wafer is placed in the administration of the Eucharist; and the\nintroduction of \u2018chitterlings and black-puddings\u2019 into the last verse\nseems to refer to a passage in Rabelais, where the same dainties are\nbrought in to personify those who, in the matter of fasting, are opposed\nto Romish practices. The song is found in collections of the time of\nCharles II.]\n\n THE carrion crow he sat upon an oak,\n And he spied an old tailor a cutting out a cloak.\n Heigho! the carrion crow.\n\n The carrion crow he began for to rave,\n And he called the tailor a lousy knave!\n Heigho! the carrion crow.\n\n \u2018Wife, go fetch me my arrow and my bow,\n I\u2019ll have a shot at that carrion crow.\u2019\n Heigho! the carrion crow.\n\n The tailor he shot, and he missed his mark,\n But he shot the old sow through the heart.\n Heigho! the carrion crow.\n\n \u2018Wife, go fetch me some treacle in a spoon,\n For the old sow\u2019s in a terrible swoon!\u2019\n Heigho! the carrion crow.\n\n The old sow died, and the bells they did toll,\n And the little pigs prayed for the old sow\u2019s soul!\n Heigho! the carrion crow.\n\n \u2018Never mind,\u2019 said the tailor, \u2018I don\u2019t care a flea,\n There\u2019ll be still black-puddings, souse, and chitterlings for me.\u2019\n Heigho! the carrion crow.\n\n\n\nTHE LEATHERN BOTTEL.\n\n\n SOMERSETSHIRE VERSION.\n\n[IN Chappell\u2019s _Popular Music_ is a much longer version of _The Leathern\nBott\u00e8l_. The following copy is the one sung at the present time by the\ncountry-people in the county of Somerset. It has been communicated to\nour pages by Mr. Sandys.]\n\n GOD above, who rules all things,\n Monks and abbots, and beggars and kings,\n The ships that in the sea do swim,\n The earth, and all that is therein;\n Not forgetting the old cow\u2019s hide,\n And everything else in the world beside:\n And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell,\n Who first invented this leathern bott\u00e8l!\n\n Oh! what do you say to the glasses fine?\n Oh! they shall have no praise of mine;\n Suppose a gentleman sends his man\n To fill them with liquor, as fast as he can,\n The man he falls, in coming away,\n And sheds the liquor so fine and gay;\n But had it been in the leathern bott\u00e8l,\n And the stopper been in, \u2018twould all have been well!\n\n Oh! what do you say to the tankard fine?\n Oh! it shall have no praise of mine;\n Suppose a man and his wife fall out,\u2014\n And such things happen sometimes, no doubt,\u2014\n They pull and they haul; in the midst of the fray\n They shed the liquor so fine and gay;\n But had it been in the leathern bott\u00e8l,\n And the stopper been in, \u2019twould all have been well!\n\n Now, when this bott\u00e8l it is worn out,\n Out of its sides you may cut a clout;\n This you may hang upon a pin,\u2014\n \u2019Twill serve to put odd trifles in;\n Ink and soap, and candle-ends,\n For young beginners have need of such friends.\n And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell,\n Who first invented the leathern bott\u00e8l!\n\n\n\nTHE FARMER\u2019S OLD WIFE.\n\n\n A SUSSEX WHISTLING SONG.\n\n[THIS is a countryman\u2019s whistling song, and the only one of the kind\nwhich we remember to have heard. It is very ancient, and a great\nfavourite. The farmer\u2019s wife has an adventure somewhat resembling the\nhero\u2019s in the burlesque version of _Don Giovanni_. The tune is _Lilli\nburlero_, and the song is sung as follows:\u2014the first line of each verse\nis given as a solo; then the tune is continued by a chorus of whistlers,\nwho whistle that portion of the air which in _Lilli burlero_ would be\nsung to the words, _Lilli burlero bullen a la_. The songster then\nproceeds with the tune, and sings the whole of the verse through, after\nwhich the strain is resumed and concluded by the whistlers. The effect,\nwhen accompanied by the strong whistles of a group of lusty countrymen,\nis very striking, and cannot be adequately conveyed by description. This\nsong constitutes the \u2018traditionary verses\u2019 upon which Burns founded his\n_Carle of Killyburn Braes_.]\n\n THERE was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell,\n\n [_Chorus of whistlers_.]\n\n There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell,\n And he had a bad wife, as many knew well.\n\n [_Chorus of whistlers_.]\n\n Then Satan came to the old man at the plough,\u2014\n \u2018One of your family I must have now.\n\n \u2018It is not your eldest son that I crave,\n But it is your old wife, and she I will have.\u2019\n\n \u2018O, welcome! good Satan, with all my heart,\n I hope you and she will never more part.\u2019\n\n Now Satan has got the old wife on his back,\n And he lugged her along, like a pedlar\u2019s pack.\n\n He trudged away till they came to his hall-gate,\n Says he, \u2018Here! take in an old Sussex chap\u2019s mate!\u2019\n\n O! then she did kick the young imps about,\u2014\n Says one to the other, \u2018Let\u2019s try turn her out.\u2019\n\n She spied thirteen imps all dancing in chains,\n She up with her pattens, and beat out their brains.\n\n She knocked the old Satan against the wall,\u2014\n \u2018Let\u2019s try turn her out, or she\u2019ll murder us all!\u2019\n\n Now he\u2019s bundled her up on his back amain,\n And to her old husband he took her again.\n\n \u2018I have been a tormenter the whole of my life,\n But I ne\u2019er was tormenter till I met with your wife.\u2019\n\n\n\nOLD WICHET AND HIS WIFE.\n\n\n[THIS song still retains its popularity in the North of England, and,\nwhen sung with humour, never fails to elicit roars of laughter. A Scotch\nversion may be found in Herd\u2019s Collection, 1769, and also in Cunningham\u2019s\n_Songs of England and Scotland_, London, 1835. We cannot venture to give\nan opinion as to which is the original; but the English set is of\nunquestionable antiquity. Our copy was obtained from Yorkshire. It has\nbeen collated with one printed at the Aldermary press, and preserved in\nthe third volume of the Roxburgh Collection. The tune is peculiar to the\nsong.]\n\n O! I went into the stable, and there for to see, {206}\n And there I saw three horses stand, by one, by two, and by three;\n O! I called to my loving wife, and \u2018Anon, kind sir!\u2019 quoth she;\n \u2018O! what do these three horses here, without the leave of me?\u2019\n\n \u2018Why, you old fool! blind fool! can\u2019t you very well see,\n These are three milking cows my mother sent to me?\u2019\n \u2018Ods bobs! well done! milking cows with saddles on!\n The like was never known!\u2019\n Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!\n\n O! I went into the kitchen, and there for to see,\n And there I saw three swords hang, by one, by two, quoth she;\n O! I called to my loving wife, and \u2018Anon, kind sir!\u2019\n \u2018O! what do these three swords do here, without the leave of me?\u2019\n\n \u2018Why, you old fool! blind fool! can\u2019t you very well see,\n These are three roasting spits my mother sent to me?\u2019\n \u2018Ods bobs! well done! roasting spits with scabbards on!\n The like was never known!\u2019\n Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!\n\n O! I went into the parlour, and there for to see,\n And there I saw three cloaks hang, by one, by two, and by three;\n O! I called to my loving wife, and \u2018Anon, kind sir!\u2019 quoth she;\n \u2018O! what do these three cloaks do here, without the leave of me?\u2019\n\n \u2018Why, you old fool! blind fool! can\u2019t you very well see,\n These are three mantuas my mother sent to me?\u2019\n \u2018Ods bobs! well done! mantuas with capes on!\n The like was never known!\u2019\n Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!\n\n O! I went into the pantry, and there for to see,\n And there I saw three pair of boots, {207} by one, by two, and by\n three;\n O! I called to my loving wife, and \u2018Anon, kind sir!\u2019 quoth she;\n \u2018O! what do these three pair of boots here, without the leave of me?\u2019\n\n \u2018Why, you old fool! blind fool! can\u2019t you very well see,\n These are three pudding-bags my mother sent to me?\u2019\n \u2018Ods bobs! well done! pudding-bags with spurs on!\n The like was never known!\u2019\n Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!\n\n O! I went into the dairy, and there for to see,\n And there I saw three hats hang, by one, by two, and by three;\n O! I called to my loving wife, and \u2018Anon, kind sir!\u2019 quoth she;\n \u2018Pray what do these three hats here, without the leave of me?\u2019\n\n \u2018Why, you old fool! blind fool! can\u2019t you very well see,\n These are three skimming-dishes my mother sent to me?\u2019\n \u2018Ods bobs! well done! skimming-dishes with hat-bands on!\n The like was never known!\u2019\n Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!\n\n O! I went into the chamber, and there for to see,\n And there I saw three men in bed, by one, by two, and by three;\n O! I called to my loving wife, and \u2018Anon, kind sir!\u2019 quoth she;\n \u2018O! what do these three men here, without the leave of me?\u2019\n\n \u2018Why, you old fool! blind fool! can\u2019t you very well see,\n They are three milking-maids my mother sent to me?\u2019\n \u2018Ods bobs! well done! milking-maids with beards on!\n The like was never known!\u2019\n Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!\n\n\n\nTHE JOLLY WAGGONER.\n\n\n[THIS country song can be traced back a century at least, but is, no\ndoubt, much older. It is very popular in the West of England. The words\nare spirited and characteristic. We may, perhaps, refer the song to the\ndays of transition, when the waggon displaced the packhorse.]\n\n WHEN first I went a-waggoning, a-waggoning did go,\n I filled my parents\u2019 hearts full of sorrow, grief, and woe. {208a}\n And many are the hardships that I have since gone through.\n And sing wo, my lads, sing wo!\n Drive on my lads, I-ho! {208b}\n And who wouldn\u2019t lead the life of a jolly waggoner?\n\n It is a cold and stormy night, and I\u2019m wet to the skin,\n I will bear it with contentment till I get unto the inn.\n And then I\u2019ll get a drinking with the landlord and his kin.\n And sing, &c.\n\n Now summer it is coming,\u2014what pleasure we shall see;\n The small birds are a-singing on every green tree,\n The blackbirds and the thrushes are a-whistling merrilie.\n And sing, &c.\n\n Now Michaelmas is coming,\u2014what pleasure we shall find;\n It will make the gold to fly, my boys, like chaff before the wind;\n And every lad shall take his lass, so loving and so kind.\n And sing, &c.\n\n\n\nTHE YORKSHIRE HORSE-DEALER.\n\n\n[THIS ludicrous and genuine Yorkshire song, the production of some\nunknown country minstrel, obtained considerable popularity a few years\nago from the admirable singing of Emery. The incidents actually occurred\nat the close of the last century, and some of the descendants of \u2018Tommy\nTowers\u2019 were resident at Clapham till within a very recent period, and\nused to take great delight in relating the laughable adventure of their\nprogenitor. Abey Muggins is understood to be a _sobriquet_ for a then\nClapham innkeeper. The village of Clapham is in the west of Yorkshire,\non the high road between Skipton and Kendal.]\n\n BANE {209a} ta Claapam town-gate {209b} lived an ond Yorkshire tike,\n Who i\u2019 dealing i\u2019 horseflesh hed ne\u2019er met his like;\n \u2019Twor his pride that i\u2019 aw the hard bargains he\u2019d hit,\n He\u2019d bit a girt monny, but nivver bin bit.\n\n This ond Tommy Towers (bi that naam he wor knaan),\n Hed an oud carrion tit that wor sheer skin an\u2019 baan;\n Ta hev killed him for t\u2019 curs wad hev bin quite as well,\n But \u2019twor Tommy opinion {209c} he\u2019d dee on himsel!\n\n Well! yan Abey Muggins, a neighborin cheat,\n Thowt ta diddle ond Tommy wad be a girt treat;\n Hee\u2019d a horse, too, \u2019twor war than ond Tommy\u2019s, ye see,\n Fort\u2019 neet afore that hee\u2019d thowt proper ta dee!\n\n Thinks Abey, t\u2019 oud codger \u2018ll nivver smoak t\u2019 trick,\n I\u2019ll swop wi\u2019 him my poor deead horse for his wick, {210a}\n An\u2019 if Tommy I nobbut {210b} can happen ta trap,\n \u2019Twill be a fine feather i\u2019 Aberram cap!\n\n Soa to Tommy he goas, an\u2019 the question he pops:\n \u2018Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops?\n What wilt gi\u2019 me ta boot? for mine\u2019s t\u2019better horse still!\u2019\n \u2018Nout,\u2019 says Tommy, \u2018I\u2019ll swop ivven hands, an\u2019 ye will.\u2019\n\n Abey preaached a lang time about summat ta boot,\n Insistin\u2019 that his war the liveliest brute;\n But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun,\n Till Abey shook hands, and sed, \u2018Well, Tommy, done!\n\n \u2018O! Tommy,\u2019 sed Abey, \u2018I\u2019ze sorry for thee,\n I thowt thou\u2019d a hadden mair white i\u2019 thy \u2019ee;\n Good luck\u2019s wi\u2019 thy bargin, for my horse is deead.\u2019\n \u2018Hey!\u2019 says Tommy, \u2018my lad, soa is min, an it\u2019s fleead?\u2019\n\n Soa Tommy got t\u2019 better of t\u2019 bargin, a vast,\n An\u2019 cam off wi\u2019 a Yorkshireman\u2019s triumph at last;\n For thof \u2019twixt deead horses there\u2019s not mitch to choose,\n Yet Tommy war richer by t\u2019 hide an\u2019 fower shooes.\n\n\n\nTHE KING AND THE COUNTRYMAN.\n\n\n[THIS popular favourite is a mere abridgment and alteration of a poem\npreserved in the Roxburgh Collection, called _The King and Northern Man_,\n_shewing how a poor Northumberland man_ (_tenant to the King_) _being\nwronged by a lawyer_ (_his neighbour_) _went to the King himself to make\nknown his grievance_. _To the tune of __Slut_. Printed by and for Alex.\nMelbourne, at the Stationer\u2019s Arms in Green Arbour Court, in the Little\nOld Baily. The Percy Society printed _The King and Northern Man_ from an\nedition published in 1640. There is also a copy preserved in the Bagford\nCollection, which is one of the imprints of W. Onley. The edition of\n1640 has the initials of Martin Parker at the end, but, as Mr. Collier\nobserves, \u2018There is little doubt that the story is much older than 1640.\u2019\nSee preface to Percy Society\u2019s Edition.]\n\n THERE was an old chap in the west country,\n A flaw in the lease the lawyers had found,\n \u2019Twas all about felling of five oak trees,\n And building a house upon his own ground.\n Right too looral, looral, looral\u2014right too looral la!\n\n Now, this old chap to Lunnun would go,\n To tell the king a part of his woe,\n Likewise to tell him a part of his grief,\n In hopes the king would give him relief.\n\n Now, when this old chap to Lunnun had come,\n He found the king to Windsor had gone;\n But if he\u2019d known he\u2019d not been at home,\n He danged his buttons if ever he\u2019d come.\n\n Now, when this old chap to Windsor did stump,\n The gates were barred, and all secure,\n But he knocked and thumped with his oaken clump,\n There\u2019s room within for I to be sure.\n\n But when he got there, how he did stare,\n To see the yeomen strutting about;\n He scratched his head, and rubbed down his hair,\n In the ear of a noble he gave a great shout:\n\n \u2018Pray, Mr. Noble, show I the King;\n Is that the King that I see there?\n I seed an old chap at Bartlemy fair\n Look more like a king than that chap there.\n\n \u2018Well, Mr. King, pray how d\u2019ye do?\n I gotten for you a bit of a job,\n Which if you\u2019ll be so kind as to do,\n I gotten a summat for you in my fob.\u2019\n\n The king he took the lease in hand,\n To sign it, too, he was likewise willing;\n And the old chap to make a little amends,\n He lugg\u2019d out his bag, and gave him a shilling.\n\n The king, to carry on the joke,\n Ordered ten pounds to be paid down;\n The farmer he stared, but nothing spoke,\n And stared again, and he scratched his crown.\n\n The farmer he stared to see so much money,\n And to take it up he was likewise willing;\n But if he\u2019d a known King had got so much money,\n He danged his wig if he\u2019d gien him that shilling!\n\n\n\nJONE O\u2019 GREENFIELD\u2019S RAMBLE.\n\n\n[THE county of Lancaster has always been famed for its admirable _patois_\nsongs; but they are in general the productions of modern authors, and\nconsequently, however popular they may be, are not within the scope of\nthe present work. In the following humorous production, however, we have\na composition of the last century. It is the oldest and most popular\nLancashire song we have been able to procure; and, unlike most pieces of\nits class, it is entirely free from grossness and vulgarity.]\n\n SAYS Jone to his wife, on a hot summer\u2019s day,\n \u2018I\u2019m resolved i\u2019 Grinfilt no lunger to stay;\n For I\u2019ll go to Owdham os fast os I can,\n So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, un fare thee weel, Nan;\n A soger I\u2019ll be, un brave Owdham I\u2019ll see,\n Un I\u2019ll ha\u2019e a battle wi\u2019 th\u2019 French.\u2019\n\n \u2018Dear Jone,\u2019 then said Nan, un hoo bitterly cried,\n Wilt be one o\u2019 th\u2019 foote, or tha meons to ride?\u2019\n \u2018Odsounds! wench, I\u2019ll ride oather ass or a mule,\n Ere I\u2019ll kewer i\u2019 Grinfilt os black as te dule,\n Booath clemmink {213} un starvink, un never a fardink,\n Ecod! it would drive ony mon mad.\n\n \u2018Aye, Jone, sin\u2019 wi\u2019 coom i\u2019 Grinfilt for t\u2019 dwell,\n We\u2019n had mony a bare meal, I con vara weel tell.\u2019\n \u2018Bare meal! ecod! aye, that I vara weel know,\n There\u2019s bin two days this wick ot we\u2019n had nowt at o:\n I\u2019m vara near sided, afore I\u2019ll abide it,\n I\u2019ll feight oather Spanish or French.\u2019\n\n Then says my Aunt Marget, \u2018Ah! Jone, thee\u2019rt so hot,\n I\u2019d ne\u2019er go to Owdham, boh i\u2019 Englond I\u2019d stop.\u2019\n \u2018It matters nowt, Madge, for to Owdham I\u2019ll go,\n I\u2019ll naw clam to deeoth, boh sumbry shalt know:\n Furst Frenchman I find, I\u2019ll tell him meh mind,\n Un if he\u2019ll naw feight, he shall run.\u2019\n\n Then down th\u2019 broo I coom, for we livent at top,\n I thowt I\u2019d reach Owdharn ere ever I\u2019d stop;\n Ecod! heaw they stared when I getten to th\u2019 Mumps,\n Meh owd hat i\u2019 my hond, un meh clogs full o\u2019stumps;\n Boh I soon towd um, I\u2019r gooink to Owdham,\n Un I\u2019d ha\u2019e battle wi\u2019 th\u2019 French.\n\n I kept eendway thro\u2019 th\u2019 lone, un to Owdham I went,\n I ask\u2019d a recruit if te\u2019d made up their keawnt?\n \u2018No, no, honest lad\u2019 (for he tawked like a king),\n \u2018Go wi\u2019 meh thro\u2019 the street, un thee I will bring\n Where, if theaw\u2019rt willink, theaw may ha\u2019e a shillink.\u2019\n Ecod! I thowt this wur rare news.\n\n He browt me to th\u2019 pleck where te measurn their height,\n Un if they bin height, there\u2019s nowt said about weight;\n I retched me, un stretched me, un never did flinch,\n Says th\u2019 mon, \u2018I believe theaw \u2019rt meh lad to an inch.\u2019\n I thowt this\u2019ll do, I\u2019st ha\u2019e guineas enow,\n Ecod! Owdham, brave Owdham for me.\n\n So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, a soger I\u2019m made,\n I\u2019n getten new shoon, un a rare cockade;\n I\u2019ll feight for Owd Englond os hard os I con,\n Oather French, Dutch, or Spanish, to me it\u2019s o one,\n I\u2019ll make \u2019em to stare like a new-started hare,\n Un I\u2019ll tell \u2019em fro\u2019 Owdham I coom.\n\n\n\nTHORNEHAGH-MOOR WOODS.\n\n\n A CELEBRATED NOTTINGHAMSHIRE POACHER\u2019S SONG.\n\n[NOTTINGHAMSHIRE was, in the olden day, famous in song for the\nachievements of Robin Hood and his merry men. In our times the reckless\ndaring of the heroes of the \u2018greenwood tree\u2019 has descended to the\npoachers of the county, who have also found poets to proclaim and exult\nover _their_ lawless exploits; and in _Thornehagh-Moor Woods_ we have a\nspecimen of one of these rude, but mischievous and exciting lyrics. The\nair is beautiful, and of a lively character; and will be found in\n_Popular Music_. There is it prevalent idea that the song is not the\nproduction of an ordinary ballad-writer, but was written about the middle\nof the last century by a gentleman of rank and education, who, detesting\nthe English game-laws, adopted a too successful mode of inspiring the\npeasantry with a love of poaching. The song finds locality in the\nvillage of Thornehagh, in the hundred of Newark. The common, or\nMoor-fields, was inclosed about 1797, and is now no longer called by the\nancient designation. It contains eight hundred acres. The manor of\nThornehagh is the property of the ancient family of Nevile, who have a\nresidence on the estate.]\n\n IN Thornehagh-Moor woods, in Nottinghamshire,\n Fol de rol, la re, right fol laddie, dee;\n In Robin Hood\u2019s bold Nottinghamshire,\n Fol de rol, la re da;\n\n Three keepers\u2019 houses stood three-square,\n And about a mile from each other they were;\u2014\n Their orders were to look after the deer.\n Fol de rol, la re da.\n\n I went out with my dogs one night,\u2014\n The moon shone clear, and the stars gave light;\n Over hedges and ditches, and steyls\n With my two dogs close at my heels,\n To catch a fine buck in Thornehagh-Moor fields.\n\n Oh! that night we had bad luck,\n One of my very best dogs was stuck;\n He came to me both breeding and lame,\u2014\n Right sorry was I to see the same,\u2014\n He was not able to follow the game.\n\n I searched his wounds, and found them slight,\n Some keeper has done this out of spite;\n But I\u2019ll take my pike-staff,\u2014that\u2019s the plan!\n I\u2019ll range the woods till I find the man,\n And I\u2019ll tan his hide right well,\u2014if I can!\n\n I ranged the woods and groves all night,\n I ranged the woods till it proved daylight;\n The very first thing that then I found,\n Was a good fat buck that lay dead on the ground;\n I knew my dogs gave him his death-wound.\n\n I hired a butcher to skin the game,\n Likewise another to sell the same;\n The very first buck he offered for sale,\n Was to an old [hag] that sold bad ale,\n And she sent us three poor lads to gaol.\n\n The quarter sessions we soon espied,\n At which we all were for to be tried;\n The Chairman laughed the matter to scorn,\n He said the old woman was all forsworn,\n And unto pieces she ought to be torn.\n\n The sessions are over, and we are clear!\n The sessions are over, and we sit here,\n Singing fol de rol, la re da!\n The very best game I ever did see,\n Is a buck or a deer, but a deer for me!\n In Thornehagh-Moor woods this night we\u2019ll be!\n Fol de rol, la re da!\n\n\n\nTHE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER.\n\n\n[THIS very old ditty has been transformed into the dialects of\nSomersetshire, Northamptonshire, and Leicestershire; but it properly\nbelongs to Lincolnshire. Nor is this the only liberty that his been\ntaken with it. The original tune is that of a Lancashire air, well known\nas _The Manchester Angel_; but a florid modern tune has been substituted.\n_The Lincolnshire Poacher_ was a favourite ditty with George IV., and it\nis said that he often had it sung for his amusement by a band of\nBerkshire ploughmen. He also commanded it to be sung at his\nharvest-homes, but we believe it was always on such occasions sung to the\n\u2018playhouse tune,\u2019 and not to the genuine music. It is often very\ndifficult to trace the locality of countrymen\u2019s songs, in consequence of\nthe licence adopted by printers of changing the names of places to suit\ntheir own neighbourhoods; but there is no such difficulty about _The\nLincolnshire Poacher_. The oldest copy we have seen, printed at York\nabout 1776, reads \u2018Lincolnshire,\u2019 and it is only in very modern copies\nthat the venue is removed to other counties. In the Somersetshire\nversion the local vernacular is skilfully substituted for that of the\noriginal; but the deception may, nevertheless, be very easily detected.]\n\n WHEN I was bound apprentice, in famous Lincolnsheer,\n Full well I served my master for more than seven year,\n Till I took up with poaching, as you shall quickly hear:\u2014\n Oh! \u2019tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.\n\n As me and my comrades were setting of a snare,\n \u2019Twas then we seed the gamekeeper\u2014for him we did not care,\n For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o\u2019er everywhere:\u2014\n Oh! \u2019tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.\n\n As me and my comrades were setting four or five,\n And taking on him up again, we caught the hare alive;\n We caught the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer:\u2014\n Oh! \u2019tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.\n\n Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in Lincolnsheer; {217}\n Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare;\n Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:\u2014\n Oh! \u2019tis my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.\n\n\n\nSOMERSETSHIRE HUNTING SONG.\n\n\n[THIS following song, which is very popular with the peasantry of\nSomersetshire, is given as a curious specimen of the dialect still spoken\nin some parts of that county. Though the song is a genuine peasant\u2019s\nditty, it is heard in other circles, and frequently roared out at hunting\ndinners. It is here reprinted from a copy communicated by Mr. Sandys.]\n\n THERE\u2019S no pleasures can compare\n Wi\u2019 the hunting o\u2019 the hare,\n In the morning, in the morning,\n In fine and pleasant weather.\n\n _Cho_. With our hosses and our hounds,\n We will scamps it o\u2019er the grounds,\n And sing traro, huzza!\n And sing traro, huzza!\n And sing traro, brave boys, we will foller.\n\n And when poor puss arise,\n Then away from us she flies;\n And we\u2019ll gives her, boys, we\u2019ll gives her,\n One thundering and loud holler!\n _Cho_. With our hosses, &c.\n\n And when poor puss is killed,\n We\u2019ll retires from the field;\n And we\u2019ll count boys, and we\u2019ll count\n On the same good ren to-morrer.\n _Cho_. With our bosses and our hounds, &c.\n\n\n\nTHE TROTTING HORSE.\n\n\n[THE common copies of this old highwayman\u2019s song are very corrupt. We\nare indebted for the following version, which contains several\nemendations, to Mr. W. H. Ainsworth. The song, which may probably be\nreferred to the age of Charles II., is a spirited specimen of its class.]\n\n I CAN sport as fine a trotting horse as any swell in town,\n To trot you fourteen miles an hour, I\u2019ll bet you fifty crown;\n He is such a one to bend his knees, and tuck his haunches in,\n And throw the dust in people\u2019s face, and think it not a sin.\n For to ride away, trot away,\n Ri, fa lar, la, &c.\n\n He has an eye like any hawk, a neck like any swan,\n A foot light as the stag\u2019s, the while his back is scarce a span;\n Kind Nature hath so formed him, he is everything that\u2019s good,\u2014\n Aye! everything a man could wish, in bottom, bone, and blood.\n For to ride away, &c.\n\n If you drop therein, he\u2019ll nod his head, and boldly walk away,\n While others kick and bounce about, to him it\u2019s only play;\n There never was a finer horse e\u2019er went on English ground,\n He is rising six years old, and is all over right and sound.\n For to ride away, &c.\n\n If any frisk or milling match should call me out of town,\n I can pass the blades with white cockades, their whiskers hanging\n down;\n With large jack-towels round their necks, they think they\u2019re first and\n fast,\n But, with their gapers open wide, they find that they are last.\n Whilst I ride away, &c.\n\n If threescore miles I am from home, I darkness never mind,\n My friend is gone, and I am left, with pipe and pot behind;\n Up comes some saucy kiddy, a scampsman on the hot,\n But ere he pulls the trigger I am off just like a shot.\n For I ride away, &c.\n\n If Fortune e\u2019er should fickle be, and wish to have again\n That which she so freely gave, I\u2019d give it without pain;\n I would part with it most freely, and without the least remorse,\n Only grant to me what God hath gave, my mistress and my horse!\n That I may ride away, &c.\n\n\n\nTHE SEEDS OF LOVE.\n\n\n[THIS very curious old song is not only a favourite with our peasantry,\nbut, in consequence of having been introduced into the modern dramatic\nentertainment of _The Loan of a Lover_, has obtained popularity in higher\ncircles. Its sweetly plaintive tune will be found in _Popular Music_.\nThe words are quaint, but by no means wanting in beauty; they are, no\ndoubt, corrupted, as we have derived them from common broadsides, the\nonly form in which we have been able to meet with them. The author of\nthe song was Mrs. Fleetwood Habergham, of Habergham, in the county of\nLancaster. \u2018Ruined by the extravagance, and disgraced by the vices of\nher husband, she soothed her sorrows,\u2019 says Dr. Whitaker, \u2018by some\nstanzas yet remembered among the old people of her\nneighbourhood.\u2019\u2014_History of Whalley_. Mrs. Habergham died in 1703, and\nwas buried at Padiham.]\n\n I SOWED the seeds of love, it was all in the spring,\n In April, May, and June, likewise, when small birds they do sing;\n My garden\u2019s well planted with flowers everywhere,\n Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself the flower that I loved\n so dear.\n\n My gardener he stood by, I asked him to choose for me,\n He chose me the violet, the lily and pink, but those I refused all\n three;\n The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon,\n The lily and the pink I did o\u2019erlook, and I vowed I\u2019d stay till June.\n\n In June there\u2019s a red rose-bud, and that\u2019s the flower for me!\n But often have I plucked at the red rose-bud till I gained the\n willow-tree;\n The willow-tree will twist, and the willow-tree will twice,\u2014\n O! I wish I was in the dear youth\u2019s arms that once had the heart of\n mine.\n\n My gardener he stood by, he told me to take great care,\n For in the middle of a red rose-bud there grows a sharp thorn there;\n I told him I\u2019d take no care till I did feel the smart,\n And often I plucked at the red rose-bud till I pierced it to the\n heart.\n\n I\u2019ll make me a posy of hyssop,\u2014no other I can touch,\u2014\n That all the world may plainly see I love one flower too much;\n My garden is run wild! where shall I plant anew\u2014\n For my bed, that once was covered with thyme, is all overrun with rue?\n {221a}\n\n\n\nTHE GARDEN-GATE.\n\n\n[ONE of our most pleasing rural ditties. The air is very beautiful. We\nfirst heard it sung in Malhamdale, Yorkshire, by Willy Bolton, an old\nDales\u2019-minstrel, who accompanied himself on the union-pipes. {221b}]\n\n THE day was spent, the moon shone bright,\n The village clock struck eight;\n Young Mary hastened, with delight,\n Unto the garden-gate:\n But what was there that made her sad?\u2014\n The gate was there, but not the lad,\n Which made poor Mary say and sigh,\n \u2018Was ever poor girl so sad as I?\u2019\n\n She traced the garden here and there,\n The village clock struck nine;\n Which made poor Mary sigh, and say,\n \u2018You shan\u2019t, you shan\u2019t be mine!\n You promised to meet at the gate at eight,\n You ne\u2019er shall keep me, nor make me wait,\n For I\u2019ll let all such creatures see,\n They ne\u2019er shall make a fool of me!\u2019\n\n She traced the garden here and there,\n The village clock struck ten;\n Young William caught her in his arms,\n No more to part again:\n For he\u2019d been to buy the ring that day,\n And O! he had been a long, long way;\u2014\n Then, how could Mary cruel prove,\n To banish the lad she so dearly did love?\n\n Up with the morning sun they rose,\n To church they went away,\n And all the village joyful were,\n Upon their wedding-day:\n Now in a cot, by a river side,\n William and Mary both reside;\n And she blesses the night that she did wait\n For her absent swain, at the garden-gate.\n\n\n\nTHE NEW-MOWN HAY.\n\n\n[THIS song is a village-version of an incident which occurred in the\nCecil family. The same English adventure has, strangely enough, been\nmade the subject of one of the most romantic of Moore\u2019s _Irish Melodies_,\nviz., _You remember Helen_, _the hamlet\u2019s pride_.]\n\n AS I walked forth one summer\u2019s morn,\n Hard by a river\u2019s side,\n Where yellow cowslips did adorn\n The blushing field with pride;\n I spied a damsel on the grass,\n More blooming than the may;\n Her looks the Queen of Love surpassed,\n Among the new-mown hay.\n\n I said, \u2018Good morning, pretty maid,\n How came you here so soon?\u2019\n \u2018To keep my father\u2019s sheep,\u2019 she said,\n \u2018The thing that must be done:\n While they are feeding \u2018mong the dew,\n To pass the time away,\n I sit me down to knit or sew,\n Among the new-mown hay.\u2019\n\n Delighted with her simple tale,\n I sat down by her side;\n With vows of love I did prevail\n On her to be my bride:\n In strains of simple melody,\n She sung a rural lay;\n The little lambs stood listening by,\n Among the new-mown hay.\n\n Then to the church they went with speed,\n And Hymen joined them there;\n No more her ewes and lambs to feed,\n For she\u2019s a lady fair:\n A lord he was that married her,\n To town they came straightway:\n She may bless the day he spied her there,\n Among the new-mown hay.\n\n\n\nTHE PRAISE OF A DAIRY.\n\n\n[THIS excellent old country song, which can be traced to 1687, is sung to\nthe air of _Packington\u2019s Pound_, for the history of which see _Popular\nMusic_.]\n\n IN praise of a dairy I purpose to sing,\n But all things in order, first, God save the King! {224}\n And the Queen, I may say,\n That every May-day,\n Has many fair dairy-maids all fine and gay.\n Assist me, fair damsels, to finish my theme,\n Inspiring my fancy with strawberry cream.\n\n The first of fair dairy-maids, if you\u2019ll believe,\n Was Adam\u2019s own wife, our great grandmother Eve,\n Who oft milked a cow,\n As well she knew how.\n Though butter was not then as cheap as \u2019tis now,\n She hoarded no butter nor cheese on her shelves,\n For butter and cheese in those days made themselves.\n\n In that age or time there was no horrid money,\n Yet the children of Israel had both milk and honey;\n No Queen you could see,\n Of the highest degree,\n But would milk the brown cow with the meanest she.\n Their lambs gave them clothing, their cows gave them meat,\n And in plenty and peace all their joys wore complete.\n\n Amongst the rare virtues that milk does produce,\n For a thousand of dainties it\u2019s daily in use:\n Now a pudding I\u2019ll tell \u2019ee,\n And so can maid Nelly,\n Must have from good milk both the cream and the jelly:\n For a dainty fine pudding, without cream or milk,\n Is a citizen\u2019s wife, without satin or silk.\n\n In the virtues of milk there is more to be mustered:\n O! the charming delights both of cheesecake and custard!\n If to wakes {225} you resort,\n You can have no sport,\n Unless you give custards and cheesecake too for\u2019t:\n And what\u2019s the jack-pudding that makes us to laugh,\n Unless he hath got a great custard to quaff?\n\n Both pancake and fritter of milk have good store,\n But a Devonshire white-pot must needs have much more;\n Of no brew {226a} you can think,\n Though you study and wink,\n From the lusty sack posset to poor posset drink,\n But milk\u2019s the ingredient, though wine\u2019s {226b} ne\u2019er the worse,\n For \u2019tis wine makes the man, though \u2019tis milk makes the nurse.\n\n\n\nTHE MILK-MAID\u2019S LIFE.\n\n\n[OF this popular country song there are a variety of versions. The\nfollowing, which is the most ancient, is transcribed from a black-letter\nbroadside in the Roxburgh Collection, entitled _The Milke-maid\u2019s Life_;\n_or_, _a pretty new ditty composed and penned_, _the praise of the\nMilking-pail to defend_. To a curious new tune called the _Milke-maid\u2019s\nDump_. It is subscribed with the initials M. P.; probably those of\nMartin Parker.]\n\n YOU rural goddesses,\n That woods and fields possess,\n Assist me with your skill, that may direct my quill,\n More jocundly to express,\n The mirth and delight, both morning and night,\n On mountain or in dale,\n Of them who choose this trade to use,\n And, through cold dews, do never refuse\n To carry the milking-pail.\n\n The bravest lasses gay,\n Live not so merry as they;\n In honest civil sort they make each other sport,\n As they trudge on their way;\n Come fair or foul weather, they\u2019re fearful of neither,\n Their courages never quail.\n In wet and dry, though winds be high,\n And dark\u2019s the sky, they ne\u2019er deny\n To carry the milking-pail.\n\n Their hearts are free from care,\n They never will despair;\n Whatever them befal, they bravely bear out all,\n And fortune\u2019s frowns outdare.\n They pleasantly sing to welcome the spring,\n \u2019Gainst heaven they never rail;\n If grass well grow, their thanks they show,\n And, frost or snow, they merrily go\n Along with the milking-pail:\n\n Base idleness they do scorn,\n They rise very early i\u2019 th\u2019 morn,\n And walk into the field, where pretty birds do yield\n Brave music on every thorn.\n The linnet and thrush do sing on each bush,\n And the dulcet nightingale\n Her note doth strain, by jocund vein,\n To entertain that worthy train,\n Which carry the milking-pail.\n\n Their labour doth health preserve,\n No doctor\u2019s rules they observe,\n While others too nice in taking their advice,\n Look always as though they would starve.\n Their meat is digested, they ne\u2019er are molested,\n No sickness doth them assail;\n Their time is spent in merriment,\n While limbs are lent, they are content,\n To carry the milking-pail.\n\n Upon the first of May,\n With garlands, fresh and gay,\n With mirth and music sweet, for such a season meet,\n They pass the time away.\n They dance away sorrow, and all the day thorough\n Their legs do never fail,\n For they nimbly their feet do ply,\n And bravely try the victory,\n In honour o\u2019 the milking-pail.\n\n If any think that I\n Do practise flattery,\n In seeking thus to raise the merry milkmaids\u2019 praise,\n I\u2019ll to them thus reply:\u2014\n It is their desert inviteth my art,\n To study this pleasant tale;\n In their defence, whose innocence,\n And providence, gets honest pence\n Out of the milking-pail.\n\n\n\nTHE MILKING-PAIL.\n\n\n[THE following is another version of the preceding ditty, and is the one\nmost commonly sung.]\n\n YE nymphs and sylvan gods,\n That love green fields and woods,\n When spring newly-born herself does adorn,\n With flowers and blooming buds:\n Come sing in the praise, while flocks do graze,\n On yonder pleasant vale,\n Of those that choose to milk their ewes,\n And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,\n To carry the milking-pail.\n\n You goddess of the morn,\n With blushes you adorn,\n And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare\n A concert on each green thorn;\n The blackbird and thrush on every bush,\n And the charming nightingale,\n In merry vein, their throats do strain\n To entertain, the jolly train\n Of those of the milking-pail.\n\n When cold bleak winds do roar,\n And flowers will spring no more,\n The fields that were seen so pleasant and green,\n With winter all candied o\u2019er,\n See now the town lass, with her white face,\n And her lips so deadly pale;\n But it is not so, with those that go\n Through frost and snow, with cheeks that glow,\n And carry the milking-pail.\n\n The country lad is free\n From fears and jealousy,\n Whilst upon the green he oft is seen,\n With his lass upon his knee.\n With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,\n And swears her charms won\u2019t fail;\n But the London lass, in every place,\n With brazen face, despises the grace\n Of those of the milking-pail.\n\n\n\nTHE SUMMER\u2019S MORNING.\n\n\n[THIS is a very old ditty, and a favourite with the peasantry in every\npart of England; but more particularly in the mining districts of the\nNorth. The tune is pleasing, but uncommon. R. W. Dixon, Esq., of\nSeaton-Carew, Durham, by whom the song was communicated to his brother\nfor publication, says, \u2018I have written down the above, _verbatim_, as\ngenerally sung. It will be seen that the last lines of each verse are\nnot of equal length. The singer, however, makes all right and smooth!\nThe words underlined in each verse are sung five times, thus:\u2014_They\nad-van-c\u00e8d_, _they ad-van-c\u00e8d_, _they ad-van-c\u00e8d_, _they ad-van-c\u00e8d_,\n_they ad-van-c\u00e8d me some money_,\u2014_ten guineas and a crown_. The last\nline is thus sung:\u2014_We\u2019ll be married_, (as the word is usually\npronounced), _We\u2019ll be married_, _we\u2019ll be married_, _we\u2019ll be married_,\n_we\u2019ll be married_, _we\u2019ll be mar-ri-\u00e8d when I return again_.\u2019 The tune\nis given in _Popular Music_. Since this song appeared in the volume\nissued by the Percy Society, we have met with a copy printed at\nDevonport. The readings are in general not so good; but in one or two\ninstances they are apparently more ancient, and are, consequently, here\nadopted. The Devonport copy contains two verses, not preserved in our\ntraditional version. These we have incorporated in our present text, in\nwhich they form the third and last stanzas.]\n\n IT was one summer\u2019s morning, as I went o\u2019er the moss,\n I had no thought of \u2019listing, till the soldiers did me cross;\n They kindly did invite me to a flowing bowl, and down,\n _They advanc\u00e8d_ me some money,\u2014ten guineas and a crown.\n\n \u2018It\u2019s true my love has listed, he wears a white cockade,\n He is a handsome tall young man, besides a roving blade;\n He is a handsome young man, and he\u2019s gone to serve the king,\n _Oh_! _my very_ heart is breaking for the loss of him.\n\n \u2018My love is tall and handsome, and comely for to see,\n And by a sad misfortune a soldier now is he;\n I hope the man that listed him may not prosper night nor day,\n _For I wish that_ the Holl\u00e0nders may sink him in the sea.\n\n \u2018Oh! may he never prosper, oh! may he never thrive,\n Nor anything he takes in hand so long as he\u2019s alive;\n May the very grass he treads upon the ground refuse to grow,\n _Since he\u2019s been_ the only cause of my sorrow, grief, and woe!\u2019\n\n Then he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her flowing eyes,\u2014\n \u2018Leave off those lamentations, likewise those mournful cries;\n Leave of your grief and sorrow, while I march o\u2019er the plain,\n _We\u2019ll be married_ when I return again.\u2019\n\n \u2018O now my love has listed, and I for him will rove,\n I\u2019ll write his name on every tree that grows in yonder grove,\n Where the huntsman he does hollow, and the hounds do sweetly cry,\n _To remind me_ of my ploughboy until the day I die.\u2019\n\n\n\nOLD ADAM.\n\n\n[WE have had considerable trouble in procuring a copy of this old song,\nwhich used, in former days, to be very popular with aged people resident\nin the North of England. It has been long out of print, and handed down\ntraditionally. By the kindness, however, of Mr. S. Swindells, printer,\nManchester, we have been favoured with an ancient printed copy, which Mr.\nSwindells observes he had great difficulty in obtaining. Some\nimprovements have been made in the present edition from the recital of\nMr. Effingham Wilson, who was familiar with the song in his youth.]\n\n BOTH sexes give ear to my fancy,\n While in praise of dear woman I sing;\n Confined not to Moll, Sue, or Nancy,\n But mates from a beggar to king.\n\n When old Adam first was created,\n And lord of the universe crowned,\n His happiness was not completed,\n Until that an helpmate was found.\n\n He\u2019d all things in food that were wanting\n To keep and support him through life;\n He\u2019d horses and foxes for hunting,\n Which some men love better than wife.\n\n He\u2019d a garden so planted by nature,\n Man cannot produce in his life;\n But yet the all-wise great Creator\n Still saw that he wanted a wife.\n\n Then Adam he laid in a slumber,\n And there he lost part of his side;\n And when he awoke, with a wonder,\n Beheld his most beautiful bride!\n\n In transport he gaz\u00e8d upon her,\n His happiness now was complete!\n He prais\u00e8d his bountiful donor,\n Who thus had bestowed him a mate.\n\n She was not took out of his head, sir,\n To reign and triumph over man;\n Nor was she took out of his feet, sir,\n By man to be trampled upon.\n\n But she was took out of his side, sir,\n His equal and partner to be;\n But as they\u2019re united in one, sir,\n The man is the top of the tree.\n\n Then let not the fair be despis\u00e8d\n By man, as she\u2019s part of himself;\n For woman by Adam was priz\u00e8d\n More than the whole globe full of wealth.\n\n Man without a woman\u2019s a beggar,\n Suppose the whole world he possessed;\n And the beggar that\u2019s got a good woman,\n With more than the world he is blest.\n\n\n\nTOBACCO.\n\n\n[THIS song is a mere adaptation of _Smoking Spiritualized_; see _ante_,\np. 39. The earliest copy of the abridgment we have been able to meet\nwith, is published in D\u2019Urfey\u2019s _Pills to purge Melancholy_, 1719; but\nwhether we are indebted for it to the author of the original poem, or to\n\u2018that bright genius, Tom D\u2019Urfey,\u2019 as Burns calls him, we are not able to\ndetermine. The song has always been popular. The tune is in _Popular\nMusic_.]\n\n TOBACCO\u2019S but an Indian weed,\n Grows green in the morn, cut down at eve;\n It shows our decay,\n We are but clay;\n Think of this when you smoke tobacco!\n\n The pipe that is so lily white,\n Wherein so many take delight,\n It\u2019s broken with a touch,\u2014\n Man\u2019s life is such;\n Think of this when you take tobacco!\n\n The pipe that is so foul within,\n It shows man\u2019s soul is stained with sin;\n It doth require\n To be purred with fire;\n Think of this when you smoke tobacco!\n\n The dust that from the pipe doth fall,\n It shows we are nothing but dust at all;\n For we came from the dust,\n And return we must;\n Think of this when you smoke tobacco!\n\n The ashes that are left behind,\n Do serve to put us all in mind\n That unto dust\n Return we must;\n Think of this when you take tobacco!\n\n The smoke that does so high ascend,\n Shows that man\u2019s life must have an end;\n The vapour\u2019s gone,\u2014\n Man\u2019s life is done;\n Think of this when you take tobacco!\n\n\n\nTHE SPANISH LADIES.\n\n\n[THIS song is ancient, but we have no means of ascertaining at what\nperiod it was written. Captain Marryat, in his novel of _Poor Jack_,\nintroduces it, and says it is _old_. It is a general favourite. The air\nis plaintive, and in the minor key. See _Popular Music_.]\n\n FAREWELL, and adieu to you Spanish ladies,\n Farewell, and adieu to you ladies of Spain!\n For we\u2019ve received orders for to sail for old England,\n But we hope in a short time to see you again.\n\n We\u2019ll rant and we\u2019ll roar {234} like true British heroes,\n We\u2019ll rant and we\u2019ll roar across the salt seas,\n Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England;\n From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.\n\n Then we hove our ship to, with the wind at sou\u2019-west, boys,\n We hove our ship to, for to strike soundings clear;\n We got soundings in ninety-five fathom, and boldly\n Up the channel of old England our course we did steer.\n\n The first land we made it was call\u00e8d the Deadman,\n Next, Ram\u2019shead off Plymouth, Start, Portland, and Wight;\n We pass\u00e8d by Beachy, by Fairleigh, and Dungeness,\n And hove our ship to, off the South Foreland light.\n\n Then a signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor\n All in the Downs, that night for to sleep;\n Then stand by your stoppers, let go your shank-painters,\n Haul all your clew-garnets, stick out tacks and sheets.\n\n So let every man toss off a full bumper,\n Let every man toss off his full bowls;\n We\u2019ll drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy,\n So here\u2019s a good health to all true-hearted souls!\n\n\n\nHARRY THE TAILOR.\n\n\n (TRADITIONAL.)\n\n[THE following song was taken down some years ago from the recitation of\na country curate, who said he had learned it from a very old inhabitant\nof Methley, near Pontefract, Yorkshire. We have never seen it in print.]\n\n WHEN Harry the tailor was twenty years old,\n He began for to look with courage so bold;\n He told his old mother he was not in jest,\n But he would have a wife as well as the rest.\n\n Then Harry next morning, before it was day,\n To the house of his fair maid took his way.\n He found his dear Dolly a making of cheese,\n Says he, \u2018You must give me a buss, if you please!\u2019\n\n She up with the bowl, the butter-milk flew,\n And Harry the tailor looked wonderful blue.\n \u2018O, Dolly, my dear, what hast thou done?\n From my back to my breeks has thy butter-milk run.\u2019\n\n She gave him a push, he stumbled and fell\n Down from the dairy into the drawwell.\n Then Harry, the ploughboy, ran amain,\n And soon brought him up in the bucket again.\n\n Then Harry went home like a drowned rat,\n And told his old mother what he had been at.\n With butter-milk, bowl, and a terrible fall,\n O, if this be called love, may the devil take all!\n\n\n\nSIR ARTHUR AND CHARMING MOLLEE.\n\n\n (TRADITIONAL.)\n\n[FOR this old Northumbrian song we are indebted to Mr. Robert Chambers.\nIt was taken down from the recitation of a lady. The \u2018Sir Arthur\u2019 is no\nless a personage than Sir Arthur Haslerigg, the Governor of Tynemouth\nCastle during the Protectorate of Cromwell.]\n\n AS noble Sir Arthur one morning did ride,\n With his hounds at his feet, and his sword by his side,\n He saw a fair maid sitting under a tree,\n He ask\u00e8d her name, and she said \u2019twas Mollee.\n\n \u2018Oh, charming Mollee, you my butler shall be,\n To draw the red wine for yourself and for me!\n I\u2019ll make you a lady so high in degree,\n If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!\n\n \u2018I\u2019ll give you fine ribbons, I\u2019ll give you fine rings,\n I\u2019ll give you fine jewels, and many fine things;\n I\u2019ll give you a petticoat flounced to the knee,\n If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!\u2019\n\n \u2018I\u2019ll have none of your ribbons, and none of your rings,\n None of your jewels, and other fine things;\n And I\u2019ve got a petticoat suits my degree,\n And I\u2019ll ne\u2019er love a married man till his wife dee.\u2019\n\n \u2018Oh, charming Mollee, lend me then your penknife,\n And I will go home, and I\u2019ll kill my own wife;\n I\u2019ll kill my own wife, and my bairnies three,\n If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!\u2019\n\n \u2018Oh, noble Sir Arthur, it must not be so,\n Go home to your wife, and let nobody know;\n For seven long years I will wait upon thee,\n But I\u2019ll ne\u2019er love a married man till his wife dee.\u2019\n\n Now seven long years are gone and are past,\n The old woman went to her long home at last;\n The old woman died, and Sir Arthur was free,\n And he soon came a-courting to charming Mollee.\n\n Now charming Mollee in her carriage doth ride,\n With her hounds at her feet, and her lord by her side:\n Now all ye fair maids take a warning by me,\n And ne\u2019er love a married man till his wife dee.\n\n\n\nTHERE WAS AN OLD MAN CAME OVER THE LEA.\n\n\n[THIS is a version of the _Baillie of Berwick_, which will be found in\nthe _Local Historian\u2019s Table-Book_. It was originally obtained from\nMorpeth, and communicated by W. H. Longstaffe, Esq., of Darlington, who\nsays, \u2018in many respects the _Baillie of Berwick_ is the better\nedition\u2014still mine may furnish an extra stanza or two, and the ha! ha!\nha! is better than heigho, though the notes suit either version.\u2019]\n\n THERE was an old man came over the Lea,\n Ha-ha-ha-ha! but I won\u2019t have him. {237}\n He came over the Lea,\n A-courting to me,\n With his grey beard newly-shaven.\n\n My mother she bid me open the door:\n I opened the door,\n And he fell on the floor.\n\n My mother she bid me set him a stool:\n I set him a stool,\n And he looked like a fool.\n\n My mother she bid me give him some beer:\n I gave him some beer,\n And he thought it good cheer.\n\n My mother she bid me cut him some bread:\n I cut him some bread,\n And I threw\u2019t at his head.\n\n My mother she bid me light him to bed:\n I lit him to bed,\n And wished he were dead.\n\n My mother she bid me tell him to rise:\n I told him to rise,\n And he opened his eyes.\n\n My mother she bid me take him to church:\n I took him to church,\n And left him in the lurch;\n With his grey beard newly-shaven.\n\n\n\nWHY SHOULD WE QUARREL FOR RICHES.\n\n\n[A VERSION of this very favourite song may be found in Ramsay\u2019s\n_Tea-Table Miscellany_. Though a sailor\u2019s song, we question whether it\nis not a greater favourite with landsmen. The chorus is become\nproverbial, and its philosophy has often been invoked to mitigate the\nevils and misfortunes of life.]\n\n HOW pleasant a sailor\u2019s life passes,\n Who roams o\u2019er the watery main!\n No treasure he ever amasses,\n But cheerfully spends all his gain.\n We\u2019re strangers to party and faction,\n To honour and honesty true;\n And would not commit a bad action\n For power or profit in view.\n Then why should we quarrel for riches,\n Or any such glittering toys;\n A light heart, and a thin pair of breeches,\n Will go through the world, my brave boys!\n\n The world is a beautiful garden,\n Enriched with the blessings of life,\n The toiler with plenty rewarding,\n Which plenty too often breeds strife.\n When terrible tempests assail us,\n And mountainous billows affright,\n No grandeur or wealth can avail us,\n But skilful industry steers right.\n Then why, &c.\n\n The courtier\u2019s more subject to dangers,\n Who rules at the helm of the state,\n Than we that, to politics strangers,\n Escape the snares laid for the great.\n The various blessings of nature,\n In various nations we try;\n No mortals than us can be greater,\n Who merrily live till we die.\n Then why should, &c.\n\n\n\nTHE MERRY FELLOWS;\n\n\n OR, HE THAT WILL NOT MERRY, MERRY BE.\n\n[THE popularity of this old lyric, of which ours is the ballad-printer\u2019s\nversion, has been increased by the lively and appropriate music recently\nadapted to it by Mr. Holderness. The date of this song is about the era\nof Charles II.]\n\n NOW, since we\u2019re met, let\u2019s merry, merry be,\n In spite of all our foes;\n And he that will not merry be,\n We\u2019ll pull him by the nose.\n _Cho_. Let him be merry, merry there,\n While we\u2019re all merry, merry here,\n For who can know where he shall go,\n To be merry another year.\n\n He that will not merry, merry be,\n With a generous bowl and a toast,\n May he in Bridewell be shut up,\n And fast bound to a post.\n Let him, &c.\n\n He that will not merry, merry be,\n And take his glass in course,\n May he be obliged to drink small beer,\n Ne\u2019er a penny in his purse.\n Let him, &c.\n\n He that will not merry, merry be,\n With a company of jolly boys;\n May he be plagued with a scolding wife,\n To confound him with her noise.\n Let him, &c.\n\n [He that will not merry, merry be,\n With his sweetheart by his side,\n Let him be laid in the cold churchyard,\n With a head-stone for his bride.\n Let him, &c.]\n\n\n\nTHE OLD MAN\u2019S SONG.\n\n\n[THIS ditty, still occasionally heard in the country districts, seems to\nbe the original of the very beautiful song, _The Downhill of Life_. _The\nOld Man\u2019s Song_ may be found in Playford\u2019s _Theatre of Music_, 1685; but\nwe are inclined to refer it to an earlier period. The song is also\npublished by D\u2019Urfey, accompanied by two objectionable parodies.]\n\n IF I live to grow old, for I find I go down,\n Let this be my fate in a country town:\u2014\n May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,\n And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate;\n May I govern my passions with absolute sway,\n And grow wiser and better as strength wears away,\n Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.\n\n In a country town, by a murmuring brook,\n With the ocean at distance on which I may look;\n With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile,\n And an easy pad nag to ride out a mile.\n May I govern, &c.\n\n With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more\n Of the best wits that lived in the age before;\n With a dish of roast mutton, not venison or teal,\n And clean, though coarse, linen at every meal.\n May I govern, &c.\n\n With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor,\n And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar;\n With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine,\n To drink the king\u2019s health in as oft as I dine.\n May I govern, &c.\n\n When the days are grown short, and it freezes and snows,\n May I have a coal fire as high as my nose;\n A fire (which once stirred up with a prong),\n Will keep the room temperate all the night long.\n May I govern, &c.\n\n With a courage undaunted may I face my last day;\n And when I am dead may the better sort say\u2014\n \u2018In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow,\n He\u2019s gone, and he leaves not behind him his fellow!\u2019\n May I govern, &c.\n\n\n\nROBIN HOOD\u2019S HILL.\n\n\n[RITSON speaks of a Robin Hood\u2019s Hill near Gloucester, and of a \u2018foolish\nsong\u2019 about it. Whether this is the song to which he alludes we cannot\ndetermine. We find it in _Notes and Queries_, where it is stated to be\nprinted from a MS. of the latter part of the last century, and described\nas a song well known in the district to which it refers.]\n\n YE bards who extol the gay valleys and glades,\n The jessamine bowers, and amorous shades,\n Who prospects so rural can boast at your will,\n Yet never once mentioned sweet \u2018Robin Hood\u2019s Hill.\u2019\n\n This spot, which of nature displays every smile,\n From famed Glo\u2019ster city is distanced two mile,\n Of which you a view may obtain at your will,\n From the sweet rural summit of \u2018Robin Hood\u2019s Hill.\u2019\n\n Where a clear crystal spring does incessantly flow,\n To supply and refresh the fair valley below;\n No dog-star\u2019s brisk heat e\u2019er diminished the rill\n Which sweetly doth prattle on \u2018Robin Hood\u2019s Hill.\u2019\n\n Here, gazing around, you find objects still new,\n Of Severn\u2019s sweet windings, how pleasing the view,\n Whose stream with the fruits of blessed commerce doth fill\n The sweet-smelling vale beneath \u2018Robin Hood\u2019s Hill.\u2019\n\n This hill, though so lofty, yet fertile and rare,\n Few valleys can with it for herbage compare;\n Some far greater bard should his lyre and his quill\n Direct to the praise of sweet \u2018Robin Hood\u2019s Hill.\u2019\n\n Here lads and gay lasses in couples resort,\n For sweet rural pastime and innocent sport;\n Sure pleasures ne\u2019er flowed from gay nature or skill,\n Like those that are found on sweet \u2018Robin Hood\u2019s Hill.\u2019\n\n Had I all the riches of matchless Peru,\n To revel in splendour as emperors do,\n I\u2019d forfeit the whole with a hearty good will,\n To dwell in a cottage on \u2018Robin Hood\u2019s Hill.\u2019\n\n Then, poets, record my loved theme in your lays:\n First view;\u2014then you\u2019ll own that \u2019tis worthy of praise;\n Nay, Envy herself must acknowledge it still,\n That no spot\u2019s so delightful as \u2018Robin Hood\u2019s Hill.\u2019\n\n\n\nBEGONE DULL CARE.\n\n\n (TRADITIONAL.)\n\n[WE cannot trace this popular ditty beyond the reign of James II, but we\nbelieve it to be older. The origin is to be found in an early French\nchanson. The present version has been taken down from the singing of an\nold Yorkshire yeoman. The third verse we have never seen in print, but\nit is always sung in the west of Yorkshire.]\n\n BEGONE, dull care!\n I prithee begone from me;\n Begone, dull care!\n Thou and I can never agree.\n Long while thou hast been tarrying here,\n And fain thou wouldst me kill;\n But i\u2019 faith, dull care,\n Thou never shalt have thy will.\n\n Too much care\n Will make a young man grey;\n Too much care\n Will turn an old man to clay.\n My wife shall dance, and I shall sing,\n So merrily pass the day;\n For I hold it is the wisest thing,\n To drive dull care away.\n\n Hence, dull care,\n I\u2019ll none of thy company;\n Hence, dull care,\n Thou art no pair {243} for me.\n We\u2019ll hunt the wild boar through the wold,\n So merrily pass the day;\n And then at night, o\u2019er a cheerful bowl,\n We\u2019ll drive dull care away.\n\n\n\nFULL MERRILY SINGS THE CUCKOO.\n\n\n[THE earliest copy of this playful song is one contained in a MS. of the\nreign of James I., preserved amongst the registers of the Stationers\u2019\nCompany; but the song can be traced back to 1566.]\n\n FULL merrily sings the cuckoo\n Upon the beechen tree;\n Your wives you well should look to,\n If you take advice of me.\n Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the morn,\n When of married men\n Full nine in ten\n Must be content to wear the horn.\n\n Full merrily sings the cuckoo\n Upon the oaken tree;\n Your wives you well should look to,\n If you take advice of me.\n Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the day!\n For married men\n But now and then,\n Can \u2019scape to bear the horn away.\n\n Full merrily sings the cuckoo\n Upon the ashen tree;\n Your wives you well should look to,\n If you take advice of me.\n Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the noon,\n When married men\n Must watch the hen,\n Or some strange fox will steal her soon.\n\n Full merrily sings the cuckoo\n Upon the alder tree;\n Your wives you well should look to,\n If you take advice of me.\n Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the eve,\n When married men\n Must bid good den\n To such as horns to them do give.\n\n Full merrily sings the cuckoo\n Upon the aspen tree;\n Your wives you well should look to,\n If you take advice of me.\n Cuckoo! cuckoo! alack the night,\n When married men,\n Again and again,\n Must hide their horns in their despite.\n\n\n\nJOCKEY TO THE FAIR.\n\n\n[A VERSION of this song, not quite so accurate as the following was\npublished from an old broadside in _Notes and Queries_, vol. vii., p. 49,\nwhere it is described as a \u2018very celebrated Gloucestershire ballad.\u2019 But\nGloucestershire is not exclusively entitled to the honour of this genuine\nold country song, which is well known in Westmoreland and other counties.\n\u2018Jockey\u2019 songs constitute a distinct and numerous class, and belong for\nthe most part to the middle of the last century, when Jockey and Jenny\nwere formidable rivals to the Strephons and Chloes of the artificial\nschool of pastoral poetry. The author of this song, whoever he was, drew\nupon real rural life, and not upon its fashionable masquerade. We have\nbeen unable to trace the exact date of this ditty, which still enjoys in\nsome districts a wide popularity. It is not to be found in any of\nseveral large collections of Ranelagh and Vauxhall songs, and other\nanthologies, which we have examined. From the christian names of the\nlovers, it might be supposed to be of Scotch or Border origin; but\n_Jockey to the Fair_ is not confined to the North; indeed it is much\nbetter known, and more frequently sung, in the South and West.]\n\n \u2019TWAS on the morn of sweet May-day,\n When nature painted all things gay,\n Taught birds to sing, and lambs to play,\n And gild the meadows fair;\n Young Jockey, early in the dawn,\n Arose and tripped it o\u2019er the lawn;\n His Sunday clothes the youth put on,\n For Jenny had vowed away to run\n With Jockey to the fair;\n For Jenny had vowed, &c.\n\n The cheerful parish bells had rung,\n With eager steps he trudged along,\n While flowery garlands round him hung,\n Which shepherds use to wear;\n He tapped the window; \u2018Haste, my dear!\u2019\n Jenny impatient cried, \u2018Who\u2019s there?\u2019\n \u2018\u2019Tis I, my love, and no one near;\n Step gently down, you\u2019ve nought to fear,\n With Jockey to the fair.\u2019\n Step gently down, &c.\n\n \u2018My dad and mam are fast asleep,\n My brother\u2019s up, and with the sheep;\n And will you still your promise keep,\n Which I have heard you swear?\n And will you ever constant prove?\u2019\n \u2018I will, by all the powers above,\n And ne\u2019er deceive my charming dove;\n Dispel these doubts, and haste, my love,\n With Jockey to the fair.\u2019\n Dispel, &c.\n\n \u2018Behold, the ring,\u2019 the shepherd cried;\n \u2018Will Jenny be my charming bride?\n Let Cupid be our happy guide,\n And Hymen meet us there.\u2019\n Then Jockey did his vows renew;\n He would be constant, would he true,\n His word was pledged; away she flew,\n O\u2019er cowslips tipped with balmy dew,\n With Jockey to the fair.\n O\u2019er cowslips, &c.\n\n In raptures meet the joyful throng;\n Their gay companions, blithe and young,\n Each join the dance, each raise the song,\n To hail the happy pair.\n In turns there\u2019s none so loud as they,\n They bless the kind propitious day,\n The smiling morn of blooming May,\n When lovely Jenny ran away\n With Jockey to the fair.\n When lovely, &c.\n\n\n\nLONG PRESTON PEG.\n\n\n (A FRAGMENT.)\n\n[MR. BIRKBECK, of Threapland House, Lintondale, in Craven, has favoured\nus with the following fragment. The tune is well known in the North, but\nall attempts on the part of Mr. Birkbeck to obtain the remaining verses\nhave been unsuccessful. The song is evidently of the date of the first\nrebellion, 1715.]\n\n LONG Preston Peg to proud Preston went,\n To see the Scotch rebels it was her intent.\n A noble Scotch lord, as he passed by,\n On this Yorkshire damsel did soon cast an eye.\n\n He called to his servant, which on him did wait,\n \u2018Go down to yon girl who stands in the gate, {247}\n That sings with a voice so soft and so sweet,\n And in my name do her lovingly greet.\u2019\n\n\n\nTHE SWEET NIGHTINGALE;\n\n\n OR, DOWN IN THOSE VALLEYS BELOW.\n\n AN ANCIENT CORNISH SONG.\n\n[THIS curious ditty, which may be confidently assigned to the seventeenth\ncentury, is said to be a translation from the ancient Cornish tongue. We\nfirst heard it in Germany, in the pleasure-gardens of the Marienberg, on\nthe Moselle. The singers were four Cornish miners, who were at that\ntime, 1854, employed at some lead mines near the town of Zell. The\nleader or \u2018Captain,\u2019 John Stocker, said that the song was an established\nfavourite with the lead miners of Cornwall and Devonshire, and was always\nsung on the pay-days, and at the wakes; and that his grandfather, who\ndied thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing the\nsong, and say that it was very old. Stocker promised to make a copy of\nit, but there was no opportunity of procuring it before we left Germany.\nThe following version has been supplied by a gentleman in Plymouth, who\nwrites:\u2014\n\n I have had a great deal of trouble about _The Valley Below_. It is\n not in print. I first met with one person who knew one part, then\n with another person who knew another part, but nobody could sing the\n whole. At last, chance directed me to an old man at work on the\n roads, and he sung and recited it throughout, not exactly, however,\n as I send it, for I was obliged to supply a little here and there,\n but only where a bad rhyme, or rather none at all, made it evident\n what the real rhyme was. I have read it over to a mining gentleman\n at Truro, and he says \u2018It is pretty near the way we sing it.\u2019\n\nThe tune is plaintive and original.]\n\n \u2018MY sweetheart, come along!\n Don\u2019t you hear the fond song,\n The sweet notes of the nightingale flow?\n Don\u2019t you hear the fond tale\n Of the sweet nightingale,\n As she sings in those valleys below?\n So be not afraid\n To walk in the shade,\n Nor yet in those valleys below,\n Nor yet in those valleys below.\n\n \u2018Pretty Betsy, don\u2019t fail,\n For I\u2019ll carry your pail,\n Safe home to your cot as we go;\n You shall hear the fond tale\n Of the sweet nightingale,\n As she sings in those valleys below.\u2019\n But she was afraid\n To walk in the shade,\n To walk in those valleys below,\n To walk in those valleys below.\n\n \u2018Pray let me alone,\n I have hands of my own;\n Along with you I will not go,\n To hear the fond tale\n Of the sweet nightingale,\n As she sings in those valleys below;\n For I am afraid\n To walk in the shade,\n To walk in those valleys below,\n To walk in those valleys below.\u2019\n\n \u2018Pray sit yourself down\n With me on the ground,\n On this bank where sweet primroses grow;\n You shall hear the fond tale\n Of the sweet nightingale,\n As she sings in those valleys below;\n So be not afraid\n To walk in the shade,\n Nor yet in those valleys below,\n Nor yet in those valleys below.\u2019\n\n This couple agreed;\n They were married with speed,\n And soon to the church they did go.\n She was no more afraid\n For to {249} walk in the shade,\n Nor yet in those valleys below:\n Nor to hear the fond tale\n Of the sweet nightingale,\n As she sung in those valleys below,\n As she sung in those valleys below.\n\n\n\nTHE OLD MAN AND HIS THREE SONS.\n\n\n[THIS traditional ditty, founded upon the old ballad inserted _ante_, p.\n124, is current as a nursery song in the North of England.]\n\n THERE was an old man, and sons he had three, {250}\n Wind well, Lion, good hunter.\n A friar he being one of the three,\n With pleasure he rang\u00e8d the north country,\n For he was a jovial hunter.\n\n As he went to the woods some pastime to see,\n Wind well, Lion, good hunter,\n He spied a fair lady under a tree,\n Sighing and moaning mournfully.\n He was a jovial hunter.\n\n \u2018What are you doing, my fair lady!\u2019\n Wind well, Lion, good hunter.\n \u2018I\u2019m frightened, the wild boar he will kill me,\n He has worried my lord, and wounded thirty,\n As thou art a jovial hunter.\u2019\n\n Then the friar he put his horn to his mouth,\n Wind well, Lion, good hunter.\n And he blew a blast, east, west, north, and south,\n And the wild boar from his den he came forth\n Unto the jovial hunter.\n\n\n\nA BEGGING WE WILL GO.\n\n\n[THE authorship of this song is attributed to Richard Brome\u2014(he who once\n\u2018performed a servant\u2019s faithful part\u2019 for Ben Jonson)\u2014in a black-letter\ncopy in the Bagford Collection, where it is entitled _The Beggars\u2019 Chorus\nin the_ \u2018_Jovial Crew_,\u2019 _to an excellent new tune_. No such chorus,\nhowever, appears in the play, which was produced at the Cock-pit in 1641;\nand the probability is, as Mr. Chappell conjectures, that it was only\ninterpolated in the performance. It is sometimes called _The Jovial\nBeggar_. The tune has been from time to time introduced into several\nballad operas; and the song, says Mr. Chappell, who publishes the air in\nhis _Popular Music_, \u2018is the prototype of many others, such as _A bowling\nwe will go_, _A fishing we will go_, _A hawking we will go_, and _A\nfishing we will go_. The last named is still popular with those who take\ndelight in hunting, and the air is now scarcely known by any other\ntitle.]\n\n THERE was a jovial beggar,\n He had a wooden leg,\n Lame from his cradle,\n And forced for to beg.\n And a begging we will go, we\u2019ll go, we\u2019ll go;\n And a begging we will go!\n\n A bag for his oatmeal,\n Another for his salt;\n And a pair of crutches,\n To show that he can halt.\n And a begging, &c.\n\n A bag for his wheat,\n Another for his rye;\n A little bottle by his side,\n To drink when he\u2019s a-dry.\n And a begging, &c.\n\n Seven years I begged\n For my old Master Wild,\n He taught me to beg\n When I was but a child.\n And a begging, &c.\n\n I begged for my master,\n And got him store of pelf;\n But now, Jove be praised!\n I\u2019m begging for myself.\n And a begging, &c.\n\n In a hollow tree\n I live, and pay no rent;\n Providence provides for me,\n And I am well content.\n And a begging, &c.\n\n Of all the occupations,\n A beggar\u2019s life\u2019s the best;\n For whene\u2019er he\u2019s weary,\n He\u2019ll lay him down and rest.\n And a begging, &c.\n\n I fear no plots against me,\n I live in open cell;\n Then who would be a king\n When beggars live so well?\n And a begging we will go, we\u2019ll go, we\u2019ll go;\n And a begging we will go!\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE END.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES.\n\n\n{24} This is the same tune as _Fortune my foe_.\u2014See _Popular Music of\nthe Olden Time_, p. 162.\n\n{51} This word seems to be used here in the sense of the French verb\n_mettre_, to put, to place.\n\n{61} The stall copies read \u2018Gamble bold.\u2019\n\n{64} In the Roxburgh Collection is a copy of this ballad, in which the\ncatastrophe is brought about in a different manner. When the young lady\nfinds that she is to be drowned, she very leisurely makes a particular\nexamination of the place of her intended destruction, and raises an\nobjection to some nettles which are growing on the banks of the stream;\nthese she requires to be removed, in the following poetical stanza:\u2014\n\n \u2018Go fetch the sickle, to crop the nettle,\n That grows so near the brim;\n For fear it should tangle my golden locks,\n Or freckle my milk-white skin.\u2019\n\nA request so elegantly made is gallantly complied with by the treacherous\nknight, who, while engaged in \u2018cropping\u2019 the nettles, is pushed into the\nstream.\n\n{72a} A _tinker_ is still so called in the north of England.\n\n{72b} This poor minstrel was born at the village of Rylstone, in Craven,\nthe scene of Wordsworth\u2019s _White Doe of Rylstone_. King was always\ncalled \u2018the Skipton Minstrel;\u2019 and he merited that name, for he was not a\nmere player of jigs and country dances, but a singer of heroic ballads,\ncarrying his hearers back to the days of chivalry and royal adventure,\nwhen the King of England called up Cheshire and Lancashire to fight the\nKing of France, and monarchs sought the greenwood tree, and hob-a-nobbed\nwith tinkers, knighting these Johns of the Dale as a matter of poetical\njustice and high sovereign prerogative. Francis King was a character.\nHis physiognomy was striking and peculiar; and, although there was\nnothing of the rogue in its expression, for an honester fellow never\nbreathed, he might have sat for Wordsworth\u2019s \u2018Peter Bell.\u2019 He combined\nin a rare degree the qualities of the mime and the minstrel, and his old\njokes, and older ballads and songs, always ensured him a hearty welcome.\nHe was lame, in consequence of one leg being shorter than the other, and\nhis limping gait used to give occasion to the remark that \u2018few Kings had\nhad more ups and downs in the world.\u2019 He met his death by drowning on\nthe night of December 13, 1844. He had been at a \u2018merry-making\u2019 at\nGargrave, in Craven, and it is supposed that, owing to the darkness of\nthe night, he mistook the road, and walked into the river. As a musician\nhis talents were creditable; and his name will long survive in the\nvillage records. The minstrel\u2019s grave is in the quiet churchyard of\nGargrave. Further particulars of Francis King may be seen in Dixon\u2019s\n_Stories of the Craven Dales_, published by Tasker and Son, of Skipton.\n\n{92} This is the ancient way of spelling the name of Reading. In\nPercy\u2019s version of _Barbara Allen_, that ballad commences \u2018In Scarlet\ntown,\u2019 which, in the common stall copies, is rendered \u2018In Redding town.\u2019\nThe former is apparently a pun upon the old orthography\u2014_Red_ding.\n\n{108a} The sister of Roger.\n\n{108b} This gentleman was Mr. Thomas Petty.\n\n{111} We here, and in a subsequent verse, find \u2018daughter\u2019 made to rhyme\nwith \u2018after;\u2019 but we must not therefore conclude that the rhyme is of\ncockney origin. In many parts of England, the word \u2018daughter\u2019 is\npronounced \u2018dafter\u2019 by the peasantry, who, upon the same principle,\npronounce \u2018slaughter\u2019 as if it were spelt \u2018slafter.\u2019\n\n{125a} Added to complete the sense.\n\n{125b} That is, \u2018said he, the wild boar.\u2019\n\n{129} Scott has strangely misunderstood this line, which he interprets\u2014\n\n \u2018Many people did she _kill_.\u2019\n\n\u2018Fell\u2019 is to knock down, and the meaning is that she could \u2018well\u2019 knock\ndown, or \u2018fell\u2019 people.\n\n{130a} Went.\n\n{130b} The meaning appears to be that no \u2018wiseman\u2019 or wizard, no matter\nfrom whence his magic, was derived, durst face her. Craven has always\nbeen famed for its wizards, or wisemen, and several of such impostors may\nbe found there at the present day.\n\n{130c} Scott\u2019s MS. reads Ralph, but Raphe is the ancient form.\n\n{130d} Scott reads \u2018brim as beare,\u2019 which he interprets \u2018fierce as a\nbear.\u2019 Whitaker\u2019s rendering is correct. Beare is a small hamlet on the\nBay of Morecambe, no great distance, as the crow files, from the _locale_\nof the poem. There is also a Bear-park in the county of Durham, of which\nplace Bryan might be an inhabitant. _Utrum horum_, &c.\n\n{130e} That is, they were good soldiers when the _musters_ were\u2014when the\nregiments were called up.\n\n{131a} Fierce look.\n\n{131b} Descended from an ancient race famed for fighting.\n\n{131c} Assaulted. They were, although out of danger, terrified by the\nattacks of the sow, and their fear was shared by the kiln, which began to\nsmoke!\n\n{131d} Watling-street, the Roman way from Catterick to Bowes.\n\n{132a} Lost his colour.\n\n{132b} Scott, not understanding this expression, has inserted \u2018Jesus\u2019\nfor the initials \u2018I. H. S.,\u2019 and so has given a profane interpretation to\nthe passage. By a figure of speech the friar is called an I. H. S., from\nthese letters being conspicuously wrought on his robes, just as we might\ncall a livery-servant by his master\u2019s motto, because it was stamped on\nhis buttons.\n\n{133} The meaning here is obscure. The verse is not in Whitaker.\n\n{134} Warlock or wizard.\n\n{135a} It is probable that by guest is meant an allusion to the spectre\ndog of Yorkshire (the _Barguest_), to which the sow is compared.\n\n{135b} Hired.\n\n{137} The monastery of Gray Friars at Richmond.\u2014See LELAND, _Itin._,\nvol. iii, p. 109.\n\n{141} This appears to have been a cant saying in the reign of Charles\nII. It occurs in several novels, jest books and satires of the time, and\nwas probably as unmeaning as such vulgarisms are in general.\n\n{142} A cake composed of oatmeal, caraway-seeds, and treacle. \u2018Ale and\nparkin\u2019 is a common morning meal in the north of England.\n\n{149} The popularity of this West-country song has extended even to\nIreland, as appears from two Irish versions, supplied by the late Mr. T.\nCrofton Croker. One of them is entitled _Last New-Year\u2019s Day_, and is\nprinted by Haly, Hanover-street, Cork. It follows the English song\nalmost verbatim, with the exception of the first and second verses, which\nwe subjoin:\u2014\n\n \u2018Last New-Year\u2019s day, as I heard say,\n Dick mounted on his dapple gray;\n He mounted high and he mounted low,\n Until he came to _sweet Raphoe_!\n Sing fal de dol de ree,\n Fol de dol, righ fol dee.\n \u2018My buckskin does I did put on,\n My spladdery clogs, _to save my brogues_!\n And in my pocket a lump of bread,\n And round my hat a ribbon red.\u2019\n\nThe other version is entitled _Dicky of Ballyman_, and a note informs us\nthat \u2018Dicky of Ballyman\u2019s sirname was Byrne!\u2019 As our readers may like to\nhear how the Somersetshire bumpkin behaved after he had located himself\nin the town of Ballyman, and taken the sirname of Byrne, we give the\nwhole of his amatory adventures in the sister-island. We discover from\nthem, _inter alia_, that he had found \u2018the best of friends\u2019 in his\n\u2018Uncle,\u2019\u2014that he had made a grand discovery in natural history, viz.,\nthat a rabbit is a _fowl_!\u2014that he had taken the temperance pledge,\nwhich, however, his Mistress Ann had certainly not done; and, moreover,\nthat he had become an enthusiast in potatoes!\n\n DICKY OF BALLYMAN.\n\n \u2018On New-Year\u2019s day, as I heard say,\n Dicky he saddled his dapple gray;\n He put on his Sunday clothes,\n His scarlet vest, and his new made hose.\n Diddle dum di, diddle dum do,\n Diddle dum di, diddle dum do.\n\n \u2018He rode till he came to Wilson Hall,\n There he rapped, and loud did call;\n Mistress Ann came down straightway,\n And asked him what he had to say?\n\n \u2018\u2018Don\u2019t you know me, Mistress Ann?\n I am Dicky of Ballyman;\n An honest lad, though I am poor,\u2014\n I never was in love before.\n\n \u2018\u2018I have an uncle, the best of friends,\n Sometimes to me a fat rabbit he sends;\n And many other dainty fowl,\n To please my life, my joy, my soul.\n\n \u2018\u2018Sometimes I reap, sometimes I mow,\n And to the market I do go,\n To sell my father\u2019s corn and hay,\u2014\n I earn my sixpence every day!\u2019\n\n \u2018\u2018Oh, Dicky! you go beneath your mark,\u2014\n You only wander in the dark;\n Sixpence a day will never do,\n I must have silks, and satins, too!\n\n \u2018\u2018Besides, Dicky, I must have tea\n For my breakfast, every day;\n And after dinner a bottle of wine,\u2014\n For without it I cannot dine.\u2019\n\n \u2018\u2018If on fine clothes our money is spent,\n Pray how shall my lord be paid his rent?\n He\u2019ll expect it when \u2019tis due,\u2014\n Believe me, what I say is true.\n\n \u2018\u2018As for tea, good stirabout\n Will do far better, I make no doubt;\n And spring water, when you dine,\n Is far wholesomer than wine.\n\n \u2018\u2018Potatoes, too, are very nice food,\u2014\n I don\u2019t know any half so good:\n You may have them boiled or roast,\n Whichever way you like them most.\u2019\n\n \u2018This gave the company much delight,\n And made them all to laugh outright;\n So Dicky had no more to say,\n But saddled his dapple and rode away.\n Diddle dum di, &c.\u2019\n\n{151} We have heard a Yorkshire yeoman sing a version, which commenced\nwith this line:\u2014\n\n \u2018It was at the time of a high holiday.\u2019\n\n{153} Bell-ringing was formerly a great amusement of the English, and\nthe allusions to it are of frequent occurrence. Numerous payments to\nbell-ringers are generally to be found in Churchwarden\u2019s accounts of the\nsixteenth and seventeenth centuries.\u2014CHAPPELL.\n\n{154} The subject and burthen of this song are identical with those of\nthe song which immediately follows, called in some copies _The Clown\u2019s\nCourtship_, _sung to the King at Windsor_, and in others, _I cannot come\neveryday to woo_. The Kentish ditty cannot be traced to so remote a date\nas the _Clown\u2019s Courtship_; but it probably belongs to the same period.\n\n{165a} The common modern copies read \u2018St. Leger\u2019s Round.\u2019\n\n{165b} The common stall copies read \u2018Pan,\u2019 which not only furnishes a\nmore accurate rhyme to \u2018Nan,\u2019 but is, probably, the true reading. About\nthe time when this song was written, there appears to have been some\ncountry minstrel or fiddler, who was well known by the sobriquet of\n\u2018Pan.\u2019 Frequent allusions to such a personage may be found in popular\nditties of the period, and it is evidently that individual, and not the\nheathen deity, who is referred to in the song of _Arthur O\u2019Bradley_:\u2014\n\n \u2018Not Pan, the god of the swains,\n Could e\u2019er produce such strains.\u2019\u2014See _ante_, p. 142.\n\n{167} A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ says that, although there\nis some resemblance between Flora and Furry, the latter word is derived\nfrom an old Cornish term, and signifies jubilee or fair.\n\n{171} There is another version of these concluding lines:\u2014\n\n \u2018Down the red lane there lives an old fox,\n There does he sit a-mumping his chops;\n Catch him, boys, catch him, catch if you can;\n \u2019Tis twenty to one if you catch him or Nan.\u2019\n\n{174} A cant term for a fiddle. In its literal sense, it means trunk,\nor box-belly.\n\n{175} \u2018Helicon,\u2019 as observed by Sir C. Sharp, is, of course, the true\nreading.\n\n{177} In the introduction of the \u2018prodigal son,\u2019 we have a relic derived\nfrom the old mysteries and moralities. Of late years, the \u2018prodigal son\u2019\nhas been left out, and his place supplied by a \u2018sailor.\u2019\n\n{179} Probably the disease here pointed at is the sweating sickness of\nold times.\n\n{180} Robert Kearton, a working miner, and librarian and lecturer at the\nGrassington Mechanics\u2019 institution, informs us that at Coniston, in\nLancashire, and the neighbourhood, the maskers go about at the proper\nseason, viz., Easter. Their introductory song is different to the one\ngiven above. He has favoured us with two verses of the delectable\ncomposition; he says, \u2018I dare say they\u2019ll be quite sufficient!\u2019\n\n \u2018The next that comes on\n Is a gentleman\u2019s son;\u2014\n A gentleman\u2019s son he was born;\n For mutton and beef,\n You may look at his teeth,\n He\u2019s a laddie for picking a bone!\n\n \u2018The next that comes on\n Is a tailor so bold\u2014\n He can stitch up a hole in the dark!\n There\u2019s never a \u2018prentice\n In famed London city\n Can find any fault with his _wark_!\u2019\n\n{181} For the history of the paschal egg, see a paper by Mr. J. H.\nDixon, in the _Local Historian\u2019s Table Book_ (Traditional Division).\nNewcastle. 1843.\n\n{182} We suspect that Lord Nelson\u2019s name was introduced out of respect\nto the late Jack Rider, of Linton (who is himself introduced into the\nfollowing verse), an old tar who, for many years, was one of the\n\u2018maskers\u2019 in the district from whence our version was obtained. Jack was\n\u2018loblolly boy\u2019 on board the \u2018Victory,\u2019 and one of the group that\nsurrounded the dying Hero of Trafalgar. Amongst his many miscellaneous\nduties, Jack had to help the doctor; and while so employed, he once set\nfire to the ship as he was engaged investigating, by candlelight, the\ncontents of a bottle of ether. The fire was soon extinguished, but not\nwithout considerable noise and confusion. Lord Nelson, when the accident\nhappened, was busy writing his despatches. \u2018What\u2019s all that noise\nabout?\u2019 he demanded. The answer was, \u2018Loblolly boy\u2019s set fire to an\nempty bottle, and it has set fire to the doctor\u2019s shop!\u2019 \u2018Oh, that\u2019s\nall, is it?\u2019 said Nelson, \u2018then I wish you and loblolly would put the\nfire out without making such a confusion\u2019\u2014and he went on writing with the\ngreatest coolness, although the accident might have been attended by the\nmost disastrous consequences, as an immense quantity of powder was on\nboard, and some of it close to the scene of the disaster. The third day\nafter the above incident Nelson was no more, and the poor \u2018loblolly boy\u2019\nleft the service minus two fingers. \u2018Old Jack\u2019 used often to relate his\n\u2018accident;\u2019 and Captain Carslake, now of Sidmouth, who, at the time was\none of the officers, permits us to add his corroboration of its truth.\n\n{183} In this place, and in the first line of the following verse, the\nname of the horse is generally inserted by the singer; and \u2018Filpail\u2019 is\noften substituted for \u2018the cow\u2019 in a subsequent verse.\n\n{189} The \u2018swearing-in\u2019 is gone through by females as well as the male\nsex. See Hone\u2019s _Year-Book_.\n\n{193} A fig newly gathered from the tree; so called to distinguish it\nfrom a grocer\u2019s, or preserved fig.\n\n{206} This line is sometimes sung\u2014\n\n O! I went into the stable, to see what I could see.\n\n{207} Three cabbage-nets, according to some versions.\n\n{208a} This is a common phrase in old English songs and ballads. See\n_The Summer\u2019s Morning_, _post_, p. 229.\n\n{208b} See _ante_, p. 82.\n\n{209a} Near.\n\n{209b} The high-road through a town or village.\n\n{209c} That is Tommy\u2019s opinion. In the Yorkshire dialect, when the\npossessive case is followed by the relative substantive, it is customary\nto omit the _s_; but if the relative be understood, and not expressed,\nthe possessive case is formed in the usual manner, as in a subsequent\nline of this song:\u2014\n\n \u2018Hee\u2019d a horse, too, \u2018twor war than ond Tommy\u2019s, ye see.\u2019\n\n{210a} Alive, quick.\n\n{210b} Only.\n\n{213} Famished. The line in which this word occurs exhibits one of the\nmost striking peculiarities of the Lancashire dialect, which is, that in\nwords ending in _ing_, the termination is changed into _ink_. _Ex. gr._,\nfor starving, _starvink_, farthing, _fardink_.\n\n{217} In one version this line has been altered, probably by some\nprinter who had a wholesome fear of the \u2018Bench of Justices,\u2019 into\u2014\n\n \u2018Success to every gentleman\n That lives in Lincolnsheer.\u2019\n\n{221a} Dr. Whitaker gives a traditional version of part of this song as\nfollows:\u2014\n\n \u2018The gardener standing by proferred to chuse for me,\n The pink, the primrose, and the rose, but I refused the three;\n The primrose I forsook because it came too soon,\n The violet I o\u2019erlooked, and vowed to wait till June.\n\n In June, the red rose sprung, bat was no flower for me,\n I plucked it up, lo! by the stalk, and planted the willow-tree.\n The willow I must wear with sorrow twined among,\n That all the world may know I falshood loved too long.\u2019\n\n{221b} The following account of Billy Bolton may, with propriety, be\ninserted here:\u2014It was a lovely September day, and the scene was\nArncliffe, a retired village in Littondale, one of the most secluded of\nthe Yorkshire dales. While sitting at the open window of the humble\nhostelrie, we heard what we, at first, thought was a _ranter_ parson,\nbut, on inquiry, were told it was old Billy Bolton reading to a crowd of\nvillagers. Curious to ascertain what the minstrel was reading, we joined\nthe crowd, and found the text-book was a volume of Hume\u2019s _England_,\nwhich contained the reign of Elizabeth. Billy read in a clear voice,\nwith proper emphasis, and correct pronunciation, interlarding his reading\nwith numerous comments, the nature of some of which may be readily\ninferred from the fact that the minstrel belonged to what he called \u2018the\nancient church.\u2019 It was a scene for a painter; the village situate in\none of the deepest parts of the dale, the twilight hour, the attentive\nlisteners, and the old man, leaning on his knife-grinding machine, and\nconveying popular information to a simple peasantry. Bolton is in the\nconstant habit of so doing, and is really an extraordinary man, uniting,\nas he does, the opposite occupations of minstrel, conjuror,\nknife-grinder, and schoolmaster. Such a labourer (though an humble one)\nin the great cause of human improvement is well deserving of this brief\nnotice, which it would be unjust to conclude without stating that\nwhenever the itinerant teacher takes occasion to speak of his own creed,\nand contrast it with others, he does so in a spirit of charity; and he\nnever performs any of his sleight-of-hand tricks without a few\nintroductory remarks on the evil of superstition, and the folly of\nsupposing that in the present age any mortal is endowed with supernatural\nattainments.\n\n{224} This elastic opening might be adapted to existing circumstances by\na slight alteration:\u2014\n\n The praise of a dairy to tell you I mean,\n But all things in order, first God save the Queen.\n\nThe common copies print \u2018God save the Queen,\u2019 which of course destroys\nthe rhyme.\n\n{225} This is the reading of a common stall copy. Chappell reads\u2014\n\n \u2018For at Tottenham-court,\u2019\n\nwhich is no doubt correct, though inapplicable to a rural assembly in our\ndays.\n\n{226a} Brew, or broo, or broth. Chappell\u2019s version reads, \u2018No state you\ncan think,\u2019 which is apparently a mistake. The reading of the common\ncopies is to be preferred.\n\n{226b} No doubt the original word in these places was _sack_, as in\nChappell\u2019s copy\u2014but what would a peasant understand by _sack_? Dryden\u2019s\nreceipt for a sack posset is as follows:\u2014\n\n \u2018From fair Barbadoes, on the western main,\n Fetch sugar half-a-pound: fetch sack, from Spain,\n A pint: then fetch, from India\u2019s fertile coast,\n Nutmeg, the glory of the British toast.\u2019\n\n _Miscellany Poems_, v. 138.\n\n{234} Corrupted in modern copies into \u2018we\u2019ll range and we\u2019ll rove.\u2019 The\nreading in the text is the old reading. The phrase occurs in several old\nsongs.\n\n{237} We should, probably, read \u2018he.\u2019\n\n{243} Peer\u2014equal.\n\n{247} The road or street.\n\n{249} This is the only instance of this peculiar form in the present\nversion. The miners in the Marienberg invariably said \u2018for to\u2019 wherever\nthe preposition \u2018to\u2019 occurred before a verb.\n\n{250} Three is a favourite number in the nursery rhymes. The following\nis one of numerous examples:\u2014\n\n There was an old woman had three sons,\n Jerry and James and John:\n Jerry was hung, James was drowned,\n John was lost and never was found;\n And there was an end of her three sons,\n Jerry, and James, and John!","title":"Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":67325}